US 19: Firestorms and a Fracture of Filial Faith

Firestorms and a Fracture of Filial Faith is a fairly unusual title for a chapter about two old blokes on the road in Northern Minnesota; but stick with me, Hinckley is a fairly unusual town. The first settlers in this region were the Dakota Sioux; but years before the arrival of Anglo-American settlers they’d been pushed further south and west by the Ojibwe [also known as Chippewa] who trapped and traded furs at Mille Lacs. When the Anglo-Europeans arrived thick forests of White Pine grew in the area. First Nations settlers saw the area as ideal because of the availability of fishing and hunting resources. White settlers, on the other hand, saw potential fortunes to be made from logging; and promptly set about cutting down as many trees as they could transport.

Hinckley was originally known as Central Station because of its position; almost exactly halfway between the Twin Cities of Minneapolis-St Pauls and the Twin Ports of Duluth-Superior. Only later was the settlement incorporated and named for Isaac Hinckley; President of the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad. However, even after incorporation, the area continued to be known as Central Station.

Firestorms

By 1894, Hinckley was a prosperous community with a rapidly expanding timber industry and pretty much everything required to service the needs of its residents. But then, as so often happens when things appear to be going so well, everything changed. 

On the first day of September that year, an inferno wiped out the town along with a whole swag of others in Northern Minnesota; the firestorm came to be known as the Great Hinckley Fire. 

So, how did that happen? 

Factors and Causes

Well, at the time, the generally accepted method for harvesting timber was to strip trees in situ. As logging continued, forest areas became progressively littered with highly combustible debris; and forestry workers commonly used fire to deal with the mess. Then, in 1894, there was an extended drought and this was followed by very high summer temperatures; those relatively small ‘clean-up’ fires, started by loggers in Pine County, got out of control. When fanned by high winds, the fires amalgamated and formed a firestorm.

It’s reported that temperatures in the maelstrom rose as high as 2,000 degrees fahrenheit [1,100 degrees centigrade]; barrels of nails melted into solid masses of iron; and, in the rail yards, the wheels of the rolling stock fused to the rails on which they sat. The official death count was 418 though the real toll is likely to have been considerably higher. The firestorm completely destroyed six towns, including Hinckley, and over 400 square miles [1,000 square kilometres] of forest.

Booth’s Assassin

Among many others victims of the conflagration was one Thomas P [Boston] Corbett. Now, you could be forgiven if you have no idea who Corbett was; his name doesn’t get a mention even in the most obscure footnote to history. He was, however, the Union soldier who killed John Wilkes Booth. You would, of course, know about Lincoln’s assassination by Booth, but not necessarily about Corbett’s killing of Booth. So, there you go, you learn something new every day, right?

Surgery

Corbett seems to have been unusual; to say the least. A milliner by trade, who probably absorbed too much of the mercury used, back in the day, to produce felt for hat-making. He was also regarded by some as something of a religious fanatic.

 Well, apparently one evening on his way home from work, he was propositioned by a couple of ladies of the night. Now, it isn’t entirely clear whether Corbett took advantage of the ladies’ offer or not. What is clear is that, on arriving home, he was sufficiently distressed to feel in need of spiritual guidance and took to reading his Bible. During his reading, he happened upon a passage from Matthew’s Gospel which advised, among other things, that if your eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out . . . better to have one eye than two and be consigned to the fires of hell. 

It seems that Corbett adopted a fairly literal interpretation of scripture. So, he acted promptly on Matthew’s exhortation and castrated himself with a pair of scissors. I suppose you have to admire his single-mindedness and stoicism. Documentary records reveal that Corbett, after carrying out this amateur surgical procedure, ate a meal and then attended a prayer meeting before seeking medical attention. 

Now, if you’re a bloke with a bit of imagination, I bet this little piece of historical data caused you to clench your knees together. I also bet you’re wondering where I got this interesting, but largely irrelevant, information; this crap.

Well, you see, I was awake early; as is my wont. Mel was snoring over by the window; the one we’d left open in lieu of damaging the wall by turning on the air conditioner. The digital clock on the bed-side table read a few minutes after 3 am; and, the draft coming through the open window told me that I’d have to get dressed and jacketed against the cold before venturing out. 

Caffeine and Nicotine

More importantly, I knew that the only way I was likely to get coffee at this time of the day was to make one myself; a brand-new coffee-maker came with the room. I also knew that in the process there was likely to be a whole lot of hissing and gurgling. This, in turn, was likely to wake Mel; and you’d already know, Mel takes personal offense to waking early. So, I settled for getting my IPad and googling.

