Seven days makes a week and a week in Springfield was enough to do what was needed. It was time to say goodbye. Once again I was leaving Springfield. Practice makes perfect, maybe I'll get it right one of these times. For a week, mail had been accumulating at my PO box. It would be like Christmas, I was hoping for one essential piece of mail, would Santa bring it or would my stocking be filled with the coal of junk mail?

I would get my kicks on Route 66 when I left Niangua. Route 66 (now called highway CC) would get me to Lebanon where I could catch a road that would get me over the Lake of the Ozarks. Oooh, but there was that house. It was one of the first wrecked houses that I shot when I first arrived in Niangua. I might as well make it my last Niangua image, how poetical! That's it on the left. Want to see how it looked 10 years ago? This is a link to the page where I am using the earlier image.

The roads of the Missouri Ozarks are predictably unpredictable. They wind over and around the hills and the hollows. If it is overcast and you are not minding your rights and lefts it is easy to lose your orientation to North. You will wend and wind for an hour to discover you have just driven a loop when you thought you were managing pretty well to stay generally pointed in one direction. Sometimes the loop isn't your fault. There are looped roads that take 15 miles to round, but they twist and curl so many times you don't realize your are aiming back at the starting point.

I needed to end my day North, without too many loops. So from Lebanon I planned to take highway 5 which would get me across the Lake of the Ozarks. It worked. I made it across the lake, past all of the towns that cater to boaters, fishermen and vacationers. In Gravois Mill, MO there was a dog grooming place called "JoJo's Dog Grooming" I wonder if it was named in honor of "JoJo the Dog-faced Boy," a side-show performer from the 50's.

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Another beautiful morning in the Midwest. Can one weary of such things? The overcast of the previous day had moved on leaving a morning clear and bright. The smells were delightful and the sounds were a symphony. Crickets, tree frogs, and cicadas harmonized to sweetly serenade any passerby who happened to have their windows open as they drove. The clarity of the air and the light were uplifting.

Boonville was behind me, but before I left, I drove around to look again at the wonderful brick work in the morning light. Very nice. How I love nice brick stuff. And what a day I had in store for me! I crossed the river drove through New Franklin, more bricks! Oh gee, another town to drive about in and look at houses. Highway 5 joins with highway 87 in Booneville and together they crawl about where the Missouri River takes an upstream wiggle to the North. The little towns there, Estille and Fayette, are nice but when you get to Glasgow you are back to very nice. Glasgow has some lovely piles. Churches, homes and downtown.

There are some rules of thumb to use in these towns. If you want to see the nicest houses go up. The richest folk generally built on either the highest ground or the best view. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised about all of the brick, after all I was on a river that was--and still is--used for shipping. Back in the day... brick was used as a cheap ballast. The local ship owner always ended up with scads of the stuff, that was, for him, pretty much free. So he would build a house of it. With the only cost being that of labor, the ship owner could build a pretty nice house. Since the ship owner was often one the wealthiest people in town brick houses became an item of prestige and the masons found more and more creative ways to use up the stuff. Where was I? Ah, Glasgow and hills So I went to the top of the hill and was rewarded with a giant old pile hidden amongst much overgrown landscaping. This house had seen better days. It was immense, but there were obvious lapses in the maintenance. I am always curious about the stories of houses like this. What befell the fortunes of the descendents? Was the house even in the hands of the heirs yet? Some Victorian had built his castle there proclaiming his success to the world. Less than 150 years later--four or five generations--his castle was languishing. Had the family fortune been squandered? There was a half-rusted mini pickup in the driveway. Was this the family chariot? Oh, such mysteries.

The road meandered away from the river. Brick becomes less desirable as a building material when you have to schlep it across any distance. Particularly when there are abundant woods nearby. Stick-built houses became the norm as much as empty space. The deeply rolling hills were being farmed. With crops at first shifting to mostly cattle after a while. At some point I tired of driving lines on paper and decided to go off-map. Off map is when the driving really gets fun. Dirt and gravel roads that you hope will continue in the direction they started. Finding odd crossroads and traveling down old tracks that turn the bend into a wonderful vista and then dead end forcing you to backtrack ten miles with a smile on your face. Eventually you find blacktop again and follow it to a place that is more civilized. Civilization being defined as an abandoned gas station and defunct country store. Follow the blacktop further and you will run into a wider road, this one with a line painted down the middle. If you keep choosing the wider roads you will eventually find a town, then a city, some place big enough for a hotel and you can get a room.

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It was early, not too early, but early enough. I was heading North again. The morning was veiled in a light haze that sank and pooled into fog in the low areas. Garlands of the thicker fog were pulled like cotton candy over the roadway. When the sun rose above the horizon, the fog became gossamer coral, striped with the extended shadows of the trees on the hill tops. It was a magical drive.

