Tapestry

The first week passed and we made seemingly little progress on our actual goal – delivering a comprehensive proposal to FuncaVida, a charitable organization focused on cancer survivorship due at the end of this second week.  We have to move quickly and thoroughly toward a Friday presentation. The transformation to "work mode" has begun with palpable intensity midway through the second week as this is written.

Have we still learned, though?  

Yes.  We learned about the culture and environment that is uniquely Costa Rica, which for these students is as important as the mission of serving an organization of need. We experienced "moments", a fleeting capture of images and experiences of the people, places, and things. Like a tapestry carefully woven, these moments help to frame the context, indeed the place, of our work here.  Following are pieces of those momentous threads woven into this experiential tapestry:

The visit to baho tejares never fails to have an impact on students.  Guided by a local resident, Pavel, we experience this impoverished community located in the 'low terrace' (baho) of the city.  Mostly, Nicaraguan immigrants that do not qualify for subsidized housing nearby, they have over the years merely constructed metal shacks with dirt floors.  As poor as it is (certainly by western and also local standards) it is still a community.  It lacks investment - the "park" is a wasteland.  There is one privately run, church-based community center that provides mostly childhood educational support.  Education is a ticket out of this barrio. But people still smile.

  

The fabric of the city is one of contrasts, even in the baho.  Buildings appear to fall apart, enclosed with whatever material could be salvaged, and present a mosaic of color and texture, especially against the new, sleek motorcycle, itself omnipresent and often very noisy and a critical means of cheap transportation.

In stark contrast, our visit to the center of bustling San Jose, the capital, seemed more familiar even if foreign, drawing comparisons to our own Twin Cities.  The brutality of the architecture, such as a government structure fronting one of the main plazas, stood in stark contrast to the old army barracks nearby, a colonial structure that now houses one of the national museums.  The army barracks were no longer necessary when President Jose Figueres Ferrer, a native son of San Ramon, abolished the army in 1948, favoring instead that the money saved be spent on education, as it remains so today.

In front of this colonial edifice stood a large glass sphere structure, within which was a hand-carved stone sphere - bolas de piedras -  believed to be of the Colombian period in coastal Costa Rica from 500 to 1500 BCE, and now recognized as a new national symbol of the country.

Whether in San Jose or San Ramon, the hard edges of steel walls and fences seem impenetrable except for the most delicate flowers along the sidewalks penetrating this toughness.  The proliferation of steel gates and all manner of secure barricades seems in stark contrast with the principle behind the abolition of the army, but nevertheless, crimes of theft are sadly still common.

Those hard edges of the city melt away when driving through the "cloud forest", the rain forest we must cross from San Ramon to get to more distant adventures. Often covered by a cloud cap, the famous Arenal volcano presented itself to us for a brief moment following a far different view of the lush countryside from a raft on the Rio Balsa river, perhaps what we should refer to as "damp bonding"!

Photo credit: Richlyn P

So much of this cultural tapestry is woven by the people of Costa Rica.  They are quick with a smile, and certainly take notice of us "gringo's", often calling out "good morning" in recognition.  They are warm of personality, at least so many I have met over these past eight trips.  Even the traffic, often chaotic, seems friendly, with many horn "beeps" used to communicate in a friendly way with other vehicles, something that would be taken quite differently in the US.

  

This woman, living what is thought to be a squatters subsistence farm adjacent the bajo took pride in her humble home, adorned with the flowers that are abundant everywhere. We heard the story of her lone young cow who lost its mother following an attack by a stray dog, followed by long, slow death.  The young cow seemed fine in its small pasture, where students discovered its tongue to be like sandpaper.

Picture credit: Karen M.

Not this cow, though.  This sweetheart was enjoying the grass and sugarcane at Magdalena's farm.  Magdalena was the host mother to Dustin Dresser (our local host/organizer and a former student)  during his study abroad. She prepares a typical Costa Rican meal for us on her farm every year.  She is in her 80's and a great-grandmother.  Her hands still have the power and the magic of massage and touch to ameliorate a bout of stomach issues for Dustin as she provided a demonstration to students of her skill, causing Dustin to visually writhe in pain.  Yet he swore by the remedy, followed by a cocktail of water, the juice of a lemon, a bit of salt and sugar to cure the revenge he was feeling.