By the time I’d finished reading all this fascinating stuff about Hinckley, and making notes so that I could include details in my Facebook posts, it was just a little after 4 am. My caffeine and nicotine quotients were bordering on zero and I needed to relieve the pressure in my bladder.

I pulled on my University of New England hoodie, slipped out of bed, unplugged the coffee-maker, snuck into the bathroom, closed the door; and, turned on the light. The machine did, indeed, gurgle and hiss but it also yielded a pretty satisfactory, dark cup of arabica. Then, after turning off the machine, I waited for the gurgling and hissing to subside before turning off the light and opening the bathroom door. I could still hear a quiet rumble from Mel’s side of the room; so I grabbed my cigarettes and coffee and headed quietly out into the hallway.

Up and About

At the end of the hall was a lounge with doors to the verandah. Outside, the sky was a deep indigo-black; there were about six oktas of cloud; the air was still and clear but with an edge to it; and, a few random stars shone beacon-like around the edges of massed clouds. I eased myself into one of the wrought-iron garden chairs, positioned my brew of hot arabica on the  iron-lattice table, hauled out a cigarette, and lit up.

Now, the coffee cups provided were pretty small; you know, the size gentle folk use when having high tea on the terrace while they watch a spot of cricket. Suffice to say, it didn’t take long to drain the last drops of my arabica. I really wanted more; but that would have meant going back inside and initiating another round of hissing and gurgling. The risk of waking Mel was just too great. So, instead, I tapped another Marlborough out of my soft pack and lit up.

Tranquility

An oversized moon, probably celebrating its last hurrah before ceding to the dawn, slipped out from behind a bank of cloud. The whole motel forecourt and car park were suddenly awash with a luminous silver-grey; and the pencil pines, painted with moonlight silver, cast long, ghostly shadows on the pavement. In the cool, quiet half-light I just kicked back; and the tranquility of the early hour washed over me. It is difficult to do justice, in words, to the sense of freedom I experienced right there in the predawn darkness. 

Almost two weeks had slipped by since we’d taken the on-ramp to Interstate 15 in Nevada and headed north to Utah. The brother I knew, but really didn’t, was turning out to be something exceptional; someone who might even get to be a mate. An easy bloke to be around, Mel just liked people and had an extraordinary talent for drawing them to him; he had a big heart, laughed easily, and his warmth was genuine – in short, not at all like me. For my part, the accumulated sadness, unfulfilled expectations and disappointments of my life were half a world away; and because there was nothing I could do about any of it, I’d just stopped worrying. But, I didn’t stop thinking.

Way Back When

Sitting in the quiet darkness, it occurred to me that some of the things that took place in the turbulent twenty months following the death of my mother and brothers, had made deep impressions; cast some very long shadows. I have no real doubt that many of my actions, reactions, and attitudes over the years had been influenced – even motivated – by what happened. 

If I’d had the maturity to move more deliberately, think more clearly and analytically and, perhaps, talk more openly, I might have saved myself a world of grief. But, I was just a very little boy; battered by trauma, intimidated by strangers, baffled by happenstance and unnerved by the speed at which circumstances changed.

When Dad started his graduated return to work, we were still living with Nana Blair. His work involved, among other things, visiting parishioners, delivering Bible Studies in their homes and presenting Mid-day Meditations on 6PR Perth Radio. At first, he tried leaving me at Nan’s place in the evenings with my aunt and cousins, Lyle and Gabrielle; I’d scream the house down from the moment he left until I heard the crunch of his tyres in the driveway. Clearly this couldn’t go on and, eventually, Dad caved in and took me with him; I slept on the back seat of his Vauxhall.

Eviction

When Dad announced his engagement to Val [Mel’s mother], some pretty harsh words were traded in my Nana Blair’s household; and she threw us out. I learned later that it was Dad who got thrown out; not me. But in the heat of the moment, I didn’t get a say in the matter; even if I had, I probably wouldn’t have stayed. Dad was the only thing I had left. And, to be fair about the situation, you couldn’t really ask a toddler where he wanted to live. Although it never occurred to me at the time, I realised, much later, that Dad considered me the only thing he had left too; and he was not about to leave me behind.

Things We Can’t Control

Back then, I had no idea why any of this happened, but somewhere just below the surface of consciousness, I sensed that it was probably my fault. I became desperately uncertain about where I belonged; and all too frequently, whether I belonged any place at all.

