We arrived in Glacier National Park at the same time a cold front did. Now, I ask you, does it seem like a park named Glacier needs any help being cold? Doesn’t that strike you as unnecessary?
Being the ambitious hikers that we are, we lined up our day with a 6-mile morning hike, a 6-mile afternoon hike, and a glacier overlook where we could decide what else to do.
Hike number one to Avalanche Lake went well. We’re not sure whether the name comes from its formation or from the heavy avalanche activity that continues to dump snow into the lake, but it’s a very quiet, aqua-green lake surrounded on all sides by steep mountains down which three waterfalls cascade gracefully.
At the far end of the lake, water slowly seeps through the rocky ground and slides into the lake, and then makes a silent exit at the opposite side through a haphazard dam of downed trees.
That trickle of water exiting from Avalanche Lake is continuously joined by other small brooks and streams until, about two miles downstream, it rushes and dances through a narrow, twisting gorge. Here is where I started thinking about the amazing power of water. Over time, this gush of water has sculpted and polished the vibrant red rock underlying it. The result is a fantastic series of falls, rapids and whirlpools splashing through wells and arches of variegated rock. This was Aaron’s highlight of the day, appealing to the geology and art lover inside of him.
The drive to our next hike took us along a breathtaking stretch of Going-To-The-Sun Road, renowned for its structural ingenuity and spectacular scenery. We cut our way warily along the edge of sharp mountains, winding our way upward amidst hail and rain. By the time we reached Logan Pass, highest point on the road and trailhead of our next hike, it was an all out snowstorm. Mind you, it was still August, for crying out loud.
I made a quick stop in the restroom, where I was fascinated by both the Swedish water saving toilet and the warning signs next to the sinks about the unusually frigid temperature of the water, which was fresh from the glacier (and they weren’t kidding Brrr ).
Meanwhile, Aaron found a park ranger inside who eagerly shared his wealth of knowledge about global warming (the park had nearly 150 glaciers in 1860; it currently has 27, and 10 have disappeared in the last 4 years). Ambitious as we are, we are not hardy enough for hiking in a blizzard, so the friendly park ranger recommended another hike at a significantly lower, and thus warmer, elevation.
On we drove, stopping to look at Jackson Glacier on the way. It was my first glacier, and I’m sorry to say that I was sorely disappointed. It looked identical to every other collection of snow nestled in the mountain peaks. I thought it would at least be glittery blue or something.
The 5-mile hike from Sun Rift Gorge to Virginia Falls was delightfully varied and graciously flat for the most part. It led us by three sweet waterfalls, and there was a spectacular stretch of trail that ran along a ledge overlooking St. Mary Lake, a pristine, icy glacial lake.
As the water sparkled and the jagged mountains commanded the background, my hair mysteriously turned into long, golden braids and the refrain from “The Sound of Music” wafted through the air... Or something like that.
Always on the lookout for bears, we encountered no grizzlies, but were privy to the amusing antics of countless brazen little chipmunks. Aaron derived endless entertainment from their company.
We left the park in time to arrive at our campground in daylight. On the way to the hot tub for a pre-dinner dip, I remarked to Aaron that I hoped the water was warm. Once again, our road trip did not disappoint. In fact, it was so blisteringly hot that I could barely put my toes in. Any body part that was submerged was instantly as bright red as a cooked lobster. We shared the tub with a Guiness drinking 47-year-old man from Seattle who runs 50-mile trail races and gave us hot tips about where to go in the Pacific Northwest.
Glacier is described as a land of extremes, where flat prairie collides with abrupt mountain. In like fashion, our overheated hot tub experience turned into a frosty night’s sleep. After a dinner of hobo pies, tomato soup and smores (of course), we bedded down in our mummy sleeping bags, tuckered out and ready for some deep rest.
It was not to be. I spent most of the night tossing and turning, writhing from the cold. I was grateful when daylight arrived, so I could get up and relieve my aching, cramped back in a hot shower. When I unzipped our tent door, I found a landscape crisp with a thick frost. The bathing suits we’d left on the picnic table overnight were frozen solid, defying gravity as they stood on end when I picked them up.