About an hour into the drive, the coral had faded to gray and dissipated. I pulled into the Modernaire Cafe in Lancaster, Missouri for some breakfast. Northern Missouri is farmland. Crops and Cattle are scattered over the hills. The Modernaire Cafe is a local place, that caters to locals. I stepped through the door a stranger. All conversation stopped, all eyes were on me. The stranger with the black satchel over his shoulder. It was like one of those old Western movies. I was the cowboy who just pushed through the swinging doors, but I wasn't wearing a hat.

The barmaid, er, waitress broke the silence, "Breakfast?"

"Yes, please." We went through the "seat yourself anywhere" routine, I planted myself at a table against the wall and the silence descended again like the heavy fog earlier. I was a bit self conscious with so much attention, but I had work to do. I pulled out my computer and got to it. There as almost a murmur, "Ah, so that's what's in the bag." Finally, someone's food came out of the kitchen and at the sound of the plate touching the table conversation began again. Once more I was invisible.

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It was nice to wake up in Iowa. The rolling hills and broad fields of crops are lovely to drive among. Within 15 miles of Iowa City I was once again off map wandering the back roads. Iowa is an easy place to drive off map without getting lost. While you are out there driving this way and that, you will find yourself occasionally passing pickups and people outside working. It is at these points you must remember to wave.

The Midwest is a friendly place, particularly when you are driving the back roads. If you have been doing it for a while then you are sure to know the art of the wave. The wave isn't practiced everywhere in some cities it might actually be a dangerous thing. I wasn't really introduced to the wave until I moved to Missouri. When I moved to Missouri everything changed. Everybody practiced the wave. The wave seems like a simple thing. You pass another car or a person or a house and you waive at it. Not as if you were standing on a float in a parade, stiff arm and hand twisting at the wrist. The wave can be as subtle as halfway lifting the index finger of the hand draped over the top of the steering wheel or as broad as a full arm swing out the window and over the roof of your vehicle.

There is a lot of personality that can be conveyed in a wave. There is the full-hand wipe, the one-finger lift, the two-finger slider, the back-hand fling... one fellow I know scrunches his hand as if he were milking a sideways cow. Experiment, find the style of wave that works for you and wave often. If you're new at if you might find it helpful to drive with one hand over the top of your steering wheel. This will help to remind you to wave and if you forget, at least your hand can be seen. Your wavee is a polite person and will take a hand in the windshield as a wave, giving you the benefit of the doubt.

In Missouri, you wave at everyone. Whether you know them or not, you wave. If you don't know the person you give the acknowledgement wave. The acknowledgement wave is a partial wave. Whatever your personal style of wave is, you do it half way. Just a motion of your hand in the windshield will do. If you recognize the truck, even though you might not know the person, move your hand a bit more. Delivery drivers and Semi trucks warrant a bigger wave. If you are driving down the road and the oncoming truck is a neighbor or friend, you should lift your hand enough so that the palm is forward, it is only polite.

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I left Rock Falls, Illinois early. Driving east into the sunrise. More morning fog. Dense fog, thin fog, stringy fog. Foggy foggy foggy. There wasn't too much to take pictures of.

I was headed Southeasterly through Illinois. When the fog finally cleared I was deeper into the farmlands of Illinois, the undulating hills of the previous day had flattened out into almost still waters. The fields had become even larger. They were huge! I was driving amongst endless corn, and endless soybeans. It wasn't just quarter sections of a crop it was full sections on both sides of the roads. The horizon was broken only occasionally by clumps of trees, otherwise it was miles of corn and miles of soybeans. As far as I could see, corn and more corn. The scale was immense. I stopped my truck and stood on its roof looking out over the fields of corn. I was adrift in an ocean of corn. The roof of my little truck a raft from which I could scan the horizon for passing steamers. Ah, but in the midst of farm land there are no steamers about. Were I lost, my only hope would be for a passing dirigible.

With farms so huge there are not as many other things to see. The old buildings from when the farms were numerous and smaller are all gone. The machines that work these massive spreads don't want interruptions. Plowing, planting and harvesting around trees and old buildings is costly. Tear the old things down and plant corn. When there is a house it is modern, well kept and not so photogenic.

I was fooling about in the back roads when I crossed into Indiana. I wasn't greeted by one of those "Welcome to Our State" signs. The little dirt road I was on gave no such consideration to its travelers. But there were tell-tale signs I was in a different state. Fields were suddenly smaller. Within a mile of crossing into Indiana I passed by two fields of Tomatoes. Illinois was just corn and soy forever. In Indiana the hills started bubbling again. There were more farmers and being smaller they were busier and didn't have time to plow under every old barn. This also means that there were more of the lovely wrecked things I love so much to shoot.

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I left Niles, Michigan. Once again the morning was cloaked in fog, thinner, more of a dense haze than a fog. Perhaps I was just getting used to it. Highway 51 took me Northeast.Tucked among the trees as I passed was a round house. The tops of the walls had chunks cut out to give it a castle-like appearance. Was this the home of a member of the Society for Creative Anachronism? A medieval survivalist? Who knows for sure, it is one of those mysteries of the road.

