Tuesday, June 3rd

Bitten

First impressions can go either way. With Rhinelander, the first impression was that of a run-down city that could do with a general makeover. On second thought, however, it had the ingredients for a quite pleasant place: surrounded entirely by forests, it diverted from the standard American layout of endless commercial streets leading up to a tiny centre with the living quarters tucked away on side roads. Instead, the centre was compact and mostly consisted of people’s homes. The main highways avoided it, so it was rather quiet. It only lacked in parks, an oft-found oversight in cities that lacked natural locations to put them.

Another drawback of the location was an eager mosquito population. I awoke in the morning with some rather nasty bites which couldn’t possible all have been from my quick stint in the forest the day before. Outside it was rather cold, fifty-nine Fahrenheit; there was some blue in the sky but dark clouds loomed in the north. The night before had brought a bout of thunderstorms and more heavy rains, even a few moments of hail.

Leaving the city in a north-westerly direction, I quickly was back to forests. The road kept on climbing. It crossed through a village called Lake Tomahawk after the lake it was serving with fisherman and vacationers. A few businesses had set up shop in log buildings along the highway dangling a chaos of colourful things by the road. A short swish by the lake and a private airfield before being swallowed by the forests again.

If the four giant billboards suggesting a visit to the Lake of the Torches Casino and Resort hadn’t been enough indication of an Indian reservation, the large tribal centre building, a large single-story woodem building at the entrance to Lac du Flambeau would have set things straight. The casino was a little larger, featuring a hotel and a convention centre by the side of a lake. The village, for there was some houses as well, was smack in the middle of a collection of at least for lakes.

The eponymous Lac Flambeau followed soon on the left side before leaving town for the forests again. These slowly turned into swamp. Eventually, the trees ceased for a while, leaving space for a large meadow of white-blooming flowers. But the woods wouldn’t endure such a thing for too long and returned again soon.

Mercer, which, surprisingly, lied by a lake and featured a complete collection of small-town American businesses (Family Dollar, Subway, Auto Parts), finally marked the end of my stint along main highways. I admired the giant concrete duck by the roadside and then turned off, heading west along a small road that started with a warning for windiness. Along the forest started to break up a little. There was farms but mostly just houses with people mowing their lawns and the occasional meadow.

The next north-south highway brought upon Butternut, a lovely small village of a quiet main street by the railway crossing and lots and lots of green.

The map suggested that I could continue west along an unnumbered road. I picked what looked like the right road (which is somewhat hard to figure out at the map’s scale), but soon a dead end sign suggested I had picked wrong. Before more trial and error, I decided to head north a bit and then west along the main highways instead.

I stopped somewhere in the woods but quickly discovered that there was the same amount of bugs around here as further east. Instead, I stopped at a petrol station at Clam Lake instead, taking advantage of the opportunity and buying some lunch, too. Apart from the petrol station, Clam Lake had three more houses and a road intersection which allowed me back on county roads westwards.

The road ran by Lakewoods Resort & Lodge, which looked pleasant enough: a collection of cottages by a lakeside, a golf course (but of course), and ‘fine dining.’ The one important drawback, surely, would have been the millions of little bloodsuckers somewhat overshadowing a stay during this time of the year. However, the name of the next installation, Telemark Resort, suggested that perhaps skying was the actual raison d'être.

Back on the main highway at Cable, for which even the long, lonely roads haven’t brought up a good joke. A giant poster on what turned out to be the Cabal Natural History Museum recommended an exhibition enthusiastically entitled ‘Nature’s Superheroes: Adventures With Adaptations.’ Further attractions of the town were some art galleries, a rather large grocery store, petrol stations and a few lodges.

With Cable I had reached the end of roads running west and had to turn north or south instead. After some starring at the map, I picked north, aiming for the twin cities of Duluth and Superior at the westernmost tip of Lake Superior. This could be arranged with a few smaller roads at first but eventually I had to take the main east-west highway.

The rain promised by the earlier angry clouds hadn’t materialised. Instead, those clouds had gone away completely and the sun was out again in force.