I wouldn’t let Dad out of my sight and became preoccupied with holding his attention; winning his approval. As weeks turned into months, I found myself hopelessly adrift in a spate of turmoil and change; a spate that was beyond anything I could control. All I could do was keep my head down and hold on to what I could.

Dad and I moved into the old Sanitarium Health Foods Manager’s house; next to the factory in Subiaco. It was all a strange, new world for a little chap who only knew rainforests, mosquito riddled swamps, a bush materials home on a small mission compound, the mission launch, the river bank and the open sea. But, I had my Dad by day and the back seat of the Vauxhall by night; I could live with that. I could even cope with Dad’s new friend; she was only there from time to time and when they stepped out together, Dad would take me along.

Then Dad took on a new appointment as Pastor at the Fremantle Church; in the pre-America’s Cup working class Fremantle; the migrant disembarkation point Fremantle. The workers’ cottage we called home is now multi-million dollar real estate right in the middle of town; it wasn’t when we lived there.

Knowing What You Know

Next came the wedding; meticulously planned with all the appropriate pomp, ceremony and musical interludes; scrupulously overseen by Annie Richards, Val’s mother. Prayers were offered, blessings were given; and well-wishers came and went for weeks. Everyone seemed delighted.

Well, they would wouldn’t they? Val was, after all, the daughter of the Conference President. And Dad, the son of the late Ludwig Daniel Augustus Lemke; perhaps the church’s most respected and revered leader and patriarch. It was a match made in Seventh-day Adventist heaven. On the sidelines, though, I was a very long way from delighted; I just knew in every fibre of my body that this new mother didn’t like me.

To be fair, I’m not sure Val knew what she was getting herself into. The favoured daughter of an eminent church administrator, she’d been protected, preened, pampered and groomed by Annie. With the benefit of professional voice training, she sang soprano in the Perth Symphony Orchestra; she moved in polite and privileged circles. I’m sure there must have been a certain idyllic romance attached to the notion of marrying my Dad. But, what she knew was a world removed from the uncompromising reality of a sweltering north coast in the Territory of Papua and New Guinea; with an experience hardened missionary husband and a morose little boy as a constant reminder that she was the second wife.

Uncertainty

Be that as it may, the tectonic shifts in my familial landscape during those twenty months in Perth were confusing, disorienting and damaging. It was an easy and logical step for me to conclude that my life, informed by accident, fate and arbitrary happenstance, was beyond my control; and that survival depended on my ability to suck it up and adapt. 

I was almost 23 months old when Delys, David and Blair died on December 28, 1952. By the time Dad and I arrived back in Perth in February of 1953, I was two. We lived with my Nan at Osborne Park until evicted from the family home in July. Then, we shifted to Subiaco for a few months, and finally Fremantle where Val and Dad married in early February, 1954. By September of that year we were back in the Territory.

All the while and for many years after, the tale of our survival lost nothing in the re-telling and would elicit one of two responses; sometimes both. On the one hand, there would be an assertion that, though tragic, these events were part of God’s plan. On the other hand, my survival was cited as evidence of God’s individually tailored plan for me; of a destiny I was saved to fulfill.

Fulfilling Destiny . . . or Not

Even as a teenager, I rarely responded to either of these; if nothing else, Dad had impressed on me the importance of respect for my elders. Beneath the facade of respect however, resentment, frustration, anger, even outrage infiltrated and poisoned my soul – or psyche for those of you without a religious bent. 

People meant no harm, I’m sure. It’s likely that their monologues had little to do with me, and everything to do with a desire to impress my Dad; or perhaps others. I was probably just a vehicle for public expression of religious devotion; reminiscent, perhaps, of the Pharisees praying loudly on street corners.

It is arguable that I ought to have been encouraged, even inspired. Maybe, if I’d been made of sterner stuff, this could have been the tide that, taken at the flood, carried me on to greatness [apologies to Shakespeare]. Well, the truth is, I wasn’t made of that sterner stuff.

Fracture of Filial Faith

My childhood thought processes yielded very different conclusions. On one hand, was the possibility that the death of my mother and brothers in the turbid, crocodile infested, muddy currents of the Turama River was indeed God’s Will. If that was so, then God just had to be a harsh, arbitrary, uncaring and inhumane entity. My Dad was, after all, on a mission for God – wasn’t he? 

On the other hand, if God saved me for some special purpose, there were other implications that weren’t good. The reverse side to that coin necessarily meant there was no purpose to the lives of Delys, David and Adrian; and, because they had no purpose, their lives were not worth saving. If this was the case, God was self-serving, manipulative and callous; I determined to avoid anything that might be construed as God’s Plan.

