| |
4,000 MEMORABLE MILES
It all started with Denny's words, "Let's just keep on going!"
If it hadn't been for those words, Denny and I might never have taken our four-week, 4,000-mile motoring-camping trip - a trip we still talk about when we get together.
Denny and I were roommates at the University of Minnesota Institute of Agriculture. He was studying agricultural education and my major was agricultural journalism. Spring quarter, 1967, lasted far too long for both of us. When summer finally arrived we took jobs selling encyclopedias. My success was fair, his slightly less. Often we'd meet at 9 or 10 pm and, over a cool, morale-building beer, relate how many doors had slammed in our faces that day.
One Saturday morning we decided to take a day off from selling books and headed to my family farm near Carver, Minnesota. We were both weary of slamming doors and "We don't want any encyclopedias!" screams.
I drove home on U.S. Hwy. 169, past Flying Cloud Airport, that overlooked the beautiful Minnesota River Valley. I'd driven and ridden that stretch of highway countless times so I wasn't paying much attention to the scenery. On this day something about the view prompted Denny to turn to me and say, "Johns, wouldn't it be great just to keep right on going?"
The words stirred my blood. By Tuesday, we were headed west. We would have left that very day except that we had to officially quit our jobs on Monday. With only $150 in cash between us, and my car that had seen better days (a '55 yellow Chrysler), we overcame the skepticism of our family members and insisted we knew what we were doing.
"That yellow monster will conk out before you ever see a mountain!" Denny's older brother jeered. But we were undaunted. We'd go as far as the car would take us and then hitchhike from there. We were a determined twosome.
Soon as we were on the road, the tension eased and the tempo slowed. We had a simple trip philosophy: No deadlines and no directional goals (aside from heading west); plus a shared desire to be close to nature. We were both farm boys with agricultural majors so we wanted to take a closer look at agriculture and wildlife beyond the borders of our home counties. We wanted to try living each day for what it was - a new experience - away from the establishment and the university and the city.
We planned to camp all the way and cook our own meals by campfire or Coleman stove. (We didn't like the idea of using mechanical heat but had to succumb to a few modern conveniences.) We leaned rather heavily on Dad's camping equipment - a 8-foot square canvas tent, sleeping bags, a lantern, ice chest, frying pan, fishing equipment, .22 magnum rifle, camera, binoculars and a couple changes of clothes.
Our first major stop was the Black Hills in South Dakota. There are higher mountains, bigger trees and more wildlife elsewhere in the country but something about the Black Hills fired the passion in our senses and hearts. We were impressed with Mount Rushmore and pleasantly surprised with how friendly everybody was to us. We met scores of campers who offered us surplus food, what-to-see advice, and plain old Midwestern conversation.
A young honeymooning couple in an adjacent campsite asked if we knew how to play bridge. Now, you'd never think honeymooners would want to play bridge after dark but, by the light of a flickering candle and a bottle of tawny port, we took turns making, and often losing, aggressive bids until 1 am.
We wetted our fishing lines whenever a lake or stream looked promising. We both grew up fishing in cow-pasture creeks and nearby lakes so fishing in mountain waters was a tantalizing challenge and, equally important, an opportunity to procure a meal on our meager travel budget.
I hooked two rainbow trout near our campsite just south of Mount Rushmore. Denny hadn't yet figured out the secret of the wily mountain trout and it obviously affected his night's sleep because he was up with the sun and the next morning came walking into camp to show off a stringer of five fish. The seven trout fried in butter, along with a healthy stack of buckwheat flapjacks, took care of our hunger for the better part of that day.
We journeyed south through Nebraska and into Wyoming. Near Lusk, we were startled to see a field of tall, green corn growing on the barren prairie. Denny and I grew up on corn farms and we knew we had left the Corn Belt far behind us, so we both had more than a casual interest in how this corn could be flourishing in the "desert."
We managed to track down the owner of the cornfield, an innovative farmer-rancher who was among the first in Wyoming to grow irrigated crops. When we told him we were Minnesota corn farmers, he eagerly drove us on a tour of his irrigated cornfields. He queried us about the appearance of his crop. He wanted assurance that his corn was doing okay.
To Denny and me the corn looked like it was doing better than okay. That's what caused us to stop in the first place. Many stalks were growing three and four healthy ears - more than we were accustomed to seeing. The color was deep green and the stand was thick. We were sure his corn would mature in plenty of time. Something we said must have pleased him because we spent the rest of the day enjoying a personalized tour of his 5,000-acre spread.
This Lusk rancher was only one of many people who went our of their way for Denny and me during our rambling western trip. We spent five hours one afternoon at the University of Nebraska Northwest Experiment Station at Fort Robinson, visiting with the station superintendent about agricultural research and the region's farm and ranch culture.
