"It's about Mountain and Wilderness writing," she told me. "I think you have enough in your book project to apply. Think about it."
"I looked at that residency," said a young woman sitting on the grass outside the Center as well. "Very expensive."
"There is a substantial subsidy possible," was the reply.
I took down the link info. Checked it out. The deadline, three weeks away, would be tight to pull the requirements together, but it would help me hone the project, figure out the difference between a resume and a CV, write a project proposal, and gather a grouping of revised blog post vignettes to make a case. The application fee, with the current Canadian exchange rate, wouldn't break me.
I've organized, revised, planned, thought, revised, re-worked, re-thought, all offline. Now its time. Bimidji is on my way east, and so it is I stop here to power work my organized pieces into documents for attaching to the online application. I bind my feet from moving and hunker down to work at the library. Even though there are few days left before the deadline, I have no idea if I will find adequate internet or a library in case I don't. Bimidji is as good a place as any.
Everyplace wants their claim to fame. By chance, my "Bimidji Bind Up" drops me downtown along the sandy edge of a Bimidji Lake park and visitor center. Tourists pose in front of the large sculptures that watch over the center.
"What's the story?" I ask the woman behind the counter. "I mean, Paul Bunyan Drive, and the statues?"
"This is where he started," she tells me. "Other places have statues of the legend, but we were the first!"
Pride certainly plays its part. According to the tourist brochure, Paul was born right here in Bimidji. Five storks, working overtime, delivered him to his Minnesota parents.
Tall Tale: "During the year of two winters, it was so cold at his camp on Lake Bimidji that words froze in the air before they could reach the ear of the listener. In the spring, when the words thawed out, there was a terrific din that could be heard as far as the town of Blackduck."
Tall Tale: "Mosquitoes were really big in Paul's time. The men had to fight them off with pike poles and axes. Paul imported some large bees hoping they would kill off the mosquitoes. But the bees fell in love with the mosquitoes, intermarried, and their offspring had stingers fore and aft. They got their victims coming AND going."
Tall Tale: Babe stomped around so much, his hoof prints filled with rainwater and made Minnesota's 10,000 lakes.
Tall Tale: When Babe died, he was buried in South Dakota, and his burial mound made up what is now the Black Hills.
Alright, enough. I was in the Black Hills, and no way did the burial of a big blue ox make those hills. This tale is getting way too tall for me.
The statue of Paul was erected in 1937. After that, Bunyan sized artifacts started to be donated to the Bunyan House that housed the tourist info center and Historical Society. Over against the wall, the Fireplace of States, constructed 1934, was built using stones solicited from every US state, Canada, and Mexico.
Bimidji Pride. And here I was thinking I was just getting some work done at their library while passing through.
Northern Minnesota, regardless of tall tales regarding Babe's stomping, is a Mecca of waterways. Hugging the Canadian border are Minnesota's two National Parks. Isle Royale, like the Channel Islands off of Ventura, California, requires camping reservations in combination with a six hour ferry ride each way. Funds are running low for me now, so I let go of any hope of getting there. Instead, I focus on Voyageurs National Park outside of International Falls. I drive northeast on the 71 highway and arrive after dinnertime to pull into one of the two Forest campgrounds near the Park. $14/night which I gladly pay for the ease of pulling in and crashing.
The RV inhabitants near the entrance give me the info, and I'm happy to see a couple of sites open.
"I see that this is a boating park," I remark. They have a boat. I see that everyone camped here has a vessel of some kind.
"Definitely," they say. "To see the Park fully, a boat is needed."
"I was thinking of renting a kayak for a day," I think out loud.
"It's easy to get lost out there. Lots of Islands. The water is cold, and if the weather shifts, one could die."
I already know this is not really MY Park. No mountains. I'm not a motoring vessel person. The kayak idea seems out.
In the morning, I stop in one of the Visitor Centers to inquire about hikes, and other ideas. While waiting for the center to open, I chance upon a Florida man in hiking attire. He tells me that the trails are overgrown and wet. And then there are the mosquitoes.
"This is not really a hiking park, " he says. "Had I known, I wouldn't have bothered to drive here."
"The best way to see the Park is on the water, of course," the Ranger tells me. "We have a guided tour in the afternoons on Rainy Lake. Two and a half hours. $30. There is room on this afternoon's boat."
