Flour, Physics, Sculpture
Well, I didn't wing out of Redwing too swiftly. First I drove to the top of the Memorial Park bluff to take overlook pictures of Redwing and of Wisconsin in the distance. Then I stopped in town to take pictures of the grand Lutheran, Methodist and Episcopalian churches built of beautiful Minnesota yellow limestone. The churches are all packed together in midtown, as if there were a single area zoned for houses of God. Or perhaps, following the strategy of fast food strips and shopping malls, the churches hoped that if you didn't like one, the proximity of alternatives would lead you to buy another brand. Another gander at the peregrine falcon, and then I visited the Redwing Pottery outlet. Lots of crockery with the redwing logo on it, as well as other classic kitchenware and kitchen tchotchkes (e.g., teeny cheese graters).
Then it was back on the Great River Road, which now stayed out of sight of the Great River until the St. Paul skyline came into view, when the road again hugged the river, hunkering low beneath the skyscrapers and the Capitol dome. The road crossed the river, and then at Mendota a sign pointed to Sibley House. I drove down to a silent, dead-end street with train tracks and heavy river vegetation on one side, and a few historical buildings on the other. A couple of them, the Sibley House and store, were architecturally plain but built of the lovely yellow limestone. Henry Hastings Sibley was the first governor of Minnesota and a descendant of Revolutionary War veterans. The Daughters of the American Revolution had purchased and restored his house, envisioning a Minnesota "Mount Vernon" when they opened the property to the public in 1910. Mendota, now a tiny suburb of the Twin Cities, is where the Minnesota and Mississippi rivers meet, and the site was once a fort and a fur trading center. Obviously, I was on what had once been an important road in a town of consequence, but now it had that haunted, cast-away feeling of rust belt areas -- the sort of place where teenagers would go to drink and neck by the river, and clean cut citizens would quickly back out and away if they accidentally found themselves there at night.
From there it was into the web of Minneapolis freeways. I must say, I do not think much of the engineering of the Twin City freeways, nor of the driving habits of the citizenry. I nevertheless somehow survived to stumble into downtown Minneapolis, which appears to be booming -- the warehouse district a chic condo neighborhood, and lots of construction producing more condos and office space. I took a picture of the Gold Medal Flour sign which looms high over the river, because my mother worked for General Mills -- specifically for the Betty Crocker test kitchens which tested the Gold Medal flour. Back across the Mississippi, I found Tate Building at the center of the University of Minnesota maroon-brick campus, the word "Physics" engraved above its Grecian columns. My father obtained his Ph.D. in nuclear physics there after WWII. The first floor had history exhibits describing the accomplishments of physicists who would have been professors and classmates of my father. I asked a friendly professor to direct me to the nuclear physics area, and he asked whether my father had done experimental or theoretical work. When I said experimental, he pointed out that such high energies are needed for current experimental work that it occurs only where there is room for super colliders. But he did show me the corner offices of the theoretical physicists, which look like offices of professors of every discipline everywhere. And I did take a picture of the tank that had housed the Van de Graaff accelerator that had helped make U. Minn. prominent in physics and was used by my father for his research.
With my high opinion of the Minneapolis freeways, I cleverly timed my exit for rush hour. After getting shunted onto the wrong freeway, then funneled into a clogged construction zone at the first possible exit, and finally eating dinner at an Anywhere America restaurant to wait out the rush, I headed northwest on I-94 to Alexandria. This was driving into the drought zone. The corn was stunted, its leaves crisped brown. The news reported that NW Minnesota was requesting emergency relief. Although I was just as happy that the predicted rain showers did not materialize, it was not a happy thing for the farmers.
A large fraction of the 10,000 lakes are located in the region between Alexandria, Fergus Falls, and Detroit Lakes. It is a hilly area. In the northern Iowa/Illinois Mississippi Valley region, the hills were there because the glaciers had not touched the region. Here the hills were due to the glaciers, being formed of glacial debris deposits. Go figure. I chose a route through the network of interlake roads that would take me by the promising-sounding Inspiration Peak State Scenic Wayside Park. The road passed lakes like mirrors, some with egrets, geese and/or ducks. One pond hosted a group of black cows next to a group of geese. Some lakes were not mirrors but were coated with green algae.
