In Praise of Backpacking: Life in the Slow Lane on the Superior Hiking Trail

The leaves were still mostly green in the northern hardwood forest near the Canadian border as I watched my son Jakob disappear around a bend in the Superior Hiking Trail. It was around noon on September 24th. I turned away from Jakob, who had driven me to the northern terminus of the trail and was returning

The northern hardwood forest leaves 
got increasingly colorful as
the trip progressed

to the van, and continued walking southwest, my long-anticipated solo venture on the SHT beginning in earnest. I had hiked the first 50 or so miles of the SHT from the same trailhead in late September 2020 before aborting on the intended thru-hike (due to a torn rotator cuff suffered several weeks before, which didn’t affect me badly while hiking but which led to sleeplessness for three consecutive nights). With that taste of the trail two years before, I was eager for the full experience this fall. 

After a hiatus of many years, I’ve come to relish backpacking again in recent years, starting with a memorable trip mostly off-trail high in the Wind River Range in August 2017. I was introduced to backpacking as a 16-year-old by my parents when we took a family trip to the Tetons in August of 1974. I marvel that my parents, who were not experienced or avid outdoors people, were adventurous enough to take four kids ages 10, 16, 17 and 18 backpacking when they had never been backpacking themselves. I’m eternally grateful to them for that introduction, and for the equally influential introduction to canoeing in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area our family had three years before that. 

That trip with my family in 1974 and another family backpacking experience on Lake Superior’s Isle Royale in 1976 set the stage for a handful of my own solo and two-person backpacking trips from my late teens through mid-20s. Trips of six to seven days in Canada’s Banff National Park, a return to Grand Teton National Park, Rocky Mountain National Park, and Glacier National Park were all wondrous mountain explorations for a lifelong Minnesota flatlander. However, there was a period of over 20 years between my last backpacking trip with my wife Anne in the mid-‘80s and my next trip, with Jakob when he was 15 in 2007. Jakob and I had a memorable outing on the Highline Trail and north to Upper Waterton Lake in Glacier National Park, but for a variety of reasons my wilderness experiences were otherwise limited to roughly annual canoe trips in the BWCA between that last backpacking trip in the mid-‘80s and my return to backpacking in 2017.

Indian Pass, Wind River Range, 
August 2017

The return to backpacking in the Wind River Range was a grand, rugged affair, much of it scrambling over
boulders, talus slopes, glaciers and snowfields between 10,000 and 12,150 feet for five days. The total solar eclipse of August 21, 2017, the first day of the trip, was a bonus mind-blowing experience. Off-trail travel appealed to my sense of adventure and desire for immersion in wild nature, and my next two backpacking trips were similarly rugged and even more remote in southern Utah’s Escalante Canyon and its side canyons. Those trips in March 2019 and March 2021 (with the September 2020 aborted SHT thru-hike in between) took me down the Escalante River from near its headwaters just downstream of the town of Escalante to just above the highest reaches of Lake Powell (which backs up from the Colorado River’s Glen Canyon Dam into the lower few miles of the Escalante Canyon). The Escalante hiking involved dozens of river crossings daily (sometimes in thigh- to crotch-deep, cold, fast water), along with crossing talus slopes, boulder fields, and bushwhacking through sometimes nearly impenetrable tamarisk thickets. Side explorations up Harris Wash, Neon Canyon, and Coyote Gulch took me through further redrock wonderlands (the Golden Cathedral! Jacob Hamblin Arch!). Smitten with the great American Southwest, I continued my backpacking explorations in March 2022 with trips to Big Bend and Grand Canyon National Parks.

Rio Grande River from the
Marufo Vega Trail, 
Big Bend National Park, March 2022

With these recent experiences under my belt, including three hard days of backpacking in the Grand Canyon (55 miles and 12,000 feet of climbing, almost all after breaking my ulna in a freak slip about two miles after starting), I was confident that I could enjoyably hike the SHT in something like 15 to 18 days. This would require averaging about 17 to 21 miles per day for the full 310 or so miles of the thru-hike, including spurs to overlooks, campsites, and food pickup. I decided to time my trip to coincide with leaf-change season in northeastern Minnesota. Hiking in late September through early October trip offers the bonus of a bug-free trip, a not inconsiderable thing given how intense mosquito and biting fly pressure can be during mid-summer in the Arrowhead.

