-Neil Young
Ontario is a large province. It stretches almost from Vermont to North Dakota, to give it perspective, and touches the arctic. I left Ontario at Sault Ste. Marie only to reenter it in Minnesota, near International Falls, the site of a huge belching Boise paper mill. The sky is overcast but clearing. Rain and Tom Waits have been passengers since Duluth as I headed north into Arrowhead country. Rain and Tom Waits go together like water and cheap scotch.
The photo of Faulkner is from a park in International Falls, which as a point of pride counts itself recipient ofthe largest Smokey the Bear statue in the world. Faulkner barked at it, which doesn't bode well for our time in Alaska. You would think a tussle with a pit bull might back him off a bit, but no. I was expecting to head over into Canada here but the "bridge" (which consists of little more than a steel grate) costs $6, and I take a certain New York umbridge at paying the same toll for this chicken-shit bridge as for the George Washington.
So I head out west on the MN 11 as the sky clears and see increasingly thinning traffic. Hoping for one ofthe VFW fish frys (it is Friday night) I find only desolated small towns. I really only want a beer. I haven't had one since Bruce's Corner, Wisconsin, where I sensed a palpable hostility from the outdoorsman and army reservists (both armed about equivalently) as I entered and played my game of pool. A cheap Pabst at a truck stop dive would be ideal.
As I pass through Birchdale I see the Pabst sign so I pull over to astonished eyes from the locals gathered on the stoop. There is so little traffic here and so little law enforcement that the "bar" is more outside than inside. Everyone knows everyone, and Faulkner is a hit. I
get a beer for $1.25 (the Midwest is grand, ain't it?) and sit outside and relate my story. Some baseball talk. The air is crisp as the wetness gives way to cool open skies.
Ralph, the guy pictured, warns me that I better not be talking anything over the border, even if I have holes drilled into the frame ... He also gives me the contact of a woman in Anchorage who he whispers is a "guaranteed blowjob" (that is, if she's out of prison). I chalk this all up to Tom Waits. If I had been listening to Nick Cave, I'm sure someone would have tried to murder me.
I wave goodbyes and head out to the border in Baudette, where sure enough, being a small town with plenty of time on its hands, I get the
good 15 minute once-over of my automobile. I munch on some fries with Faulkner and talk with the mounties going through my luggage. I finally get cleared and head out as the sun is setting along the Lake of the Woods.
My beer and search have taken more time than I wished, and I am unable to secure lodging along the east side of Lake of the Woods. The only traffic around here is logging trucks and SUVs toting fishing boats, and the anglers have all the spots divied up. I finally pull over next to the lake near Sioux Narrows at a picnic rest stop. As I go to sleep I hear the first chorus of wolf howls on this trip. Faulkner picks up his ears. No damn whiny coyotes. It's all wolves now.
-Tom
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