Unlike the other wayside parks I've passed that have been right at the side of the way, the Inspiration Peak wayside park was up a length of road. From the parking lot, next to an inviting picnic grove, was a path up a not-trivial grade to the bald top of the peak. A sign explained that Sinclair Lewis, the Nobel prizewinning novelist, had high praise for this spot and chided his fellow Minnesotans for not knowing about their own haunts of beauty. He would still be distressed, as mine was the only car in the parking lot. I climbed to the top and, unlike Lewis, failed to be very inspired -- I'm probably spoiled by the thousand foot views in the Rockies, compared to the 400-ft view here. But it was pretty, and there were lovely flowers blooming atop the hill. Back at the picnic spot I enjoyed the PB&J sandwich I had made from motel complimentary breakfast fare, plus veggies and fruit from a grocery. (The grocery in Alexandria, population 10,000, was a non-chain that featured some organic produce and some items such as you would find at Whole Foods. I've noticed a strong health consciousness in South Dakota and Minnesota -- lots of health-oriented menu choices, low fat milk for the cereal at motel breakfasts, diet advice on the radio, etc.) Another car had appeared, and a very patient woman dealt with four energy-charged children in a walk up and down the peak and then at a picnic lunch. It turned out she was a teacher, which may explain the patience, spending the summer at a lake cabin. Two motorcycles and another car showed before I left, so Sinclair needn't completely turn over in his grave.
I now followed the signs for the Otter Tail Scenic Byway, through fields of corn and wheat, past weathering barns and silos. The corn looked in better shape here, though the degree of health was variable (microclimates? irrigation differences? groundwater table differences?). At Vining, I was confronted with another one of the road wonders that somehow don't make the AAA tour guide. Nyberg Park there is filled with the sculptures of Ken Nyberg -- an elephant made of saw blades, an elk, a huge potted cactus, huge pliers with a very big beetle hanging on, a huge half watermelon with a huge knife stuck into the rind, a huge grappling hook, a huge square knot, and a cute little alien. Next to a life-size sculpture of an Apollo astronaut standing next to the US flag is a sign that says "Vining Honors Karen Nyberg, NASA Astronaut". Karen is Ken's daughter -- thinking big runs in the family.
There were, of course, lots of lakes, all surrounded by trees and reeds and cattails, some with little islands, some with patches of aquatic plants, some with white dead trees standing in water. The largest -- Clitherall Lake, Battle Lake, Otter Tail Lake, Lida Lake -- were surrounded by summer homes, resorts, and boat docks. At one point, there was a sunken pond mostly covered with algae and cluttered with dead trees. My eye seemed to catch something as the car whizzed by, so I turned around, drove back, parked the car, and got out the binoculars. Sure enough, standing on a nest high in a dead tree was an osprey. As I walked nearer, it started squealing -- a funny thin, high-pitched call for such a large ferocious bird, like Charles Bronson's voice -- and retreated to a more distant tree.
West of Perham I turned off the Otter Tail Scenic route and crossed out of Otter Tail County into Becker County. At Detroit Lakes I turned west on Route 10. At first, the land remained hilly, and wheat predominated as the crop of choice. The hilly golden wheat punctuated by clusters of green trees made it feel like northern California. The road entered Moorhead, crossed an impressive modern-artistic bridge over the Red River, and, presto, I was in Fargo, North Dakota. With that, I have stepped foot in 49 of the 50 states, plus the District of Columbia. Only Alaska is left. No, I'm not going to pop up to Alaska on this trip.
I have scratched Fargo off the potential retirement community list. I spent no time there, but sped north on I-29. It probably started before I got to Fargo, but it seemed like the minute I crossed into North Dakota, the land became absolutely flat. The trees were no longer clusters around farm houses or along creeks, but were long, straight rows clearly planted as wind breaks in what would otherwise be treeless land. The crops were irrigated and were some low-to-the-ground plant, no more corn. At Grand Forks, I drove past the space age architecture of the University of North Dakota and found a motel. Also a Starbucks. I have no cell phone signal, the otherwise well-appointed motel has no wireless or ethernet, but Grand Forks has a Starbucks. Life is good.