Contradictions

Now, I might have found this to be all fairly clear cut, except for the fact that my Dad was the most loyal, principled, big-hearted and dependable human being I was ever likely to meet; and his faith in God seemed unshakeable. So, notwithstanding my deep-seated anger about God’s Providence, I was determined to gain Dad’s approval; by meeting expectations; equalling his extraordinary commitment to Faith; and, emulating his impeccable standards of behaviour. 

In retrospect I can see that failure was inevitable; these were my father’s standards, his belief, his faith not mine. I loved my Dad but was afraid of – even hated – his God. Back then, I really didn’t understand the implications and complexities that might follow from this contradiction; I do now. But back then, all I knew was failure and anger; and didn’t really understand why. 

My Dad went on to become eminent in church leadership and over the years the story of our family’s tragedy became almost folklore. Expectations of me multiplied exponentially and I dealt with these by developing skill as a dissembler. I became a loner and a charlatan who disappeared behind a facade; highly polished and increasingly case hardened. 

Machiavellian in Training

My ability to build and maintain a persona, say what people wanted to hear, and behave in ways that camouflaged what I really thought and felt, was pretty spectacular; it still is. Right there, I started a journey that would see me evolve into a Machiavellian long before I even knew who Machiavelli was. 

Now, I can almost hear you asking how a three year old could think all this through. Well, back then I was little more than a toddler, and I couldn’t. Anyway, when you’re in the middle of a storm and drowning, you don’t spend a lot of time contemplating your navel; you look for the nearest piece of driftwood and hang on. The thinking-through and processing happened, piecemeal, over the months and years that followed; mostly after our return to the Territory. My response at the time was pretty much what you’d expect of a three year old; it was basic, elemental, and visceral. What happened back in Perth constituted the Firestorm, what followed was a Fracture of Filial Faith.

Unreliable Mind Maps

The point I’m trying to make is that this experience informed the foundation and dimensions of my internal map; the rubric I subsequently used to navigate the world; my guide for dealing with things unknown and uncertain. It took years to learn that a map is not the same as the terrain; an approximation certainly, but not the same. By the time I woke up to that fact, this skewed perspective had warped my perception of people, experience and life; and I’d already damaged those who meant the most to me. This, it seemed to me, was the  natural outcome of personality and character flaws that I’d started to build in early childhood as a defence against an unfriendly, capricious and hostile world. 

Contemplating Life

Now, I don’t want you to think that I’ve spent my life navel-gazing; because this kind of genuflection is not generally something I’m given to. I guess part of the magic of a road trip, particularly if you’re a bit of an insomniac, is that you have time on your hands; away from the imperatives of living, when you can think about things that matter. Socrates, musing on this very issue, said an unexamined, uncontemplated life is not worth living. If that was true, then my life had not been worth a great deal; a bit harsh. I do agree, however, that an uncontemplated life is one only half lived. The risk, of course, in contemplating life is that you might not like the things you find out about yourself.

Anyway, so much for introspection. Right then, I just settled for absorbing a tranquility that seemed to have crept up on me. I’d savoured my coffee and felt the bite on my tongue of aromatic tobacco smoke. Daylight was beginning to populate the darkness with shapes and sound; and a restless cool breeze disturbed the leaves in the dense foliage that grew verdant on the slope behind America’s Best Value Inn.

Without being consciously aware of it, I’d been sitting there for the best part of an hour. It was almost dawn and, though the sun was not yet up, it was light enough to see the Lowrider and Deuce under the verandah eaves. I sat admiring our motorcycles for a while, and then it occurred to me that we’d been on the road for almost a fortnight without doing anything like a maintenance check; we’d checked oil but not much else. So, I wheeled the bikes out from under the eaves; ferreted through saddlebags; found the rolled tool pouch; and, made a start. 

Mnemonics

Now, when it comes to things that need need to be checked on motorcycles, or anything else for that matter, I’m a regular user of mnemonics.  Back in the day, when I was doing my flight training, I got used to using them; pre-flight, pre-takeoff, engine failure and so on. On joining the circuit, for example, it was BUMPFH; brakes – off, undercarriage – down and fixed, mixture – fully rich, prop – full fine pitch, hatches and harnesses – secure. Nothing quite as embarrassing as landing on your belly because you’d forgotten to put your wheels down. 

Well, my mnemonic for motorcycles was T-CLOCS; Tyres, Controls, Lights, Oils and Fluids, Chassis, and Stand. I stubbed out the remains of my cigarette and started with this pre-ride check routine. As part of our motorcycle loading routine we’d regularly checked tyre pressure and oil, so I knew these were OK; but I’d check anyway.