Magdalena's husband passed away shortly after our last visit two years ago, which made me wistful.  Though there are family members living on the farm, they have jobs more lucrative than farming, and so the farm, at least to me, looked a bit worse for wear.  The former coffee plantation on the hillside adjacent the house was now down to one plant.  Climate change has affected where coffee grows best, and while formerly fertile, it is no longer as productive as it once was and is now a grass for the cow.

Yet coffee still abounds as a major export, even though the pandemic and in particular labor shortages have created challenges for coffee plantations.  Here Julio (orange shirt), uncle to our co-host Fernanda, shows students how to harvest and grind coffee, and describes the incredibly low value of their labor just to fill the bottom of a basket for what may become your rainforest certified coffee from a major chain at a much larger price.

Much as coffee dominates the export market, so does sugar cane.  While visiting a traditional "trapiche", or cane processing facility, we observed how sugar cane is crushed for the juice, boiled in three consecutive vats, and fired by dried cane stalks.  The Arias Family processes the cane the traditional way not often seen today, in a remote village, even stoking the fire by hand with a forked stick (in the following image by a student).

The 6:00 AM morning walks are routine, and takes those hardy students to the various neighborhoods and remote country roads around San Ramon.  Whether catching the morning sun from the hilltop above our hostel, or descending into the next valley to its lowest point to discover a massive grove of bamboo, the treks reward with a glimpse into the active morning life of San Ramon, and even the afterlife when touring the peaceful, starkly white cemetery.

Our walks awaken the neighborhood dogs that abound, making us feel even more exposed.  We are perhaps spied upon behind curtains from all the ruckus, but many local walkers and runners take to the streets early morning with a kind smile. 

We discovered this wondrous-looking beehive, a wasps nest, on one of our walks, reminding us of the many creatures we saw when visiting Manuel Antonio National Park, one of the most visited parks in the country located on the Pacific coast.  

It is safe to say that nearly all, if not all the students bore witness to the shenanigans of the Capucin monkeys ( aka 'cappucinio'), strangely personable, a bit haunting, and definitely cunning.  Higher up in the forest canopy, a rare sloth family was seen, as were Squirrel monkeys and the mighty Howler monkeys.  A night walk in the forest is interesting, as we searched for creatures large and tiny with flashlights, drawn by the night noises they make.  There seem to be many species of toads and frogs, and it is possible to come across a large spider on our morning hilltop, or be serenaded by the dance of butterflies in their enclosed gardens:

Have we learned from weaving this tapestry?  If you, dear reader, have learned anything about Costa Rica or our trip, seen something you have never seen before, marveled in the people, places and environment presented here,  then just imagine what the students absorbed during their first week.

What they have learned to guide them to finish the second week strong, is to work hard, play hard (sleep well . . . maybe), and to enjoy the moment as one team.  Perhaps this is the best lesson of all.

This, a Pura Vida tapestry!

They Must Know What They Are Doing

 January 1^st, 2022 was to be the day we boarded our plane for a multi-leg journey to Costa Rica – by “we” I refer to myself, my students, and teaching colleague meeting up at Minneapolis St Paul Airport (MSP) two hours early for a rather leisurely 11:30ish departure for Chicago, then direct to San Jose, Costa Rica.

We all finally arrived – separately – at nearly 4:00pm on January 3^rd – some 54 hours later, and not all with their luggage, scattered at the various points of deposit along our tortured path.

The long-laid plans of our return post-COVID two years hence to San Ramon for our winter-break Study Abroad started to become unraveled when our Whatsapp group message board ignited on December 31 with the somewhat unbelievable message that our leisurely flight to Chicago was delayed nearly 23hours.  This was perhaps a mixed blessing because this gave us all an extra day at home – New Year’s Day – spent in my case of many hours re-booking a flight path that was now entirely and completely busted.  Extra time to pack, chill or shovel snow, for it was also this day that the Midwest – and Chicago particularly – experienced snowy weather as well.  We hunkered, and with the new flight plan logged in, we would meet at 8:30 on January 2^nd at the airport for this long-delayed flight, and then finish the trip from Chicago to Houston, and then to San Jose.  And additional leg.

