The Ends of the Earth

Little Falls to Milaca, Minnesota. Wednesday, June 16, 2021

Today was a day of little hassles and great joy. I am having supplies sent ahead to a friend of mine in Wisconsin, but I had to follow up on emails and online orders to make sure stuff would arrive in time. I discovered that the family finances, which I have been entering into Quicken religiously, are jacked up. Apparently you need to sync with the desktop on a regular basis, I hadn’t been doing that. A call to their customer service was helpful, and I had Jane log into my desktop at home for the first time in two months, so at least transactions will be valid from now on. However, all the previous details were lost.

So despite the headwind and the longer mileage today, I still didn’t get going till 1:30. I am going to have to get more efficient. Ideally, I’d like to get going by the early morning and be done by the early afternoon. Hasn’t worked out so far, however.

The headwind wasn’t too bad, the climbs were gradual, the scenery pleasant. One brief stretch of bike trail, otherwise unremarkable, had been renamed the Lake Wobegon Trail. I had to call my strong wife, and chat about our above average children. If only I was good looking…

I was delighted to make contact with a doctor I’d hoped I could meet tomorrow, Donald Deye. He is the host of a superb CME series that I have been listening to for almost 20 years, called MKSAP Audio Companion. MKSAP stands for Medical Knowledge Self-Assessment Program, a tool many of us use to stay current. The audio version is comprehensive and quite fun to listen to, largely because of Dr. Deye. He serves as kind of uber-internist, discussing the details of each medical subspecialty with an expert, asking the kind of questions that generalists typically have, but are sometimes too sheepish to ask. His sense of humor and folksy conversational style typically gets the stuffy specialist to open up, and the exchange of ideas is lively and, for me, a highly efficient way to learn. I can’t count the hours I’ve listened on these bike tours, then taking the quiz at the end to get the CME credit. Over the years, I feel like I almost know him.

He is some years older than me, but still practicing in Cambridge, Minnesota, in addition to this huge job of updating the syllabus every three years. I will be passing very close to Cambridge, and on a whim tried to contact him. To my surprise, he got back to me and we are meeting for drinks after work tomorrow. He will have to go to Louisiana the following day to record another chapter of the syllabus, but still was able to make time for me.

I am still officially on the staff at University of Vermont Medical Center, and get emails about departmental meetings. I noticed that one meeting was happening while I was biking through the countryside, so I phoned in, simply to listen (on mute) to the updates about our medical record system. Hearing the familiar voices of my colleagues in the back-and-forth triggered a startling surge of nostalgia. At the end, I revealed that I had been “lurking” and had a fun little exchange with them.

The sun was setting as I rolled into the tiny town of Milaca, delayed even further because of a bridge-out detour. The campground was in the city park, I had called ahead and been told that the showers will be open till 10 PM. I was there at nine, everything was locked and the place was deserted. Fortunately, a landscaper was there spraying the bushes, and told me to call the emergency number. I hated to bother them after hours, this wasn’t really an emergency, but the night person, Troy, was amazingly helpful. He came out and unlocked the bathrooms, said they had been closed because of some vandalism. It wound up being the nicest campground bathroom on the entire trip, I had a luxurious shower and slept like a baby in the deserted campground. Even the homeless person who harangued me briefly in the morning had a little of that Minnesota charm.

Distance 58 miles, 2,745 total. Time 8 hours with stops. Elevation gain 639 feet.

©️ 2021 Scott Luria

Brainerd to Little Falls, Minnesota Tuesday, June 15, 2021

In Fargo, this is where Marge Gunderson keeps saying where she’s from. Alas, as authentic as this iconic movie feels, there’s almost nothing in it that is true. None of it was filmed in Fargo, or Brainerd. That great accent, referred to as “Minnesota Nice” is almost never heard. I’ve been in the state now for over two weeks, and only heard it once, in that casino on my first night in Grand Portage. The receptionist had it so thick I thought she was from central casting. Oh yah, yew betcha. The opening of the film announces it as a true story, but Ethan and Joel Coen admitted that it was completely made up. It’s so brilliant, and the fondness of the Coens for their home state so obvious, however, that you forgive the mendacity.

I knew I wouldn’t find the Paul Bunyan statue, but I was hoping to at least see the sign.

