But I pushed on to the Lolo Pass, where Lewis and Clark crossed and so did the Nez Perce indians after American soldiers pushed them out. In Missoula, just down off the pass and on the Clark Fork of the Columbia, I learned that my consulting company hadn't wired my regular payment. The company sent a paper check to my address in Royal Oak. Don't you just hate paper? I had to plan on going home to sign the bugger and deposit it.
That night, I bedded down in Butte, but Bozeman would have been much more to my liking and your liking. Butte is an old mining town on the Continental Divide, and mining pits adjoin downtown. I hear it is a world-class laboratory for detoxifying water. It's scary, but a mining company is slicing away from two mountain roots forming the Continental Divide. The two ore colored slices are about one third as high as the range. Right around here, I found a place that specialized in Rocky Mountain Oysters, but I passed on the delicacy. Bozeman had all kinds of peppy coffeehouses and dozens of cool looking hot springs places. But I was trying to make mileage.
I rolled into Sheridan, Wyoming right as dusk was falling; I had missed open hours at the Battle of Little Big Horn, and I could only see the U.S. Army Cemetery. Custer is a local boy, starting his controversial life in Monroe, Michigan, south of Detroit. He caused massive displacement of Native Americans in the Black Hills of South Dakota when his soldiers found gold and silver in the hills. These displacements weren't handled well, and the Native Americans now have the cash and legal eagles to pursue land claim cases. Near the WYO theatre in downtown Sheridan, women in elegant dresses were flocking on sidewalks, walking purposely south on Main Street. I had to know, and discovered that the Sante Fe Ballet had come to town for one performance, so I was seeing every young ballet student in Northern Wyoming. I decided on dinner in the steakhouse across the street, but ordered Kabob because the steak rang in at 40 dollars.
At the Mint Bar, I had a great time drinking with a scout from the University of Wyoming football team, and I even got scouted by some cute divorcees a few chairs down. The Mint Bar is just over one hundred years old, and all kinds of historical documentation hangs from the paneled walls. The panelling is peculiar; there's this high plains driftwood in irregular shapes that polishes up and varnishes very well, and the decorater attached it to the wall like so much strange gingerbread.
I got my earliest start the next morning, and I drove out of Wyoming without seeing Dick Cheney once. I stopped briefly in Sundance, Wyoming because a group of my friends in Detroit have been trying to get to the Sundance film festival for years. A guy named Harry stole a horse, and the complaint, warrant, indictment, judgment, sentence and court docket are open to view in a glass display case. When Harry left Sundance, Wyoming's jail, he found this guy named Butch, and Butch said everyone in the gang needed a nickname. Harry became the Sundance Kid.
Of course I pulled off in Wall, South Dakota and had a dollar doughnut and coffee at Wall Drug. At the drug store, I had a nice time talking to a South Dakota woman and counter clerk who was reading all the books of Nick Hornby. She was rather happy to learn about The Believer, a magazine associated with Hornby. South Dakota is rather dependent upon convincing drivers to pull of the high way, and each interchange had gimmicks. I did stop to see the Ghost Town and fill up with gas at the advertised station, but I found the entire town, including the gas station closed. The pumps didn't have pay-at-the-pump units, either. I guess the spooks watching howled at me, and I didn't see a living man.
I did save my final stop for Mitchell, South Dakota. Early in my life, my mother showed me black and white pictures of her cross-country drive, and she had a few nice shots of the Corn Palace. Each year, a new design is woven of corn stalks and cobs to dress the exterior of this palace; what I didn't know is the weaving tradition started in the hands of a Sioux indian. People look at the illuminated palace all night long. I noticed a few local women walking into the casino - saloon across the street and thought, why not? I had put in 600 miles and rooms were cheap in Mitchell. (Indeed, as I have learned, 65 K will buy you quite a house in Mitchell).
Inside, I encountered a Karaoke cult. First, it's one of the first bars where women outnumbered men two to one. Second, the floor was covered with sawdust and wood chips for safety purposes. I had to help more than one man to his feet, stabilizing his spilling beer first. Third, every person who sang had their song, and every song had a routine associated with it. One guy named LR peeled off his shirt to "Born to Run" and shook his abundant flesh in a manner than made the crowd go wild. Nicest of all, this woman who sang all the torchy songs asked me to dance, and I ended up in her parlor in her home just outside downtown after closing time. She's an interesting mix; she's from German Mennonite stock, makes most of her money playing in a rock bank called Stompbox on the weekend, displays her fairly good paintings in her parlor and serves beers and shots at a local joint. It was a nice meeting, nothing erotic, and I pushed on when she started to yawn. It was 4:00 in the morning, and I pushed on to daylight and the Minnesota border.
