midwest cultural tours - taverns

On Monday, Jon and I returned from a two-week trip to the Midwest. The trip began and ended in Minneapolis, but most of our time was spent in Wisconsin, in small towns nestled among rolling hills, bluffs, outcroppings and valleys that make up what is know as the Driftless Region. We explored sites and attractions I have never visited before. Some were taverns that dot the backroads of the area.

Along the driveway to Babe's Country Club.

Bar Culture

When we arrived in Wonewoc (pop. 816) late Friday afternoon at the start of the Labor Day weekend, my brother and his wife immediately suggested we go for a fish fry at a tavern in a small crossroads town of Lime Ridge (pop. 162). We piled into the Buick that used to belong to my dad and headed out. Though the tavern wasn't crowded, the wait for food was an hour (mostly due to takeout orders), but we placed our food orders and ordered drinks. Pam ordered an Old Fashioned and since it's the official mixed drink of Wisconsin (you thought it was chocolate milk?), I quickly followed her lead. Sweet, tall and cold. It was a perfect way to take in the atmosphere while waiting for our food. Almost every bar in Wisconsin will offer a fish fry on Friday nights. Don't bother ordering a burger; it's not on the menu. What kind of fish will you get? At Lime Ridge, it was cod. Sometimes you'll get perch, but more often it's cod.

While we chatted and waited for our food, the big screen tvs were playing a movie I'd never seen. More distracting than a sporting event, I almost got caught up in the plot as I sipped my Old Fashioned. When Pam ordered another, the bartender served it then said she should try the whiskey version (we were drinking the brandy version - I've heard that Wisconsinites consume more brandy than any other state). He should have suggested that before serving her BOF, but he did offer us a taste of one he'd just mixed for himself and it was tasty.

A cheese appetizer and cole slaw kept us busy until the fish came. And it only took 45 minutes, not an hour! I ordered the tater tots with my fish. It was a hearty plate load of food and Jon & I should have done what Mike & Pam did: shared a plate. Live and learn. But it was delicious and reminded me of the many fish fries I've gone to when I lived in Wisconsin.

On our final evening in Wisconsin, after a week of visiting with family and exploring the countryside, Mike suggested visiting a few bars. I've meant to go to Babe's Country Club for years. It's out on a back road, a handful of miles from any town. My dad used to go there on occasion, but I had never been there. We planned to hit a few other bars on our tour, but the first one didn't pan out - The Summit was closed for a private party. We could have crashed the wedding, but the place looked pretty crowded, upping the chances that we'd see someone one of us knew.

As we drove toward Babe's, lightning appeared in the western sky and it began raining large drops. Mike reminded me before we went inside to not ask to see a beer menu. Jon paused to pet a cat hanging around at the front door, then we made our way inside where a woman who seemed a bit drunk came up to Pam and told everyone how she and Pam had gone to school together and that Pam was always the instigator of trouble. It was a little awkward for a moment, but the guys and one other woman at the bar were more interested in the Badgers/Oregon State game on the satellite tv and the woman quickly left us alone and remained on her cell phone for the rest of our time there.

I ordered what everyone else did, High Life, and looked at the crowd. Four or five guys and a woman at the long end of the L-shaped bar; the four of us on the short end, eyes all glued to the game. This is where Jon would say "four beers for six bucks!" Yes, but it's not IPA. It's still Miller. The storm picked up and in the final minute of the Badger game, which they were losing at 7-10, the satellite went out and the guys at the bar roared. They could no longer bar-stool coach the game and one tried in vain to bring up the game on a his phone. Such is rural life with its spotty cell service. When the sat. returned, the game was over and we were ready to head to a bar called Little Summit.

We'd heard there was a hay ride that night, and we caught up with them at Little Summit. A John Deere tractor with dual wheels and a wagon filled with a layer of hay bales was parked across the road. In the puddle-filled dirt lot, we parked next to a couple of Harleys and went in. It was a full house, but they had a beer selection (I saw Guinness in the case!). Jon had a Pabst (in honor of my dad, he said) and I ordered a Blue Moon. People ignored the 'Please don't sit on the pool table' signs and a few stood just outside the open doorway to smoke while rain fell and the breeze blew the smoke into the bar. (I would later catch the view of the orange-painted sunset from that doorway after the crowd left.)