Superior and Duluth (for some reason spelled with one l only) sit on opposite sides of the mound of the St. Louis River which at that point turns into St. Louis Bay, Superior on the Wisconsin side and Duluth, the bigger of the two, in Minnesota. The valley is perhaps five hundred feet below the surrounding plains, so the road started descending.

Slowly, the forests turned into farmland. Perhaps thanks to my northerly passage, I hadn’t seen many farms in Wisconsin, but none of the few I did see featured cows. Which stroke me as kinda odd for a state that calls itself America’s Dairyland.

The road entered into Superior. Its side turned into a mix of commerce and housing, something you rarely see in America. There wasn’t much effort wasted on decorations, though. A Belgian Club offered bingo and weddings just before the road started to cross a swamp and a river with murky brown water. A factory followed and some more rivers, this time clear. Off to the right was Lake Superior and its shores were beset with somewhat more prosperous looking houses, even a yacht harbour could be seen.

The bay and state line are being crossed by the giant Blatnik Bridge, a tall steel bridge. Below is the harbour, mostly visible as a huge rail yard.

I didn’t bother much with Duluth and instead followed the Interstate south. I quickly started climbing out of the river valley along its western wall, affording the occasional view down into the valley, now mostly a lake of its own. The speed limit on the freeway suddenly jumped to seventy, a clear indication that we had finally reached the central US states that weren’t so picky on speed.

Soon I turned off again and returned into the forests. I was aiming for Brainerd, Minnesota, known as the setting of a film named after a town in North Dakota. However, the highway was rather busy with truck traffic. Running along a straight and flat highway with a truck up your backside is even less fun than it sounds, so I tuck the first opportunity to re-aim north again. Thanks to local geography, this still required an endless forty miles along the highway before reaching McGregor, home to a giant vineyard.

Travelling north now through a deciduous forest dominated by birch trees, I crossed Big Sandy River which looked rather large for a river. But not to worry, soon there followed Big Sandy Lake which even featured a wayside rest stop by its shores. Alas, it too was home to an industrious tribe of mosquitoes, which cut my stop rather short.

Further north followed the tiny settlement of Jacobson, where I turned west again. The map showed a road marked as a National Scenic Byway which, through to its name, followed minor side-roads. First though, I had to cross a river.

I wasn’t quite as surprised as on one cold December day a few years ago. I had been to Minneapolis for a conference and had decided to leave the artificial world of its Downtown, where all buildings were connected by covered interior walkways and go for a stroll. I came upon a bridge over a wide river. The sign proclaimed it to be the Mississippi River. Wait, was’t that supposed to be somewhere in the south? Turned out, the river came all the way from northern Minnesota.

And here I was now, crossing the same Mississippi yet another one hundred and eighty miles north. The bridge was rather low and the river not quite as wide, its shoreline beset with small trees and bushes. A tiny park had been provided for travellers such as me to stop and ponder the occasion. Knowing of the local avian fauna, it took quite some bravery to get out and make a few pictures, collecting yet a few more bites in the process.

Onwards, I found the byway. It was named the Great River Road and follows the course of the river all the way from its source to its delta through ten states. It has its own highway shield, a green ship’s wheel, which is used to meticulously sign its way along small, calm roads. A rather brilliant institution, indeed: you can cross America on quite roads without worrying about getting lost yet still knowing roughly where you are headed. There is a long list of such byways, most quite a bit shorter, but still worthwhile to remember for road trips.

Northbound, the road took me into Grand Rapids, ‘birthplace of Judy Garland’ and marked as Tree City USA. Quite an apt label that, for the city was pretty much hidden away in trees and parks. It may very well have had a more conventional commerce area, but if so, the National Route cunningly guided me around it and back into forests and meadows.

I crossed the Mississippi at least thrice more, jumping from lake to lake, a little smaller every time before eventually arriving at the sign for Bemidji’s city limits. It stood in the middle of a large meadow, with horses gracing to the left and forests in the distance. City limits, indeed. Eventually, houses did appear, but they were tucked away in the woods under large trees.

It took a little while before the large water tower in the distance promised a city centre and the end of the day’s drive.