Each holding a cup of hot tea in one hand, we flailed our free arms around our heads, occasionally smacked at our necks, and paced quickly around the picnic table in the last glimmer of dusk. A fog of Minnesota mosquitoes had descended upon our sun-weary skin and no amount of repellant or interpretive dance could keep them from feasting on our intoxicating blood. We said goodnight and ducked into our respective tents, sealing the hatches from the thirsty hordes.
My companion for the evening was one Nigel Smith from Australia, currently on a cycling voyage which began at the narrow headwaters of the Mississippi River and will conclude at its expansive mouth in southern Louisiana. Our paths had crossed at a campground in the tiny, but lively, town of Bena, MN, where we spent some hours swapping road tales, sharing reviews of our current gear outfits and tipping back a few Budweisers.
Just before sunset we both decided to take a short stroll to the shores of Lake Winnibigoshish, a relatively large lake for the area which suits it's lengthy name, usually shortened to Winnie by the locals. On the sandy beach we found an extended family of about fifteen Native Americans swimming and cooking s'mores over a small fire. The eldest, a fit man of 60, introduced himself as Toughy. With him he had his unnamed horse that the kids liked to call Mighty, who was munching on a nearby bush and rolling his big, black eyes in our direction.
I asked Toughy about his hat, a finely-woven straw piece autographed by countless individuals.
"I had people sign it when I met them on my walk across America."
Like Nigel and myself, Toughy had opted to take a slow journey across the country. As we spoke of traveling, it was clear that we agreed upon the necessity of a leisurely pace in order to absorb the world around us.
Nigel and I snapped a few photos of the purpled sky before heading back to the mosquito ambush awaiting us at camp.
That evening was a preface to the sudden increase in travelers and locals I met over the next week while traversing Minnesota and eastern North Dakota. Several cyclists were just starting their trips while others, heading east, were reaching the half-way point like myself. The local folks were just coming out of hibernation as the summer sun warmed the land.
Not 20 miles from Bena, I met an excitable Native American man named Lyman, standing beside a battered, yellow bicycle on a bridge over the Mississippi River, where it exits Cass Lake and winds toward Lake Winnie.
"Where ya headed?" he called to me as I came near. His eyes grew big when I told him.
"I just ride my bicycle on the back roads here to get around." He asked about my route, offered some road tips and then began admiring my bike. "I like your saddlebags. I need to get me something like that."
As I told him that he should visit a bicycle shop to get outfitted, I realized the nearest shop was likely 30 miles away. He said he couldn't afford anything like that. Then I suggested he make his own rack system to carry things. He shrugged, smiled and said, "I couldn't do that." He seemed content continuing with the way things were, letting dreams and wishes stay as they are.
I asked Lyman what he was doing at the moment. "Oh, just waiting for a friend. He went to the movies and is going to meet me here in a couple hours."
I wondered how far away one had to go to see a movie in the area. Further, I thought that it seemed like a strange place, a bridge in the middle of nowhere, to meet a friend, but I didn't pry. He said he was just going to "hang out by the river and maybe go for a swim."
Lyman was a happy guy that seemed entirely satisfied with his simplistic way of life. I left him waving and continued down the dusty road through a town with a sign reading "Population 52."
Two days later, after a storm front had moved through, I was blessed twice by 'trail angels' during my last full day's ride in Minnesota. Trail angels are those self-less people you encounter while traveling that go above-and-beyond the norm in helpfulness and accommodation.
That morning I happened to meet John and Lynne, a Maryland couple, near the general store in Two Inlets. They had driven to Bemidji and were cycling back to Baltimore. After exchanging pleasantries, John asked about my bicycle's condition. I mentioned a clicking sound that had been emanating from the drive train on steep hills. He offered to take a look.
With just a few minutes and a couple wrenches he tightened up the crank arm and the pedal (the actual cause of the sound), both of which were too loose. I sighed in mental relief as I rode on in silence after a hearty thanks to my first trail angels of the day.
That evening I landed in the small town of Hitterdal, MN. Their city park is freely available to tent campers, offering water, electricity and restrooms. (This phenomenon appears to be the standard in most small, northern-prairie towns.)
While my dying phone was charging in the pavilion, I set to the task of pitching my tent on the grass. Before I had finished I saw a woman approaching with a smile on her face. Wanda and her husband Craig own a beverage pump distribution business across the street from the park.
"You're the first cyclist I've seen stay in the park this year!"
Wanda brought me a huge jug of fresh water, some citrus fruits and a bag of salted almonds. I was speechless. She explained that she just loves meeting the travelers that come through Hitterdal. She was closing shop for the day, but invited me to visit in the morning and join her and Craig for breakfast.
The next morning I sat inside a dining room connected to their warehouse, eating a bowl of fruit and yogurt and sipping hot coffee. We chatted for a while until Wanda received a phone call relaying tragic news about a family accident. Our time was cut short, yet I couldn't be more grateful to have met these wonderful trail angels.
'Minnesota nice' is a term used to describe the kindness exhibited by many residents of the land of 10000 lakes.* I found this designation to be right on the mark. In fact, it must be infectious because most travelers were of the same mood, and even eastern North Dakotans fell under the spell. I look forward to visiting this region again in the future.
*Sometimes this term is used derogatively, but it is not my intention to use it in this manner.
Visit Nigel Smith's website: Browsin' About on a Bike
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