The Dakota Prairies

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, “8^th 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.

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! :)

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.

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?