Resigned, I sign up. While I wait, I take in the Park Film to learn about some history, and the many recreational activities that can be had here: the houseboats (I call them water RVs, ready for mooring and partying), the fishing, the motoring, and in the winter, snowmobiling, some skiing and ice fishing. Really NOT my kind of Park.
Okay, I'll admit it. If I were "Wilderness Queen", all hunting would be fairly fought hand to hoof/paw/wing. All water transport would be human powered: by foot or paddle. I would declare that true wilderness would not be impeded by the sounds and actions of civilization.
I get on the tour boat and we motor down Rainy Lake. I learn about the gold mining.
I learn about the Voyageurs and Ojibway natives, furs and trades, logging.
By the summer of 1866, most of the miners had left the area poorer than when they arrived. But, the Little American is the only gold mine in Minnesota known to have produced a profit. After the mine closed, Rainy Lake City slowly disappeared and was considered a ghost town by 1901. |
The Ojibway lived from the resources in the Lakes areas: syrup, berries, nuts, seeds and wild rice.Their way of life was decorated, eased and changed by the goods traded from the Voyageurs.
But, aren't we all traders along a dangerous and elusive life path? We trade our goods back and forth. We trade our souls for monetary gain. We trade our valuable time. And through these voyages, we hope to gain ease, decoration, and change. We hope to stay in fashion—not only our attire, but our lifestyles.
Nope, not my Park. But, the eagles were glorious!
a Story of Comedic Injustice
It was my high horse. My "Wilderness Queen" rant about wanting TRUE wilderness. My momentary lapse in humility. Underlying all of that is the knowledge that there really is no free lunch. Not for me. Not for them, either, if I can help it.
I drive down highway 53 until Orr, cut across on County Road 23 to pick up the Echo Trail forest road #116 that cuts through the Superior National Forest. Now, I'm in my element, complete with free camping potential. With all this water around, boat launch parking lots will abound. I have a few jotted down from the free campsites site online, and pass by several before picking one that is far enough into the forest and off the road visually.
Vault toilet—check. No signs with tent symbols crossed out, or signs with warnings against overnight parking—check. And yes, a ring of stones with charred wood remains next to a grassy plot behind some trees for privacy from any cars passing by up on the road. A small dock out onto the water for remnants of sunset viewing and late picnic dinner. Ah, wilderness!
I grab my keys and head around to the back of the truck to open the tailgate. I pick up my milk crate with water jugs to put on the passenger seat in front for the night, and it starts.
A low din of throttled chainsaws begins a slow crescendo. I turn around to see the buzzing swarm of hungry mosquitoes, complete with hip belts holding cutlery. They're circling in for the ambush. I won't even mention the second wave of deer flies moving in behind their ranks.
I grab my purse from the front of the truck, some quick dinner food items and toss everything in the back, climb in, close the tailgate, swat as many buggers out with a bandana that I can, and clip up my solo backpacking tent which is made mostly of netting. I use every clip and clothespin I can to attach it to every possible bolt head and cap door rod. Then I stuff the corners of the bed with articles of clothing and my Bug Baffler netting shirt and pants combo. I stuff thin socks along the back edges of the cap screens where I've pulled open the side windows.
Okay. I cover my head and back with my light weight sleeping bag and extend a sacrificial arm. I wait. One by one, those who made it in before I tightened up the hatch land. Smugly, they, in turn, unclip their cutlery from their hip belts and start to dig into the feast arm. THWACK! Another one dead. I put on the solar lantern and shine it around to see if any other ones are lingering in the air, or waiting out the thwacking on a window screen.
Once satisfied, I make a quick peanut butter, chunky of course, wrap, grab a handful of trail mix and unpeel a tangerine. There is no way I'm getting out now, so I pee in my pee bucket, brush my teeth and spit into the bucket, and strip down naked to crawl into my flannel bag liner. I fluff up the two down jackets I've been using under my pillow for extra padding, and settle down to read a women's travel writing story.
Evening moon glow now takes over the lingering remnants of sunlight and I need to button myself up for the night. I shake off the tent hanging in the cap door opening, pull it in quickly, then reach up and grab the cap door and pull fast to lock it down. I stuff more items into every possible crack showing light—my success method of the last couple of months. Back to my book.