When I saw my first woodlot, I knew I was truly back in the Midwest. When I saw the wind turbines go wavy, I knew I had to get off the road. So I talked the owner of a Motel 8 into allowing me to check in 8:00 AM for that night, and I crashed for the remainder of the morning. Worthington Minnesota is up on the Buffalo Ridge, and it is noted for a fairly constant wind speed between 15 and 25 miles per hour. That explains the turbines. It is also 40 miles east of Luverne, Minnesota, where Ken Burns focuses part of his World War II documentary, "The War". I guess I don't like to stop and I don't like to backtrack.
The next day, I blazed across lower Minnesota, disdaining St. Paul and Minneapolis, but enjoying all the cool road sponsorship signs. I wrote them down, but one was a mile kept clean by a secular monastery. I drove through Wisconsin pretty quickly too, stopping in the Dells once and stopping for coffee and a snack in Milwaukee (Chillwaukee) in a coffeehouse sharing space with an 19th century water system pump house on the shore of Lake Michigan. I found the blue highway going south out of Milwaukee, and I found a tucked-away place called Hot Water in a warehouse. Alas, it was a date place, and I didn't bring male companionship.
It was late, and I kept pushing for the Illinois border. As soon as I crossed it, I checked into the Sandpiper, and paid one of the highest hotel bills of the return trip. However, when I awoke late, the staff granted me a late check out with an unusual amount of graciousness. I was writing on the lobby computer when I realized that each person in that hotel had a partner in care at a national chemotherapy hospital next door. I pushed on, driving Sheridan Road past Lake Forest College, the Great Lakes Naval Base and Northwestern University. I wanted to overnight in Chicago, but the Chicago White Soxs were playing the Chicago Cubs in Wrigleyville, so there was nothing doing on a cheap bed. I caught several improv shows at a theatre just north of the Briar Street Theatre, home of the Blue Man Group, and I grabbed a superhighway heading east after the last shows.
I crossed the border into Michigan at 2:00 AM, but that was really 3:00 AM Michigan time, and I checked into the Bridgman Inn right about that time. I talked the owner out of a 11:00 AM checkout time, but I departed by noon anyway, hitting the Round Barn Winery right at opening time. I picked up this family with two daughters going to my alma mater, Michigan State University. One of them tried to underage drink, the tasting staff busted her, and I made the quip, to much laughter, "Well, she's a Spartan after all."
Next door, I pulled into the parking lot of Tabor Hill, and my temporary family had made it to the tasting counter before me. This far too cute newly graduated woman, Michigan State again, took us all on the tour. It's always the same. Walk out to the vineyard's edge, look at the grapes. She did ask for questions and I hazarded, "are the winemakers about to thin the frail clusters?" She laughed, claimed "they'll do a bunch of stuff to those grapevines," laughed and looked at me as if to say, "no more questions, dude". After the vineyard, the next steps are the same. Look at the destemmer. Look at the crushers. Look at the oak barrels. Look at the stainless steel tanks. Look at the bottling plant. Done. The father of the family asked if any of the grapes were stomped by foot. This cause direct approbation from her daughters. So I didn't offer my answer, "No, it's hard to find enough virgins".
After Tabor Hill, I dropped in at an elegant and new winery two miles away, Hickory Creek Winery. The winemaker was a long term staffer at Round Barn, and he was approached by silent partners who offered him funds to plant vineyards, establish a tasting room and begin operations. So he was serving samples of a few of his first and second vintages, a fellow whose family had grown apples in the area from the days of early settlement. I didn't see a press house, but his wines tell me he's already a major player. He sold most of last year's cases straight from the tasting room. There's about four new upstarts close to the Cook Nuclear Power Plant.
Of course, I dropped in at the Livery, and LP gave me a hug and MG. made me welcome, although he was busy serving up drinks. I was hoping to see Ember, but I did see E, the Benton Harbor art teacher who landed a job in Colorado, teaching art at an all-year-public school. He was about to load all his gear into a U-Haul and drive west without stopping. Of course, the Ideal Place had closed for Sunday, so next door to the Ideal Place I had Chili and a BLT at the newest restaurant, a bar and grill named Paulies. After that, there was nothing to do but roll up the miles to my house. The check from the consulting house really had gone into the mail, and I had to separate it from a crate of junk mail.
My daughter attended her elementary school graduation, and I am just waiting for her at the Starbucks close to her house. She had a lot of people to smooze, including her wide circle of the ten-year old sisterhood, and this seemed like the best solution. I saw the graduation, made nice for about ten minutes, and then camped out here. She'll be in the door with her mom in about five minutes. Mom likes this because I always pop for a deluxe latte. My daughter is on track for a vanilla bean steamer.
Wilbo
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