Turns out Pam's brother was one of the hay wagoneers and he appeared to be the only one with full rain gear. Good thing, because they'd started in Hillsboro*, stopped at Babe's and would be continuing to a little dive called Jackson's Clinic. When they loaded up to leave Little Summit, it was raining. As we passed the wagon on the road it looked pretty awful, though Mike assured me they had drinks in a cooler and didn't mind. Before we pulled into Jackson's Clinic Mike and Pam said they hadn't been there in years and that the place always has fights.

The outside wasn't well lit and it felt like we were walking up to a much-neglected farm out-building. We walked through an open door into a room with a pool table, past the jukebox and down a few steps through a doorway to the main bar. We ordered MGD, except for Jon who again went for the PBR. I got my beer and looked around at the crowd, then began wandering back to the steps. I turned to take in the view of the bar. That's when I saw the bras displayed from the ceiling. I touched Jon's arm 'I just noticed those.' I gestured toward the ceiling. A tall guy looked at me incredulously. 'I'm short. I don't see things high up,' I explained. 'You should put yours up there.' I must have reached for Jon again. I didn't have a quick comeback. Then he commented on our beer choices: like mine was not as good a choice as Jon's. I let the comment slide and the guy walked past. I had to remind myself that I was just a tourist here. Brings this video to mind.

Jackson's Clinic

While the four of us played a game of pool (50 cents), the hayride crowd showed up, wet and thirsty. They filed through the pool room and down the steps. After our game, we stepped outside into the rain-freshened air. A picnic table sat in the grass, soaked. Through the trees, I was sure there was a view, but it was getting dark now. Pam & I went back into the bar and noticed a bench we could stand on to see above the crowd. From our new vantage, it was the same as any bar: people who knew each other; a few strangers; sitting or standing around, maybe enjoying each others' company. Maybe just trying to forget the week. The music was too loud for conversation, but we tried. Mostly, we observed.

Jon said he needed a Harley-Davidson shirt to fit in at Jackson's Clinic. I assured him that wearing a his red pullover and cap told people he was a Badger fan and that made him fit in (not to mention he has an awesome beard right now). But he's probably right - none of us really fit in there.

As we were leaving, Mike told us that while Pam and I had been keeping an eye on the crowd inside, there had been a fight outside. I guess that's to be expected at Jackson's Clinic. We headed back to Wonewoc and as we drove down Highway 33 I noticed the storm clouds had cleared revealing a star-filled sky. We were ready for a late dinner of grilled t-bone and baked potato. The next day, Jon and I would be driving back to Minneapolis on our way home to Anchorage.

*Edited to reflect that the hayride began in Hillsboro. We thought it began in Wonewow.

bear photo ops

On Friday, a hiker was killed by a grizzly in Denali National Park. We know that one of the last things he did was to watch and photograph the bear as it foraged for berries, then eventually moved toward him. We're still learning the details and the man is getting lots of criticism for how he broke the park's rules about staying away from bears and moving away if one is encountered unexpectedly. But I can't help but put myself in his shoes.

In the spring of last year, I agreed to write an article about places to bike along Turnagain Arm. A new trail in Portage Valley takes cyclists and walkers up the glacier-carved valley to Portage Lake and the visitor center opposite the receding glacier. The valley is fairly narrow, but is traversed by the railroad, a road and Portage Creek, which flows from the lake into the saltwater of Turnagain Arm.

Portage Lake on the Trail of Blue Ice. May, 2011.

Smaller streams feed into the creek and ponds dot the landscape. Up high are hanging glaciers. Then there's the Trail of Blue Ice. I started at the parking lot near the lake, winding through the forest past a campground, parking lots and ponds. Though never far from the road, it was easy to forget the road was nearby. I saw a family riding the trail that morning. I'd also seen a pile of bear scat near where I'd begun my ride.

After riding to the end of the trail and chatting with some visitors from the Lower-48, I turned around to head back. Though it was late May, the leaves hadn't opened on all the trees and shrubs. Riding into a clearing, I could see a black shape through the brush. I stopped and snapped a photo, not sure of the figure, then it disappeared. I rode a little farther up the trail. Then I saw the black bear in that clearing and I did the wrong thing.

I stopped again, pulled my camera from its case and snapped a few more photos. It was my third bear encounter in two weeks and at the moment I wasn't afraid. Lucky for me, the bear did the right thing and ran back into the brush. It was only then that the adrenaline hit me and I started getting nervous. I needed to get out of there; I hoped the bear wouldn't change its mind and give chase.

Black bear; Trail of Blue Ice. Portage Valley.