Pre-Ride Check

First cab off the rank then was T for tyres. Now, if you think you can check by kicking the rubber, you’re wasting your time; that’ll tell you nothing. I carry a pressure gauge about the size and shape of a fountain pen; it’s cheap and does the job. That being said, our tyres were good for pressure and tread; the Deuce’s front tyre was showing signs of wear but wouldn’t need replacing for another couple of thousand miles. And, while I was dicking about with wheels and tyres, I also checked the brake pads, rotors, and front forks for seepage around the dust covers. They were all good too. 

Next was a check of the controls; handlebars, brake and clutch perches; throttle and brake cable adjustment, and mirrors. It can be pretty annoying, and a tad unsafe when you’re belting down an interstate, to have rear-view mirrors that direct your glances in strange directions because they’ve rattled loose. So, just to be sure, I loosened the mirror lock-nuts, applied a few drops of Loctite and cinched them up. Finally, I used an Allen Key to check the torque on the handle-bar risers.

What Side-Stand?

The head-lights, brake lights and indicators were all easy and all good; as were the engine, primary drive and gear oils and brake fluid reservoirs. Next, I ran over the chassis to ensure that anything that could come loose didn’t. The sidestands seemed OK; but I checked anyway. I lay down on the car park bitumen, flicked on my Iphone torch, and peered under the lower edge of the frame. There is a circlip down there that you won’t miss, until the bike falls over when you go to leave it on the side-stand.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ said a voice out of the half light.

‘I’m sabotaging your bloody motorcycle so that things start falling off as you ride,’ I said, ‘what the hell do you think I’m doing?’

Nobody Likes a Smartass

‘Looks to me like you got sick of lying in bed and decided to come out here so you could smoke while you’re lying down,’ Mel said.

‘I pretty sure I’ve told you before,’ I fired back. ‘Nobody likes a smartass!’

Hoisting  myself off the ground, I rolled the tool kit, stowed it and then flopped into the chair on the verandah.

So, what are you doing out of bed at this time of the day?’

‘Runnin’ on empty,’ he grunted.

‘Did you get something?’ I asked. ‘I’ve got a packet of jelly-beans in the T-Bag.’

‘All good . . . got some fruit juice and an apple. Then I heard you grunting and carrying on out here,’ he said. ‘Seriously, what you been doing?’

‘After a couple of weeks on the road, I thought it about time for a maintenance check,’ I answered. ‘No matter how much I love Harleys, I do have to admit that things rattle loose and fall off if you don’t go over them with a spanner once in a while.’

‘All good?’ he asked.

‘All good . . . now,’ I responded.

‘So, you going back to bed or we going looking for breakfast?’ I asked.

Breakfast at Waffle House

‘Breakfast sounds pretty good,’ he grinned. ‘I could eat a horse and chase the rider!’

‘Tell me something I don’t know, Mate,’ I said.

So we showered, shaved and did all that stuff that you try to do first thing in the morning, so you don’t have to find a place to do it when you’re down the road. Then, because we’d paid on check-in, we loaded the bikes, and headed back into town.

The FireStorm Cafe was closed but the Waffle House was open, so we parked, shut down and headed in. Now before you get too excited, I need to say that the Waffle House doesn’t just sell waffles; though that’s probably what Mel would have gone for if I hadn’t been there to make him feel bad. They certainly do pretty mean waffles, but they also do excellent eggs, any way you like them, on toast with avocado and hashbrowns.

Breakfast was great; the coffee, not so much.

Afterwards, Mel wandered up the street while I had a cigarette; then we fired up and headed back out the way we’d come in. We reached I-35, crossed using the underpass, took a left towards the on-ramp, and accelerated to merge with the flow of traffic heading north.

On the Road Again

For most of our ride to this point, we’d deliberately tried to avoid taking the Interstates; they were certainly the fastest way of getting point to point, but they’re dull and we weren’t in a hurry. So, we’d got used to the leisurely flow of State highways and backroads. It was only after we’d been comprehensively buffeted by the bow-wave turbulence pushed out by a few of eighteen wheelers, that we put the hammer down so we could stay ahead.

The day was pleasantly cool without being cold; most of the pre-dawn cloud cover had burned off;, and the Lowrider and Deuce were loping comfortably along at just a little over 80 mph [130 kmh] and a little under 4,000 revs. Teamsters on the Interstates clearly regarded posted speed limits as suggestions rather than imperatives.