The logistics of an SHT thru-hike are not as daunting as, say, a Pacific Crest Trail thru-hike, but they are more challenging than I’m used to, as I have almost always done loop trails in the past. There are a variety of ways to get to and from the northern and southern terminus via shuttle, none of them simple or cheap, and a variety of ways to resupply along the trail as well. I was fortunate to have a son (Jakob) willing to spend a chunk of his weekend driving with me up to the northern terminus, and a wife (Anne) willing to pick me up at the southern terminus (or somewhere short of that in case of physical or emotional breakdown). The Clair Nelson Community Center on the outskirts of Finland, Minnesota provides the wonderful service of holding food drop boxes for thru-hikers and is near the mid-point of the trail. I decided to start the trip with seven-plus days of food, drop a box with seven days of food at Finland, and hope to get to the center by the end of the seventh or sometime on the eight day. I calculated that the second seven days of food would get me into or very near Duluth, where I could eat a few meals and pick up any additional food needed for the final 50 miles of the trail to the southern terminus.

Food box and a 30-pound pack (including food for the first seven days and a liter of water to get me started) in tow, Jakob and I left after he was done with work on the evening of Friday, September 23rd, and drove up to the Eckbeck Campground in the Finland State Forest, where we found the last (!) available campsite of the 39 sites at about 11:15 p.m. We got up bright and early the next morning, dropped off my resupply box at the Clair Nelson Community Center, and drove into Grand Marais for a hearty breakfast before heading up to the northern terminus. 

The view to the north across the Pigeon
River into Canada from the 270-Degree Overlook

The parking lot for the northern terminus is a mile south of the terminus at the 270-Degree Overlook,
which affords stunningly beautiful views north to the Pigeon River and Canada beyond. Jakob and I had a nice chat with Randy Cadwell of ICTV (Itasca Community Television), who was filming for a planned segment of their Common Ground series, on the North Country Trail (which incorporates the SHT). After admiring the views for a few minutes, we were southbound, and the thru-hike was officially underway. Jakob accompanied me for another five miles or so before turning back, leaving me on my own for the rest of the thru-hike. 

The first few miles were relatively easy, with only modest climbs and relatively good footing. It soon became apparent, though, that the relatively easy stretches were not the norm. Root- and rock-strewn trail was much more common, with steep ups and downs for every small creek and more major river crossing (of which there were many). The root-strewn stretches were often the most difficult as the footing was treacherous in the extreme. Balsam fir, white and black spruce, and white cedar roots frequently completely covered the trail for significant distances. I also had my first gorgeous vistas looking both inland and out to Lake Superior. These were always enjoyable and brightened up this and every subsequent day of hiking. The deciduous trees (primarily maples, aspens and birch) were still primarily green, which was surprising. I had expected to follow leaf-change south as I

progressed on the trail, but I had seen more color further south on the drive up than I did the first day on the trail. 

 

Because of a late start (around 10:20 a.m. from the parking lot), I didn’t make as many miles as hoped on the first day, and pulled into the North Carlson Pond campsite at about 5:45 p.m. The SHT has a wonderful system of designated primitive campsites (94 in total), some quite close together but often with gaps of several to as much as nine or so miles between them. In this case, it was another four miles to my planned stop for the night, but I didn’t have the time or energy to make it that far. Dispersed camping is prohibited, and all of the campsites have multiple tent pads (typically room for between three and six tents), and the expectation is that the sites be shared by all comers. I ultimately split my nights on the SHT evenly between campsites I shared with other trail users and those I had to myself. It was a nice mix of trail camaraderie and solitude, both of which I appreciated. 

 

SO MANY beautiful rivers and creeks...