After an Aaron’s Special breakfast of pancakes and bacon (he’s becoming a chef whiz over Shannon’s little Bunsen-burner camp stove), we decamped and headed into Glacier for one more short hike before turning north toward Canada. It was a quick jaunt up to Apikuni Falls, a great way to say good-bye to a stunning park and to stretch our legs before the day’s drive to Calgary.
This country just keeps getting more and more beautiful.
Speaking of showers... Aaron and I have adapted Uncle Marv’s philosophy of “preventative eating” (see “Meet the Family” post). We now practice preventative showering. Since you never know when your next chance for a shower will be, take one while you can
Butte, Montana; Mountain Meadow Campground August 30
Ugh. We traversed the steepest mountain pass yet driving from Jackson Hole into Idaho. That evening we made camp in Teton Village. Whatever. They had free WiFi and we were off early in the morning so that we could make Glacier National Park by nightfall.
We drove along the western side of the Tetons-–decidedly less breathtaking from the Idaho perspective–-and crossed into Montana northwest of Yellowstone.
By now the air felt heavy in our lungs. A haze hung in even the highest valleys. Upon reaching I-90 we could hardly see ten miles ahead. Then we reached Butte. Or Butt, as those familiar with the area refer to it. Butt is situated in a dry valley, mid-Montana on the edge of a butte, which formerly contained one of the largest deposits of copper in the world. “I’ve got an idea. Let’s mine the copper via a mile-wide pit in our butte. Then, when our profitability tapers off, we’ll let the pit fill with water.”
You get the picture. The town (or city as they’d have it) isn’t known for its remarkable foresight. If they don’t start pumping or treating water within 5 or so years the pit’s “lake” will reach the city’s groundwater and...let the contamination begin. An informative plaque at the pit visitor overlook revealed that the water is so full of lead, zinc, copper, you name it, that it has the acidity of vinegar. Which when you do the math means that Butt has a hole filled with 11 billion gallons of vinegar that will continue to threaten the town’s health forever.
Trust me. This place is depressing. Abandoned mining shafts proliferate. Forest fire smoke hung heavy in the air, such that we felt breathless at times and could rarely make out the other side of the valley. Leaving the butt pit behind lifted our spirits, but didn’t help get rid of the smoke. We drove in smoke for about 250 miles that day. After Butt we drove westward down I-90 and then north to Flathead Lake and Kalispell, MT. Flathead Lake is an amazing glacially carved body of water that took over an hour to drive along. Its shores speckled with resorts and condos of the western wealthy, it told the tale of Montana’s “expat”-dependant economy. At Kalispell we turned northeast for Glacier.
We spent the evening in camping luxury. The Mountain Meadow Campground five miles west of Glacier was good to its name. Our site, though on the edge of bear-infested woods, was perched on a hillside at least 25 yards from the next closest site.
We collected firewood in the face of a rapidly approaching rainstorm (which turned out to be sporadic, gentle showers) and cooked our dinner in peace. The night was frigid and wet. We were thankful once again for modern conveniences such as cold weather sleeping bags and pancake-cooking campstoves in the morning.
Mornings in Yellowstone are chilly. The first order of business is always to build a fire, so that you can thaw your hands while attending to other tasks, such as making breakfast and packing up the tent. Accordingly, once we had a toasty blaze in our fire ring, Aaron went to work over our MSR camp stove to cook up some bacon and eggs. Yum... Good fuel for a new park and a new hike.
Grand Teton National Park is conveniently situated just south of Yellowstone. Within an hour, we were dwarfed by jagged, enormous mountains. The cool thing about this stretch of mountains is that there is no mistaking the summit. There are lumpy mountains that look like someone has taken a nail file to their peaks, so you can never be quite sure where the highest point is. I find this ambiguity unsettling. The Grand Tetons, on the other hand, are a “young” mountain range that has not yet been smoothed by weather and time. I admire their boldness and definitiveness.
I am not the first to admire their pointed peaks. Some lonely, exploring Frenchmen stumbled upon the mountains generations ago and, whether from crass joking or sheer desperation, they pointed and called out, “Ah, les trois tetons!.” Looking at each other with knowing smiles and that irritating French chuckle, they said, “Hah, those stupid Americans will love this romantic sounding name and keep it for all time, not knowing what it means.”
I don’t know whether to be more frustrated with the Frenchman for their disrespect of women’s bodies (I’ve a sneaking suspicion they weren’t speaking out of reverence for female beauty) or with the Americans for keeping the stupid name. The point is, I found it entirely distracting while trying to admire and enjoy the grandeur of these mountains.
