Author: Standing At The Gates Of The West

The Park

I moved to Grand Forks, ND in November of 1992. At that time, the Lincoln drive area was a neighborhood along the Red River of the North not far from my home, and it was also the location of the neighborhood elementary school. The flood of 1997 knocked that all out, hundreds of families displaced, the school destroyed. It was never really replaced, as it was merged with another school in the adjacent neighborhood in the historic Near Southside District during the years of recovery to follow.

Lincoln Park sits there now, still full of the old growth trees, but when you’re standing just right, they all line up to where the streets used to be. Today, I’m cross country skiing along the smooth trails in this riverside location through the old neighborhood, enjoying the crisp air and the freshness of the new-fallen snow. I’m in no particular hurry, and it’s great to be out on a Monday afternoon on this Presidents Day.

The trails are cut and groomed by the parks department, and the path today is a little bit different, but that doesn’t really occur to me until I pass by the marker for where the school’s playground used to be. This is unexpectedly and suddenly emotionally overwhelming; when we first moved here, this is where I brought my kids to play, and where they each had their first days of kindergarten. Sunny days fill my mind, the kids yelling and laughing as they ride the swings and take on the slides. That’s been many years now, they are adults now, but it’s at once transformative as I drift back to where I’m standing on this winter day. The buildings may be gone, but the memories are not, I think, as I begin to schuss my way back to the car, dusk approaching as the snow falls windlessly and silently.

Winter Spirit

 The climate can be very harsh where I live in northeast North Dakota during wintertime. We have 4 seasons here, but it is a little distorted by the relative length and intensity of winter weather over few months, fading in and back out over the weeks preceding and following. On this day,  we are looking at temperatures well below zero, with what the National Weather Service characterizes as “dangerous” wind chill equivalents in the 40’s and 50’s below zero.  

It’s deceptive, as it is a beautiful sunny day looking out my window at work on this Saturday. Further contemplation of the day brings awareness of bare branches on trees waving in the wind, now appearing stark and shaping my impression of the day. They will wait it out for the time when they will “break out” quickly in the turnover to spring, but their long shadows already in this mid-afternoon betray that as the days remain short in the sharp angle of the sun. I consider that it will be dark when I’m ready to head home; the cold will feel intensified by the day slipping away into evening, especially with a cloudless sky, moon and stars above, maybe an aurora to remind us of our latitude and station.

The sheer force of the elements is invigorating, however; few things in our everyday experience can influence our thoughts and emotions like the weather, giving background and context to where we are and what we’re doing. Some can only complain about these harshest days of winter, thinking of summer days or a warm weather vacation. I find the sheer extreme force of it to be somewhat spiritual; anyone can see the beauty of a warm sunny day, but this is a different experience altogether. Few things can make you feel more alive than being bundled up and outside for a few minutes in it, even for just a run to the store or some other errand.  

Upon returning indoors and even when warming by the fire, it stays with you for a while. Cold is a very incomplete descriptor for it, it’s palpable. My Scandinavian ancestors had a goddess for winter, Skaði, reflecting its importance in their everyday lives. Milder winter days will bring silent and smooth solace as the snow falls while skiing along the riverfront. In embracing these times, it is an act of living more fully; to block it out lessens my experience by not finding the beauty in every day, day after day, a day at a time.  

The Song Remains The Same

Clouds and wind obscure my view of the base from the top of the blue trail as we close in on the last run of the day at Winter Park. It’s a little colder day in early January 1979, and our traditional challenge to each other was to be the last one to make the final lift before it closed at 4.

Back then, I always thought it would be great to listen to music while we schussed our way through the moguls as gravity did its thing to get the rush going. There weren’t portable music players at that time, other than AM-FM radio headsets, which, in the mountains, were almost useless. It didn’t keep me from thinking of songs in my head, usually from an album we may have been fixated on during the drive to the Rockies from the plains of Nebraska. As well, our evenings were also always filled with music and good times on these trips.

Over 50 years, I’ve listened to music in many formats- 45’s, regular 12″ vinyl LP’s, 8-track tapes, cassettes (the choice of those trips back then), CD’s, and now, mostly digital files. Portability has increased dramatically, even now as I can listen to a favorite while writing this blog in a coffee house.

On the mountain standing in the snow and the wind, the song and I were as one, and now in this moment, it’s a singularity, the point at which it is infinite in emotional attachments, feelings, and memories. It’s not a format. It’s the song and I.

See You Soon Along The Road

Flying home from a quick trip from Des Moines, IA, where I had a diabetes oriented lecture to students at Drake University, I’m exiled out to the ‘B’ gates and Minneapolis-St. Paul International airport. This airport overall is really modern with a small mall and numerous eating and drinking establishments. The rest rooms all feature classical music and it’s generally about as classy of an airport experience one can have domestically. I think of all us walk by gates for departures to places like Paris, Singapore or Tokyo and think what it would be like to just switch our plans and take off only with what we have in our bag.

