Pelican Brief
Fargo, ND to Albany, MN
3 days
200 miles
The cop lied: there was no hot water. He'd done everything he could to get me comfortably settled in Pelican Falls (he spotted me on Second Street downtown trying to make sense of my map, asked if I needed help finding my way to a campsite, ushered me even to a peninsular spot on the lake, and described all the park's amenities -- with one rather egregious error: there was no hot water in the shower).
There are two approaches to dealing with the organic filth of campsite life: a punctilious obeisance to hygienic law (with baby wipes as the final line of defense); or, "fuck it." By the time I realized there was no hot water, I'd already committed to the latter. It was a terrifying and exhilarating rush, at 10:30 at night, to step into that freezing spray. But oh what I wouldn't give now -- two nights hence -- for an ice cold shower. Alas. At least I've got my baby wipes.
This lifestyle, though, suits me. This state suits me. Minnesota ain't nouveau riche like its neighbor to the west and could certainly invest a bit near the border to soften the contrast with North Dakota's ever-refreshing roads, but, for touring cyclists, Minnesota is the promised land.
About 100 miles into the state I linked up with the Lake Wobegon Trail. Woe be gone, indeed. It's part of hundreds of miles of old railways converted to bike and pedestrian paths. I noticed first that the road was no longer defined by death: I've seen/swerved around/tried desperately not to look at/been fascinated by hundreds, if not thousands, of dead animals on this trip. All killed by the automobile. But not on the Lake Wobegon Trail. No, here life thrives. "We've made it, my beautiful feathered, my beautiful four-legged friends; we've made it to the place where no cars go." Cue the orchestra. Herons, chipmunks, orioles, and turtles all emerge for a Busby Berkeley-type number.
And there are trees again. Not since Lolo Pass back in Montana have there been so many trees. It's a young forest -- loggers pretty well laid waste to the place 150 years ago -- but it's green and it's wonderful nonetheless.
Every ten miles or so, the trail (as the train once did) passes through a town where I can rest, refresh, and restock. Long gone are the days when I need to carry food and water enough to survive 100 miles on my own. Kids in these towns stop their games of pick-up basketball to wave at me or run up to give me high-fives. WWII veterans at every turn approach to shake my hand and talk for a minute. It feels as though I'm a one-man parade with an audience simultaneously welcoming me and wishing me safe travels. My heart, my sense of patriotic pride and belonging, grow by the hour.
I'm averaging about 65 miles per day, riding a bit more when conditions are favorable and a bit less when I don't really feel like it. It's easy to adapt to, set up my home in any space that's available. Access to running water (tonight it's a bathroom sink at the public park in Albany) and about 50 square feet of flat, dry land is paradise enough for me. In two days I'll be in Minneapolis to start the second half of the trip.
Chelsea, from Cafe 116 in Fegus Falls, one of the most spectacular people I've met. When I ordered the Channing panini after devouring a Reuben and tuna salad, she said, "I like your attitude toward life." We got to chat for a bit. When I told her I was raising money for CASA, she made a donation on the spot. Be on the lookout for her ice cream empire.
Tammie, Mark, and Hannah (from right to left), my welcoming committee in Albany