I have come to accept that most American small cities have devolved into suburban sprawl, but Brainerd has made it into an art form. I had located a Costco for some supplies I needed, but had to negotiate an almost comical series of concrete barriers and on/off ramps to get there, and once there, there was of course no place to lock the bike. I had to lean it against the railing right in front of the check-in person, and hope for the best. I searched in vain for sunscreen, they were all out. Huh? The guy said everybody is desperate to get outdoors after more than a year of Covid quarantines, and these Scandinavian Minnesota types are especially needy of sun protection.

Uh oh. This could be dire. I’m a melanoma survivor myself (stage 1A), and have been slathering the stuff on religiously. Somewhat frantically I negotiated the Brainerd sprawl and traffic, and finally scored a couple of tubes at a Walgreens. Whew.

Had to take a zoom call at 2PM, figured I’d better stay in town where there was a strong signal. Needed a table and shade, found one in front of a building that looked public. An older gentleman came out and said it would be OK. 45 minutes into the call a woman came out and said I had to move, this was a senior care home and the guy was not fully compos mentis. I had to complete the call by a busy highway. So much for Minnesota Nice. Brainerd turns out to be a shrine to the American automobile. No wonder they need a pipeline.

So didn’t get rolling until 3:30, another patented Luria jackrabbit start. I can’t understand why no one wants to ride with me.

I did the last 15 miles of the glorious Paul Bunyan State Trail (sorry for a the snarky comments, Paul) and talked to a very fit Oddvar Kopischke to confirm that the next miles would have to be along highways or frontage roads. Oddvar is three years older, an Amherst grad, has Nordic skied competitively his whole life, has hung out with the likes of Bill Koch and Gary Fisher (that’s one of his original mountain bikes from Mount Tam), and served as a reminder of how out of shape I really am.

Along those highways I was treated to a bizarre sight, crop dusting. I’ve seen it in movies (most memorably in North by Northwest) but never in real life. Two planes were sweeping and twisting around the fields on either side repeatedly, and flying, I thought, dangerously close to the ground. It’s one thing to do that coming in for a landing, but what if they had a bit of windshear? It seems an awfully inefficient way to spray the fields. Sometimes they passed alarmingly close to me, I was glad for the surrounding trees and telephone wires that kept them from doing the Cary Grant thing.

Passed the slightly foreboding gate to Camp Ripley before arriving in Little Falls, just in time for a mediocre Chinese meal and a sunset ride to my campsite.

Headwind tomorrow, maybe get my butt in gear before noon?

Distance 45 miles, 2,687 total. Time 8 hours with stops. Elevation gain 331 feet.

©️ 2021 Scott Luria

Walker to Baxter, Minnesota. Monday, June 14, 2021

Was this ever a delightful day. I spent the entire day on paved bike paths, principally the Paul Bunyan State Bike Trail. Except for a few tree roots, and occasional construction, it was in great shape. Add a strong tailwind, and I was on Easy Street once again.

Almost easy. Today I learned a lesson about not getting too cocky. People often ask me, “what about flat tires?” and I brag about my Schwalbe Marathon Plus tires, heavy and slow (just like me), but absolutely puncture-proof. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a flat tire. Well now I remember.

I’m whizzing along a deserted stretch of bike path, when suddenly my back wheel felt squirrley. Within a few seconds, the tire was completely flat. I had to wheel it to a place with a little shade and not too many bugs. Right away I found the culprit (a blessing, actually, as it is often difficult to figure out what made the tire go flat) and pull out this little half-inch long piece of nastiness, which I can’t identify.

Sorry the picture is blurry, but I was really puzzled, I wanted to make sure I didn’t roll over something like that again. It was easy to partially remove the tire, pull out the tube and find the hole, but the patch I put on didn’t work, so I had to remove the entire wheel anyway and replace it with a new tube. The whole process wound up taking an hour and a half, since my little frame-mounted pump takes forever to fill these big tires to 85 psi, and by then the bugs had found me. Well, only one flat in over 2,600 miles, I guess I can’t complain.

With the delay, I had to stop for lunch before I hit a sizable town, and the little hamlet of Backus only had a saloon, which served burgers. A heavier meal that I wanted, but it was fun to attract a crowd of bar-goers, and bask in the attention. Here I encountered the only other bike tourists of the day, they were headed north to Bemidji, my tailwind was their headwind. My heart went out to them. I later heard from one of them, Ron.

