The
Dakota Prairies
October
25, 2017
Route
2 in Minnesota. It’s getting on toward lunchtime, according to our
internal clocks. The Trucker consults our GPS. The next small town
has several options: The Pita Pit, The Toasted Frog, or the Drunken
Noodle. I kid you not. Now for one whose eyes eat before her
stomach, that is an appetite suppressant right there. Hardee’s in
the following small town seemed a safer option. We weren’t feeling
adventurous today.
Route
2 in North Dakota. The road is mostly flat and straight. The view
in every direction is a seemingly endless expanse of dried yellow and
brown grasses, waving in the wind. Marching rigidly along the
roadside, a single line of poles with outstretched arms supports four
power lines. Between the power lines and the road, a Burlington
Northwest Railroad track. Sometimes one track, sometimes several.
Goofs up my equilibrium a bit to see the moving coal train in my
peripheral vision, moving the same direction, yet more slowly.
In this country of seemingly nothing, it also gives my brain a twist to see a dirt lane branch off to the right, apparently heading nowhere, but sporting an official street sign announcing, “8th Avenue, NW.”
In this country of seemingly nothing, it also gives my brain a twist to see a dirt lane branch off to the right, apparently heading nowhere, but sporting an official street sign announcing, “8th Avenue, NW.”
Ohhh,
I could get used to this! Traveling on four wheels instead of 18, an
automatic shift instead of a 13 gear manual, makes it legal and
possible for me to take the wheel. The Passenger has become the
“trucker” and the Trucker is the Passenger. Not quite relaxed,
but he is working on it. Maybe he should take up my neglected
stitchery?
A
flicker of the GPS attracts my attention. Curve warning. Really?
If there were “curve warnings” in Lancaster County, there would
be no time to communicate anything else! But yes, I see why it
happens here. The speed limit is 70. Which for most, means at least
ten miles higher. In these surroundings, we seem to be creeping. A
few minutes’ inattention to my right foot, and suddenly the needle
is inching past 90. Oops. Hmmm….wonder if I could hit 100 before
the Trucker noticed?? Better not. If I want to keep on having fun,
I’d better not have too much fun.
I
have not bothered to adjust the mirrors since switching seats with
the Trucker. He will be back in a few hours anyway. The worst part
of driving like this is the inability to change positions. Used to
being on the move all day long, my joints and muscles are in a state
of shock. So, a shift now and then to use the mirrors sets up a
compromise with said joints and muscles. It works like this:
-
left rear view mirror – sit up a bit straighter, and lean left.
-
rear window – sit up straight, look over my right shoulder, past
the Trucker’s shirts hanging empty behind me.
-
right rear view mirror – lean right, tilt my head, and look past
the shirt with the Trucker inside it.
-
center rear view mirror – that one I changed. No compromise there.
High
overhead, geese wing south in formation. In the roadside marshy
areas, little brown ducks paddle in circles. In cultivated areas,
mammoth pieces of equipment rest fieldside, or trundle slowly along,
partly on the shoulder, partly in the right lane. Some fields are
plowed, the upturned soil in black contrast with neighboring browned
hay fields, dotted with greenish oversized round bales, left where
they dropped months ago.
Still other fields show golden brown wheat stubble. The air smells of fall bonfires, as periodic pillars of gray smoke boil up from the wheat fields. Writhing under the smoke are orange-red flames, reaching to impressive heights and pushing the smoke above themselves. Controlled burning. I wonder why? What would cause burning to be important enough, now, to risk a wildfire in this dry area? Weed control, I later learned. The photo below is very similar to what we saw.
Still other fields show golden brown wheat stubble. The air smells of fall bonfires, as periodic pillars of gray smoke boil up from the wheat fields. Writhing under the smoke are orange-red flames, reaching to impressive heights and pushing the smoke above themselves. Controlled burning. I wonder why? What would cause burning to be important enough, now, to risk a wildfire in this dry area? Weed control, I later learned. The photo below is very similar to what we saw.
Excepting
the fires, the whole region appears to be settled, waiting. The
season is about to change. Howling winds and silent snows are on the
horizon.
On
the outskirts of Minot, North Dakota, a welcome sign. Minot, the
Magical City. What makes it magical? Something to research later.
Further
in, a concentration of reds and blues have me moving to the right
lane. An army convoy of four trucks, red and blue lights flashing
through their grills, escorted by eight police cars, lights also
flashing and sirens screaming, racing east out of town. Above the
convoy, an open sided army helicopter flying fast, soldiers leaning
outward, gripping rifles. The chopper’s landing gear skims just
above the power lines. High overhead, another camouflaged chopper
circles. What would require this? Something I probably cannot
research. We see signs at the next exit for the nearby Bismarck Army
Base, most likely the source of the convoy.
As
the gas gauge is on E, a stop in Minot is in order. In town, I am
driving by guesswork, as the GPS screen with the little green car on
a blue road is missing from the dash. It is in the Trucker’s hand,
and as he flips through the screens, I hear his end of a somewhat
exasperated conversation with this bit of technology. He is making
up our next destination as we go along, keeping me a bit off balance
and needing to prompt him for the next lane change and turn.
We exit the street at the Shell station, behind a white pickup, barely moving. “C’mon, keep trying, you can do it!” the Trucker implores the hesitating vehicle. I note the elderly driver, obviously taking instructions from his equally elderly wife in the passenger seat. I know how the poor guy feels! :)
We exit the street at the Shell station, behind a white pickup, barely moving. “C’mon, keep trying, you can do it!” the Trucker implores the hesitating vehicle. I note the elderly driver, obviously taking instructions from his equally elderly wife in the passenger seat. I know how the poor guy feels! :)
Parking
at a pump, I slowly ease out of the driver’s seat and down to the
parking lot. Times like this I feel the location in my body of every
area that was injured/rearranged through the years. Oooooh. Next
door to the convenience store is an “XL Wine and Spirits” shop.
I tell the Trucker that I will take my spirit into the (Shell) store
and walk off the whine. Immersed in gas prices and a balky hose, he
doesn’t get it. No matter.
Pacing the store aisles to get the kinks out is usually safer than
pacing the parking lot. Apples are $1.69 each, wow. We aren’t
THAT far from Washington State! And I brought my own, much larger
and sweeter, compliments of the brother-in-law’s tree. Little
chicken pies are also $1.69 each, can be opened and microwaved right
there in the store and – viola! We have supper! My taste buds are
intrigued, but the Trucker doesn’t think so.
We settle for a pretzel. Two, one liter waters are $3.00. One, one liter is $.99. Hmmm. We get two...and watch at the checkout. Yup, we are charged $1.98 for the two. Nice.
We settle for a pretzel. Two, one liter waters are $3.00. One, one liter is $.99. Hmmm. We get two...and watch at the checkout. Yup, we are charged $1.98 for the two. Nice.
Back on the road again. I shift luggage in the rear seat to unearth
my laptop. Ooof. I thought we packed light. Where in the world
will we put six feet of Dear Son #2 on the way home?