Soon I was riding past a pair of moose browsing in a pond, then made it back to the parking lot. I realize it was a pretty foolish move on my part just to get a few images. I've been close to many black bears on the trails around Anchorage. That doesn't make it any safer for me than it does for anyone else. To say they are unpredictable creatures is probably wrong. I'd say, bears are predictable: when they see you, they very often will run away. But as with may other predictions, you could be wrong. Best to back away, leave the area.
 ____
To clarify, grizzlies and black bears respond differently to any given human behavior. If you're inclined to go into the backcountry, or even one of our municipal parks, it's best to learn to recognize behavior, know how to respond and learn how to use bear spray. Here's a place to start. Be safe.

who are you?

What defines you? I sometimes wonder. Before I moved to Alaska, before I met Jon, I would have said I was a hiker. I enjoyed hiking. But Alaska introduced me to a different kind of hiking; and Jon introduced me to mountain biking. Soon, I was identifying as a cyclist. My loves: mountain and touring. My desire: mountain touring. I have a short list. Then I placed it on hold.

My shoulder injury and eventual surgery have given me a little perspective. I've slowed down. Looked around more. Hiked places where bicycles aren't permitted. Trails I hadn't hiked before. A few friends have joined me, but most of my biking friends are doing what they love: mountain biking. Something I've told myself to not even think about for the last several months. Then, last week, I brought my snow bike home from my friends' house.

I'd loaned it out during the winter for a couple friends to try out and so it wouldn't be here in the house tempting me to go riding when I shouldn't. Before I put it in the car for the trip home, I pedaled it around on their street. It felt odd, stretched out, awkward to control. Once home, I pulled it out of the car, told Jon I'd rode in circles and he gave the only comment I could have expected: prove it! So, I again rode in circles, practiced my steering, feeling the stretch and the stress on my right arm.

Carefully riding in the cul-de-sac.

I still felt a long way from riding very far on the bike. Meanwhile, my occupational therapist had just released me from our twice-weekly sessions. I had an exercise list for getting stronger and increasing my mobility. I'd gone swimming and running in an effort to increase my strength and fitness. And I continued hiking.

Watermelon berries along a trail.

Pixie eye primrose, I believe. On the trail to Hidden Lake.

Last Saturday, I was hiking with my friend on the Rabbit Lake trail, one of my favorite hikes in the front range of Chugach State Park. We wound through a narrow wiggly stretch; I mentioned that it would be really fun on the bike. Returning from the lake, I noticed a slight blip on the trail and noted: this would be a good place to catch air, if I was the kind of person who caught air, that is. This is when my friend told me I was getting better; I was ready to start biking. I was reading the trail like a mountain biker, noting the grinding climb, the winds, the rocks.

She was right. I am ready to think like a mountain biker again. So yesterday, I decided to take a little spin around the neighborhood. Since the Mukluk (snow bike) is my most upright-fitting bike, I adjusted the seat and took off up the hill. I rode through streets I've walked many times in the last few months. I'd forgotten how much faster I can travel on the bike! I'm not sure how long I was out riding - not very; maybe 20 to 30 minutes - but it feels like I just overcame another tall hurdle in a series of hurdles. Getting so much closer to embracing one of those things that, much as I sometimes pretend doesn't, helps to define me. I am a cyclist.

sweet land

This morning my radio alarm blared the static-fused voices of the in-between. Not really on a station, but blaring, nonetheless. I reached over to turn down the volume and adjust to my station, but without my glasses couldn't see if I was going the right direction.

Finally landed on a station and a preacher was preaching and his words revealed his fear that in 30 years, this country would no longer be a Christian nation but a Muslim nation. Unless things changed. Good God! I changed the station (to my liberal public radio) then turned off the alarm.

It hurts my ears, and something much deeper inside me, to listen to the hatred coming over the airwaves. And it saddens me to think of all the listeners who follow, all the children who are taught this by their families and their churches. It saddens me to think that so many people want this to be a land that is not inclusive. Because there is always a group, it seems that people turn upon to hate. When it is a professed Christian preaching the hatred, it is pure frustration.

My ancestors, like most Americans, were immigrants. They were from Europe, though the rumor of the "Arabian" man who climbed into the family tree has always intrigued me. And reminded me that we don't always know who's back there even if we have tried to figure it out through Ancestry.com. Because not all of it is written down. So, besides the mysterious man, there's some German, some English, some Irish, Scottish. People who didn't always get along. People of different faiths (yes, both my grandmothers were Catholics married to Protestants, gasp!)