I shared this first campsite with Goliath, a northbound (NOBO in trail parlance) thru-hiker. Goliath, for those not familiar with thru-hiking (“thru-hiking” being the generally-used phrase in the hiking world for those who hike the full length of a trail, or do a “through”-hike), was the “trail name” of a friendly 65-year-old from Virginia, who was just a day and change away from completing his hike. Goliath is a veteran of the Appalachian Trail and Colorado Trail (having thru-hiked both in the past several years). It was fun to compare backpacking notes and swap backcountry stories with him for a bit as I set up camp and made and ate dinner. 

 

The 1.4-mile lake walk section north of
Grand Marais, lovely but slow walking

After that it was early to bed, as darkness fell shortly after 7:00 and it was getting cold rapidly. This was to be the drill for the rest of the trip – hike all day, get into camp shortly before dark, set up camp, have dinner, clean up, and hit the tent early. I simply didn’t have the energy or inclination to sit up late by a campfire, and most campsites had been picked over pretty well for dry firewood as well. This was alright by me, as it gave me a bit of time to write in my journal and read for a bit before falling asleep, exhausted.A few evenings I got into camp early enough that I was able to write and read outside before dark, sitting in my camp chair, a one-pound luxury item that I’ve greatly appreciated on recent trips. As I enter my mid-60s, I’m no longer interested in sitting on the ground or on a log in camp. Most SHT campsites had rough planks supported on logs to sit on, but I preferred using
these as a table instead while I sat in comfort in my Helinox Chair Zero camp chair. 

 

Old-growth white cedars were relatively
common; old-growth pines less so

Begin digression… Speaking of concessions to age, I’ve come to realize in recent years that it’s A LOT more enjoyable to carry 18 to 30 pounds (depending on how much food and water I have onboard) than it is to carry 40 to 50 pounds, which was my approximate pack weight back in the day. I’ve researched ultralight backpacking gear fairly extensively and have taken a moderate approach to lightening my load. As with most things in life, the sky’s the limit when it comes to how far you want to take something and how much you’re willing to spend. I’ve invested in the following to improve my backpacking experience, and am for the most part really satisfied with my current setup:  

• Backpack – Zpacks Arc Blast 55L 
• Quilt – Enlightened Equipment Enigma (950 down, 30-degree rating) 
• Sleeping pad – Therm-a-Rest NeoAire XlLte 
• Tent – REI Flash Air 1 with polcyro footprint 
• Cook kit – Kojin alcohol stove with Toaks Sidewinder surround and Ti pot 
• Water filtration and carrying – Sawyer Squeeze with 1 liter pouch and Cnoc Vecto 3L container 

In addition to these basics, I’ve lightened up by carrying only the minimum clothing I’ll need (yes, you get stinky after more than a week on the trail, but fortunately I’m by myself and it really doesn’t matter), carefully estimating the food I’ll need (and using high-calorie- and nutrient-density foods), and lightening up my footwear. Back in the day I wore heavy, clunky hiking boots and invariably returned with blisters and often lost a toenail or two. I now swear by trail runners. Altra Lone Peaks have been my go-to for several years and are incredibly comfortable, lightweight, and roomy for my wide feet. I’ve not had a blister or lost a toenail, and despite the low profile, have had no issues with ankle support on even the gnarliest trails. 

A final change I’ve made in recent years is to use trekking poles. I initially used them on my March 2019 sojourn in the Escalante Canyon, as I knew I’d be crossing the river many times daily and wanted the stability trekking poles provide. They were literally lifesavers on that trip, as a rain one night mid-trip meant thigh- to crotch-deep river crossings in fast water tor the last few days. I’ve been hooked on them since, and use my Black Diamond Distance Z poles go with me on every trip now. End digression… 

 

Devil's Kettle, Brule River

…Returning to the SHT, after a rainy first night in the tent, I bid adieu to Goliath the next morning and after breaking camp during a lull in the rain was on the trail around 8:00 as the rain began to fall again. It was a gentle, warm rain, and with rain jacket and pants I stayed mostly dry though it rained about seven of the 10 or so hours I was on the trail my second day. This was my only rainy day on the trail, though there were several overcast and cold, windy days, and it rained several other nights. In spite of the rain, it was a beautiful day through rugged country once again. The day’s 22.2 miles featured lots of up and down, lunch by the beautiful Brule River, a view of the Devil’s Kettle waterfalls from the foot bridge over the Brule, and a lovely campsite I had to myself high above the Kadunce River. 

