Biking Lanesboro - Again

We see our friends Don and Sherry maybe three or four times a year. Once in December for a whirlwind holiday evening of conversation, once in May for a bike trip ostensibly in celebration of our birthdays, all of which happen to fall within a stretch from late March to mid-May, some sort of summer event, and a grand occasion in the fall when we indulge in a two-day biking extravaganza, usually around World Series time.

It doesn't sound like much, but we've been doing it for 35 years. There is no way, at this late date, to pin down exactly how many years it's been, but it seems to me we've never missed a year, and as I think back on the places we've stayed overnight during those fall weekends, it begins to sound impressive. Our Wisconsin bivoucs have included Trempealeau, Alma, Fountain City, Wilton, Eau Claire, Menomonie, River Falls,  Chippewa Falls, New Post, Dresser, Bayfield, and Bailey's Harbor. Our Minnesota adventures have included overnights in Duluth, Little Falls, Nisswa, Sauk Center, Dundas, and Lanesboro.

Many of these settings are associated in my mind with a particular scene or event, which is perhaps the only reason I remember we were there.

In Trempealeau,  the wedding at sundown out on the lawn with young women in strapless gowns and near-freezing conditions, with the floodlights of the barges coming through the lock just beyond the "hotel"; the creaky springs on the narrow bed and the bathroom down the hall that made you feel like you were in an outtake from the TV show Maverick.

In Alma, the room where the window screens were ripped, and you could hear the claws of the hunting dogs scraping against the wooden floor out in the hall as the duck hunters retired after a long night at the bar just below.

At a budget motel in Wilton, the mid-point of the Sparta-Elroy Trail, where we were given the wrong  key and accidentally made the acquaintance of a young couple who were definitely done biking for the day.

On a subsequent visit to the same trail we stayed at a farm quite a ways out in the country and were charmed by the host couple, whose sweet daughter, that very evening, had been crowned the "cranberry queen" of the region.

 In Eau Claire, we agreed to meet up "downtown," having no idea how convoluted the layout of that town really is due to the meanders of the Chippewa River.

In River Falls, we stayed in the suburban home of a Christian couple who, when they heard I worked with books, showed me a rare volume from the eighteenth century that they'd inherited. I might have said, "I'll give you $100 for it, no questions asked." But instead, I said, "I think you should contact the James Ford Bell Library at the U of M. They specialize in that kind of thing."

It might seem that Wisconsin locations are over-represented here, until you factor in all the times we established our bourgeois base camp in that quaint and appealing Root River town of Lanesboro. 

 Why Lanesboro? Two branches of the Root River flow through it, it has two theaters, restaurants in every zone from a counter-service pizza place to a one-seating establishment where they serve crostini topped with flying fish roe, a small but top-flight local art gallery,  60 miles of bike trails, Amish farmers selling quilts and pies in the city park with their horses tethered nearby, a genuine livestock market every Friday, a first-rate wild bird store up in the hills just west of town, and a wide variety of affordable accommodations.

If memory serves, over the years we have spent a night at the Scanlon House B&B, two years at the Hilltop B&B, at least three years at the Cottage House Inn, and one year at the Stone Mill Inn.

Whatever the lodgings happen to be, the fall weekends in Lanesboro tend to take the same shape, year after year. We arrive at the Ladig residence at 9:30 sharp, just as Don is loading the bikes into their van. Fifteen minutes later we're entering the Dunn Brothers on Snelling and Grand to pick up some coffee and pastries. From there it's roughly a three hour drive down Highway 52 through Cannon Falls, Rochester, Chatfield, and Fountain, to our destination.

We usually ride upstream that afternoon and downstream the next morning. The trail follows the Root River much of the way, with a few narrow canyons and quite a few bridges. I often make a suggestion before we head out: why not eat our picnic here in town; then we won't have to pack everything onto our bikes. This notion is invariably dismissed out of hand, and wisely so. It's not such a big deal to pack up our fixings, and it's always a pleasure to stop at a picnic table forty-five minutes up the trail, unfurl the India-print tapestry  tablecloth from Depth of Field that we're been using since our very first trip on the Luce Line more than three decades ago, and set out all the goodies. We used to make an effort to coordinate the menu, but now we just bring stuff—cheeses, salami, crackers, horseradish, cookies—confident that we'll cover most of the bases and no one will starve.

For our recent excursion Sherry booked two rooms at Mrs.B's, Lanesboro's oldest hotel, established in 1875. The layout of the building—its narrow hall, steep staircase, and smallish rooms—give you the impression that it's always been a hotel or a boarding house. Hilary and I ate there once many years ago, and since that time I've associated the place with ornate wallpaper, potpourris in every room, baskets full of yarn in every corner, and vintage needlework on the wall.

The building has changed hands at least three times since then, and the current owner, Trish, a middle-aged woman with seemingly boundless energy, has modernized it thoroughly while retaining just the right amount of "vintage" charm—very comfortable but not over-stuffed. In response to the pandemic, Trish has lowered her rates and no longer serves breakfast, which is also a plus in my opinion.