We galloped north past Sandstone and along the western extremity of the Banning State Park; crossed the Kettle River; and pushed on past the townships of Willow River and Sturgeon Lake. At Barnum, we took the off-ramp and scooted towards town until we happened upon what looked like a recently constructed service centre; complete with fuel pumps, coffee shop and a plethora of eateries.

Barnum, Fuel and Starbucks

After filling the Lowrider and Deuce, we drifted along to Starbucks where we ordered coffee; or more accurately, where Mel ordered coffee while I topped up my nicotine. The bonus with any Starbucks is that they have free wifi. So, while Mel checked out his Facebook post notifications, I googled Duluth to see what I could learn.

That having been done, we fired up the bikes again and headed back to I-35. This time we adopted a more proactive strategy; we didn’t wait for truck turbulence. Instead, we merged into the flow of traffic, cracked open our throttles, and accelerated until we were cruising just a little faster than the teamsters. At Cloquet we crossed the St Louis River and pushed on towards Duluth. All other things being equal, we would have belted along the I-35N right into Duluth. But, things aren’t always equal are they?

Harley Davidson Sport Centre

We were ripping along north, a few miles short of Duluth, when we noticed a sign signalling the upcoming off-ramp for Highway 53 and Duluth Airport; and directly under that sign was another advertising the Harley Davidson Sport Centre.

Well, it would have been wrong to miss the northernmost Harley Davidson Dealership in the US, wouldn’t it? So, we took the off-ramp and headed west on US 53 until, adjacent to the airport we reached Stebner Road; and right there we found the Harley Davidson Sport Centre. We cruised in, shut down and left the Lowrider and Deuce parked in the forecourt.

Our stop at the Dealership was really no more than a break; a chance to stretch the legs, have a smoke, take a few pics, and get another souvenir T-shirt. Then, we the fired up and pulled out onto Stebner Road, took a right onto Highway 53 and followed it right through Duluth’s  business district and down to Canal Park.

Lake Superior

We pulled into a moderately sized parking area within sight of the Aerial Lift Bridge, shut our bikes down and left them parked; fully loaded. Mel had been here before; for me this was something completely new. We wandered across to the breakwater and looked out over the bay; fresh water as far as the eye could see – unbelievable!

‘You been here in winter, Mate?’ I asked.

‘Yep . . . a few years back now though,’

‘What’s it like?’ I persisted.

Winter on Lake Superior

‘Well . . . when I was here last, the lake was frozen over and it was cold enough to freeze the balls on a billiard table.’ he said, and grinned.

‘Seriously? This lake freezes over?’

‘There were people skating all over,’ he said, as he pointed out across the bay. ‘They had tents pitched and people were fishing through holes they’d made in the ice.’

Twin Ports

I tried to visualize that much water frozen over; but couldn’t. Instead, I settled for taking a few pictures; and, while we sat with Mel looking out across the bay, I googled to see if I could find pictures of Duluth in winter.

The fourth largest city in Minnesota with a population of around 86,000, Duluth is County Seat of St Louis County. It forms a joint metropolitan area with Superior; together, they’re known as the Twin Ports. Difficult as this is to believe, Duluth has access to the Atlantic Ocean 2,300 miles [3,700 km] away via the Great Lakes Waterway and St. Lawrence Seaway. It is the world’s most inland port accessible to oceangoing ships; and the largest and busiest port on the Great Lakes. 

First Nation people had occupied the Lake Superior region for more than a thousand years before the Europeans came. The first of these to arrive in the region, Pierre Radisson and Medard Des Groseilliers, were French. They visited in the 1650s and mapped the coast of Lake Superior. They also claimed the area for France; never mind that people had lived there for thousands of years. Radisson and Des Groseilliers did, however, negotiate a treaty with the Ojibwe to allow trade in furs. Following on the heels of this agreement, Daniel Graysolon Sieur Du Lhute arrived. He explored the area and brokered a peace treaty between the Dakota and Ojibwe tribes.

Bulls in Paddocks

Now, if you didn’t pay too much attention in History class at school, you might be tempted to think that this was fairly civilized and enlightened; especially for the 17th Century. Well, it wasn’t, because there was some pretty big stuff going down on the other side of the world; local considerations didn’t rate at all.

Britain and France were involved in a bit of a stoush over who was going to be the alpha male bovine in the paddock. What later came to be known as the Seven Years War began as a conflict between the two nations when Britain tried to expand into territory claimed by the French in North America. 