 

Over the next 11 days, I got into a rhythm of rising pre-dawn, having a quick breakfast of oatmeal and cocoa-laced coffee, hitting the trail between 7:30 and 8:00 a.m., asking myself out loud “What am I gonna do today?” and responding “I’m gonna walk all fucking day!!!” with a heartfelt smile. I truly got into the thru-hike spirit, and in spite of long, hard days, and eventually nights where everything from my knees down to my toes ached, I reveled in the feeling that I was doing exactly what I wanted to be doing all day every day, and that there was nowhere else I wanted to be. One of the beautiful things about backpacking is that you're traveling slowly enough to take everything in, get lost in your thoughts, and merge with your surroundings.

 

The fabled Bean and Bear Lakes overlook
did not disappoint

Hiking solo, I had some moments that I wished I could share with someone else, but my mental makeup is such that I do pretty well with prolonged periods where I’m my only company. There were long periods of time every day where I was in a true zen state (defined in Merriam-Webster dictionary as “a state of calm attentiveness in which one's actions are guided by intuition rather than by conscious effort”). The calm attentiveness included extreme foot-placement care on all descents, ascents, rocky, rooty, muddy, or wobbly foot-bridge sections (which seemed to be the majority of the time). I most assuredly DID NOT want a repeat of my Grand Canyon broken arm experience, which was the first time in 50 years of backcountry travel that I had any kind of injury of any consequence. I mostly succeeded in this endeavor, though I did stumble and fall once, and jammed my thumb a bit in catching myself. Five weeks on the thumb is still stiff and a bit sore, but it’s slowly improving and is a small price to pay for the wondrous SHT experience. 

 

Beaver ponds were numerous 
and often beautiful

The ever-changing landscapes were always beautiful and got more and more colorful as the maples began lighting up, followed by aspens and birch. Red oak began appearing in the hardwood sections more frequently the further south I traveled, and it was endlessly fascinating to note the change in forest species composition and speculate on the reasons for the variations from spruce-fir to northern hardwood and back again. Fairly frequent sightings of massive old-growth white cedar always made my heart sing, and the rare large white and red pines I encountered were a reminder of all that was lost in the logging era that nearly eradicated big pines from this part of the world. 

 

Luna the shelter pup!

On my eighth day I entered uncharted territory. In my lifetime of backcountry backpacking and canoeing I’ve never done a trip longer than seven successive days. I was right on schedule and picked up my food drop on the outskirts of Finland at about 140 miles in. By this time I had met many wonderful people on the trail and in camp, and felt like a veteran of the SHT, embedded in the community of folks who love and travel it for distances short and long. I camped with 20-somethings, a couple with a wary shelter dog (Luna, I could tell you were a sweetheart even if you nipped my hand!), a middle-aged mother and daughter who had been on the trail for 16 days and were being supported by dad, who would meet them at trailheads and road crossings with food so they didn’t have to carry much, a single middle-aged woman who was hoping to complete a thru-hike in something like 30 days, and other interesting folk. I met and talked with many others on the trail, from 20-somethings to 70-somethings, and all were a delight to meet.