I wish people would stop hating each other, stop teaching hatred, and come together to solve our country's actual problems and lend a hand across the globe. We are a nation of people of diverse backgrounds. People have freedom to practice their faith, whatever that may be. We even have the freedom to not practice any faith. And that doesn't make any one of us less deserving, less American. Isn't that what makes us the US? United in our liberties?

 We all remember these words from The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus:
...Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

How about these?
...
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome;


I don't often get into this kind of subject, but it bothered me & I thought I'd better say something about it. I guess I just want my fellow Americans to behave like decent human beings.

tour of veggies

Yesterday was the annual Anchorage Garden Club Garden Tour. I went for the first time last year, biking with friends from one garden to the next, half the time in the rain. This year, I joined my friends for part of the tour, driving instead of cycling. I visited every garden in the tour and the one thing that stood out this year was produce. People are growing their own veggies.

I don't recall any vegetables in last year's tour, but this year at least three gardens were growing not just flowers, but food.

This garden is in Oceanview (I spent more time chatting with friends who own the garden and didn't take many pics):

Overlooking the inlet. Though this shows mostly flowers, they grew loads of veggies here!

Another view.

Here are a few from Turnagain:

In the front yard.

South side of house; notice the mirror behind the lattice.

My favorite colors! This is on the back deck.

Peas climbing next to the raspberries.

I think this is the only way to grow tomatoes in Alaska!

Backyard garden entrance on north side of house.

Back in Oceanview:

The homeowner designed this fence and had a landscaping company build it.

Besides the vegetable gardens, I love looking at fences and gates. We're due for new fences in our backyard and will need a new gate or two, also. I remember this one from biking past it last year during the tour. This time we got to check it out and wander the yard.

So, there you have it, the garden tour 2012. This time next year I hope to report on a bike ride of the tour and my own veggies. For the record, Jon and I planted a tiny patch of potatoes this spring and some friends gave us a tomato plant. It's our first foray into gardening in a long time. I'll let you know how it turns out.

yes, poetry

I confess that I hadn't read any Gary Snyder before yesterday. It was his reputation (a Pulitzer) that compelled me to attend his free reading at the UAA campus last night. I'm so glad I did. As he read from a few of his books and some new, unpublished works, I was moved by the way he wrote about life: from the day-to-day activities of keeping his off-the-grid power working to his first climb on Mount St. Helens in 1945 and comparisons he drew from the volcano's eruption in 1980 to the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki (which he learned about the day after that first climb).

He reminded me of how events early in our lives help shape our ideals and our way of seeing the world. It was clear that he has tried to live a life in balance with our planet. As much as that's possible when considering the impacts of air travel and other human activities.

Today, I sat down with one of the books I bought, Danger on Peaks. Prose poems. Un-rhymed verse. Haiku-inspired works. I'm no poetry scholar, so I don't know all the terms for the styles of poetry he writes. But I am enjoying his view of the world, his bringing together of thoughts from different continents, different teachings. He appears to be a man who lives with eyes and mind open; aware of the world around him on all scales, from the spruce beetle to the polar ice fields.

I've had to go to the dictionary a few times - yes, he's giving the gift of new words for my vocabulary -  yet it doesn't make the poems less accessible. In fact, this is the kind of book I would want in my backpack on a camping trip. Pull it out, share a few pages aloud over a campfire, ponder the ideas into the night. Most of all, he reminds me of how I like to write my poetry: sometimes adhering to form; sometimes writing without restriction, following the material.

Something Gary said last night on the question of whether he writes every day (we writers like to study other writers' habits) was this: "It (a poem) has to really insist on it before you let it into the world." So, there it is, permission to take a day off to live, do, ponder and read. I will also remind myself that if I'm writing and the material tells me it should be poetry, to not deny the material its form. Because sometimes poetry is the best way to say something. I think I need to say "yes" to poetry more often.

ever curious

A good writer looks around, sees the world with a sense of wonder and curiosity. Sometimes ask questions nobody bothered to ask. It's why I like to go to other places, so I can see new things, ponder new questions.

My friend, Katey, was curious about swinging bridges in her adopted state of North Carolina. She wrote a book about it, Lost Crossings. And now she's getting some great publicity on NC public television. Congratulations, Katey!

It reminds me that whether I'm here in Alaska, visiting a new place, or my hometown in Wisconsin, to always remain curious. You never know what you'll learn or how it may inspire you.