Somehow, we all managed to meet at the check-in counter where we were checked in as a group.  Relatively smooth sailing, though our bags were tagged with handwritten tags and a small bar code, rather than the traditional bar code sticky strip favored by all major airlines.  They must know what they are doing.

Anxious to go, we await our departure

Smooth guidance through security brought us all to Gate E5, where we waited for departure.  The plane was there. Gate agents there.  Pilots there.  And two flights of the same number were leaving from this gate – one originally scheduled for January 1^st, and the other scheduled for January 2^nd.  Seems odd, and they made continuous announcements that our flight would load first. They must know what they are doing.

Except it didn’t load.  The flight was missing one crew member so it could not fly. It was canceled, plane ready at the gate.  Meanwhile, people were frantically shifting to empty seats on this second flight, which now looked like it was boarding.  In the meantime, I am working with the gate agent, Zak, who said our best bet was to fly on this other flight, and he issued us 15 boarding passes – on standby – and to proceed down the concourse 2 gates to E7.  I approached that gate agent to confirm that there were available seats, and she said “I only have 4 seats available.”  Damn.  It seemed that in this evolving vortex we were inexorably getting drawn into meant we needed to split the group – just go, whoever can, and make progress one leg at a time was my thinking.  My colleague Yvonne, led this breakaway group and got on board this second flight with 5 seats. 

The rest of us returned to Gate 5, now mostly empty except for Zak still studying his computer.  We waited there while I worked with Zak for over an hour as he tried to find a way to get the rest of our group of ten re-booked.  We were still at MSP airport, seeing that plane still at the gate, all quiet, its luggage since offloaded.  In the meantime, we were getting messages from our breakaway group that their plane was now delayed, first for a frozen door that required maintenance to free (it was damn cold that morning), and then, having backed away and starting to leave, it returned to the gate because it was slightly overweight and someone and their stuff was necessary to offload.  Luckily, not one of us, but a jump-seated employee.  This drama continued as the time for our breakaway group to actually make their connection in Chicago to Houston was now in serious doubt. But as mentioned, they must know what they are doing.   

Meanwhile, Zak worked some kind of magic.  He rebooked us on a previously unscheduled flight – presumably, a clean-up flight for all the stranded for around 7:00pm, gave us a few meal vouchers, and told us we would stay over in Chicago with a hotel voucher and regain our flight path with a 6:00 AM flight on January 3^rd.  OK, we can do that, let’s join our breakaways, perhaps in Chicago if they missed their connection.  I thanked Zak generously with a fist bump

We spent all of January 2^nd at MSP airport – seems implausible really, stranded in your hometown!  All we could really do was hang around, absorbing the waning sun, and hear the tale of our breakaway group running ferociously for their next gate after landing in Chicago, and making it in the nick of time!  They were on their way to Houston while we ate airport food at MSP, compliments of United.

Almost magically, it seemed, we boarded our plane for Chicago, with a crew, and arrived an hour later.   But we had a nagging feeling that in the pell-mell rush of the schedule delays and quick changes, our luggage would become the victim.  We were advised by Zak to locate our luggage in Chicago and check-in anew in the morning.  So, we proceeded to wait about an hour (we were experienced “waiters” by now!) and finally the lost baggage claim agent, Lauren, began to source our 10 pieces of luggage. I was concerned as he peered through his thick glasses, mumbling, sorting, studying, and really not saying too much, that bad news was pending.  However, he did manage to locate the luggage “in the system” and “not to worry, it was already checked through to our final destination and will be there when we arrive”.  They must know what they are doing.  And he gave us our hotel vouchers.  We thanked him generously.

So then one of our students stepped up and arranged the hotel reservation for us, and we had to wait perhaps another hour before we finally caught the shuttle to the hotel some 30 minutes away from the airport.  We could get about 4 hours of napping at the hotel for a 3:00 AM wake-up call to catch our 6:00 AM flight.