In any case, we made our ritual stop at the first visitor center we saw, bought a few postcards, acquired a map, and lined up the day’s hiking itinerary. Our first destination was a random pull-off renowned for its wildlife sightings. We were not disappointed. There, moseying around Oxbow Bend, was a huge, true-to-life moose. We were quite pleased. Only a bear remained on our “must see” wildlife list.
[no really, there is a moose in this picture]
A quick drive up Signal Mountain gave us a decent view of the Grand Tetons and an excellent view of the cell tower positioned right in front of them. Talk about deflating. But hey, we had great Verizon service. (they don't call it signal mt. for nothing)
Next stop: Jenny Lake for the day’s hike. I always feel intimidated and overwhelmed by a new national park, until I get my feet on a trail and start getting personally acquainted. So it was a relief to get some “feet on” experience in the park instead of staring through a car window.
A relatively level trail along the edge of the lake was a welcome reprieve after the previous day’s trek up Mt. Washburn. It was beautiful, diverse and refreshing. A much greater variety of flora was represented along Jenny Lake than we’d seen in Yellowstone, and the cool breeze off the lake combined with the gentle scent of pine needles made for ideal hiking conditions.
[this guy brandished his bark and threatened to detrail us. chipmunks were everywere]
We wound our way to Hidden Falls, where we ran into a large crowd of tourists just off the high tech pontoon boat that had ferried them over from our trailhead. I confess that I thought they were cheaters. Or maybe we’re just cheap, preferring to walk 3 miles instead of paying for a boat ride.
Regardless, the falls were picturesque, and from there we put some serious elevation under our feet in the short hike up to Inspiration Point. The view was, well, inspiring. While Grand Teton towered behind us, Jenny Lake spread out before us in pristine glory. A handful of sunflower seeds later (thanks Mom!), we were on our way back, wishing we’d brought along more water.
Our visit to Grand Teton was brief. We were urged onward by the anticipation of glacial overlooks ahead. But first, an anticlimactic campground in Idaho and a very long drive across Montana...
In 1988 the National Forest Service learned a valuable lesson. Enormous piles of dry pine and assorted deadwood are wont to burn–-in fact to the tune of about 800,000 acres of charred National Park. Nowadays, when you drive around the loop in Yellowstone you’ll probably spot a sign closing off a narrow dirt track: “Natural wildfire - Do not report.”
Park authorities seem to have embraced the natural necessity of the burn and now wildfires burn unmolested more frequently and on a less catastrophic scale. Which is to say, while 1/3 of Yellowstone went up in flames 18 years ago, it hasn’t done so since.
We rumbled past the east gate and into the park over a 15 mile stretch of formerly paved road. Before crossing into Yellowstone, we drove what Teddy Roosevelt called “the most beautiful 50 miles of highway in America,” between Cody, WY and Yellowstone. Unfortunately for him, the road through Glacier National Park had yet to be built. (But more on that later.) When the Park road crews finally gave way to paved road again we topped a pass and found ourselves cheek and jowl with our first geothermal features.
Yellowstone Lake will kill you in a few minutes. While freezing on the surface, deep beneath it is riven with fissures gushing tons of super-heated water. Its shoreline is pocked with vents belching sulfurous steam, the Yellowstone Sirens luring curious tourists ever closer. Lured in we were.
In typical fashion, we stopped and gawked at this newest of sights. Only later would we realize that those few vents were less than an appetizer for what we would encounter hours down the road.
We stopped at the Fishing Bridge visitor center, the first along our path, as is our custom. There we chatted with the weather Rangers behind the desk about the best camping options and day hikes in the park. We batted around suggestions and finally settled on Norris campground in the western region of the park. No showers, but unparalleled surroundings. Mount Washburn came highly recommended, but not anymore today, as it was best to start earlier in the day to avoid afternoon thunderstorms on the way down. We agreed, slated that climb for tomorrow and headed to Old Faithful.
Perfect timing. She blew up a few minutes after we arrived. Did we really spend fifteen minutes staring at some steam vents a few hours ago?
