When I set out from Wisconsin, I didn't know what to expect from the plains states of the mid-west. I'd been through them too many times to count behind the wheel of a car, or jammed into the backseat staring at endless fields out of the window that never seemed to end. No trees, no turns in the highway and with barely a hill in sight, I was worried that biking across the plains would be a similar experience to driving. But I tried to keep my hopes up, I tried to avoid having expectations which, without failure, taint an experience to a point where an enjoyable time can be viewed as a failure. I tried to keep an open attitude toward the state and the experience. What will the people be like? Will the backroads really be as bad as the interstate? So we ventured across the South Dakota border from Minnesota, leaving behind flat acres and acres of corn and soybeans, and finding thousands more acres of corn and soybeans. Now however, the ancient eroded landscape rolled before us so we had hills to climb, and the wind, which lacked impeding structures in the surface of the earth like trees and mountains, blew with regularity into our faces. The hot sun rained down on us, bringing the temperature of the earth to the upper 90's, with a humidity of 70+%. Brint's thermometer on a keychain read 113 degrees at one point and, though we knew this was incorrect, the number still frightened us. While biking, it's hard to know exactly how hot it is. The constant wind on your face keeps sweat evaporating quickly, so you can't get an accurate feeling for the temperature outside until you take a break, sit in the shade, and walk back out into the sun. Then the heat hits you with its full force and tells you "watch out, don't even try it, go inside and drink a margarita. Or two...
South Dakota, however, did not remain the unlivable, desolate, middle-of-nowhere place that I was afraid of. Instead, the landscape came alive with geological formations, prairie, and wildlife. Along state highway 14, we discovered many small towns with life of their own. People that are raised out here seem to come to enjoy life in the small towns where everyone knows everyone and you can do as you please. We came across the town of Laura Ingalls Wilder in De Soto, and spent a long time trying to figure out what drew pioneers to such a landscape. It wasn't until I read a quote of Laura's that I really understood. It said that the prairie looks the same everywhere you look, but if you take a little time, it holds many wonders and secrets that can only be found with patience.
From Huron, we took the smallest country roads west through the prairie. We didn't see a single town for about 70 miles and about 20 cars over the course of the day. When we finally rolled into what we thought would be a small town - Mac's Corner - we found it was nothing more than a small convenience store and gas station. After going through 5 liters of water over the course of the day though, we filled up, bought some food and rolled another 30 miles to camp on the banks of the Missouri river.
The country roads along the way turned out to be the best decision we'd made for directions. Although it could have been because of the cooler temperatures and lower humidity (85degrees and 50%), I was pretty sure it was because of the landscape. The hills rolled onward so much so that we experienced our first climbs since leaving the hills of Wisconsin. A small "mountain" range loomed ahead of us all morning and, while it couldn't have been more than 200ft high, at least it was something to look at as we rolled up and down the small hills of the state. At the bottom of every hill was a wetland, or an eroded river valley. The hills around the river having been eroded for thousands of years before becoming what we have today. Meandering rivers wind themselves through tiny river valleys, disappearing from view in what appears to be a sure uphill rise. The ground water dynamics of the area seem visable even from the surface, as one stream's groundwater surely flows into the stream on the other side of the small hill.
Wetlands bring an abundance of life, and the feeling of it was palpable in the air when we stopped next to a watery area. Birds wouldn't cease chirping, waterfowl would half fly, half swim away from the roadside through their algae filled home. The grasses of the prairie sang with life as crickets, grasshoppers, and prairie birds would jump, chirp, and sing the blades of grass to life. At one point, I followed a red-tailed hawk as he soared across the prairie, about 10ft off the ground, in search of a morsel to eat. Killdear flew on either side of the road, and entire flocks of red-winged blackbirds soared by. Am I really about to admit this online? I wished I knew more bird species...
The cornfields and soybeans gave way to prairie fields where cattle grazed away. Small ponds and wetlands appear in the middle of the driest fields giving cattle a perfect place to cool themselves off in the heat of the day. The cattle out here have a different sense about them than the cows in Wisconsin. When we stop to take a picture, they sense something is not right, and it doesn't take long for one of them to trigger the herd to go galloping away from us in fear of the weird creatures that for some reason stopped on the road instead of passing straight by.