The wake-up call was quite early, but we were all ready and anxious to knock off another leg – at least get closer, after all, we were only in Chicago for all the time it has taken!  O’Hare is a quieter place but still bustling with security at 4:00am when we arrived.  We managed the long walk to our gate with ease, and a few even managed to snag some McDonalds as the only vendor open on our concourse at that time.  And we waited – and watched.  Gate agents – check.  Flight attendants – check.  On-time departure posted on the board, but soon followed by an announcement that the flight would be delayed 45 minutes for lack of a pilot (though he was on his way somewhere).  Now our Houston to San Jose flight connection was in serious jeopardy, as that delay would give us but 2 minutes to make the trek to E concourse, the international wing.  With all confidence, they boarded us anyway.  They must know what they are doing.

Now this tale is getting a bit long, with an extraordinary measure of redundancy. So let’s cut quickly to the finish line.

The missing pilot?  Showed up with only about a 35-minute delay, and stepped on the gas, apparently flying above the filed intention, and pulled off landing 7 minutes early.  We easily made our connection to the Costa Rican flight, with crew, with a pilot, and best of all – WITH US!

The breakway crew arrived in San Jose, with no luggage, and had to file lost luggage claims, and arrived at our hostel around 2:00 AM, an hour before the rest of us got up.  We arrived on time, managed immigration in Costa Rica with only minor health-pass hiccups, and then hoped that our luggage would actually be there.  Eight of ten pieces made it. Nuts!

We met up with Dustin Dresser, our host, who made his second run to the airport, and we all joined up at Hostel Sabana for pizza by 4:00.  The last of the lost luggage arrived at 5:30am, January 4^th.

PERSPECTIVE

We found ourselves in the eye of a perfect storm – unprecedented challenges for the airline industry.  The St. Paul Pioneer Press reported on January 4^th that:

·       Airlines canceled 8,000 flights between January 1^st and January 3^rd, roughly 10% of all flights

·       The reasons were weather, staffing shortages and late calls in sick due to the Omicron strain

·       There are 9% fewer employees than were employed at this same time in 2019

·       And for our flight, 171 ground personnel did not show up for work the date of our departure.

While there are critics out there that would argue the airlines bear considerable responsibility for this mess, I am not inclined to go along with that sentiment.  These are unprecedented, even historic times.  I am not sure that there are many people who could step into this challenging situation and effect a better result than a 10% reduction in flights, much less get our baggage to us, in an environment marred by toxic idiots punching passengers and crew because they can’t be patient.  It is sad.

They do know what they are doing.  Zak and Lauren, and all the crewmates they work with at United enabled our arrival.  They worked hard, and deserve every bit of our appreciation.  

Photo Gallery - Great Plains Ride

Over 1500 miles of riding in the great plains of Montana, Wyoming, South Dakota and Minnesota, it is most difficult to narrow the field of favorite pictures, but here they are.  Enjoy!

Caught in a spring snowstorm, and unable to put in our canoe
on the Upper Missouri, we instead walked Virgelle, MT - a ghost of a town.

A squall suddenly cleared to reveal the first sun of our trip on the 
Upper Missouri Breaks - setting as it was, a magical moment. 

Dark Butte Camp - emerging sun casts a warm light on the
amazing rock formations

Old US 87 from Billings to Hardin - empty of cars but not
headwinds or beauty

Little Bighorn Battlefield - a moving experience, with 
relief that the native perspective is represented

Lumps in the plain, on US212 in southeast Montana

A striking sunset at my wild campsite on Wyoming SR112, one
of the most scenic roads on the trip

The light!  I cannot just let it pass!  Wyoming ranch on SR112

I had to take multiple stops as the light kept changing the
face of Devil's Tower near Hulett - finally it was perfect.

Sunrise on Deerfield Lake in the Black Hills, South Dakota.
The delicacy of the vegetation set in a shimmering waterfield caught my eye.

A heart stopping moment on the Wilderness Drive in Custer State Park.
Completely surrounded by these magnificent buffalo.  Wilderness Drive
is a top ten riding circuit in my book!

The gradually emerging Badlands from Sage Creek Road.

The Badlands are simply magnificent and surreal. 
The subtle colors and textures caught my eye.

Low morning sun casts amazing shadows to reveal the textures.

Back to the Missouri River at Fort Thompson - the setting sun
casting interesting cloud shadows on the eastern sky.

And that same sunset - radiant!

I agree!  But the markers of accidents caught my attention in both
Montana and South Dakota.  The starkness of the four markers against a
darkening sky seemed most ominous.