Two Audubon prints, expertly framed, hung from the wall of our second-story room. The single window, deep-set in the thick limestone walls, looked south down Main Street across the bike trail toward a canoe-rental outfit, the local historical museum, and in the distance, the city park. Though small, it had a built-in corner fireplace that you could "ignite" with a remote.

To my mind, the great challenge of the weekend would lie in finding something to do after dinner. On a normal trip we might sit around playing cards, drinking booze of various types, and (occasionally) trying to annoy one another with our falsetto Neil Young imitations. Then again, we might have gotten tickets to Commonwealth Theater, where we've seen quite a few plays together over the years, including the British comedy/romance, Enchanted April, Henrik Ibsen's last play, When We the Dead Awaken, and most memorably Tom Stoppard's Arcadia. The Covid virus rendered those indoor options unattractive or unavailable, but we devised perhaps an equally good one: sitting around a table on the patio behind the hotel thirty feet above the Root River with a half-full bottle of Grand Marnier that Sherry had brought along. 

During the evening we continued to unwind the strands of conversations about family, music, food, and books that we'd initiated out on the trail, and started a few new ones, while wandering only occasionally into the world of politics, where we're all in perfect agreement about the deficiencies and dangers of the current administration. 

There was no need to revive old standards like "Sugar Mountain" and "Cinnamon Girl": it was open-mike night  in the parking lot behind the High Court Pub midway down the alley, with a live back-up band! The only song I recognized was "Johnny B Goode," but the gathering was far enough away that it lent a pleasant background to our own conversation.

I remember a single starling squawking from a wire far about our heads in fading light, and, as darkness descended, a quarter-moon hung high in the sky to the south, with Jupiter and Saturn trailing behind it to the east. Just as we were getting up to go inside—yes, by that time the bottle was empty—a couple emerged from the darkness of the alley. It was Trish and her boyfriend, Greg, who had been playing in the band. We extended our compliments and they invited us to the house party taking place the next evening, giving us detailed instructions about how to get there. In the midst of their enthusiasm, I didn't have the heart to interrupt them with the news that we would be leaving town the next morning.

The next morning was sunny, cool, and crisp, and Hilary and I sat on two Adirondack chairs on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, watching the world go by. Several livestock trucks passed by, and also a delivery truck with an enormous advertisement painted on the side for Kinky Blue and Pink liqueurs. Ugh. The driver made an impressive U-turn in the middle of the block—not much traffic at that time of day—and disappeared from sight into the loading dock of the liquor store.

A few minutes later a fit-looking retiree with a carefully groomed stubble took the chair next to mine. We talked about campgrounds—he owns a vintage Scamp—and about the hotels in Duluth. He told us that at one time he was part-owner of a sailing vessel docked at Indian Point, a mile or two up the St. Louis River from the harbor. "We would take it once a year up to Isle Royale, Thunder Bay, and beyond," he said.

"I take it you're not referring to just a thirty-foot craft," I said.

"Oh, no," he replied. "It was 150 feet long." And he went on to describe the sails and the rigging in some detail, using terminology most of which I was not familiar with.

"On its final voyage, some of the owners decided to sail it to England," he said. "They sailed too close to Greenland, got trapped in pack ice, and had to be rescued by a Danish shrimp boat. Our boat sank."       

A few minutes later Don and Sherry appeared, well scrubbed and smiling, and we made our way on foot to the Home Sweet Home café at the other end of Main Street—that is to say, two blocks away. We ate an excellent breakfast al fresco and were soon on the trail again, chatting and pedaling. The morning was perfect for cycling, though the bike traffic was heavier than the previous afternoon. 

The leaves were just beginning to turn, showing quite a bit of yellow but few reds beyond the low-lying tangles of sumac and Virginia creeper. We passed a gravel pit with some impressive piles of sand, spotted a family sunbathing on the far side of the river, and also noticed an abandoned railroad bridge beyond a cornfield that looked worthy of further investigation on some future occasion.

Two hours and twenty miles later, we were back in town, saying our goodbyes and hoisting our bikes onto our vehicles. An ice cream cone before departure? No. The line was too long.     

 

Fall Equinox Birdbath

It was one of those almost somnambulant fall days. A few days before the equinox, in fact.

Friends were coming over for an afternoon visit on the deck. Sad to say, such events will soon be less frequent, shorter, harder to arrange. One couple we know  has purchased outdoor propane heaters to keep their social alive through the coming season. We've done a little research along those lines ourselves.

I had made an early morning run to Trader Joe's, taking advantage of their Sunday morning "old folks" hour. I was impressed to discover that they had the Musak tuned to the "old folks" station, too. I was greeted at the door by a song from the seminal Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young album Deja Vu. "Carry On," I think. Then it was "Green Eyed Lady" by Sugarloaf.