Once the eruption was over, we picked our way through the boardwalks criss-crossing the landscape. Here smaller geysers grumbled and spluttered, as if discontent living in the shadow of the predictable, hot fire hose over the hill. Red-orange bacteria mats ringed many, while others dribbled noxious liquid over terraces formed of the lime which precipitates out of the water.
Evening drew on as we lingered over an enormous ice cream sundae at the Old Faithful General Store, and we realized our campsite was no less than an hour down the road. Down the hatch went the ice cream. We pulled into the campground ten minutes before the firewood vendor stopped hawking his pine. How providential. It got down to 30 degrees that night. Campfire and all, we still felt cold during our first sub-freezing night of the trip.
But we were glad for the advice we had from National Geographic. Go to Yellowstone the last week of August. Lowest crowds of the season. Never fails according to the Ranger they interviewed. He was right. Norris campground might have been 25 percent full. Everywhere we went the crowds were sparse and we never once sat in a wildlife traffic jam (despite seeing our fair share of elk and bison).
The morning’s hearty campfire breakfast fueled us for the hike up Washburn we planned for the morning and afternoon. The trail wound up the mountain ridge for three miles, ascending 1400 feet for a dramatic view of Yellowstone at the fire tower observation deck.
Along the way we encountered a pair of hoary marmots basking in the morning sun. They were confused at our presence and after a lengthy staring match retreated under some rocks until we passed on up the ridge. We also spotted a flock of bighorn sheep about 1/4 mile down the mountain from where we were on the trail. Of all the wildlife we met on our trip, these were the only ones we had to view at a distance.
After descending Mt. Washburn we backtracked a few miles to the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone. Since we’ve yet to visit the real Grand Canyon, we thrilled at the sight of a 309 foot waterfall blasting away at the river gorge below. But we earned the view by trekking down several hundred steel stairs suspended over the canyon.
From the Grand Canyon we drove north around the upper loop to Mammoth Hot Springs. The springs have built tavertine (limestone-like) stone terraces laced with lazy waterways steaming themselves down the hills. We enjoyed see yet another unique geothermal oddity, but were on our way within a half-hour.
With the afternoon getting on we still planned to stop at the painted mud pots geyser basin before making camp. We were at the far north end of the park and our next campsite the southernmost extreme. We made the paint pots just as fountain geyser was exploding.
Fountain geyser is much different that old faithful, but in some ways more entertaining. The best way to think of it is a 20-foot-wide sinkhole of boiling water with a wave machine.
Twice daily, 50 foot streams of hotness blast at the sky and the hills. Unlike Old Faithful’s 1-5 minutes, this puppy goes for a half hour and you can get within 10 yards on the boardwalk. But curmudgeons beware, if there’s any wind or Fountain feels feisty, you’ll be wet. This guy was easily my favorite and we were happy to drive up just as it was erupting.
From fountain we drove to the southern junction in the park and set up camp at Grant Village campground. Mmm, pasta over the fire. Ooops, I dropped the red sauce just as it got to temperature. Better go buy another $3.00 twelve ounce can of sauce. That hurts. Not to mention they made us pay two bucks each for our 6-minute morning shower. After 48 showerless hours, it’s a better deal than the sauce at least. Grant rounded out our Yellowstone experience by giving us a feel for the “industrial style camping” that some Americans seem to relish.
Bacon, egg and cheese “samich” fresh off the fire in the morning. Now a short drive to Grand Tetons. I leave the Tetons to Alyssa.
Devil’s Tower is as sacred to rock climbing enthusiasts as it is to local Native American populations. Therein lies unending conflict. Within view of prayer cloths and beads dangling from the pine trees clustered at the base of the Tower, climbers etch their way up one of 240 climbing routes. At least one per day summits the 867 foot monolith.
My sympathies lie with the climbers, I’m afraid. It was exhilarating merely to watch them, their grunts echoing down to mesmerized onlookers.
But I also understand the Native American side of the story. This thing erupts out of an enormous expanse of grasslands. While rotund Prairie Dogs play within view, this formation of 4, 5, 6 and 7-sided granite columns looms and mystifies. It’s as random as a palm tree in the middle of Death Valley.
After walking and gawking around it for a couple of hours, we were on the road again. Destination: Yellowstone. But first, a monotonous trek across Wyoming.
