Yesterday was a day of riding down lonely roads carved out of thick arboreal forests, down highways connecting towns that still feel like they’re on a frontier. I rode about 85 miles, from International Falls, MN down US 51 to the town of Big Falls, and then into side-roads through the beautiful desolation of northernmost Minnesota. Last night I lay in a tent by a lakeside campsite. I was worried it might rain, but it wasn’t really expected until today (if at all) so I didn’t attache the rain fly so that I could see the stars. I felt a sense of peace.
The day started at the Voyageur Cafe in International Falls, MN — a scruffy border and mill town across the Rainy River from Fort Frances, Ontario. I’d skulked around the town for the previous 24 hours, gathering my energy for the ride to come and taking care of various practicalities before I started off south. Groceries at the town store (not the Super-Kmart), a trip to the post office to mail a large box of stuff to my friends Bethany and Stamatis that would not be making the trip with me: those sorts of things. The organizing of this trip had been (to say the least) logistically interesting. I’d just been in Scotland for work, so getting here, with a bike, ready to ride was challenging. Before my work travel I’d staged my bike with a very understanding woman named Stephanie who owned International Falls’ coffee place — Coffee Landing (it’s a cool place if you’re ever in the Falls you should check it out.) In any case, I’d figured out all of the stuff, and my bike and I (somewhat jet lagged) were finally ready to go.
The outskirts of any town in much of the world contain the same sorts of things: a transfer station or dump, utility plants, gas stations, an airfield, golf … I passed all of these while making my way out of International Falls and toward the turnoff of US 51, where it turns away from the Rainy River and makes a straight line for Bemidji, MN, some 110 miles to the southwest. I may or may not make it through that small city, but I spent the morning and early afternoon chugging down the wide shoulder of 51 toward it as traffic — mostly trucks of various kinds — whizzed by. I was definitely in the great north woods. This was the logging territory of Paul Bunyan and his blue (why?) Ox Babe, and the actual current logging territory of the many rigs that sped by bearing loads of recently harvested pine. These were not the great trees of the Pacific Northwest — the wide-trunked Douglas Firs or massive Cedars of my youth. These were scraggly trees in comparison, but one had to respect their ability to survive the conditions of this place. In winter, this area is often the coldest in the lower 48 states,
My enemy all day was a 10-15 mph headwind that continuously smacked me pretty directly in the nose from morning until evening. It blew without respite, bending the reeds and rushes that crowded the ditches and marshes to either side of the highway in a direction that perfectly opposed the way I was trying to go. I nevertheless cruised through the town of Little Fork, declining it’s admirable and many posted invitations to visit and contribute to the local economy. By the town of Big Falls, some 40 miles in, I was ready for a break. Rolling into town I crossed the Big Fork River for the first time. The falls in question looked cool and there was a campground and park where kids scrambled over rocks in a rather unsafe-looking way toward the river. The rest of the town was depressed and empty. I pulled up in front of a general store and had lunch from the town grocery, run by a friendly woman (did I mention that Minnesotans are friendly? I’m going to leave out anecdotes proving how friendly they are since that’s somewhat, shall we say, well-known. But assume everyone I write about is friendly unless otherwise mentioned.) I sat for about an hour recovering my energy and eating cheese, meat and carrot sticks.
Aside from the woman at the store and some children I saw running around, the residents of Big Falls appeared to be in various states of dysfunction. A man in cammo sauntered out of the all-day liquor store and passed by me mumbling. He wasn’t menacing exactly, but might well have been fully drunk. An older man with a profound limp, a metal cane and what appeared to be a kind of sippy-cup attached to his neck by a string passed me by and said hello. His shoes weren’t all the way on, but I couldn’t tell whether this was because they were broken or didn’t fit, or for some other reason. A large man with a ruddy face drove by in a dilapidated Cutlass sedan with chunks of car body seemingly in the act of falling off of its sides. An obese woman bought cigarettes from the store. I was back in rural America, Trump country … whatever you want to call it. These were the sort of places that people like me ignored at our peril.
I forsook 51 in favor of side-roads for the rest of the day. There was very little traffic, and the sun beat down while the headwind continued. There were flies — big ones. They seemed to enjoy racing behind me as I rode, chasing after the flying thing that smelled of sweat. Some were big enough that I could see their shadows — the shadow of a bug! — as they pursued me down the forest road. Bigfork was a welcome sight when I arrived. I bought sausage and carrot sticks and fresh raspberries for dinner at the market. The check-out boy, who looked to still be in high school, asked me if I played basketball. I told him I didn’t and he looked disappointed.
The state park where I stayed overnight was a further seven miles up hill from town, and my hamstrings screamed as I plowed down the road for the final time today … my legs full-on hurt at that point, and yesterday’s battle with the wind has prompted me to shorten today a little bit. But the night on the lake, the loons howling and laughing, the night’s sleep on the soft ground made it worth it, and made me glad that I decided to do this ride.