On my way to Bismarck with my first load through North Dakota, the interstate crossed the Wild Rice River and a nearby community.
The weather was not pleasant on the way up, heavy rains through Kansas City, high winds north of Saint Joseph, even some snow accumulation on my windshield outside of Omaha on up through Sioux City. I ran out of drive time just past Sioux Falls and stopped for 10 hours at the Wilmot Rest Area. It had signs promoting a scenic overlook, but when I arrived I saw this, looking southward out my cab window:
The truck shook all night as the rains resumed and the fierce winds blew.
When I woke and checked my truck at 3:30 a.m., the cement around my rig looked like the frosting on a bowl of mini-wheats. Not quite what you want to see on the pavement when you still have 290 miles to get to your first stop, but the roads were clear outside the parking lot.
I still proceeded with caution.
The Wild Rice River goes under I-29 a little ways south of Fargo. Not really much to notice in the dark and fog before dawn, but it got me working on something other than the worries of this load and the burden of some personal issues that have been brewing.
An unincorporated town near that river bears the same name, though time has mostly passed it by, with its St. Benedict Catholic Church and its cemetery where more than 600 faithful have been interred, a multiple of those who remain above ground in Wild Rice today, as their offspring have been scattered to wherever these winds might blow.
I passed by again on my way south, this time by daylight and in even stiffer winds. Now I could see this:
I found safe haven for my empty trailer and myself farther down in Summit, South Dakota, where I waited for calm to return so I could finish my journey and get home for the weekend.
Here’s a little something I wrote over pizza and a cinnabon at the Coffee Cup Travel Plaza.
Wild Rice
It’s not even real rice,
these green children
kept from dabbling ducks,
then fed to the world
while southward winds blow
through the grasses,
chopping waters
of the river marking time,
counting the headstones of saints
laid to rest in the shadows
of the church
and well fed.
| Copyright © 2022 by Maik Strosahl Michael E. Strosahl has focused on poetry for over twenty years, during which time he served a term as President of the Poetry Society of Indiana. He relocated to Jefferson City, Missouri, in 2018 and currently co-hosts a writers group there. |
Maik, I shared today’s column with a wannabe driver, in the hope it might inspire her to follow that dream.
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ReplyDeleteMaik, your wonderful story reminded me of two driving experiences in the Dakotas: 1) driving back from Alaska in a Chevy Astro van, being buffeted by the wind to the point I felt like I was attempting to pilot a box kite; 2) riding endless miles with a motorcycle leaned as if I was making a sharp left turn, just to maintain a straight line on the pavement, white-knuckled and constantly on guard for any lull in the wind that would send me into the other lane. For you to traverse those prairie winds in a big rig shows you have a skill most people don't understand or appreciate.
ReplyDeleteAs you apparently know, wild rice is not like "real" rice, and it has an amazing backstory. If anyone is interested, go to "Saveur.com" and search wild rice, and you can find an excellent article titled 'The True Story of Wild Rice, North America's Most Misunderstood Grain".
Thank you both! Moris, if that person ever needs more info, I’d be happy to help. You can share my email.
ReplyDeletePaul, the Dakotas (and western Minnesota, as I discovered today) look to be full of untold stories. Have two more brewing and with the combination of wind and snow this morning, I am back at that truck stop. Maybe I will get something done over another Cinnabon.
Paul, that article has me spinning on two more ideas. Thanks for sharing the link!
ReplyDeleteMichael, on my several trips back and forth across this country and Canada -- not as many trips as you, no doubt, but enough to learn the general lay of the land -- I was guilty of seeing the upper Midwest of the U.S. and the plains region of Canada as places to get through, so I could get to more inviting places. Yet, as I think back to various travels, the Dakotas, western Minnesota, Manitoba and Saskatchewan are some of the places I most wish I had spent more time and learned more about.
ReplyDeleteI'm glad you are finding the time to absorb something from those places while you are there, instead of looking back 20 years later and wishing you had better connected while you were there.
Unfortunately, many have viewed a lot of the country as “flyover” territory. There is a lot to see and a lot to do wherever we are. No time like the present to make those memories.
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