I say monotonous, but not really. For starters, the Bighorn Mountains divide the drive in half like the backbone of a spiny-backed spinosaurus. Our trusty, small-engine Civic chugged its way to the top of Powder River Pass (9666 ft.) with the Little-Engine-That-Could determination.
And while the terrain on either side of the Bighorn Mountains is monotonous, it is by no means boring. Undulating mounds and ravines in every shade of yellow, brown and green roll on as far as eye can see, pocked with dully colored sage brush reminiscent of basketball sized pin cushions. It is overwhelming in its immensity, if not in its vivacity.
A confession: I began this road trip expecting to be disappointed. I was convinced that I would not see anything that compared to the beauty I beheld in Africa. I am humbled as I admit that my breath has been taken away daily by the majesty and variety I’ve encountered, compliments of a Creator who did not reserve beauty for the African continent alone.
Even the South Dakota Badlands and Wyoming “semi-arid, high-alpine plateau” (as dubbed by Aaron, who also described it at one point as a gigantic abandoned gravel pit) have awed me. Although I previously disregarded them as parched, desert wasteland, their texture, extremity and ruggedness have bequiled and overwhelmed me.
Our Mt. Rushmore day was a downer. After a terrible night’s “sleep” at the Rafter J. Bar, punctuated by heavy traffic on the nearby highway, glaring headlights in our tent, and (worst of all) a yellowish, non-functioning jacuzzi, we packed up camp and headed toward Mt. Rushmore. A 10-year-old neighboring camper had forewarned us that it was a little boring because “they didn’t move or anything,” but “the adults liked it.” I must be part kid still, because while I really liked it for a while, there’s only so long that I can stare at granite heads. It was cool. End of story.
That was the high point of the day. Just as we left the stone-faced presidents, it started raining. So much for our plans to hike in Custer State Park. That was OK though, because we had a 3:00 date with the Honda dealer in Rapid City for our fourth (count them: one, two, three, FOUR) car maintenance appointment in a week. Our roadtrip was turning into a series of car fixes strewn across the country.
So, after a drive-by of Crazy Horse (it’s huge and probably won’t be completed in my lifetime), we headed to Rapid City. I hunkered down in Dunn Brothers Coffee while Aaron hemorrhaged some MORE cash getting our car fixed. Mechanic #1 created the problem, mechanic #2 helped the problem slightly, and mechanic #3 finally fixed the problem. After plummeting 15 miles per gallon, our fuel economy has returned to its 40 mpg range, much to our glee as we encounter $3.24 gas prices.
I grew more and more melancholy as the day wore on, which was unsettling to my dear husband as he still isn’t quite sure what to do with me in my irrational, melodramatic moods (the answer is usually to put me to bed). Regardless, it seemed bitingly fitting that we ended up in Deadwood for the night.
Deadwood. Think narrow gulch lined with casinos dressed up with old west storefronts. That’s all there is to Deadwood (minus the HBO series). Except that last night was the kickoff of Deadwood Cool Nites, when middle-aged folks flood the little town with their antique hot rods. It was standing room only in the streets, where uninhibited ladies and gentlemen swayed and sloshed their “event cups” filled with cheap beer to the tunes of a classic rock quartet.
We dined on a cheap burger and fries at a greasy casino and then headed home, feeling nearly drunk ourselves from the stench of Bud Lite and the sensory overstimulation.
We tossed and turned for another night on a sketchy mattress at a rinky dink but rad hippie campground called Fish ‘N Fry where our host ended almost every sentence with “right on.” (incidentl her name was September. hmm, 30-year-old flower child. we also met an Autumn today.)
Saturday morning, we beat it out of Deadwood and hightailed it toward Yellowstone. Right on.
If your definition of best tourist emphasizes economy and efficiency we’d be somewhere depicted in the dictionary entry. After leaving MN, we swung through Falls Park in Sioux Falls, SD. As is the case with many stops along our route, this park was sneeze-at-able compared to the places we would soon encounter. But relative to its surroundings, Falls Park felt novel and even spectacular.
The Park is situated on the Big Sioux River cascading over a series of eraser-red, Sioux quartzite (one of the hardest rocks in N. America) ledges. Always appreciative of irony, I enjoyed the fact that the falls once hosted a quartzite quarry worked by felons who were then forced to construct their jail from the same rock which they had so recently hewn from the riverside. Insult to injury.