Something weird happened after that unusually heavy meal, I felt crazy sleepy. I’m serious, my eyes were drooping, I would almost doze off and then awake with a start as my bike started to swerve. This had happened to me only once before, back in 1975 when I biked all night to get to Cape Cod. I’ve heard of falling asleep behind the wheel, but this was ridiculous. I had to find a bench and take a catnap. I can only imagine what passing bike riders were thinking.

I think I only dozed for a few minutes, but the effect was remarkable, I felt wide awake and more energetic than ever. Decided I could go an extra 15 miles. The weather was just delightful, and the route threaded through many of those legendary 10,000 Minnesota Lakes. Sapphire-blue, stunning, but not much to photograph, since the land around them was so flat. I looked in vain for Mia, the iconic Native maiden from the Land-O-Lakes butter box. Just as well, I had forgotten my scotch tape and my X-Acto knife. You degenerate baby boomer boys know what I’m talking about.

I got a funny comment from Patsy, the owner of an ice cream shop in Pequot Lakes. She thought I was a construction worker, or perhaps one of those pipeliners. I realized that my cycling jersey (see previous post) does kind of look like what construction workers wear. Yeah, but do they wear those shorts?

The extra 15 miles took me to Baxter, a suburb of Brainerd, Minnesota, the principal location for the classic 1996 movie Fargo. No campgrounds here, but the Comfort Suites was affordable, and had the most elaborate indoor pool I’ve seen so far.

In another Ain’t That America moment, the Arby’s across the street was closed except for the drive-thru. I had to walk up to the drive-thru window and order, then walk to the next window to pay, and a third window to get my food. The cars in line behind me looked at me like I was from Mars.

I had to watch Fargo, of course, because that’s just who I am. I learned to my disappointment that the iconic Paul Bunyan statue from the movie was just a prop, no point in looking for it tomorrow. Rats.

Distance 62 miles, 2,642 total. Time 9 hours with stops, flat tire, and catnap. Elevation gain 539 feet.

©️ 2021 Scott Luria

Lake Itasca to Walker, Minnesota Sunday, June 13, 2021

It seems to follow a pattern, a busy day is followed by a low-key one. Maybe it’s because the time it takes to document the first eats into the second.

Markus came over to inspect the German engineering of my bicycle, and we talked for a good while more. They are heading off Bemidji today. Mary Mitchell from the warmshowers the day before sent a nice follow up note, and a picture from her porch.

I got my trademark late start, but luckily today was easy, with a tailwind, just moving crosswise across the state, to finally re-join the Adventure Cycling Association routes. There was an 8 mile stretch with a dicey shoulder and lots of traffic, but it gave out into the lovely Paul Bunyan bike trail.

Since the Buckingham Fountain in Chicago four weeks ago, I have been off of the ACA system, letting my RideWithGPS app or Google maps point my way, sometimes with disastrous results. It is such a comfort to be back on a route selected by local experienced bicyclists. Curiously, it looks like I’m going backwards. From Buffalo to Western Ohio I was following part of the ACA’s Northern Tier Route, which goes from Maine to Washington state, swinging northward along the Mississippi into Minnesota, before heading west through North Dakota and Montana. I will be heading southward along that same route, as if I was heading back to Maine.

This is because of a particular problematic highpoint, Charles Mound of Illinois. It is privately owned, and the landowner, frustrated by endless visits from highpointers, has closed the property except for the first weekend of the summer months. When I was in Chicago, I was too early for the June weekend. That was the reason for my long loop to the north, so that I can return to Illinois in early July.

Clearly not the most efficient way to do this, but stringing together the highpoints and open-date restrictions is like trying to untie the Gordian knot. I have no regrets, I have found lots of Easter eggs, and met so many intriguing people. Now that I am on a major cross country route, perhaps I will meet more bicycle tourists.

Distance 40 miles, 2,580 total. Time 5 hours with stops. Elevation gain 674 feet.

©️ 2021 Scott Luria

Bemidji to Lake Itasca, Minnesota. Saturday, June 12, 2021

Another perfect, but event–filled day. Mary made me a wonderful breakfast of blueberry pancakes and whole grains, with real maple syrup. She was a terrific host. As always, the challenge is getting going in the morning, when there is so much to talk about.

I hadn’t actually been to the center of Bemidji, but I had to stop by the bike shop so I got a look. Charming little town, named for a heroic native chief who, like so many others, was promised land in perpetuity only to be displaced and displaced again to ever-shrinking reservations. Such a stain on our history, a theme I will be revisiting a number of times on this trip.

As with many north woods towns, there is the requisite statue of Paul Bunyan, with Babe, his blue ox.