You find a lot of patriotism in the United States. This is not a new thing, though it may be somewhat unique. I have a book, "Cowboys and Colonels" written by a Belgian Baron who traveled through the Midwest in the 1860's. He was in a town in the Black Hills of South Dakota on the Forth of July and described the celebration the town staged in honor of Independence Day. A rag-tagged parade, the firing of guns and the whole town participated. He thought it was unusual, for that time, for a people to be in celebration of their country. Certainly, at that time in history, Russian serfs had nothing to celebrate. (The good Baron also had a very humorous ongoing commentary about the complete lack of any epicurean sentiment among the frontier folk of the time.)

U.S. Citizens generally have a love of their country, this is why we love to debate over what is wrong or right about it. I have seen people flying the flag in the deep South as well as up here in Michigan. Sometimes I feel the sense of National Pride is misplaced when someone upset over foreign affairs changes the name of French Fries to Freedom Fries. To me it seems trite. I have seen this a number of times in the roadside bistros I've frequented. Sometimes what you end up with is the expected French Fries, sometimes not. Once I was served hash browns. One other time some potato-ey mess that I think would be a good cause for charges of treason. In all cases, if the restaurant served breakfast on the same menu as the Freedom Fries, they were serving French Toast. I guess French Fries is a lunch thing and breakfast time is too early in the day to worry about patriotic nuances so French Toast is allowed to stay. I think this is a good thing, given my experience with Freedom fries. Imagine what a mess some culinarily creative patriot could make of French Toast. It would probably end up battered, deep-fried and covered with grated cheese. Though the gastronomic landscape of the Midwest has certainly improved since the time of the good Baron's visit, there have been moments and meals where I had my doubts.

The road unwound beneath me, I passed different kinds of crops. Vineyards, peach and apple orchards. There were not so many field crops as in Illinois and Indiana. More wooded areas were filling the landscape.

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In San Francisco you learn to love the fog. Intimacy reveals its subtleties. You can choose to revel in those things you love about the inevitable while being prepared to endure the worst. I suppose the fog I have been experiencing in the Midwest is similar. This morning's fog was dense, wispy, hovering and a saturated blancmange all at various times. The air brilliantly clear and crisp at others. In the early stages of the sunrise, the fog was floating in a tenuous membrane 40 feet above the ground. When the light of the rising sun touched it, The gossamar veil lit up in a blazing neon china-red. The intensity of the color varied with the density of the fog. No longer was I driving, I was flying at 30,000 feet between two strata of clouds. Dark gray below day-glow bright above. I was tempted to climb onto the hood of my truck and shout out "I'm on top of the world!" but I would have had to take my foot from the accelerator and the effect of flying wouldn't have been the same after the truck slowed down.

I experienced so many varieties of inland fog today I feel I am almost a connoisseur. I took a break to eat and still ran into fog for another two hours. But you learn to love these things... Perhaps I will learn to take good pictures of fog. I haven't yet. All tips are welcome.

I went off map a few times today. Michigan has "seasonal roads." The ones I traversed today were sandy, two-lane ruts. I was about a mile down one of these seasonal roads that I hoping would end up someplace specific when a few great plops of rain landed on my windshield. I had stopped to record some of the ambient noises and had the tappity-tapping of rain on leaves. I considered the unknown length and destination of the road ahead and the sandy dirt behind me that could turn into dense, slick muck--just add water--Hmmm perhaps I should turn around and go back. I did. The rain never showed in full force but, as they say: "Caution is the better part of valor." Once again, for want of a good map.

But that leaves another point. If I had a good (Delorme) map how might things be different? I might certainly be traveling less cluelessly on weirder roads, but there is a certain thrill when traveling on gut instinct with only the vaguest idea of where some road might lead. Go ahead, try it. Now keep in mind you are driving on roads, obviously someone else has been there before, right? Try going for two hours on back roads, in some part of the country where you are completely unfamiliar with the terrain and road layout. Now imagine all of the roads gone. Your vehicle as well. Imagine at this point the pure adventure and the amazing grit it took to be a Lewis & Clark. They crossed the continent with no maps. No roads. No air conditioning. No comfy hotels at the end of the day. That would be kinda fun... even if everybody was smelling pretty gamey after a few months.

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There was an interesting conversation going on at breakfast. Two older men sitting at a table. Only one was facing in my direction and he had a louder voice so I only heard one side of the conversation. I was facing away so I didn't see any facial expressions. It was like listening to someone talking on the phone except the other person was right there. The accent I was hearing had a touch of what passes for a Minnesota accent. The monolog ran something like this:

"Well they just weren't biting that day, that's all. I wonder if Mike had any luck."