Indeed, in the grasslands of South Dakota, we didn't find the middle-of-nowhere. We found life. Life in the fields, in the wetlands, and even in the rocks in the geology of the area. What a beautiful place and a privilage to be able to enjoy. Next time you drive through the plains, take a moment, slow down, and think about life slightly differently, the way the prairies of the plains are meant to be appreciated, before you cruise on to the next state border.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
Being Homeless
Being on the road is, in a sense, being homeless. It is a nomadic lifestyle; I have what I need to survive on my bicycle and stay alive by visiting towns, markets, grocery stores, bars, and right now, a public library. I see now why the Madison Central public library is a beacon to the homeless of Madison. Being on the road, I feel much closer to the homeless. While I don't lack financially speaking, or have a drug addiction, I don't have a place to shower at the end of the day, there's no guarranteed roof above my head (although my tent promises to be a good substitute now that I re-sealed the previously leaky seems...), no air conditioned haven free of mosquitoes, ants, flies and bugs.
I sat reflecting upon this idea today as I sat on the curb of a Hy-vee supermarket. I had just been inside the chilled sanctuary walking the isles packed with tasty morsels of food that my tummy cried for at every step. It was a difficult ride this morning, there was a strong wind from the south, which resulted in a headwind since we intended to travel south to get to Brookings, SD. I emerged from the cold supermarket with more than I had intended on purchasing; some meat and a tomato to make a sandwich with the bread, cheese and avacado I already had, a bag of chips, some yogurt, and a bar of reeses chocolate which melted within 5 minutes of being outside, inspite of the fact that I had placed it in the shade. Forecasts said 95 degrees was the high, with only 70% humidity, indeed a better day than conditions we had previously experienced. But stepping into the sun after being inside the supermarket yielded a cry of disbelief at the temperature we had just been biking through. After aclimatizing myself to the refeshing feel of the air conditioned supermarket, the sun and humidity was almost too much to bear. Yet bear it I did, and I sat on the curb next to my bike like I had the previous day and they day before that, eating my food, watching people entering and leaving the store, looking hot, sweaty, and extremely dirty. My white shirt, although it had been washed, still bears the mud stains from the pig wrestling the week before. Sitting on the curb, receiving funny looks from passers-by (or worse, no acknowledgement at all), gave me feelings of what I thought the homeless might feel on occasion.
A couple days ago, in Fairfax, MN, we had a good homeless experience. It was our second day on the road after leaving Erinn's in Lakeville and we were shot. It's amazing how civilization sort of just drops off the map. Within a couple of hours (not many miles on bicycle...) the people and towns we passed through went from Minneapolis suburbs to "You're from Wisconsin? oh, I went to Wisconsin once! Where ya headed?" "to the west..." "No, what town ya headed to? There's not much out there..." Indeed, there wasn't much out there, and before we knew it, we were in the middle of no-where (although some would call it Minnesota ;). We had the choice of a gravel road south, or a gravel road west, both of which didn't so much wind their way, but just go straight as an arrow past the fields of corn and soybeans. At least the monotony made directions easy...
About 35 miles after leaving a small town where we filled up our water bottles at the only store-the bar-we reached Fairfax and went straight to the grocery store. It was heaven on earth. Air conditioned, and stocked with everything a town of 1200 people should need. Before we had left the store we were almost done with a box of 6 ice cream snicker bars, and sitting just outside we feasted on watermelon, apples, blackberries, and bananas with peanut butter. It wasn't long before a young lady asked us what we were doing and why on earth were we in Fairfax, MN. She was there for her sister-in-law's wedding reception that evening. After a brief talk she said goodbye and walked away, only to come back after she'd got to her car. "Oh my, I almost forgot," she said. Brint and I both thought the same thing... she had forgotten to invite us to the wedding... "Here take this and buy yourselves a hamburger or something," and after trying to refuse accepting it, we took the $20 in her hand with gratitude. Maybe our scruffy looks (especially Brint's mustache) and stories to share are worth something to some people-like the story the homeless man was worth something to me. It's just a matter of starting a conversation with somebody and the possibilities are enormous.