The road to Itasca was only 35 miles, but I’d dithered so long a 25 mph headwind had sprung up, so it took longer. I’m getting used to these, good practice for North Dakota, AKA the “Saudi Arabia of wind”. Stopped in a tiny bar in Becida and had a frosty mug of their local 1919 root beer, struck up a conversation with Louie Pfann and his family who spend summers here and winters in Mesa Arizona, they offered me a place to stay if I pass through Mesa.

Further down the road I saw a bunch of parked cars by a Mississippi crossing, turns out it was an encampment protesting Line 3, the Minnesota pipeline employing all those pipeliners. Now that the plug has been pulled for the Keystone Pipeline, I suspect this project’s days are numbered, too. I rang my bell and raised my fist in solidarity. Reminded me of going downtown to the Department of the Interior in DC at age 16 for the very first Earth Day on 4/22/70, raising our fists and chanting “Off the Oil!” Well, it’s taking a while, but we may get there yet. At least I ain’t using any of the stuff (yeah, yeah I know. Those ferries, and the lube I carry).

Then on to the main event, Lake Itasca, source of the Father of Waters. This iconic place has loomed in my imagination almost as much as Finisterre (see my Camino blog in the menu above). I’ve been wanting to come here for decades. I always assumed it was a Native American name, but the Ojibwe called it Omushkos, for Elk Lake.

No, it was the patrician eastern-educated Henry Schoolcraft who named it, guided there by Ozawindib, he claimed “discovery” of the long-sought “true head” or veritas caput of the Mississippi, Itasca is a contraction of those two words. One of many faux-Indian names he invented.

So another story of the white man presuming to name a place the natives had known for centuries, but that snarky tale can’t diminish the wonder of it all. The lake is beautiful and pristine, and at the north end a little stream begins a tumble through some gentle stones, where I, along with hundreds of others today, easily waded or rock-hopped across the greatest river in North America. I tried to pull the typical tourist boneheaded move of FaceTiming the event to family and friends, but only Anne was picking up. Thank you, sweet sister.

It’s all too bloody picturesque to be real, and indeed it isn’t. Schoolcraft encountered a marshy beginning to the river, which the CCC drained and bulldozed to create this scene. Hey, I’ll take it. Ain’t that America.

Never could take a decent selfie, so a couple came to the rescue, Jerry and Donna Gross from Fargo.

Another in a series of remarkable coincidences, Donna grew up half a block from my grandmother Estela de Lima in Manhattan, and Jerry is a hematologist-oncologist who trained in Boston and knew many of my former colleagues. We found ourselves chatting excitedly for many minutes, even though we both had to get going. Too bad.

Pine Ridge Campground was full but well thought out and comfortable. I wasn’t done chatting, even after the sun went down. Adjacent campers Markus and Dora invited me for S’mores and a beer; he’s a computer engineer from Stuttgart now working for Cray Supercomputer (recently bought out by HPE), she is a veterinarian from Zagreb, Croatia, who is pursuing her PhD in molecular biology from U Minnesota Minneapolis. Their rescue dog Vegas was wary and protective, but ultimately charming, like his owners. I didn’t get to the showers until almost midnight.

Distance 38 miles, 2,540 total. Time 6 hours with stops. Elevation gain 1,029 feet.

©️ 2021 Scott Luria

Deer River to Bemidji, Minnesota Friday, June 11, 2021

Bemidji. About as cute, mysterious, and exotic a name as I’ve yet encountered. Today was a simple matter of following the Mississippi upstream on US 2, my old friend. Smooth, flat, and wide, not much traffic, and a tailwind. There was not much to see, just the dense northern Minnesota woods, punctuated by a few outposts and lakeside resorts. I found one unanticipated downside of a tailwind, the bugs can keep up with you, and I was strafed constantly, but not bitten. One big fly got behind my sunglasses and caused a fuss, better not to wear them. Another case of going commando.

Back at the UVM campus, I remember scoffing at the students glued to their cell phones, talking constantly while walking. Now I could see the appeal. Might as well fill the time. Had lovely conversations with my sisters and my classmate Sharon, the veterinarian in San Diego. Talking with sister Anne recalled another deep discussion we’d had precisely 40 years ago, on 6/11/81, when I stayed with her on my bike trip from DC to Boston. Another time of transition, from student to doctor, leaving my hometown forever, and a 3 year relationship. Even then, I took to the bicycle to ease the passage. Within a month, I met my future wife.