I was home by 8:30 with two bags full of produce: peppers for the salsa, fruit that would be easy to serve without touching, blue corn chips full of mystical desert power. The cashier was—by Trader Joe's standards—unusually reserved. He got out two brown bags immediately, making it clear he wanted to bag the items himself, and stayed hunched behind the plexiglass shield the whole time. I don't blame him.  While I waited for him to finish the job I studied the huge map of Lake Minnetonka on the far wall, trying to memorize the municipalities and bays—Lower Lake, Chubbs Bay, Tonka Bay, Minnetrista, Deephaven, Shorewood—while I grooved to "Who'll Stop the Rain."

By noon Hilary had cleaned the bathroom, swept the deck, and chopped the various ingredients for the salsa.  I had watered the compost pile and turned the leaves with a pitchfork; we're going to need more room in there soon. I also got out a ladder from the garage and repaired two holes in the gutter—created by me with an ice pick years ago—using duct tape and silicon sealer. I've done it several times before. Nothing seems to work for long.

While I was out in the garden I stopped to admire the white turtleheads that, modest though they may be, are currently its chief glory. They look feeble all summer, crowded out by the expansive bleeding hearts. Now the bleeding-hearts are mostly dead, and they shine above the violets and hostas that have been eaten down dramatically by the rabbits.

Most gardeners would not be impressed.

I was relaxing with a game or two of free cell on the computer when I heard a call from the other room: "John, there's a redstart in the birdbath!" A few warblers pass through the woods behind our house every fall, but they rarely come anywhere near the deck.

It was a female, less dramatic but more attractive than the male. She had an unusual way of dealing with the water in the bath. She would fly over it, moving from one lip of the basin to the other, dipping in very slightly or not at all. It was hard to tell.

Eventually she took a plunge directly into the pool. She didn't splash much, but she lingered at various points around the birdbath for at least five minutes.

This has been one of the great discoveries of this very odd summer: how much more popular a bird bath is when located on the deck rather than out in the yard. I suppose the protection provided by the nearby shrubs far outweighs the longer sightlines available out in the yard, where a cooper's hawk can swoop in out of nowhere.

We made this discovery entirely by accident when we brought the birdbath up from the basement last spring. I don't remember why we set it on the deck. Maybe we hadn't uncovered the garden yet. In any case, we put some water in it and the birds seemed to like it. Four or five cardinals sometimes jostle for position, and when a blue jay or a robin hops in to rustle his or her wings, it's quite a show.

Labor Day Fire

 Labor Day, a drizzly afternoon. First fire of the season in the fireplace. A spot of wine in the glass.

A fire sometimes doesn't roar. It purrs. It murmurs like a brook, irregular but always keeping within the same range, punctuated by an occasional sharp report, as a reminder that it's not something to be trifled with.

As the fire muttered and stuttered I sat on the couch thumbing diligently through the latest L.L. Bean catalog. I wouldn't normally do such a thing, but a $10 coupon was burning a hole in my pocket. Flannel shirts, bathrobes, sheepskin slippers, sturdy duffle bags, faux Amish quilts. Nothing jumped out at me. "So much more than just a sweatshirt," the copy reads. Really? How so?

This morning we left the house at 7:45, headed for Sherburne National Wildlife Reserve, an hour away to the northwest. I didn't expect to see much in the way of bird life, though the open fields there are peppered with sandhill cranes in family groups, and there are quite a few pelicans and trumpeter swans milling around in the bigger sloughs.

Among my favorite sightings was a female harrier—rich dark brown with a white rump patch—moving low across a field. Also a red-breasted nuthatch, which I associate with wintertime. We saw one exquisite pied-billed grebe, fresh and fuzzy, comical and proud.

But my favorite bird sighting was a flock of blue-winged teal dashing across the sky above a pond. This duck nests more commonly in Minnesota than any other, I think, but I rarely get a chance to see a whole flock, their pale blue wing-panels flashing.

The most arresting sight on the morning, however, was a grassy field strewn with pale yellow goldenrod and pale purple asters, with a border of poison ivy—already turning red—in the foreground. There were patches of wild sage, pale green, here and there, too. The field was a delight to the eye, mesmerizing in a quiet way. It has texture, color, balance, but no discernible pattern. Nature at its best.

There are many such fields at Sherburne. Some have asters but no goldenrod. Others are dominated by baby bluestem or sunflowers. And there are also a few open woods full of gnarly oaks, widely spaced.

Most of the summer birds are gone, or lying low, but we spent two hours traversing the Six-Mile Drive, wondering why some asters are big while others are small, and probing the muddy reeds with our binoculars, hoping to catch a glimpse of an elusive wren or rail.

The drive home placed us in the midst of monstrous pickup trucks and families returning down Highway 169 from Labor Day weekend at the lake, but little matter. The fire is burning here in the fireplace, and I smell the sweet aroma of a French tomato pie with basil and gruyere cheese that Hilary just pulled out of the oven.