On to Mitchell, SD, home of the Corn Palace. We stopped for about five minutes at the Mitchell Corn Palace, this despite the annual festival in the streets around the semi-edible palace. In case you are ever in the area, here is a picture to save you the trip through town.
Mitchell is just one more unsightly SD town desperate to lure passers-by from the interstate. So they built this “palace” and plunked it down ten minutes from the interstate. I figure they must want us tourist-types to drive through their beautiful town and spend our cash at the various “fine dining establishments” and “shopping boutiques” besmirching the landscape. Note to self: drive on by next time.
We stopped by the Minuteman Missile National Historic Site two hours down the road from Mitchell. This site commemorates the heyday of mutually-assured destruction during the Cold War arms race with the Soviets.
The ranger working the desk at what was a newly opened Park Service site, knew almost everything there is to know about Minuteman Missiles and nuclear weapon history. Plus he was from Georgia. His deep south accent and personality on the barren grasslands just outside the South Dakota Badlands kept me smiling, especially when he offered to show us a 15-minute video introducing us to the huge underground silos that formerly housed the glorious ICBMs. Turns out he directed, produced and starred in this film made with what appeared to be a Sony Handicam. We enjoyed the show. But since we had no reservations to actually go down into the missile silo we headed on to the Badlands.
The Badlands boast a landscape of minutely carved hills and cliffs that follow the course (or former course) of the White River. These geological features are composed almost entirely of the softest of stone and clays. Veins overflowing with dark reds, oranges and yellows lace the highly eroded landscape.
At any stop along the road a curious driver can get out and attempt to climb anyone of the countless jetties of ancient clay and stone. While most often the going is straightforward and easy, some inclines are ready to give way beneath the climber’s feet. And beware the terrible winds. One park ranger informed us that the winds often climb into the 50 mph range in the winter. Today it seemed that windy. As we climbed a trail up one of the higher hillsides we felt as if a gust could reach out and shove us over the edge on the slightest whim.
Once you reach the top of the carved cliff or hill you are on what is essentially a flat prairie land, an eery experience after hiking up in a landscape covered with colorful carved hillsides. We enjoyed the Badlands because the landscape was approachable. Grand, but not too grand. Huge, but not yet incomprehensible. It would be a suitable introduction to increasingly monumental landscapes that have the power to leave your head spinning or at least stun you into a kind of coma that makes appreciating the rugged and wild nearly impossible.
Wall Drug
The billboards on I-90 in South Dakota: tacky, entertaining, and offensively desperate. They do break the monotony of the South Dakota flatlands, making drive time pass quickly, but one is nearly infuriated by their manipulative pleas (and outright commands) to stop at the Petrified Fossil Garden.
And yet, we fell prey. The owners of Wall Drug are decidedly OCD. They have a billboard in Nairobi, Kenya advertising their drug store/mall in podunk SD (and another in rural SD telling you so). Wall population: 818 (half of which are eastern European employees of Wall Drug). But after miles and hundreds of their tacky billboards, our curiosity demanded a visit. One point for Wall Drug.
And don’t forget our favorite bill board in SD: Dick’s Garage, “24 Toe Service.”
But we had to stop at Wall Drug. It was, after all, right after the Badlands, on the way to the Black Hills. 513 billboards had the desired effect. On a scale of Mitchell Corn Palace to Badlands it is about a 5.3. And since most everything else in SD is a 2.1, a 5.3 is bigtime. Wow, are the owners ever obsessive compuslive. The complex cropped up from nowhere in this tiny town and stretched for two blocks in both directions.
A 500 seat café, 83 unique trinket, western-wear, outdoors and you-name-it shops, a playground, fountain, and you get the picture. And most importantly, so much attention to detail. We couldn’t turn a corner without the decor demanding that we stop and read or soak in the carvings, plaques, pictures, taxidermy, bones--for crying out loud–-anything that the proprietors could get their grubby hands around. Alyssa almost couldn’t handle it.
We bought a few 49 cent pieces of camping flatware and drove west on I-90 for our campground in the Black Hills. It was getting dark. We were now professional tourists.
By the time we reach Vancouver, BC or the Grand Canyon and have a brief two days to explore the sights, it might seem laughably ironic that we spent four days in southwest Minnesota at the beginning of our trip. I’m realizing that this trip is as much about the people as it is about the places, though, and we won’t regret that leisure time with Aaron’s family.