I'm sending this from the Grand Forks City/County Public Library. Signs at the entry beg bicyclists to lock their bikes. Crime must have only recently reached Grand Forks. The library has framed prints you can check out, 50ยข for 6 weeks. For less than $5.00 per year, you could have a changing art exhibit in your home.
Deep breath -- I'm headed west into the emptiness.
Then it was back on the Great River Road, which now stayed out of sight of the Great River until the St. Paul skyline came into view, when the road again hugged the river, hunkering low beneath the skyscrapers and the Capitol dome. The road crossed the river, and then at Mendota a sign pointed to Sibley House. I drove down to a silent, dead-end street with train tracks and heavy river vegetation on one side, and a few historical buildings on the other. A couple of them, the Sibley House and store, were architecturally plain but built of the lovely yellow limestone. Henry Hastings Sibley was the first governor of Minnesota and a descendant of Revolutionary War veterans. The Daughters of the American Revolution had purchased and restored his house, envisioning a Minnesota "Mount Vernon" when they opened the property to the public in 1910. Mendota, now a tiny suburb of the Twin Cities, is where the Minnesota and Mississippi rivers meet, and the site was once a fort and a fur trading center. Obviously, I was on what had once been an important road in a town of consequence, but now it had that haunted, cast-away feeling of rust belt areas -- the sort of place where teenagers would go to drink and neck by the river, and clean cut citizens would quickly back out and away if they accidentally found themselves there at night.
From there it was into the web of Minneapolis freeways. I must say, I do not think much of the engineering of the Twin City freeways, nor of the driving habits of the citizenry. I nevertheless somehow survived to stumble into downtown Minneapolis, which appears to be booming -- the warehouse district a chic condo neighborhood, and lots of construction producing more condos and office space. I took a picture of the Gold Medal Flour sign which looms high over the river, because my mother worked for General Mills -- specifically for the Betty Crocker test kitchens which tested the Gold Medal flour. Back across the Mississippi, I found Tate Building at the center of the University of Minnesota maroon-brick campus, the word "Physics" engraved above its Grecian columns. My father obtained his Ph.D. in nuclear physics there after WWII. The first floor had history exhibits describing the accomplishments of physicists who would have been professors and classmates of my father. I asked a friendly professor to direct me to the nuclear physics area, and he asked whether my father had done experimental or theoretical work. When I said experimental, he pointed out that such high energies are needed for current experimental work that it occurs only where there is room for super colliders. But he did show me the corner offices of the theoretical physicists, which look like offices of professors of every discipline everywhere. And I did take a picture of the tank that had housed the Van de Graaff accelerator that had helped make U. Minn. prominent in physics and was used by my father for his research.
With my high opinion of the Minneapolis freeways, I cleverly timed my exit for rush hour. After getting shunted onto the wrong freeway, then funneled into a clogged construction zone at the first possible exit, and finally eating dinner at an Anywhere America restaurant to wait out the rush, I headed northwest on I-94 to Alexandria. This was driving into the drought zone. The corn was stunted, its leaves crisped brown. The news reported that NW Minnesota was requesting emergency relief. Although I was just as happy that the predicted rain showers did not materialize, it was not a happy thing for the farmers.
A large fraction of the 10,000 lakes are located in the region between Alexandria, Fergus Falls, and Detroit Lakes. It is a hilly area. In the northern Iowa/Illinois Mississippi Valley region, the hills were there because the glaciers had not touched the region. Here the hills were due to the glaciers, being formed of glacial debris deposits. Go figure. I chose a route through the network of interlake roads that would take me by the promising-sounding Inspiration Peak State Scenic Wayside Park. The road passed lakes like mirrors, some with egrets, geese and/or ducks. One pond hosted a group of black cows next to a group of geese. Some lakes were not mirrors but were coated with green algae.