Poetic Justice

Anyway, when the dust finally settled and Britain came out on top, they and took from the French the Eastern part of what we now know as Minnesota. Perhaps it was some sort of poetic justice that Britain’s hold on this land only lasted twenty years; it was subsequently expropriated by the US following their victory in the Revolutionary War. Then in 1803, the US got the rest of Minnesota from France as part of the Louisiana Purchase.

So you see, there was nothing particularly civilised or enlightened about any of this. What was going on was nothing short of a strategic grab for land and resources; consideration for communities, peoples, cultures or connections to the land just didn’t come into it. To this day, though, Daniel Graysolon Sieur Du Lhute is remembered in the name of the city; Duluth.

Be that as it may, that was all a long time ago, and this was 2013; the US, not Britain or France, was the alpha male bovine in the paddock; and, we were on our way to Harley Davidson’s 110th Anniversary in Milwaukee

Moving On

We’d arrived in Canal Park at around midday and immediately strolled around, stretched our legs and took in the sights. And, by the time we’d eaten our fill at Grandma’s Box Car, it must have been getting on to 1.30 pm. The wind had picked up and, chilled by its passage across Lake Superior, it persuaded me to slip on my riding jacket.

I’d briefly entertained the idea of trying to talk Mel into riding around the north shore of Lake Superior; from Duluth through, Grand Marais, Thunder Bay, Marathon and Sault Ste Marie. It probably would have been a great ride; but there was a potential problem. 

If you’ve been following this yarn from the beginning, you’ll know that I had some difficulty getting registration for the Deuce. Mel didn’t have this problem because he’d purchased his Lowrider fully registered with an appropriate tag; Registration Plate. My Deuce, though, was unregistered because it had been off the road for a few years.

If you’re not a US resident, motor vehicle registration can be a bit challenging; but, if you want to get the whole nine yards on this, you’ll have to go back to Chapter 3. I had ownership documents and insurance cover but the tag I had on the Deuce was from my Fatboy in Queensland. This had worked quite well in the US but I was not sure how it would work if we crossed the US-Canada Border; and, we would need to cross twice if we took the northern route. In the end, we settled for the easy option and took US Route 2 to Northern Michigan via Wisconsin.

Grandma’s Box Car

I’m sure we could have called it a day right then; stayed overnight at Duluth: and, seen a lot more. But, cities are cities no matter where you find them, and by early afternoon, we’d seen all we wanted to see and decided to get back on the road. 

Wisconsin

Cloud cover had increased and the wind off the lake was getting stronger and colder. So, after a check of our tie-downs, we climbed aboard our bikes and fired up. Then, from Canal Park we headed out to the on-ramp for I-35 and joined the flow of traffic. We cruised south to the off-ramp for the I-535 viaduct and crossed the Blatnik Bridge into Wisconsin. Then we hustled by the Howard Bay Docks, loading terminals and slipways, and then took the exit to US 53.

Keeping pace with the traffic, we cruised along the southern shores of Lake Superior; past Superior Bay and Barker Island; and, on to Allouez Bay where we pulled off the highway to refuel. Once fuelled, we headed to South Range where we left US 53 and took US Route 2 and off towards the east. The sun was still high but cloud cover continued to increase; and there was a distinct change in both temperature and humidity. At speed we found that body heat dissipated quickly; even with bandanas, jeans and riding jackets.

Ashland

We cruised east through Wentworth, Poplar, Maple, Blueberry, Bellwood and through the Brule State Forest to Muskeg and Iron River. At Ashland, on Chequamegon Bay, we took a break at Maccas for a coffee and a walk around to stretch our legs. And, just then the sun broke away from the growing cloud cover to warm us as we sauntered briefly along the shorefront.

From Ashland we headed back to US Route 2; galloped through the Bad River Reservation; cruised on to Cedar, Saxon, and Ironwood; and there, we crossed the State Line into Michigan. Then we pushed on through Wakefield and into the Porcupine Mountain Wilderness State Park. Increasingly we found ourselves on deserted roads and riding through natural wilderness. Except for the road, the area appeared to be pretty much the way it would have looked a couple of hundred years ago.

Autumn Coming Down

By mid-afternoon, with the sun behind our backs, riding conditions were just about perfect; except for the cold. It was becoming increasingly clear that we were riding about as far north in the United States as we could go; any further and we’d be in Canada. The temperature was reasonably comfortable while we were stationary; but there was a marked chill factor at 70 mph.

We finally reached the outskirts of Marenisco late in the afternoon and were delighted to discover Big Mama’s Grill. The sun was well down in the sky behind us and, because our riding was through quite densely forested wilderness, we were largely travelling in shade. My fingers were starting to cramp and I was shaking with the cold.