2.
BUZZ! Okay, obviously there was one or two hiding from the Big Thwack earlier. I stick my arm out of my bag liner for another sneaky bug attack. Thwack. Smack. Again and again.
What the hell! Where are they coming from? I sit up and turn on the cap light switch for the cargo light connected to the truck battery. At least a dozen skeeters flit around the light. I don't get it. Where are they getting in?
With no time to try to kill all of them, I think fast. My solo tent, set up with poles, would have fit in my old truck bed of eight feet, but this truck is only six and a half feet long. I'll improvise. I cover my head with the bag liner and shimmy over to my larger backpack holding the two tent bags and reach in for the poles. Leaving the last couple of pole sections undone, I hook the others together and jam them between the front and the back of the truck bed. I quickly clip on the tent, then unhook some small bungee cords already hooked across the width of the top of the truck cap and hook one from each side to a pole which pulls the tent apart into tension. I unzip the tent door and toss in my sleeping mat, bag, down coats and pillow, some clips and clothes pins, book and lantern, shut off the dome light, then crawl in and zip myself in. Phew.
I curl excess droopy netting around the poles and secure them with clips. With the lantern, I look for anything flying around inside the tent. Nothing. Mosquitoes crawl around the outside of the netting, and I wish I had thrown in my earplugs for the night. I can see the plugs over to my left, along with my clothes for the morning and my pee pot. Crap! I should have put the zippered door on the left side rather than the right. Oh well, knowing I won't get eaten up overnight, I'll have to put up with the buzzy din and maybe they will give it a rest eventually so I can sleep.
Morning light wafts in around my curtains and through the cap door window. Small legs crawl around on the top of the tent netting, and I need to pee. I also need an escape plan. In each corner of the tailgate, I had stuffed my netting attire items. The shirt and the pants. I'll go for whatever is to the right and easily accessible from the tent door. I unzip enough of an opening to fit my arm through, then quickly reach for it, shake it off in case any mosquitoes are resting on the netting, pull in it and re-zip. Excellent—the pants. I put them on over my naked lower half. I pull the down jacket with hood out from under my pillow, and even though the jackets seems like overkill in the middle of summer, I put it on and pull the hood up over my head. Okay—I see my sandals and the truck keys. I'll go for them first and get out of the truck.
Success. I fly into the truck cab and close the door behind me. In the bins and packs behind my seats are the rest of my clothes, underwear, pants and shirt. So far so good. I drive over to the dock area where a few dragonflies are flitting about, get out and drop my pants to pee, then hop back in the truck. Outta here and back on the dirt forest road complete with a couple of deer bouncing along the road,I slow down for a small black bear lumbering from one treed side to the other. Several cars laden with rooftop canoes drive past me in the ambush direction and I hope they brought bug spray or cigars or both.
Once past the local biting arena, relieved to have only a couple of bites taken, I find a hotter sunny spot in a boat launch pull off, stop the truck next to the vault toilet, and wait. Nothing much flitting over to the truck windows—mosquitoes or deer flies. I venture out to use the facility, water down my sleepy bed hair to fluff back up for public viewing, and gather up some granola for breakfast.
Forest ranger joke? I know that they want conservation of the natural resources, most likely the incremental growth of the local flora and fauna. Who, in their right mind, maybe with brochure in hand, would get out into the munch-happy forest of bloodthirsty bug life? I'm sure I have some stowaway skeeters still in the back of my truck and will need another great Thwacking later tonight. But, for now, I have lots of tangerines to eat before trying to cross over into Canada this afternoon. No citrus over the border.
I stop in Ely for some well-earned hot chocolate and a tank of gas fill-up. I open the back of the truck, and a handful of mosquitoes fly out. I jump in, bandana in hand, and herd a bunch more out of the back. Oh, dear.
Once back on the road to the Superior coastline, I stop a few more times, open the back, and herd more out.
Lake Superior reads like an ocean, complete with a jutting rocky coastline, and rocky beach spits. I imagine, with a storm blowing in, that waves well up across the freshwater. Today, the water is calm under the low lying clouds offering up intermittent fog for the drive to the border crossing.
Whatever mosquitoes are still lingering in my truck will have to change citizenship to another country—or like the Voyageurs, portage their way back home.