. . . the other fellow said something

"Oh yah, well he was out on that boat of his, he gets out there."
. . .
"Yah, well... they say it's God's way."
. . .
"Oh no, yah, well, you did what you could. These things get out of our hands."
. . .
"I'm thinkin' I might go hunting next weekend with Tom and Bob."
. . .
"You know, that's just how it is. You go through life. You work. You find somebody you want to spend the rest of your life with. . . It's . . ."
. . .

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I'm chasing ignorance. Mine own specifically. I see it everywhere and like a mad Fire Fighter I get dizzy with stomping it out, spinning like a dervish at 78 rpm. It was this very ignorance that took me to the tip of Michigan. I knew nothing about it. No one ever talks about it. And that strange peninsula, what's with that?

It is the same stomping that causes me turn up some rutted side road. What does it have to offer? What can it show me? What can I discover there? On my way North that morning I turned off the pavement. The lakes up there cause the side roads to twist and turn. It was overcast and I lost my North. It didn't really matter. I found a nice lake and recorded there for a little bit. Eventually I found my way back and it only took an hour or so. It is beautiful in Northern Michigan full of nature and wilderness.

I drove on up through Mackinac and saw their Carnegie Library with the tin dome. Once over the bridge I turned to the East, determined to see a bit more of what is up on this little peninsula. It, too was was a nice area to drive. It has a lovely, marshy coastland and the marsh grasses had a nice, late summer color to them. Highway 129 cuts North across the peninsula. Straight North. That is one straight road! 26 miles of straightness. I had to take side roads just because I missed making turns. I made it to Sault Sainte Marie. I would cross the bridge to Sault Sainte Marie and would be in Canada. If they would let me in....

There must be something suspicious about me. I always get picked up for additional searches. When I went to Australia, I was the one pulled out of line... At that time I had to answer questions about the vitamins I took with me. "Gee, do we allow ginko biloba in this country?" Two-thirds of the time I fly in the U.S. I am one of the ones "randomly chosen" for a terrorist search. Though I understand they are trying to be fair by doing random searches and not "profiling," but you know... how about reverse profiling. One flight I was pulled aside along with an 18 year old blonde girl and a 70 year old black couple. I don't mind so much that I am always picked out, but come on, the other three people are in no way a threat and it is a waste of tax dollars to search 18 year old girls and 70 year old black couples.

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How do we choose where we end up, when to stop. For some it is a personal choice. Others have it chosen through circumstance, work or other obligations causing us to be in one place or another. Still others leave it to chance. When Evelyn (of Evelyn's Place in New Orleans) decided she didn't want to be in New York City any more, she flipped a coin and the seventeen-year -old Evelyn headed to New Orleans. When we have the opportunity to choose--and really, we always do--how do we decide what place is for us and how do we define where we want to spend the rest of our lives?

When Eugenia and Rafal Stepien left Poland all they knew is that they were going to America. Where in America they were going to was still undecided, all they knew was somewhere on this continent they would settle down. They rented a car and drove across Canada and then back across the United States. They knew they wanted to buy a motel. A small place they could fix up and host people. They discovered in more populated areas, motels were not as profitable. People wanted to stay in hotels with bells and whistles. This suited them fine, they didn't want to live so much in the hustle and bustle of things. They chose Wawa, Ontario. For them it seemed like heaven. A small town surrounded by nature. The weather suits them fine, the summers are mild and they love the winter activities open to them. Wawa is unique for the area. There will be snow in Wawa when all of the areas around are without . Rafal loves the snow. He loves the rest of the year too, but all of the activities that are available only when there is snow is like pure play for him. Rafal is aware that just because it is below freezing doesn't mean it is cold. If the sun is out it can be the most comfortable weather you can experience.

So Rafal and Eugenia chose Wawa as their paradise. All summer long they can pick blueberries. In the Winter there is Ice Fishing. (Some of the locals will only eat fish that is caught when it is cold. Apparently the cold changes the metabolism of the fish so much that the texture and flavor are vastly improved.) Three years ago, the Stepiens purchased the Parkway Motel, www.parkwaymotel.com, and have done a lovely job refurbishing it. The rooms are nicely appointed, and the beds are very comfortable. I know that when I pass through Wawa again I will not miss the opportunity to stay at their Motel. Not only is it a nice place to stay, the Stepiens are lovely hosts, excited with the new place they live and are eager to share all they know and tell of their favorite spots in the area. They are located just a few miles East of Wawa on highway 17.

