Lake George, MN to Madison, WI: 550.8 miles
After a much better night's sleep than the previous night (no trains up here in northern Minnesota), I putzed around the hotel room for a while and changed my plans a bit for the day.
When I was a young kid, I always wondered how roads ended. I don't remember having the same discomfort about where they started since they seemed to start at the end of the driveway (I guess). I lived on a dead end street, so I suppose I may not have been too bright as that pretty much defines how a street ends - at least in suburbia. That dead end street today in Google StreetView looks terrifyingly like it did way back when.
I suppose another possibility is that this book came out when I was young and was seemingly a staple of every school library. The cover scared me (I felt bad for the dog) and it didn't look anything like the cul-de-sac I lived on.
Back in 2001 I was able to discover another dramatic way a road ends while on South Padre Island in Texas. The main road on the island just ends - swallowed up by the sand dune the consumes it.
An equally pertinent childhood question: Where does a river start.
The answer is ... it depends. And the answer is also dependent on culture, history, politics, and yes, geography.
The Mississippi River watershed covers over a million square miles and is arguably the most important river system in North America. It starts somewhere north of where I live. Canada at one point was claiming the headwaters since that would have given it much more control over the water. But Canada lost. Northern Minnesota is dotted with many lakes and streams, any number of which could be the start of the river. The story of the "true start" of the Mississippi River is filled with giant scientific egos in a way that science is still dotted with too many giant egos. At various times Glazier Lake, Elk Lake, Turtle River all claimed to be the ab initio. After reading about the history of the area, I sort of like Lake Bemidji since it is where the water begins is long, slow, meandering journey south toward the Gulf of Mexico.
While detractors remain, culture always wins and in this case is aided by the USGS. Lake Itasca is the source of the Mississippi River (and the earth is flat). I've crossed the Mississippi more times than I can count. I've been to
near where it dumps into salt water. It is time to see the source.
Lake Itasca was about 15 very cold minutes away from Lake George. The state park that contains THE start of the river didn't open until 8:00 so I had to putz around for a bit and got gas before heading that way. With temperatures in the 30's, a few people at the gas station felt obligated to tell me it was "a bit cold for a motorcycle."
I got to Lake Itasca State Park and entrance was self-serve so I probably could have gotten there earlier. There was no pen though so I dug around in the motorcycle pockets and found one. It was so cold that the pen barely worked; I'm betting the park will need to call me for clarification since it was almost unreadable.
Once inside the park a bridge crosses over the Mississippi River - here it is just a stream, gurgling insignificantly along.
The parking lot for the head waters was nearly deserted, but I was surprised to see a tour bus this early. I figured maybe it was just parked for the night. I walked the short path to the lake only to see a large amount of people. However, they were much more interested in something other than the water as it became obvious they were birders. Birders are a fanatical lot (which I suppose is good).
I wandered around a bit and tried to walk across the stones, but the water was just high enough that I doubted myself. I turned around and had a conversation with a birder who was watching me, "I'm on a motorcycle and with as cold as it is, if I go in, I'm done." A short distance away was a log allowing me to walk across the Mississippi River.
Shortly the birders left to go find feathers elsewhere and I had the Headwaters to myself. I took quite a few pictures on the stunning, cool morning. It was hard to contemplate the distance to a sultry New Orleans.
After wandering around a bit, I found a perfect pooh stick for the longest game of pooh sticks in history. Standing on the log across the river, I tossed it in. I watched it wend its way downstream until I could no longer see it anymore. I left it to go on its journey while I turned away to go on my own.
I rode out through the park and was glad I did since it was such a pretty morning, even if it was cold. I wished I had more time to explore as it looked like there was lots of pretty hiking to do. I'm not sure I would want to do it during July since I suspect the park is loaded with people then.
Temperatures were warming slightly, but there was just enough wind to be a bit painful at times. I continued south to Alexandria, Minnesota.
In 1898 Olof Öhman was clearing land for a farm and unearthed a large stone inscribed with runes. At first he didn't think much of it, but eventually the writing was traced to Viking origins of an age that predates Columbus. While it is almost certain that Nordic adventurers were in North America long before Columbus, how far they got inland is largely unknown - yet assumed to be limited to the Northeast coast. But Vikings reaching Saint Paul would be quite fantastic. It should be noted that this area of Minnesota was eventually settled by Scandinavians which seems slightly too coincidental.
I first read of what is now called the Kensington Runestone in BJ Hollars excellent book Midwestern Strange. Why BJ Hollars does not have a broader audience I find baffling. His writing is engaging and Midwestern-sincere. He doesn't succumb to the allure of pessimism - which is all to easy to do. Mr. Hollars is one of a couple writers I really like who live in the area, every time I drive anywhere near Western Wisconsin, I always hope I serendipitously meet one of them. This is vanishingly unlikely and I should be glad about this. My guess is that neither one of them really wants to meet a chubby dude in the middle of mid-life who happens to like their writing. Never meet your heroes? No, never become a hero to anyone.
The Kensington Runestone has, with near-certainty, been deemed a hoax. But exactly who did this and why is unclear since no one at the time really benefited from it. I guess much like
Mark Landis, some people just can't help themselves. But I suppose that whether it is a hoax or not matters less than allowing myself to suspend being rational for a brief moment and just let the world be the fantastic place that it wants to be.
The Kensington Runestone now sits in a museum in Alexandria. I easily found it and paid my entrance fee. The stone sits prominently at the foyer once inside. A short video explains the history of the runestone. It was informative, funny and tragic. I looked it over the artifact itself and, after having tried to see it previously, it was a little anticlimactic. Some of the other artifacts seemed more convincing even if the provenance was not as clear?
The rest of the museum was interesting and well-done, if overly Midwestern. There was bikes, snowmobiles, Indians, WWII, vikings, mastodons, bison and lots and lots of bad taxidermy. Some of it stunningly bad. This is not fair, since much of it is old taxidermy done in a time when quality forms were not an internet click away. Taxidermists had to make their own and getting it right was challenging. Still, by modern sensibility, some of the misshapen beasts were a bit hard to look at.
The story of the dog was touching in light of my current dog situation. I'll even allow the taxidermy of it wasn't terrible.
The museum was enjoyable even if was not able to solve the mystery of the Kensington Runestone. Back on the bike I headed south and east. With temperatures warming slightly and the prevailing wind behind me, it was relatively pleasant.
Questions remained as I rolled along. The average speed of the Mississippi River runs somewhere between 1.2 and 3 miles-per-hour depending on water level and location. I would have like to have watched my stick travel the distance. I did not have time to watch a 3 month game of Poohsticks no matter how riveting it may be.
The Mississippi River is often called the longest river in the United States, but by most definitions it is not. Almost certainly the Missouri River is longer. And as the largest feeder into the river that eventually dumps into the Gulf of Mexico near New Orleans, why is the Missouri River not the upper branch Mississippi River? Which would make the stretch of water between Minnesota and St. Louis something else altogether...
Getting through Minneapolis was again torture as a mix of construction and two accidents meant a couple back-ups. Once rolling again, I made my way into Wisconsin. The amount of road kill deer in Wisconsin was staggering.
I got to my sister's house around 6:30 which is a bit late by my normal standards. We had a chance to talk for a bit and catch up before her SO came home. A quick meal and it was time to go to bed surrounded by Sis's cats.