Also en route, I was able to find a campsite on Lake Itasca for Saturday, there’d been a cancellation. That was a relief. I wasn’t relishing being homeless. Hopefully after this the pressure will ease, away from the weekend and the pipeliners.

I was so absorbed in these calls I barely noticed that the creek I was crossing was the Mississippi. Oh no! I’d passed from the eastern to the western half of the country while not paying attention! There’s a spot right at the source where you can rock hop across, I’d wanted that to be my first crossing. Oh well.

The wind shifted and my speed dropped from 13 to 7 mph, but I only had a few miles left. Mary Mitchell was my warmshowers host, an archeologist and anthropologist who ran the local food shelf. We walked down the Paul Bunyan bike trail to a great al fresco dinner overlooking Lake Bemidji. More great conversations, more great hospitality. As we walked, I was struck by how in tune she was with the local flora and fauna, identifying details and species in the plants that lined the bike path. Her garden, a model of sustainability, buzzed with hummingbirds, and we even saw a pileated woodpecker! My first, but old hat to her.

Distance 56 miles, 2,502 total. Time 7 hours with stops. Elevation gain 477 feet.

©️ 2021 Scott Luria

Swan Lake to Deer River, Minnesota. Thursday, June 10, 2021

Today was low-key compared to yesterday‘s Easter egg fest. It started out with more great conversations with Tom and Karen, we have so many stories to share, but they are more disciplined than I am, and managed to depart quite early. I had some anxious moments trying to find campgrounds or lodging for today, the pipe liners are still a factor, and I was finding nothing. Finally I called a casino; they directed me to a motel not on Google maps, and I snagged a room. Jeez, and it’s not even the weekend! Likely to get worse, but I found a warmshowers in Bemidji for Friday night, my first in a month and a half.

Spent too much time futzing with yesterday’s blog, but what a story to tell. Finally left around 1:30, and it was simply a matter of completing the Mesabi trail, which ended in Grand Rapids. Here is the entrance gateway, I had been on the trail for a total of 75 miles, and by and large it is wonderful, an Easter egg in its own right.

My motel was just 15 miles further down the road, the road being my old friend US Highway 2, the same highway that runs close to my front door in Vermont. It was smooth, wide, good shoulder, not much traffic, perfect for listening to podcasts.

Just to my left was the Mississippi River, reportedly quite small here, close to its headwaters. However, I didn’t want to peek. Crossing the Mississippi is an important threshold in this journey, figuratively where you cross from east to west, and my plan is to go its source at Lake Itasca, then follow it downstream to Iowa. I really didn’t want to see the river until then. One more quirky ritual.

I had gotten the last room in this motel, and it was on the second floor, this time up 23 wooden steps. My sunglasses fell off during the struggle and through the stairway into the storeroom below, it took some time to locate them. However, I was happy to have a room. Warmshowers tomorrow, I might have to wind up “cowboy camping” on Lake Itasca on Saturday.

Distance 42 miles, 2,446 total. Time 6 hours with stops. Elevation gain 893 feet.

©️ 2021 Scott Luria

Chisholm to Swan Lake, Minnesota Wednesday, June 9, 2021

Turns out, Moonlight wasn’t hard to find, there is a mural right in the center of town, at the Mesabi Trailhead. He caught WP Kinsella’s imagination as he wrote Field of Dreams, as a right fielder who only played one inning in 1903, and never got to bat, but went on to become the beloved town doctor for Chisholm, and lived another 62 years. In the movie, he was played by Burt Lancaster in his last role. I’ll be stopping by the Field itself in a few weeks.

Another 7 miles took me to Hibbing, the reason I came up here in the first place. There was a steep gravel road (I had to stash the bike and walk) to the largest iron mine in the world. I’ll let the pictures tell the story.

So I got a bird’s eye view of the town before I descended, home of Roger Maris, Celtics great Kevin McHale, and of course, the Jester himself from American Pie, Bob Dylan, née Zimmerman.

Before I got to his house, I came upon the Greyhound Bus Museum, which was just closing. I didn’t realize that the famous company began as a local bus service in Hibbing.

In three miles, I came to an iconic blue house on the corner. You can just see the other side was tangled up in scaffolding, and I could hear hammers pounding.