As for us, we're headed west now, Pierre is the next major city we plan to hit on the Missouri river, maybe not too far away if the temperatures actually drop to a more bearable level.
I sat reflecting upon this idea today as I sat on the curb of a Hy-vee supermarket. I had just been inside the chilled sanctuary walking the isles packed with tasty morsels of food that my tummy cried for at every step. It was a difficult ride this morning, there was a strong wind from the south, which resulted in a headwind since we intended to travel south to get to Brookings, SD. I emerged from the cold supermarket with more than I had intended on purchasing; some meat and a tomato to make a sandwich with the bread, cheese and avacado I already had, a bag of chips, some yogurt, and a bar of reeses chocolate which melted within 5 minutes of being outside, inspite of the fact that I had placed it in the shade. Forecasts said 95 degrees was the high, with only 70% humidity, indeed a better day than conditions we had previously experienced. But stepping into the sun after being inside the supermarket yielded a cry of disbelief at the temperature we had just been biking through. After aclimatizing myself to the refeshing feel of the air conditioned supermarket, the sun and humidity was almost too much to bear. Yet bear it I did, and I sat on the curb next to my bike like I had the previous day and they day before that, eating my food, watching people entering and leaving the store, looking hot, sweaty, and extremely dirty. My white shirt, although it had been washed, still bears the mud stains from the pig wrestling the week before. Sitting on the curb, receiving funny looks from passers-by (or worse, no acknowledgement at all), gave me feelings of what I thought the homeless might feel on occasion.
A couple days ago, in Fairfax, MN, we had a good homeless experience. It was our second day on the road after leaving Erinn's in Lakeville and we were shot. It's amazing how civilization sort of just drops off the map. Within a couple of hours (not many miles on bicycle...) the people and towns we passed through went from Minneapolis suburbs to "You're from Wisconsin? oh, I went to Wisconsin once! Where ya headed?" "to the west..." "No, what town ya headed to? There's not much out there..." Indeed, there wasn't much out there, and before we knew it, we were in the middle of no-where (although some would call it Minnesota ;). We had the choice of a gravel road south, or a gravel road west, both of which didn't so much wind their way, but just go straight as an arrow past the fields of corn and soybeans. At least the monotony made directions easy...
About 35 miles after leaving a small town where we filled up our water bottles at the only store-the bar-we reached Fairfax and went straight to the grocery store. It was heaven on earth. Air conditioned, and stocked with everything a town of 1200 people should need. Before we had left the store we were almost done with a box of 6 ice cream snicker bars, and sitting just outside we feasted on watermelon, apples, blackberries, and bananas with peanut butter. It wasn't long before a young lady asked us what we were doing and why on earth were we in Fairfax, MN. She was there for her sister-in-law's wedding reception that evening. After a brief talk she said goodbye and walked away, only to come back after she'd got to her car. "Oh my, I almost forgot," she said. Brint and I both thought the same thing... she had forgotten to invite us to the wedding... "Here take this and buy yourselves a hamburger or something," and after trying to refuse accepting it, we took the $20 in her hand with gratitude. Maybe our scruffy looks (especially Brint's mustache) and stories to share are worth something to some people-like the story the homeless man was worth something to me. It's just a matter of starting a conversation with somebody and the possibilities are enormous.
As for us, we're headed west now, Pierre is the next major city we plan to hit on the Missouri river, maybe not too far away if the temperatures actually drop to a more bearable level.