There is another family in Wawa, Ontario that helps make it that much more of a paradise. When you travel a lot in outlying areas you have to accept the kind of food that will be available. There are a lot of good restaurants with good food. You can pretty much always count on breakfast. What you don't find is many fine restaurants with a good wine list and excellent food. Ah, but in Wawa, Ontario the Ayoung family shatters mediocrity and serves up incredible food at the Kinniwabi Pines Restaurant (no web site yet, but when they get one I will list it here) The menu is pure delight, offering Canadian, Chinese, Carribean and European delicacies. One night I had escargot and duck. The following night there were lamb chops covered with a walnut mint sauce. Everything that came out of the kitchen looked and smelled delightful. And the soups! Ah! They are subtle and well balanced. The menu was put together by the brother who is the chef. They used to run specials. Every night there was a different one. The current menu is all of the specials they used to run. So everything is special. The Kinniwabi Pines Restaurant is about 3 miles East of Wawa. Just a little further away than the Parkway Motel. (Another good reason to stay at the Parkway!) Another lovely feature of the Kinnawabi Pines Restaurant, is their deck. Yes, you can eat the most delicious food "al fresco" under a blue sky or the summer stars and make the meal that much more enchanting. This restaurant helps make Wawa even more perfect.

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When one travels left and right, up and down on the map, certain things keep needing adjusting. Three days ago I could leave at 6:00am and it was breaking light. On this morning it was black. Pitch black. I packed up and headed out into the darkness. Which is asinine in this part of the continent. Why? Moose! Out here there are moose. A moose is a gigantic creature. The body of an adult male can be 1,200 to 1,600 pounds. Um, that is easily half the weight of your/my car. What makes it even more dangerous is that the greater portion of that mass is above the hood of your car. That means mooseseses have long legs. Being hit by a vehicle moving at 60 miles per hour is bad news for the moose whether its legs are long or short. But for you the long legs can easily spell your death. It is rather complex and involves the theory of relativity. But using one of Einstein's visualization experiments I think it will all become clear.

First, imagine you are sitting in your car and it is stationary. Now, imagine a mass weighing about 1600 pounds (725 kg) floating about three feet off of the ground. 1600 pounds is similar to two 100 gallon (378 litre each) barrels filled with water, but a moose is much denser than water so lets freeze these barrels just to get things right. Got all that? Next imagine these frozen barrels hurtling toward you, three-feet off of the ground at 60 mph (96 kph.) Oh gee, is that about where your windshield is? And that mass will hit you where? Isn't your trunk a lovely place to end up mangled with ground moose? Oh, it's not? Well then, don't be a fool. Don't drive in moose country after dark! Moose are dark in color, their coats don't reflect light and their eyes are too high up to do so. Even during the day they can be hard to spot.

My host, Rafal, at the Parkway Motel said if he ever has to drive at night he will wait until a large semi-truck passes and follow the truck. Sure, he might have to wait 5-20 minutes for the truck. But it beats running into a moose.

So why did this brainless idiot leave in pitch black? Perhaps because he was stuck in a day-frame 500 miles south and two weeks earlier. Why, again? What was I doing? This isn't about getting anywhere, it's about traveling . Quite obviously I was in dummy mode. So the dummy drove the first hour in blackness.

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Travel is not simply the act of bringing yourself to a new location, it is meeting new people, trying new foods and discovering the differences, obvious and subtle, in how people, just like you, live in other parts of the world even if that "other part" is simply the next town over. In my conversation with the locals of Schreiber, Ontario the previous evening, the conversation drifted into some of the delicacies of life that are unavailable in the States.

"Gravy," One fellow offered.

The whole table assented

"Oh yeh," he continued, "I went down to the States to go to a NASCAR race, eh. I was at a restaurant. I asked if they have any gravy for my fries. The waitress said she didn't know and went into the kitchen to ask. She came back and said 'We have ketchup.' What kind of restaurant doesn't have any gravy, eh? Up here we put gravy on everything."

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"I have good dreams." The speaker was a fellow who repairs cameras in Missouri. He was showing me pictures of his property. He had put in a lake and decorated it with lots of stone walls, docks, six-sided buildings and a waterwheel, actually three of them. Apparently, he dreamt of waterwheels a lot. "Life is about your dreams, finding them, following them and making them yours. You have to live your dreams." He has five waterwheels so far on his place. One at the entrance by the road, one by his front door and three by his lake. He was living his dream building waterwheels. He even had three or four little ones in his repair shop.

If life is about living your dreams, the Lone Pine Motel in Ignace, Ontario, where I was staying, was built of dreams. Dreams made into reality, one board at time. The Lone Pine Motel was built by hand and the man who performed the work did a beautiful job. The motel was his dream and he dreamed completely and thoroughly. He did not stop when he had walls and roof. Much of the trim of the building was custom milled. The furnishings in all of the rooms are all designed and built by him. Chairs, tables, desks, dressers, stools all made by him. Even the shades of the desk lamps are made of wood--ten panels spiraled out each with holes drilled into it spelling L-O-N-E (a pine tree) M-O-T-E-L, one letter on each panel.

He was considered by some a little eccentric. He was so possessive of his beautiful motel he became quite picky about whom he would allow to stay there preferring little old ladies and retired couples. Three days after I left Ignace, I stayed at a motel in Dryden. The owner of that motel owned a lumber yard in Ignace when the Lone Pine Motel was being built. He sold the builder most of the wood for his motel and remembered him well. "Oh yeh, I knew him. He was a little bit different. He wouldn't have ever rented to you. He once turned away an entire hockey team and he always closed up all winter, he didn't want people tracking mud into his rooms."