These few blocks of 7th Avenue were renamed Bob Dylan Drive, and as I was gawking and taking photos a character, who had perhaps smoked one joint too many, accosted me with a diatribe about how he lived on the avenue, and tried to get his driver’s license to reflect Bob Dylan Drive in the address, but nobody in the goddamn DMV would listen to him etc. etc.—when an older man came out and rescued me, sent the other guy on his way.

My savior turned out to be Bill Pagel, and he gave me his card

Bill is a retired pharmacist who bought both of Bob’s childhood homes, the one in Duluth and this one, which he was restoring to its 1950s appearance. He came out because he was intrigued by my bicycle, I didn’t seem like the usual tourist, and also to rescue me from that guy. Would I like a tour of the house? Um, yeah. (!!!!!!!)

This Easter egg just trumped the Chicago penthouse! I couldn’t believe I was going to see where the Jester grew up! He asked me not to take any pictures inside, as he hoped to open it as a museum someday. He showed me his small bedroom, the knotty pine rec room where he wrote songs instead of studying, the one car garage where he and his buds practiced over the complaints of the neighbors, the linoleum floor in the kitchen that was identical to the floor in my house in DC (!) and, crème de la crème, the many places where he had carved his initials B.Z. I had to keep pinching myself. Talk about getting some cred with your son, the Dylan disciple!

Actually, I have mixed feelings about Dylan. No question he was a genius, and wrote some of the best rock ‘n’ roll and folk songs ever written. But he was a prickly personality, I thought it was incredibly arrogant not to go to Sweden to accept his Nobel prize, and Jason and I attended a very pricey concert a few years ago that was just awful, only a few songs, he barely acknowledged the audience. Jason in particular was furious that his idol had feet of clay.

Anyway, the tour and visit lasted over an hour. I was so fascinated that this mediocre student developed into this outsized figure, right here in this modest house. Neither of his parents were particularly musical. Bill had me sign the guest book, and had many questions about my trip. I left walking on air, realized I hadn’t eaten all day, and bolted for the nearest Subway.

While wolfing down my steak and cheese, I saw ominous thunderheads on the horizon. Other patrons suggested I get a motel room right here, but every room was booked, on a Wednesday. The pipeline workers were in town (hadn’t I just heard the Keystone Pipeline plans had been abandoned by the owners?), and all accommodations had been gobbled up. It was 6PM, as usual, and I had to go 25 more miles to a campground. Roger and Kevin (Maris and McHale) would have to wait.

Thankfully, the thunderheads passed without incident, and the Mesabi Trail was glorious for those miles. I was so high from that Dylan thing I don’t think anything would have thrown me. The Swan Lake campground was beautiful, and there were some other bike tourists, Tom and Karen from Alexandria MN.

Tom is a family practitioner who, though 10 years younger, is “old school,” doing 12 hour shifts in the ER, intubating patients and managing them in the ICU, doing minor surgery; and Karen is a preschool teacher. Between bikes, teaching, and medicine we could have talked for hours, but I had arrived at 9:15, it was getting dark, the bugs were coming out. Another thoughtful camper warned me about thunderstorms overnight, and pointed out that campgrounds here have storm/tornado shelters. Yikes. I pitched my tent extra carefully, and ditched the Tyvek footprint. By morning, I discovered it was all teapot and no tempest.

Distance 37 miles, 2,404 total. Time 8 hours with stops. Elevation gain 946 feet.

©️ 2021 Scott Luria

Eveleth to Chisholm, Minnesota. Tuesday, June 8, 2021

It was actually 3:30 before I left the campground, I decided to do my therapist call sitting down for once. The campground manager kept swinging by in his golf cart, looking at me questioningly. He thought it was too late to leave, that everything would be closed by the time I got to my destination.

I left anyway, adopting that cavalier attitude that served me so well on Eagle Mountain last week. The Mesabi Trail immediately announced that it was going to be very hilly, even though the road right next to it seemed quite flat. I was tempted to just go to the road, but no, I had paid my trail fee, I was going to give the Mesabi Trail a chance.

Bike trails are rarely as well graded as streets, and have far less “infrastructure” beneath them, so they are very prone to being cut up by frost heaves and tree roots. If the path is more than a few years old, it can really get quite bumpy. This particular trail was halfway between smooth and a little bumpy. Its main problem was that when going through towns, the route got quite circuitous, and was poorly marked, I got lost more than once.

But in between towns, wow, it was glorious. It followed an old rail line used in the iron mines. I loved how it cut through rust-stained iron embankments. Abruptly it gave out onto the tallest bridge in Minnesota.