He explained crossbreeding experiments with various strains of cattle and was generous with his time and knowledge simply because we were curious and introduced ourselves. We concluded that the secret to these trip "extras" is to be willing to turn into a driveway, ask for the owner or manager, and demonstrate a sincere interest. In every case, we were invited back "next time you're in the area."
From Lusk, we turned south towards Colorado. We agreed that a weak link in our trip so far was a serious lack of female companionship. We set our minds to strengthening this link as we neared Denver but we ended up leaving the mile-high city celibate and dateless.
The yellow Chrysler accepted the challenge of Colorado's Rocky Mountains. As the air grew thinner, the "yellow submarine" grew weaker and coughed and sputtered its way up each switchback in the highway.
Just when I considered turning back we saw the sign for the continental divide, a very welcome sight. Another welcome sight was the girls working at the ski lodge perched along the highway at Berthoud Pass. The lodge, we learned, employs college girls as their summer work staff.
Over a cup of coffee, Denny introduced ourselves to a pair of friendly waitresses. We had scarcely discovered their names, unfortunately, when they announced that they had to return to work. They did tell us that the nearest campsite was 12 miles west. That would be 12 miles downhill. Reluctantly, we decided to secure a campsite before pursuing the relationships. The campsite was beautiful, next to a mountain stream that looked like it would hold fish. Despite a dinner of flavorful sweet corn "rustled" from a field west of Denver, Denny remained uncommunicative. Since leaving the lodge his mind had been on one thing only: the two waitresses.
Eventually, he came forth with the inevitable suggestion: "Johns, let's go back up to that lodge and hustle those girls." He was at his persuasive best. Now, if the trip up the east side of Berthoud Pass was a struggle, climbing the west side seemed twice the challenge. At several switchbacks we barely crept along in low gear.
Just before the car came to a standstill, the incline would lessen and we would pick up a little speed. By the time we finally reached the lodge the car was staggering like a thirsty man on the desert. "Hey, the girls will make the trip worthwhile," Denny said enthusiastically. I hoped he was right.
As we walked towards the door I puzzled over why the building seemed so dark. When the doors didn't budge, we groaned with the realization that the lodge had closed for the day. Then it was me who didn't speak for a while. Denny had coerced my weary car and me up this mountain, away from a awesome campsite, only to be confronted by a pair of locked doors. I decided at that moment that female companionship could wait until we returned to our college campus...or at least until the next day.
Our next destination was Yellowstone Park but we ran out of money on the high desert of central Wyoming. We decided our only option was to go to work. Now how do a couple of farm boys find short-term work in a small town where we don't know a soul? We hit on what we thought was a workable strategy: find a saloon, tell the bartender our situation, and then sit back and drink cold beer until our last five dollars ran out or something good happened.
The strategy worked. In two hours we were on a ranch stacking hay bales for $10 a day apiece plus room and board. It was hard work. The bales averaged 100 pounds and were bound with wire instead of twine, which tested our hands to the limit. We worked from dawn to dusk, ate what seemed the best home cooking in the world, and slept each night in the bunkhouse like a couple of hibernating bears.
Three days later we had finished collecting and stacking the rancher's hay crop and we departed for Yellowstone, well-fed and muscle-weary but $60 richer and glad to leave behind the 12-year-old kid who drove the bale-wagon tractor like a turbo-charged Ferrari.
I can't recall ever welcoming anything so much as the restful atmosphere of Yellowstone Park. We pulled into a campground in the morning and wasted no time pitching our tent in the farthest campsite from the entrance we could find. We spent the rest of the day lying on our sleeping bags and soaking up the rays of sunlight that filtered through the towering pines. We felt like we had reached the Promised Land.
After a couple days of relaxation our aches and pains disappeared and we resumed the role of tourists, visiting Old Faithful, disobeying the "Do not feed the bears" signs, and photographing the beauty that surrounded us. We were impressed with park personnel we met and with the job they were doing to keep nature in balance as they accommodated countless tourists every day.
As our meager funds once again dwindled to little more than gas money, we made the difficult decision to turn the Chrysler towards Minnesota and our fall semester of college. Minnesota was still three states away but we had crossed the big mountains and experienced a month of natural wonders and learning experiences. We passed through Montana and North Dakota with hardly a stop. It was a memorable journey and it wouldn't have happened if Denny hadn't uttered those memorable words: "Johns, wouldn't it be great just to keep right on going?"
|
|
|
 |
| |
PUTTING DOWN ROOTS:
A Delightful Blend of
Gardening Wisdom, Wit
and Whimsy
$10 + $2 for shipping
by Cliff Johnson |
 |
 |
| |
|