He died three years ago and his daughter had been leeping it going since. On September First nine days before my arrival, the motel changed hands. Now it is being run by Troy Lebarge. As I related in my last post, Troy owns the fitness center at the hotel I almost stopped at 100 miles earlier. Troy looks like he owns a few fitness centers. Well-muscled, clear blue eyes, and a soft, in-control demeanor. Troy has had the dream of putting together a health retreat for a few years. He has been considering properties in Costa Rica and other exotic places, but the logistics of managing something from so far away caused him to look closer.

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I was thinking North. Canada is big. If you look at a map of Canada you will see lots of towns with no roads to them. The Northern part of Canada is wide open with few, if any roads. The map I was using marked a number of roads that were winter roads only. Their routes crossed rivers and lakes when everything was frozen over. Frozen over! For the last three mornings there had been frost on my car. A month earlier I was swimming in the ocean off of the Florida coast. Now I was in an area that freezes over all winter long and I was about to go... Norther!

It was one of the reasons for heading into Ontario in the first place. Go as far North as possible within my time constraints. Ignace would be my jumping of point. I would drive up to Pickle Lake and keep going. The pavement ended at Pickle Lake, but one of my maps showed that it continued as gravel. Oboy! Let's go at least a hundred miles into the bush! And what a name for the end of the road, Pickle Lake! Funny thing about Pickle Lake. A few days later I was checking into a Motel and the Lady at the desk raised her eyebrows when I mentioned I had been to Pickle Lake.

"Pickle Lake, were you Crazy?"

"What's wrong with Pickle Lake?"

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When I was driving back in from the woods I drove Sixty miles or more through a smoky haze. I thought at first I was near a sawmill that was burning its sawdust, but I wasn't driving beyond the smoke, and I didn't think sawmills did that any more. It went on and on. It wasn't until I listened to the news later I realized what was the true cause, there were ninty-some wildfires started by lightening burning out in the Ontario backwoods. All of the firefighters of the area were busy extinguishing the fires. The smoke had lightened up a bit by the time I reached Sioux Lookout, Ontario.

Sioux Lookout is an interesting name for a town. It is even more interesting when you know the story behind it. The Sioux tribe lives nowhere in the area. It is in territory for the Ojibway tribe. Long, long ago the Sioux would trade with the locals. The Sioux would travel up into the territory with their wares and trade for furs or whatever was the commodity sought. Everything went along swimmingly for a while until one clever Sioux thought of a way the trade would be even more profitable. How can you make trading even more profitable? Return with the payment as well as the goods brought up to trade. This required slaughtering everyone in the village they traded with. This seems kind of dense. I mean, if you just want to kill everyone and take everything they had, why bother schlepping all of the trade goods around and go through the motions of fair trading? It was an awfully complicated way to raid a town. The Vikings simply sailed in, slaughtered everyone, then took what they wanted. It's much simpler and much more honest.

Slaughtering your clientele is not a very good business practice. While your short-term profits may skyrocket, you'll get your butt kicked in the long run. This is what happened to the Sioux. For a few years the trading clan came back bragging about their exploits and how great their "profits" were. I'm sure some of the wiser Sioux, listening to the "trader's" tales, shook their heads knowing you can't trade long with a dead clientele. Eventually the Ojibway caught on to what was happening and planned a party for the Sioux. There was a waterfall the Sioux would have to portage around to reach the territory of the Ojibway. The Ojibway prepared an ambush. From the top of the a nearby mountain they would be able to see the approach of the Sioux a long way off. Upon sighting the Sioux a signal was given and the Ojibway split up. The Men hid in the woods at the top of the falls while the women ran down and hid at the bottom. When the Sioux made the portage they left the women at the bottom of the falls to watch the canoes, while the men carried the trade goods to the top. When they reached the top this time they were greeted by a group of unhappy Ojibway warriors. At the same time the Ojibway women closed in on the unsuspecting Sioux women at the bottom of the falls. Eye for an eye, the Sioux were all killed except for one small boy that was saved by a compassionate Ojibway woman. He was adopted into the tribe and later became one of the tribes most respected chiefs. Never again did any Sioux attempt to trade, illicitly or otherwise, with the Ojibway. There are two morals to this story. One: Don't kill the people you want to do business with. Two: People you don't kill can end up doing great things.

This is the story of how Sioux Lookout got it's name. The event happened in the 1700's. The tale is remembered today, and will for centuries to come, because a hilltop was given an unusual name so curious people would ask "Why is it called that?"