Unlike the other wayside parks I've passed that have been right at the side of the way, the Inspiration Peak wayside park was up a length of road. From the parking lot, next to an inviting picnic grove, was a path up a not-trivial grade to the bald top of the peak. A sign explained that Sinclair Lewis, the Nobel prizewinning novelist, had high praise for this spot and chided his fellow Minnesotans for not knowing about their own haunts of beauty. He would still be distressed, as mine was the only car in the parking lot. I climbed to the top and, unlike Lewis, failed to be very inspired -- I'm probably spoiled by the thousand foot views in the Rockies, compared to the 400-ft view here. But it was pretty, and there were lovely flowers blooming atop the hill. Back at the picnic spot I enjoyed the PB&J sandwich I had made from motel complimentary breakfast fare, plus veggies and fruit from a grocery. (The grocery in Alexandria, population 10,000, was a non-chain that featured some organic produce and some items such as you would find at Whole Foods. I've noticed a strong health consciousness in South Dakota and Minnesota -- lots of health-oriented menu choices, low fat milk for the cereal at motel breakfasts, diet advice on the radio, etc.) Another car had appeared, and a very patient woman dealt with four energy-charged children in a walk up and down the peak and then at a picnic lunch. It turned out she was a teacher, which may explain the patience, spending the summer at a lake cabin. Two motorcycles and another car showed before I left, so Sinclair needn't completely turn over in his grave.
I now followed the signs for the Otter Tail Scenic Byway, through fields of corn and wheat, past weathering barns and silos. The corn looked in better shape here, though the degree of health was variable (microclimates? irrigation differences? groundwater table differences?). At Vining, I was confronted with another one of the road wonders that somehow don't make the AAA tour guide. Nyberg Park there is filled with the sculptures of Ken Nyberg -- an elephant made of saw blades, an elk, a huge potted cactus, huge pliers with a very big beetle hanging on, a huge half watermelon with a huge knife stuck into the rind, a huge grappling hook, a huge square knot, and a cute little alien. Next to a life-size sculpture of an Apollo astronaut standing next to the US flag is a sign that says "Vining Honors Karen Nyberg, NASA Astronaut". Karen is Ken's daughter -- thinking big runs in the family.
There were, of course, lots of lakes, all surrounded by trees and reeds and cattails, some with little islands, some with patches of aquatic plants, some with white dead trees standing in water. The largest -- Clitherall Lake, Battle Lake, Otter Tail Lake, Lida Lake -- were surrounded by summer homes, resorts, and boat docks. At one point, there was a sunken pond mostly covered with algae and cluttered with dead trees. My eye seemed to catch something as the car whizzed by, so I turned around, drove back, parked the car, and got out the binoculars. Sure enough, standing on a nest high in a dead tree was an osprey. As I walked nearer, it started squealing -- a funny thin, high-pitched call for such a large ferocious bird, like Charles Bronson's voice -- and retreated to a more distant tree.
West of Perham I turned off the Otter Tail Scenic route and crossed out of Otter Tail County into Becker County. At Detroit Lakes I turned west on Route 10. At first, the land remained hilly, and wheat predominated as the crop of choice. The hilly golden wheat punctuated by clusters of green trees made it feel like northern California. The road entered Moorhead, crossed an impressive modern-artistic bridge over the Red River, and, presto, I was in Fargo, North Dakota. With that, I have stepped foot in 49 of the 50 states, plus the District of Columbia. Only Alaska is left. No, I'm not going to pop up to Alaska on this trip.
I have scratched Fargo off the potential retirement community list. I spent no time there, but sped north on I-29. It probably started before I got to Fargo, but it seemed like the minute I crossed into North Dakota, the land became absolutely flat. The trees were no longer clusters around farm houses or along creeks, but were long, straight rows clearly planted as wind breaks in what would otherwise be treeless land. The crops were irrigated and were some low-to-the-ground plant, no more corn. At Grand Forks, I drove past the space age architecture of the University of North Dakota and found a motel. Also a Starbucks. I have no cell phone signal, the otherwise well-appointed motel has no wireless or ethernet, but Grand Forks has a Starbucks. Life is good.
I'm sending this from the Grand Forks City/County Public Library. Signs at the entry beg bicyclists to lock their bikes. Crime must have only recently reached Grand Forks. The library has framed prints you can check out, 50ยข for 6 weeks. For less than $5.00 per year, you could have a changing art exhibit in your home.
Deep breath -- I'm headed west into the emptiness.
posted by Annventurer | 7:48 AM
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