No such destinations out on the ‘B’ gates- these are places like Flint, Green Bay, Billings, and Sioux Falls. There is nothing wrong with any of those places, but the places of dreams are out on ‘C’ and ‘G’ gate, a long walk from here. Still, I’m wondering, what if I went impulsively to Flint? There are probably some fun things to do there, and I’d learn something about it that I don’t know, shattering some stereotypes along the way. Back when I was still drinking, I did spontaneous road trips to places all the time like Albuquerque, NM, or small cities with minor league baseball.

It’s the dream of travel that we all have; it doesn’t have to be big or exotic, it just has to be. See you soon, Cedar Falls.

As Honest As A Denver Man Can Be

A couple of back to back meetings regarding some new medications in my field of diabetes care brought me to Denver for  couple of days, a city I’d not been to since 1982. This was so different than the many times of my youth- in the 70’s and 80’s, I’d grown up taking annual ski trips to Colorado with my parents and sisters (actually, even before my youngest sister was born) to places like Winter Park, Copper Mountain, Breckenridge, and Vail. My Uncle had done some ski instructing when he was attending the University of Colorado in Boulder, and my initiation to the slopes was on a sunny spring day in 1970 at Lake Eldora where he worked. The first time is always full of tumbles, but by the end of the day I was able to control it enough to really enjoy it. I never thought I was a very “cool” kid, but these trips helped me in that department (at least I thought so!).

These family excursions evolved into adventures with my friends by the time I was 16 in 1976. Favorite albums and songs on cassettes, some curated for the trip, provided memorable soundtracks riding from the plains of the Platte River Valley to the heart of the Rockies and back. Later as we got into college, often a few of us would leave Kearney on a Thursday night or Friday morning, make the 6 hour drive, and cram in as much skiing that we could by the times the lifts closed at 4pm on Sunday with our heads full of snow and sun. As the shadows crossed the moguls on the final run of the day, it was always a race to be the last one on the lift before it closed. These times were usually full of college-type debauchery; side trips sometimes took us to Rocky Mountain National Park to cross country ski or just a drive high in the Poudre Valley.

Loading up on cases of Coors beer (you couldn’t buy it in Nebraska then), the return trips home were full of stories about our triumphs for the weekend. Driving through the dusk into evening with occasional pull overs at a truck stop or roadside bar, we would arrive into the early reaches of morning for our return to classes on Monday.

My meetings stretched many hours each day, and I had no intent to even really go out. A friend from a different era reached out to me, so I decided to spend a couple of unexpected hours in the city. As I walked on Welton St to the 16th Street mall, thinking of those times, back then not able to imagine that they’d ever end. I could see the mountains as I headed west to a bar to meet, catch up and watch a ball game (we are both hardcore Cub fans). My mind is filled with these memories while the Cubs win their playoff game on this beautiful night, I know I’ll need to return sooner than another 33 years.

Traversing The Glacier

The North woods area of Minnesota extends across a very large area of the state, and recently we stayed at a small “mom and pop” resort near the small town of Dorset- this town is famous for “electing a mayor” once a year (it’s unincorporated with no city government) during its street festival. The last mayor was a 4 year old boy, and this year his brother won in the polling (it costs a dollar to register). A famous Mexican restaurant had burned down here within the last year here in this community with some strong retail directed at tourists, but the town was packed on this no too hot sunny day. State Highway 226 is actually closed to traffic during the summer gathering, with horse mounted police diverting cars and motorcycles to detours on the gravel roads that make up the town’s “streets”.

 
At the 5 cabin resort, it’s quiet. There is not a lot of development on the lake, and jet skis are prohibited. The boating is limited by the size of the lake, although a floatplane landed a few times, attesting to the relative remoteness of the place- the last 2 miles of roads to the entrance are gravel. Our remodeled cabin was up a hill with excellent views of the water, it was perfect for reading, thinking, listening to some music, or just contemplating life. The cool nights contributed to the experience, generating some great conversation and storytelling as well around the fire.

 
The two and half hour drive home furthered this reflection riding through the tall pines, aspens, and birch along the rolling hills. Eventually, the forest gives way to a much different topography. As now it’s nothing but faraway visible horizons in all directions ahead, I sort of unexpectedly shift to think about the huge Lake Agassiz glacier that was here tens of thousands of years ago, larger than the Great Lakes combined. Extending from its nether Artic reaches down across Manitoba, Ontario, the eastern Dakotas, and Minnesota, it crushed down the area that is now the Red River Valley of the North. Along its periphery, low level rolling hills were formed, some rocky, part of the transition from forest cover. Shaped by changing climate, it formed the many lakes and rivers, including the Mississippi, whose headwaters aren’t far from here. Recently, I saw many fossils from this area in a special exhibit at the Smithsonian Natural History Museum in Washington, D.C. that caused me to think back on this drive and my other explorations in our area.