A brief encounter in Minneapolis
As we biked at 11:30pm to Amanda's place in uptown to stay the night , we passed a gas station on Lake St near the Mercado Central, and the natural inclination was to go in and buy an ice cream. Inspite of the neighborhood being slightly sketchy, we (maybe it was more me than Brint) gave into temptation and I soon emerged from the store with two ice cream treats in my hands. At that moment, a well built, slightly scruffy looking black man came up to us and started conversation. "Where ya'll from, where you biking to this late at night, across the country or something?" Of course, we had to tell him we actually were biking across the country, even though all our bags were at Erinn's in Lakeville, 30 miles away. When we told him we were from Madison he used the opportunity to connect with us; "Oh, I'm from Wisconsin too! Grew up in Milwaukee!" While I do my best to accept all people, no matter how they look, my brain was squirming with bad thoughts. 'Uh oh, maybe he'll just keep talking to us while his friends get in a better position to mug us,' I kept looking around to make sure we were still alone. After giving us a very brief description of his current life situation-homeless in Minneapolis-he asked for money. While I also don't give money to homeless people very often, I felt quite guilty that I was about to indulge in an ice cream treat, while he was going to sleep on the street somewhere, so I gave him a dollar.
I thought this would be the end of the encounter when he walked into the store and we started to bike off. But a few moments later he came out of the store yelling "hey madison, madison." We obliged and turned around to see what else he wanted. As he came up to us again, more thoughts raced through my mind. 'Why does he keep reaching behind his back? Is there a gun or a knife in his back pocket? Did he just call his friends now that he knows he found two clueless white kids with wallets?' Instead, he burst into a series of apologies; "I'm sorry, I don't like to beg, I don't really ever do it, I feel really bad about that," and further description of his current situation; "When I sleep at the salvation army, they kick us at 6am every day and tell us we can sleep there, but we can't stay there, and they kick us out, so now I pay an old man $25 a night to sleep on his porch, I don't know why I pay that much, that's just the way the deal worked out at the time." He then asked us if he could share something personal with us. We were very taken aback, still uneasy about trusting the man in that moment, but we agreed to hear what he had to say. What proceeded, was a 5 minute poem/rap/rhyme about what his life was like. Listening to him was like looking through the eyes of that man as he talked about his childhood as an orphan, addiction to drugs, need for a place to sleep at night, and his thoughts as he entered the darkest places of a city to sleep-dark corners of old abandoned houses that young children run quickly by during daylight hours in fear of what lies within. When he was finished, we thanked him, and I was happy to give him three more dollars, the last of the money I had on me. I told him he should try to get the poem published-if he spent all day thinking about the lines, they must be worth something, maybe even enough to get by without sleeping at the salvation army. As we left, I asked for his name, "Chris" he replied. "I'll look for your music," I said, and we were gone, biking down the greenway and completely shocked about what had happened.
I thought this would be the end of the encounter when he walked into the store and we started to bike off. But a few moments later he came out of the store yelling "hey madison, madison." We obliged and turned around to see what else he wanted. As he came up to us again, more thoughts raced through my mind. 'Why does he keep reaching behind his back? Is there a gun or a knife in his back pocket? Did he just call his friends now that he knows he found two clueless white kids with wallets?' Instead, he burst into a series of apologies; "I'm sorry, I don't like to beg, I don't really ever do it, I feel really bad about that," and further description of his current situation; "When I sleep at the salvation army, they kick us at 6am every day and tell us we can sleep there, but we can't stay there, and they kick us out, so now I pay an old man $25 a night to sleep on his porch, I don't know why I pay that much, that's just the way the deal worked out at the time." He then asked us if he could share something personal with us. We were very taken aback, still uneasy about trusting the man in that moment, but we agreed to hear what he had to say. What proceeded, was a 5 minute poem/rap/rhyme about what his life was like. Listening to him was like looking through the eyes of that man as he talked about his childhood as an orphan, addiction to drugs, need for a place to sleep at night, and his thoughts as he entered the darkest places of a city to sleep-dark corners of old abandoned houses that young children run quickly by during daylight hours in fear of what lies within. When he was finished, we thanked him, and I was happy to give him three more dollars, the last of the money I had on me. I told him he should try to get the poem published-if he spent all day thinking about the lines, they must be worth something, maybe even enough to get by without sleeping at the salvation army. As we left, I asked for his name, "Chris" he replied. "I'll look for your music," I said, and we were gone, biking down the greenway and completely shocked about what had happened.
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