And while not in the catalog of my best pictures, traded shots
with another tourist.  Included as many ask "what is it like?"
My loaded bike.  Now you know.

And at last, my route from Havre home - the great Great Plains journey!

Of Characters and Conversations

Ride solo, meet people.

It never fails that a solo bicycle rider, parking their typically overloaded rig anywhere there are other people, especially other cyclists, will invite conversation.  Those experiences make a trip interesting.  Consider these particularly memorable interactions on my recent Great Plains journey, three of many.

Greg 

It was a very long, hot day riding from Rapid City out to the literal ghost town of Scenic, South Dakota.  The ride is dominated by treeless rolling prairie cascading from the Black Hills to the west, on the southwest end of the Badlands.  It was hot, windy and waterless. I arrived midday hoping for something cold to whet my whistle as my maps indicated a Convenience store, but instead I thought I had rolled into a movie set.  Dilapidated buildings with old signs and bleached buffalo heads, tumbleweeds rolling about, even an old stone jail.  The roads in and out converged at a quiet intersection, with two gas pumps and a locked building as the only apparent signs of life. A truck with a trailer was pumping gas, and against the locked windowless building was the refrigerated oasis I was seeking - a vending machine!  This was likely the greatest single profit center in this entire village!

I walked to the machine as I started to source some bills.  I had a $1 and $5 bill, and it required $2.  Nuts! I engaged the driver pumping gas, hauling a trailer with a religious native symbol on it, soliciting change for a $5 bill.  Between he and his wife, from Oregon, they exchanged the currency I sought.  I would have settled for a few bills for my $5 - I was that thirsty. I thanked them profusely.

I fed my bills into the machine, and out sputtered a Diet Coke - argh!  I wanted regular for the sugar hit, but settled for a diet as it was cold and wet.  More importantly, this old, weathered machine in the middle of nowhere actually worked!

Across the street was an old building, long and narrow with a continuous covered porch - SHADE!!  I wheeled over to it and decided to seek its cover.  To my surprise, upon the porch were plastic Adirondack chairs, carefully spaced with a small table between, screwed down to the old wood deck.  It was as if someone had set this up precisely for travelers like me.  I settled into a chair, and ate my crackers and hard salami, sipped my cold Coke and water, and watched.

Though this was a ghost town, travelers did drive through, pausing at the pumps, looking for signs of life as I had, only to speed away, some knowingly stopping to fill with gas.  Amidst this activity, another cyclist appeared at the same vending machine, grabbed a beverage, and spotted me on this porch as I waved him over.  Heading east from Billings to Ohio on a different route than I, and also having left Rapid City, Greg, a sprinkler fitter from California and about my age, sought and appreciated the shade as much as I, and we spent the next hour chatting about bicycling, life, routes, gear - all the stuff you expect two bicyclists would chat about.  We concluded this made-in-the-shade porch with accommodating chairs on an otherwise abandoned building was the work of a church group that apparently had invested in this town.  It was pure welcoming genius!

As we chatted, he wished someone would stop from whom he could finagle a Powerade. Lo and behold, a large white suburban pulled up a few minutes later, having seen the two loaded bikes parked along the building.  A gentlemen rolled his window down and started asking about our trip, where we were headed, all with genuine interest.  And he had a Powerade in his cooler!  A wish fulfilled!

One final problem - water - as it is very scarce along this stretch and throughout the Badlands.  We walked around the back of this building, and spotted a hydrant.  Pulling on the lever, we heard a gurgling sound for a few seconds, as the pipes started to fill, and out gushed some very cold water!  Like little boys, we gleefully danced around this hydrant soaking our clothing to cool off.

I was heading north into the Badlands, Greg was heading east toward Interior. We finally took our leave.  Empty was the town of life and hubbub, but a visit full of surprise!

Crazy Mike

I continued north on dusty gravel roads for about 15 miles, entering the southwest side of the Badlands on the gravel Sage Creek Rim Road, headed for the primitive, waterless Sage Creek Campground.  I arrived to this wide open, treeless flats with a single circular loop, around which vehicles parked and camped inside the loop.  From the bluffs above, it looked very much like a teepee circle, or a circle of pioneer wagons out of some old western film.  I found a spot with a table and a wind shelter inboard and claimed ownership for the evening.  Nearby, a man was sitting quite motionless in his camp chair, looking east.  Probably napping, I thought, as I was also wont to do. 