A last minute change of plans kept us in MN an extra day. We thought that all the Groen aunts were at Aunt Karen’s lakehouse, due to arrive sadly after our departure. So we were on our way to the Black Hills after an indulgent stop at Brummel’s Bakery for a maple bun and scrunch bread (we lunched that day on out-of-this-world Dutch baked goods and a quart of milk. Mmm...) when Aaron talked to Uncle Marv.
As it turned out, all the aunts were back in town and everyone was gathering that night at Aunt Wilhemina’s place (Mr. Groen’s aunt). We obviously couldn’t miss that, so we rearranged our plans and headed to Pipestone National Monument for the day.
[Pipestone, Old Stone Face]
[Pipestone, Old Stone Face detail]
After a delightful and restful day walking around this ancient Native American pipestone quarry and planning out the rest of our road trip, we pulled into Aunt Wilhemina’s, surprising everyone with our presence and interrupting a vicious game of Rummikub.
The roster for the evening included Aunt Wilhemina, of course, Uncle Bill and Aunt Joann, Uncle Marv and Aunt Bert, Uncle Cal and Aunt Cheri, Uncle Howard and Aunt Mavis, and Aunt Elaine. It was a precious gift to spend time with them all together, “visiting” in their homeland. I have tremendous respect for their values and way of life.
I spent most of the evening on the couch between Uncle Marv and Uncle Howard. Uncle Marv renowned for his theory of “Preventative Eating:” since you don’t know for sure when you’ll have a chance to eat again, might as well eat all you can now. Although he is always first to the table and brings a hearty appetite, he is tall and thin as a rail, much like my husband. He regaled me with stories about growing of growing up post-Depression, hauling milk, and the auger mechanism of Dutch windmills.
Uncle Howard, meanwhile, amused us with his tale of the time he was given the wrong hotel key and he burst into an occupied room with his pants half down in his rush for the bathroom. Aaron and I made sure to deadbolt our hotel room a few nights later, and we even used the “Do Not Disturb” sign just in case (good thing too, in light of the cleaning ladies attempt to open our door at 8 AM).
Sometime, ask us about Aunt Wilhemina’s shotgun antics (or ask our sister-in-law Laura, who sat next to her in church one Sunday after she had shot an skunk).
Later that night, Uncle Marv and Aunt Bert gave us the 5 cent tour of their home, which used to be Grandpa and Grandma Groen’s. They served us some hand-distilled water and Uncle Marv offered us a snack (preventative, of course) before sending us to bed with the promise of vittles in the morning.
[Aaron with Aunt Bert after a hearty breakfast. About to head for the Black Hills.]
Edgerton, MN (August 20 - 23) It is a rainy, chilly afternoon in Rapid City, SD, perfect for sipping hot coffee in a coffee shop. Not perfect for hiking in Custer State Park like we planned. So I am sitting in a Dunn Brothers, which according to my beloved sister is the best place for blog posting. Here’s hoping for some inspiration.
Sunday evening, August 20, we arrived Uncle Arlin and Aunt Linda’s farm in Edgerton, MN. What lied in store for the next few days was an intensive crash course in farm education for the city slicker in-law.
Uncle Arlin and Aunt Linda received us with a generous warmth and welcomed us into their lives for the short time we were there. Let me begin by saying that they are great people with a really neat family. They still share meals around the table together. Their home is filled with the inviting aromas of home-cooked food and the gentle draw of outstretched love. They linger together in the living room in the evening, after long days of exhausting work. They drop everything to chase wandering cows together. In short, they share life with a willing “togetherness” that is hard to find in our society.
Uncle Arlin is a farm jack-of-all-trades, with a hand in corn and soy bean fields, stock cattle, raising steer, and raising hogs. His days start at 6:00 AM in the hog house and end with the 10 o’clock evening news. That’s not a lot of sleep, according to my calculations, but he doesn’t complain.
If Uncle Arlin and Aunt Linda were surprised by my ignorance, they didn’t show a drop of it as they patiently answered my endless questions about corn, cows and silos. They did respond with an appropriate dose of incredulity, however, when I asked to “do chores” with them on Tuesday afternoon. Honestly though, how many chances will I have to do chores?