-=-=-

"The years between Forty and Sixty seemed like they passed in just a few months. I hear that Sixty to Seventy passes like it is Twenty Minutes! I'm sixty-two, I've already used up four of those minutes. I just want to retire!" I was speaking to Mac Rowat . He owns the Town and Country Motel in Dryden Ontario. Mac is an interesting fellow. He loves to fish and ride his motorcycle and was, at one time the only person sail boarding on Lake Wabigoon. Though he no longer sailboards, he finds he doesn't have enough time to do the other things he wants to do. I can relate to not having enough time, how about you? Mac is set up and has enough money to retire. But he wants to get out of the Motel business.

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"You're Mister Choo Choo!"

There was a pause. "Yes, I'm a Mister Choo Choo, there're lots of us you know." Mike came back well, from my unexpected outburst. He had just told me he was an engineer for the Canadian Railroad.

"Wow, that is so cool! I have a friend that would be flipping to be sittin' next to a real train engineer."

"I used to feel that way myself 20 years ago, eh. Now it's just a job."

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Kenora, Ontario is situated against Lake Of The Woods and the drive out along the lake is a nice morning drive. Continue West on Highway 17 and you will pass into Manitoba where Highway 17 changes into Canada 1, a freeway of sorts, it has fancier exits and signage. It was when I passed from the 2-lane highways of Ontario to the freeways of Manitoba I realized what an incredible asset the interstate system is to the U.S.. Well, for moving goods and things from point A to point B, for meandering around it is not so great. The interstate systems allows us to transport materials by any number of routes to a destination. Similar to how packets of data bounce across the internet, but not quite so efficient. In Ontario, there are really only two highways and only two rail lines that cross it. Any goods that Cross Ontario have to go by one of these four routes. It is a blessing in a way, it keeps the greater part of Ontario beautiful, frontier-like and unspoiled.

I had originally thought I would mosey into Winnipeg and maybe a bit further West before heading back into the States, but the previous evening I had taken some time, done some math and realized I was paying about $4.60 per gallon for gas up there! Yikes. I also spend some time in google maps. Google maps implied that there were roads, little roads, that crossed the border with no border guard! No way! This I had to investigate. A few miles into Manitoba I headed South on highway 308. Ten miles in, the pavement turned to dirt for about 50 miles until I reached Moose Lake. Google implied that if I kept going straight when 308 ended at Sprague, Manitoba, the little tiny road would cross right over the border. I found this hard to believe, so I had to check it out.

I drove it. It became tinierand tinier until it was just two tire tracks between some fields. Then it "dead ended" at a wood. At the road end, tacked to a telephone pole, was a cheap plastic sign that read "Illegal Border Crossing; Entry Prohibited; Activities may be monitored; Violators will be arrested."It was a cheap, corrugated plastic sign. Like one of those you will see in poorer neighborhoods advertising credit relief. What is this, a 9-11 afterthought? What happened to a real metal sign mounted on a pole of it's own that implies "We put this here. We intend this to be here. We are aware of this spot!" This little sign said "Oh yeah, we bought some cheap signs because our budget is strapped. We paid some guy to stick this here if there were a telephone pole handy. We haven't given it much thought since but we may be watching, so think twice. " Sheesh. We don't need to build a fence up there but at least have a sign that looks serious. Maybe some solar powered monitoring cameras... how tough can that be?

Anyhow my non-attempt at an illegal border crossing was stopped and I went to the closest crossing. It was much easier to get back into the country, then again I am a citizen. I still had to identify myself and answer some questions and actually look like some guy traveling taking pictures and writing. The border guard even asked to see my camera equipment. I think this guy deserves a raise, he correctly pegged me as a non-threat, non-criminal, type of person. How often does that happen?

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Grand Forks, North Dakota is an interesting town. It has some nice, old signage. I am discovering many Midwestern towns have nice signage. Good signage makes it easier to pick out where to sleep and where to eat. Who has the coolest sign? Sure, it might be a superficial way to choose, much better I google the town and study reviews and find out what other people have to say or scour my AAA guide and choose based on price and ratings and other junk that allows us to quantify the unknown in advance. But where is the fun in that? After all it is only one bed, it is only one meal. I value esthetics so I might as well support them in my own way. Besides places with cool signs are rarely, if ever, franchises. All of the money I spend there stays in the community nothing goes out in franchise fees. I am also guessing that a locally owned food place is less likely to have disgruntled youthful employees who hate feeling they are part of some impersonal machine and might try to express their unique individuality while preparing my food.

In Grand Forks there is a restaurant called the Bronze Boot. It has a great sign in the shape of a giant boot. When lit up at night the lights on the spurs look like they are spinning. The Bronze Boot is a traditional, Midwestern "fancy" restaurant. Inside it is nicely appointed with booths and tables and a few high-backed, private booths. It is nice enough to make anyone think they are in a nice restaurant, but not so overdone that a farmer from 50 miles out is going to feel uncomfortable when he brings his girl into the city to impress her. They serve meat, mostly, and will be happy to burn your filet mignon to a crisp if you so desire. If you ask for medium rare, they describe the result to verify this is what you really want. Some of the meat they offer is fish and poultry, but I suspect they didn't sell too much poultry until the last decade or so. From the cholesterol-laden plates I saw, this is still a red meat restaurant in a red meat town. They served the basics: red meat, potatoes baked or fried, and a token salad... if you ask. Inga, my heavily accented German waitress approved my choice of the ribeye commenting that it was her favorite.