Much later, after having pitched my tent, taken an exploratory walk in along the Sage Creek coulee and started my dinner, Mike got up from his chair and walked slowly to my site and just started chatting.  From Wisconsin, 71 years old and retired, I supposed he speculated I was a solid chat prospect with my white hair and beard. Most of the other campers were younger folks with tents (no RV's allowed at this site).  Perched on the table and hanging onto the posts of the shelter, we chatted for at least an hour. 

"I've killed two men." 

This caught me off guard, naturally, but my reaction was forced to display calm.  Mike was a Vietnan vet, dishonorably discharged after 6 years as a Sergeant, suffering from PTSD.  Carefully inquiring of the circumstances of this remark, he indicated he had shot another soldier in his platoon that was supposed to guard the unit derelict in his responsibility.  He warned him that if he didn't shape up immediately, Mike would shoot him, for it was either "I shoot you or the enemy shoots us!"  Disobedient, the guard was shot and killed.  Mike was discharged after a court martial and stripped of his benefits, though he had aspirations of a career in the military. But he admitted to being "a bit crazy in the head".

The second episode involved another man pulling a gun on him in a junkyard that Mike had entered to ask for directions.  A shout-down and scuffle of some sort ensued and Mike shot the man.  He was acquitted under self-defense, but spent time in jail.  The rest of his life was spent quietly in Wisconsin with his wife, working for a company building fiberglass enclosures for trucks until it was bought out by a large eastern firm and he was laid off.  He just retired after that.

"What brings you to Sage Creek?"

He was here in the 1980's when the area was less improved than it is today.  He was alone here, in this blissful paradise, and decided to return to relive the experience.  He grumbled at all the people, that it wasn't the same place he remembered.

"But look at it this way: these are mostly young folks.  Tents are all they can afford, like perhaps you in the 1980's.  And it brings them out to appreciate this immense beauty, and hopefully carry on with its preservation."   He grudgingly agreed.

I did not know what to believe of his story, but knew just to listen.  I sensed that Mike was cloaked in a blanket of regret and deep sadness, but also repentance, and genuinely appreciated just being able to talk to someone else about his life and trajectory, someone who would listen, who perhaps could relate to his story.  I was there, could embrace the opportunity, and realized that age matters in this situation, for his admission of homicide would likely have scared off the younger campers.  

We parted the next morning, wishing each other a good journey.

Jason and Seth  

Bruce is not a person but a place - a small town north of Brookings, South Dakota - off route a mile where it was hoped, after a long morning ride from DeSmet, one could stop in any of three tavern/restaurant establishments indicated on Googlemaps for something cold to drink, a spot of lunch and the relief of shade.  

I rolled a back-road into town, and followed my instincts into the center of town - the wide main street area.  The first place I spotted was Jay Street Pub, in front of which a man with a long mane and a bandana cap was unlocking the door, his young son beside him after getting out of a golf cart.  I rolled up, thinking they might be customers, but with no beer or "open": signs on in the window.

"Is this place open?" I asked.

Expressionless, he replied "No, but you can come in."

With token resistance to validate both the sincerity and the security of the invitation, I sensed an opportunity of engagement and accepted. Built in 1910, the exterior was a bit run down, the interior dark but for the glow of a few backroom lights and the sign headers on the beer coolers behind the bar, revealing a gloomy, time-worn interior with a few tables and a pool table.  I took a seat at the corner of the bar, while thanking him for the opportunity to cool off in the welcome shade of a darkened bar.

Seth took a seat next to me while his father, Jason (as i will call him) tinkered a bit in the backroom. He offered and I accepted a Coke (full sugar!).  Eight years old, he was done with school for the year (third grade) but regretfully admitted the need for summer school as he did not do so well in homeschooling. His favorite class was "computers" and his worst "math".  We talked about school and home life until his Dad reappeared behind the bar.