 
Cruising across the flatness of the wide valley toward the city, we get off of the 4 lane to take the old highway across the southern and eastern portion of East Grand Forks, crossing some of the last remnants of the glacial era, the Red Lake and Red Rivers, separated by a few hundred yards and to our home a few blocks to the west in North Dakota, connecting the collective memory of the prehistoric past to my recent experiences.

 
And think about running for mayor of Dorset next year.

The High-Line // Split

Driving down US highway 2 (“The highline”, the northernmost US east west highway) straight into the western sun, I’d been getting weather alerts most of the day (isn’t this a great thing that we can that on a phone?!?), but not really in my area. I’ve gone about 100 miles, stopping in Devil’s Lake, ND to get a snack from the local Dairy Queen. It’s about 7:30, it’s full of people getting their Sunday night treat. It had been getting a little cloudier as I’d gone a long, but after spending about 20 minutes inside before going back out to my car, an organizing cell was apparent, and a good number of folks were standing outside their vehicles watching it. “Oh, this looks bad” says one young parent as he and a couple of kids are standing by while he videorecords it on his phone.

I’ve got another 124 miles to go on this road to Minot to the west, so I get in my truck and gather my thoughts- turn around and go home as this could be the beginning of a long night of bad weather developing and continuing, or to wait it out- but where? After some thought, I figured I could always go to the hospital to their lower level, but that’s on the other side of town. I pull up the radar on my Iphone 6plus, and a quickly intensifying storm is dead ahead of me.  I can see the billowing shelf cloud closing in on us quickly, with very ominous dark clouds in close pursuit and frequent impressive lightning displays. I have to make this decision now, I’m thinking, as the wind comes up quickly and catches my attention as a larger gas station trash can blows by me. I can hear this wind by now.

Suddenly on the radar, I can see that this storm is going to split. It’s a long thin front, and it’s going to be 2 separate cells soon. The only question remaining for my escape plan is will it split over highway 2. It’s really windy now, with some rain kicked up along with some pea sized hail. There is nothing really alarming yet to my eye- no rotation, no visible funnels, no wall clouds, but the rain is coming down hard a few hundred yards in front of me. I spent a good part of my youth in tornado country in Nebraska watching big storms roll off the prairie, so know I can’t be sure I’d be able to see or not with the sheets of rain.

 
Then it happens, just as I’d hoped, the storm has separated into to similarly intense storms, and the radar shows that split to be right along the highway. A weather alert comes on stating funnels could be in the area, with high wind and hail likely. In the distance, I can see a flush of some pinkish sunlight close to the horizon. I’d dodged storms in my youth before; that experience along with modern technology is giving me a window of opportunity right now, and I consider that may be short. Storms like this can be unpredictable and reorganize quickly.

I pause, but I know it’s time for me to make my run, and I do it. The storm is moving about 30 miles per hour easterly, and I am traveling west right at it at about 70 miles an hour, which will shorten my overall exposure time considerably. West of town, I’m the only car visible on the road in front of, behind me, or stopped on the road. The gray of the road and the sky become one as it starts to rain vociferously. I’ve lost the view of the faint daylight on the horizon, and suddenly I feel like a small Viking ship lost at sea; will I sail on to my destination, or meet Valhalla? (Ironically, Walhalla, ND, is only about 100 miles from my location).

I sense the storms have maintained their mitotic-like separation, as balls of lightning and thunder keep rolling on either side. I’m committed now, my only option is to stay with my forward trajectory. The rain seems to intensify, the small hail returns. Satellite radio transmissions disappear, and local radio has degenerated into patterned static, as if an alien transmission. I feel I’ve made a grave error, perhaps overestimating what I think is my experience.

I’ve had to slow down to about 45 miles per hour because my visibility from rain is limited. However, the lightning on both sides now does seem to be behind me. Then it happens, perceptibly, as the rain begins to lose its intensity. I can see what I think are taillights, and after a few minutes, I pass a car on the side of the road. Perhaps he was stuck in one of the cells, but I am now sure I’d ridden the division and was now through it all.

The ballgame satellite cast returns on SiriusXM, and although it’s still cloudy where I am at, definite clearing is ahead, and I imagine sitting in the warmth and sun of the ballpark in a distant city. Finding my way, my seas have calmed. The gods will wait, but maybe I’ll drive through Walhalla on my way home.