A light rain came down as I looked out the window, dreading mounting back on Trafalgar, but deciding I needn’t to man-up. I packed up after a scrumptious breakfast of some yellow substance that I assumed were Minnesota egg cakes and a plain bagel slathered with cream cheese and strawberry jelly in the hotel lobby. I road off into the Minnesota back country en route Wisconsin. I followed a white Chevy truck towing a lawn mower that systematically oscillated between 45 and 65 mph with no apparent reasoning. I had a huge grill of a Doge in my rear-view mirror that didn’t give me great enjoyment either. Every time I tried to pass, the driver would speed up. However, Trafalgar tired of this game and eventually, after about 25 miles, overcame the idiot at 106 mph. Rain finally gave way to overcast skies. I stopped at a gas station/minimart in Rock Creek, MN and decided to enjoy a short robusto where an enterprising chap set up a carnival concession stand offering fried food. In the hour I was there I attempted to engage the numerous patrons in conversation. “Hello” or “How you doin’” etc. People avoided eye contact and ignored my greetings, except for one guy from Mississippi who asked about the bike and ride. Minnesotans are a leery lot, not taken in by outsiders I guess. I did a little investigating into this occurrence. Small town folk are usually anxious to talk to someone new, rather than the same 500 or so they’ve been having conversations with ever since some wayward traveller (town founder) stopped traveling and built a McDonalds so a town could exist. These simple folk, in most towns around this great country, look at a motorcyclist sitting atop an engine on two wheels, with a tank of highly explosive liquid in his crotch as entertainment.
“Hey, mom, that guy in the funny space suit isn’t wearing a seatbelt,” Timmy observes.
Mom drags Timmy along, and answers excitedly, “Timmy, let’s go see what planet that moron’s from.”
But, in Minnesota, about a thousand years ago, these big burly guys arrived with horns on their helmets. They stormed into the McDonalds and took all the town folk’s daughters and sucked out the girl’s intellect, turning them into Viking Cheerleaders. I interviewed several eye-witnesses. Most wouldn’t talk to a stranger since that horrible experience with Thorfinn Karlsefni who made landfall in 1009 AD, the McDonald’s receipt is hard to read the date. Therefore, that is why Minnesotans are leery of bearded men on motorcycles.
Soon after crossing the border into Wisconsin, I stopped at a dairy for cheese curds. And no less than six people talked to me, curious about my bike and riding adventures, one quite excitedly about my travels and hopes that he might do the same someday. What a remarkable contrast to Minnesota! I continued on my way, slowing for numerous villages with 30 mph speed limits. One town, Seely Wisconsin, had a wood carver that absolutely amazed me with his/her artwork. This would be the gal or guy to carve me a Cigar Store Indian. I rode through a great and quaint Ashland, known throughout the world as the Mural Capital of Wisconsin, on the shores of Lake Superior just before arriving to the campsite about 10 miles out of town.
Frontier Bar & Campground, I strolled up to the long varnished bar, the office to register, and ordered a whiskey, firewood, and a campsite. My neighbors at the bar, protecting their Busch Lights, all stared at the NASCAR race on the boob tube. Two couples rode in on their Harleys and ordered beer, what looked like a Father/Mother and son/girlfriend. I left the Harley riders getting boisterous to carry the firewood back to my site. About two hours later I heard the Harleys roar off down the road.
I have the place to myself, a nice flat area for the tent, woods surround the site. I should like to stay two nights here, but alas, I have reservations in Sault St. Marie tomorrow.
trafalgar adventures 