We left our bikes out front and headed towards the door. Inside, it was warm and there was a pervasive aroma of brewing coffee. We slid into a booth by the window over in the far corner and Mel gave his full attention to a laminated A3 sized menu.

‘You cold Mate?’ I asked when he looked up.

‘Yep . . . just a tad,’ he said. ‘You got any gloves?’

‘Just these,’ I said, holding up my fingerless half-gloves.

‘I’ve got spare gauntlets somewhere in the saddlebags . . . put those on,’ he offered.’

‘Yep . . . thanks Mate,’ I said as he looked back at the menu.

‘Got a spare balaclava too . . . stick that on before you put your helmet on,’ he suggested.

‘You suggesting I break one of our key road trip rules?’ I asked.

‘Well . . . better than freezing to death,’ he grinned.

Big Mama’s Grill

Big Mama’s Grill was excellent; I could see why the place was almost full even though it seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. The coffee was considerably better than average too; dark, strong and hot –  just the way I like it. We ordered burgers and wolfed them down; best burgers we’d had in a very long time.

Crystal Falls

Eventually though, we needed to get back on the road; because there really wasn’t much in the way of accommodation right there. We pushed on into and through the Ottawa National Forest to Iron Mountain and ultimately to Crystal Falls; and there, we decided to call it quits for the day.

The gauntlets and balaclava had worked a treat for me; and yes, I did put my helmet back on. I guess we shouldn’t have been surprised by the temperature; we were a long way north and east of where we’d started. It was also getting to be late in the year; autumn had already slipped across the border and was making its implacable march south across the United States.

We geared down at the urban limit and idled our way into town. Modest but beautifully neat homes with meticulously trimmed front lawns lined the road; clearly this was a town where people lived, and cared about the way they lived. And just outside of the small business district we happened upon the Four Seasons Motel set back from the road. We turned in, left our bike, still loaded, and headed for Reception. 

Self-Serve Accommodation

The office was closed but a note was fastened to the door with blu-tack:

Dear Guest/s, 

Welcome to the Four Seasons Motel.

I’m out for the afternoon but will be back later this evening.

We have accommodation and you are welcome to stay.

Units 3, 5 and 6 are vacant. Please choose the one/s that suit you.

The rooms are open and you will find unit keys inside.

I thank you for choosing to stay with us.

Kind regards, Jean

I read the note, including the Free Wi-Fi Password, to Mel and he grinned. Then I fixed the note back on the blu-tack and stuck it to the door.

‘Small towns, Mate,’ he said, ‘You gotta love em.’

‘Trusting souls, aren’t they?’ I said.

‘I bet everyone knows everyone else here . . . and probably in the other towns around. Do something stupid and you’d soon have the neighbours here with their pick-up trucks and artillery.’ he said, and then threw his head back and laughed.

Outside Unit 4 an immaculately maintained and polished Harley-Davidson Ultra leaned on its side stand; so we let ourselves into Unit 5. The keys were on the bench, as promised, right next to the TV remote, and the room, though basic, was clean and neat as a pin. We took the tie-downs off our luggage and hauled our T-Bags in. Then Mel sat down to investigate possibilities for our evening meal while I slipped outside for a Marlborough.

No-Name Diner

Even though I never really planned to write a yarn like this, I did make a heap of notes along the way; mostly intended as grist for Facebook mill. Sadly, I either didn’t make notes about where we ate that night, or I subsequently misplaced them. Either way, there is no record of where we ate, and I can’t remember; but there is photographic evidence.

The menu must have been good because Mel spent a long time studying it; and I had whatever it was that he chose. And the food, whatever it was, must have been way better than average, or I would have remembered.

I do remember that the staff were pleasant, welcoming, and keen to know what a couple of old Australian blokes were doing in their neck of the woods; well, they actually referred to us as a couple of ‘Australian boys’, and that endeared me to them immediately.

End of the Day

It was dark by the time we’d eaten our fill; well, probably more than our fill. We talked a lot over our meal about our Dad; what he’d done, where he’d been, and the things that made him the extraordinary man he was. I have to say though, that the more we talked, the more Mel reminded me of him; our Dad.

Back at the motel, we sat on the verandah, so I could have the occasional smoke, and talked longer and more seriously than we usually did; we usually did a fair bit of talking and laughing. Mel wanted to know about the early years; details of our travels on the Leleman [Dad’s Mission Launch]; and, about what life in Wewak was like. 

Just a thought . . .

An Uncontemplated Life . . .

in one only Half Lived