When I left the restaurant, I was confronted by a great noise from across the road. Engines. Powerful engines at high RPM roaring great masses of noise into the early evening. This required investigation. I crossed the road to find myself at the pit entrance of the Grand Forks Motor Speedway, a quarter mile dirt track where they race stock cars and sprint cars.

Do you remember when you were in High School? Remember the football field? How about the track that went around it? Remember the sadistic gym teacher who insisted you run around it saying running in circles was somehow good for you? Whether it was healthful or was to build character or was to accustom us to a lifetime of running in futile circles, they never explained... I digress. Anyhow, imagine that track around the football field with six or eight cars racing around it at 60 miles per hour. Uh huh, madness ensues. The dirt track at Grand Forks is like that. A steeply inclined track around a small infield. A few cars at a time making a huge noise for 8 laps and then another group of cars immediately following.

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When I reached Grand Forks, North Dakota the previous day I was impressed with the number of creative, old signs they had about. I was also impressed with the price of gas. It was a new low for my trip, $2.18 per gallon. I determined I would fill up my tank while I was in town, but I was distracted the previous night by a stock car race. I was sitting in Grandma Butterwicks restaurant contemplating my pancakes when an old boy's cell phone rang. I think he was hard of hearing because he talked really loud.

"Oh hi, Joe.
Yah. Yah.
Oh I'm sittin' having my coffee at the restaurant here.
Oh yah, I'm done with my eggs, yah.
Scrambled.
Fillin' your tank are ya now? What're you payin there?
Oh, is that so?
Yah, well it's two-twelve here.
Oh yah, well it went down over night, you know. I'm lookin' right at the station across the street.
Yah, yesterday it was two-eighteen.
Oh yah? You're goin' to the lake now? Fishing, huh?
Oh yah, well, no not today. I have other things I have to do.
Yah, yah, well you go then. Hope you catch your limit.
All right then, bye now."

I looked out of the window and saw that my diner neighbor was correct, the price of gas had gone down 6 cents over night. I guess the distraction of the race was a blessing, I saved a whole ninety cents on the 15 gallons I put into my tank... that's like getting a free pancake on your stack! The day was starting out well but the day was starting out busy. Email and some business matters kept me in Grand Forks until almost 1:00.

There are Sunflower fields in North Dakota. I have seen sunflowers growing wild along the road sides in Kansas, it was earlier in the season and they were a smaller variety. I have grown a few of them when I was in Missouri, the birds loved them. I have a friend in New Orleans who grew some in his yard in the Marigny Triangle, "They grow rats!" was his assessment. "I noticed something was eating them. One morning I came out and there was this giant rat eating my sunflowers. I'll never plant them again, they grow rats!"

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So much time, so little to do. I'll start with a gallery of images taken on the day's drive. It was an overcast day, but the drive through North Dakota's Sheyenne Valley was lovely. The trees were just beginning to turn and the misty haze made things interesting.

The following day I spent with relations in South Dakota. I have posted a few of those images here

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The last night I stayed in Aberdeen, I didn't stay there. I got back to town later than I had intended, about 8:30. It turned out there was a Super-sized Walmart opening the next day and every hotel room in town was booked. This is not a 1-or-2 hotel town. Clearly, these folk are big on shopping and a new Walmart opening up is something not to be missed.

The closest town with a hotel was 45 miles away. I set off. The town had two hotels... all booked up. The next closest town was Huron, 45 miles further. That adds up to 90 miles extra to drive for a hotel just because Walmart was opening a new store. Huron boasts the largest pheasant in the world. I think it was staring into my window the whole night.

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How much fun you can have on the drive from Pierre to Wall! I drove the "Bad River Road" out of Pierre and saw some really beautiful hills. The Bad River Road is a good digression. It is well graveled and clearly marked. There are a few alternative routes you can take away from it and after driving through barren hills for what seems like forever you will pass into gigantic fields of Sunflowers and after a few miles be right back into the wide-open hills.

Wall, South Dakota has roadside signs forever leading up to it. The Wall Drug store is the main culprit. Apparently they have been up to this for many-a-year and turned the town into a sucessful tourist trap.
But Wall is the best place to stay before a drive into the South Dakota Badlands. Yes, I went into Wall Drug and had an unimpressive piece of pie--some things ya just gotta do. There is a life size Brontosaurus out by the interstate. if you are going into the Badlands, you will pass right by it!

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It is difficult to find words for the badlands. Yes, I could go into geological history or write of "majestic beauty." They are bad for crops, bad for cattle, but extremely good for the soul. Go there. See for yourself. it is a place not to be missed.

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