And so, on the appointed afternoon, armed with coveralls and nifty rubber boots, I piled into the chores car (a battered, aged Corolla) with Aaron and Aunt Linda. We fed and inspected pigs, amidst a stench unlike anything I have yet experienced.
We fed and watered stock cattle and young Holsteins. I sauntered in my boots in my best effort to look like a natural. Aaron chuckled and snapped lots of pictures.
By the time we got home from chores, my stomach was raging with hunger. Showers are required before entry into the house is permitted. Post-showers, dinner preparations were well underway with the freshly butchered pork chops on their way in from the grill when some neighbors pulled in with the news that the cows we had just fed had escaped their yard and were wandering free. Drop everything. Uncle Arlin, Devon and Aaron disappeared on a rescue mission. Dinner waited. And waited. Thanks cows.
In the end though, it was hearty and scrumptious and well worth the wait.
My farm experience was rounded out with a generous helping of fresh bacon, a night of star gazing in Edgerton’s thick darkness, pizza pies over a campfire, and a climb up a silo. It was the tallest silo in the world. Taller than the leaning tower of Piza. And it was terrible windy at the top. If I’d gotten blown off, I’d have landed on Mount Rainier. I thought I might die. But I didn’t; I was just really shaky and very impressed with myself.
Did you know?: They eat five times a day here. No joke. Breakfast - Lunch - Dinner - Lunch - Supper.
- Alyssa
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Leaving Chicago Wednesday morning found us stuck in some late rush hour traffic. We were headed for Hudson, WI via Elgin, IL and the traffic on I-90 towards O’Hare made for a nervous 30 minutes wondering if we’d be late for our 10am appointment in Elgin. The US headquarters of International Teams–-an agency sending teams of missionaries world-wide–-is located in Elgin.
We were hoping to meet with one of their “recruiters” (although we were self-recruited) for a couple hours to learn more about the organization and perhaps start down the road towards an assignment with them in Africa. Two hours later, with no red flags and many encouraging signs, we were back on the road towards Hudson wondering where we might fit in with this unconventional organization.
Six hours and one afternoon Cracker Barrel breakfast in Wisconsin Dells later, we pulled up to the Jim and Becky Norquist residence in Hudson. College bud Ben Norquist was to be married to Ariel Harms on Saturday. We were immediately at home at the Norquist hotel. Mrs. N. kept our stomachs full all three days we spent in Hudson and Mr. N. made sure our coffee cups were always full.
Thursday meant getting fitted for some tuxes and picking up all the necessary provisions for Ben’s bach party that eve in the Wisconsin heartland. Twelve eager, young men headed out in the early afternoon to a rustic cabin in the woods on Rib Lake, WI.
There we feasted on the finest trout and salmon prepared and cooked over coals by Andy (Ben’s twin and thus host to the party) with plenty of baked potatoes and carrots soaked in butter.
As night fell and the gourmet beer selection that Andy brought up began to dwindle, I broke out several bottles of wine and a cheese selection to accompany each. Come on! Does it get any better? Great company, a lakefront campfire in the woods, stomachs full of food and a twilight wine-tasting: the man knows how to throw a bachelor party.
Friday we decamped early and returned to Hudson for an evening rehearsal and dinner.
Ben and Ariel’s wedding on Saturday seemed to have relatively low stress levels, and no noticeable gaffs (minus a pre-wedding tire change on my sister-in-law’s car–-yeah she’s dating Ben’s twin bro, who knew).
Alyssa and I were each struck by the beauty of their ceremony, an affair stripped to the essentials and stuffed with meaning. Their pastor (who apparently studied under John Piper) delivered a message from John 17 that must have stoked even the chilliest of marriages.
After the reception dinner we danced the night away under the tutelage of a dance instructor brought in to get the less fleet-footed amongst us out on the floor. The bride and groom departed to much fan-fare and...Alyssa and I followed them to their hotel. We spent the night a floor above them in the Minneapolis Sofitel (yes, an unplanned fluke from which Ben derived endless amusement).
On Sunday we took in the worship service at the downtown Bethlehem Baptist church where we listened to another great sermon from John Piper. Rested and refreshed, we once again took to the road. Our last hard deadline until October 7 behind us, we piled our possessions into our trusty Civic and headed for SW Minnesota.