Over my leftover pizza and the Coke, we chatted about the bar business in tiny Bruce, South Dakota, and how he came to acquire it.  Jason was careful not to slam the competition, but over the course of 30 minutes recited the intrigue of a new bar competitor and restaurant in town, and how it came to be out of business so quickly. With all the drama of a high flying merger and acquisition story, an offer from the competition to join up (declined) and his collective wisdom of 10 years owning the business after a layoff from a solid career in wind turbine maintenance, Jason was cool, almost complacent about his circumstances and the bar.  He identifies the need to make physical improvements,  but held off with strategic caution due to the downturn from COVID.  

He owns the bar free and clear, bought it well, is profitable and proud.  This could have been  a lesson for any business management student - it had all the ingredients.

His vision for the future: for his two kids to be able to work here as he watched Seth deftly serve another Coke and fill my water bottles with ice, and for the business to be able to have another employee/manager to allow him to move back into another job.  He tells this with a fatherly gleam in his eye for Seth.

Time to go.  "How much for the Coke?"

"Two dollars."

I handed Seth $10 while telling Jason "$2 for the Coke, and $8 to Seth for doing all the work!"  

That was $10 well spent - the advantages of a solo journey, revealed in the cool shade of a darkened bar, a guest of the proud Owner.

Prairie Signs

Bicycling through the heart of the American prairie, I noted two distinct yet connected attributes: big skies that necessarily yield wide horizons.  The prairie terrain is at times unforgiving, arduous when combined with a disadvantageous wind, and possessing much more elevation gain than one expects in the "flats".  In other words, it can be tiring!

The result:  one constantly scans that wide horizon for distant signs of life.  A town. A place to rest.  Get a cold drink.  Engage in an unexpected way with the locals.  And perhaps most of all, a momentary relief from the beautiful monotony of the landscape.

But where are they?  How far am I?  What is that town like - what does it hold for me?  And you peddle onward in hope of that place.

The roads with big sky and wide horizon in Montana, Wyoming and much of western South Dakota that I travelled revealed no secrets as to how far a town was.  They could not be seen.  Frequently, they consist of a scattering of dwellings or structures clustered low along a creek, not visible from afar as they are shielded by the low, rolling ridges of the plains.

It wasn't until Fort Thompson, and more precisely the village of Stephan on the Crow Creek Reservation in South Dakota, that it occurred to me.  The one sign that a town was in the achievable distance, triggering a slightly quickened pace on the pedals:

The water tower.

There it was, sitting like a large golf ball on a tee many miles out of town, visible as a distinct profile that some settlement required a water tower.  If there is a tower, there must be a town.  Farther west, water tanks would be placed on a higher bluff from the town, and not free standing as the typical midwestern water towers are.  They didn't need a tower for its sole purpose is less about storage and more about maintaining water pressure on the system.

Where I reside, water towers are necessarily all over the place - we take them for granted. But on this road trip, I had not, until seeing the Stephan tower, realized the symbolism they represent to a traveler.  They are a sign of life, of a vital community that can afford "city water"!

How diverse they are.  I sought out water towers to see how they are connected to the town.  In the "back" somewhere? In the city park? Even outside of town? To this latter point, I noted several rural water systems covering miles of farmland not specifically attached to a village.  In a way that is sad, because the water tower symbolizes the pride of the community, offering up "Home of the . . ." labels below the certainty of a name for the city or town.  It is both literally and figuratively a sign.  Suddenly, I was taking note of them, how varied they were, and how central they were to the community they serve.

But there is yet another sign: the grain terminal.

Most of these small towns evolved from the railroad boom of the mid-to-late 1800's. Farmers needed ways to store their grain until it could be loaded onto a train for market.    The railroad, touching many of these small towns is long gone, now strategically selective in the towns it touches.  Trucks have taken over moving grain more easily to a distant market when it was most opportune to sell it. Thus, some terminals become hulking derelicts within the community, a hopeless beacon from a more vibrant time, the train whistles long silent. 

Yet those other terminals with rail are expanding apace, itself another sign of rural prosperity

The hulking mass of these silos is also a distant sign of life - present or past, one does not quite know.  Yet even this is going away as farmers choose, understandably, to hold their grain in bins until the market presents its best opportunity to sell, then truck them to market.  All shiny, these new bins do not point the way to a town, but just to some hoped for prosperity when the price is right - this year or next. 

The water tower and the grain bin in the prairie - beacons of rural hope and repast for the approaching cyclist, yet miles distant.