It’s funny, when I think of Minnesota I think of Norwegian bachelor farmers, hilarious accents, the Mayo Clinic, and the Land of 10,000 Lakes. I don’t really think of mining, but then 3M stands for Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing.

I hadn’t had much to eat all day, so I stopped in the town of Virginia, Minnesota, for a bite and wound up having a full Mexican meal including a margarita. I asked for the “small” but they gave me a “large”; in my defense I only drank 3/4 of it. Any of you could tell me this was a dumb idea, I still had 25 miles to go and I was not a happy cowboy.

The trail paralleled the highway again, and again I was tempted to cross the ditch and avoid these crazy ups and downs, but I could see those infernal seams I didn’t want to go kerCHUNK again. The first available campground turned out to have no facilities other than a couple of outhouses, and was swarming with bugs, the sun was just going down at 9 PM. I went another 7 miles to an RV park, but arrived in the pitch black. Just as I arrived, my drive belt came off again, thank heavens that didn’t happen while I was on the road, it’s an hour repair.

Like the Mesabi trail, you registered for this campsite online. I picked the cheapest spot that had electricity, and when I got there I found the abutting RV had stashed his spare vehicle in my site. Too late to change my registration. They were asleep, I didn’t want to wake them up, so I wedged my tent in and slept like a baby. I imagine they were surprised in the morning; when I woke up the vehicle was gone. I never met them. RV parks can be weird.

Chisholm was the hometown of Moonlight Graham, for you Field of Dreams fans. Wonder if I can find any trace of him here. A fellow PCP. Go the distance.

I could have used a little moonlight when I arrived last night, but it didn’t rise until 5AM.

Distance 35 miles, 2,367 total. Time 6 hours with stops. Elevation gain 1,320 feet.

©️ 2021 Scott Luria

Duluth to Eveleth, Minnesota. Monday, June 7, 2021

Didn’t I say goodbye to Lake Superior on Saturday and Sunday? I’m like the guest who wouldn’t leave.

I felt fine this AM, yesterday’s drama was clearly a combination of heat exhaustion and separation anxiety. It’s funny, this fancy hotel has no breakfast or even coffee, so I had to go over to Starbucks, felt like a real urban commuter.

The route to Hibbing took me right back over that steep hill I had just come down, the hill that Harrison was trying to help me avoid when he gave me directions from his house yesterday. It was so crazy steep I had to walk half of it, it took me half an hour to do one mile. But I was happy to do it, it was still in the mid 70s, and I figured it would give the old pump one last test before I left the security of a nearby medical facility. It was all good. The old-timers among you will remember that Timex ad by John Cameron Swayze: takes a licking, keeps on ticking.

After the climb, it was fairly flat. My navigator kept trying to put me on dirt roads, so I finally went over to US 53. The first 15 miles of that seemed to have a good shoulder, but there was a seam every 20 feet, and going ker-CHUNK, ker-CHUNK every ten seconds got old real fast, was giving me a headache, and I despaired something would rattle loose.

It turned to blessed smooth pavement after that, and life was sweet. Ruler straight, nothing but featureless forest, fairly minimal traffic on the highway. A perfect time for phone calls, but no one was answering. A mild tailwind made it sweeter, but when it’s in the high 80s you want little wind. I pulled into Eveleth (not quite the Levon Helm lyrics), not feeling ’bout half past dead. Lovely campsite over a lake, with a power hookup. Massive thunderstorm at 3AM, was gratified that my tent kept me dry.

Well, almost dry. The floor was wet when I awoke, and had to hang around while my stuff dried out. The tent is super high-tech, made of ultra-high-molecular-weight polyethylene (UHMWPE, “Dyneema”, formerly called Cuben fiber), weighs less than a pound, although your use your hiking sticks for poles. It says you don’t need a “footprint” but I’ve been using a sheet of Tyvek under it; this is what funneled the water under the tent. Maybe time to go commando. UHMWPE is supposed to be indestructible.

Another Easter egg: Eveleth is a starting point for the Mesabi Trail, a 65 mile rail trail that will take me to Hibbing and all the way to Grand Rapids. Weird feature: you’re supposed to pay a trail fee, which I did online, though I suspect nobody checks.

Not getting going until 3PM today. I’m worse than Yogi Bear (he only slept till noon).

Distance 65 miles, 2,332 total. Time 8 hours with stops. Elevation gain 1,498 feet.

©️ 2021 Scott Luria