Unlike the 4th Musketeers, 
this porcupine was a 
welcome trail companion

I also had the weirdest experience I’ve ever had backpacking when, as I approached the Manitou River in George Crosby Manitou State Park, I saw group after group (totaling something like 80 men in all) go by me, many with red shirts bearing the numeral “4,” and many carrying enormous packs, or in some cases double packs, and frequently with one person carrying a flag with a red cross on it. After a couple of these
groups of six to 12 (exclusively men) passed me, I asked a guy what the number 4 on his shirt represented, and he told me they were part of a men’s movement, the 4th Musketeer. Days later, when I had internet service, I found that this was one of their “Xtreme Character Challenges.” Kinda weird (and it would have been more than kinda creepy had I been a single woman). Where in the world were these 80 guys even going to camp?!? Strange experience. 

Gorgeous campsite at Agnes Lake

By day eight I was also really getting ready for a variation in my diet, a night in a bed, and a shower. I knew if I kept pushing hard I could make it to Duluth on Day 13, so this was strong motivation. I had also decided I was all in on finishing my thru-hike in 15 days. This required several very long and exhausting days, as hiking 20+ miles on rugged trail, with less than 12 hours of daylight was challenging and required minimal downtime and a steady day-long pace. Day eight itself was perhaps my most difficult day, as I lost some time while diverting from the trail to pick up my cached food in Finland, then decided late in the afternoon to push on past a campsite at 15 miles to the next campsites on Palisade Creek. This was eightmiles down the trail, and I arrived as darkness was falling, spooking a dad and his three young daughters who were enjoying a campfire as I staggered into camp. I apologized for startling them and made camp in the damp darkness, wolfed down my dinner, and collapsed into my tent. 

 

In spite of the challenging days, I continued to feel totally immersed in the experience and thoroughly enjoyed every day, but I was getting ready for a break in the action. From day eight through day 12 I logged between 21.3 and 24.3 daily miles on often rough trails. This put me in position to reach Duluth’s Canal Park the afternoon of day 13. The SHT enters the northeast edge of Duluth, travels on some beautiful trails through city parks, a nature center, and some UMD natural land, then drops down on city streets to the Lakewalk and Canal Park. I was well and truly fired up for Canal Park, as I had been

fantasizing about a meal and beer(s) at Canal Park Brewing Company (right on the trail!!!) for many days at this point. The triumphal entry and hike along Duluth’s Lakewalk were every bit as wonderful as I had anticipated, and the meal and beers at CPBC were satisfying beyond my wildest dreams. The experience was capped by a nice chat with a young waitress who was interested in someday thru-hiking the SHT. 

 

A few more miles down the urban section of the trail I diverted to my sumptuous quarters at the Motel 6 and had one of the most divine showers of my life. Exceptionally fine pizza and beer with a jazz trio providing music followed at Ursa Minor Brewing, which I could just manage to stagger to a few blocks away. This all seemed surreally wonderful after 12 nights of sleeping in my cramped one-person tent and 13 days of hard, hard hiking. After about 10 hours of deep sleep, I awoke refreshed the next morning, stopped at the Duluth Grill next door for my third excellent meal in a row, purchased two king-sized Snickers bars to supplement my dwindling food supplies, and headed back onto the trail for the final two days of the trip. 

 

Duluth’s city trails are exceptional. Both coming into and leaving the city, I hiked many miles of beautiful trails along creeks and the high ridge southwest of downtown. What I had thought would be a somewhat boring stretch through the city was instead a fascinating introduction to a portion of Duluth’s wonderful natural environment. A highlight was a stop at Enger Park, where the Ohara Peace Bell graces a lovely Japanese garden. I stopped to toll the bell and appreciate the built beauty momentarily before pushing on. 

 

Ancient white pines near
Jay Cooke State Park

The final stretch of the hike greatly exceeded my expectations. A “traditional” thru-hike of the SHT would end at the original southern terminus of the trail on the north edge of Duluth (the Martin Road Trailhead). I’m so grateful I decided to continue to what is now the southern terminus at the Wisconsin border, a few miles past Jay Cooke State Park. The stretch through Duluth, including the urban bits, was wonderful, andthe hike to and through Jay Cooke was lovely, with some of the nicest stands of old growth white pine of the entire trip towering over the trail before and at points in the park. 

 

From around Split Rock State Park south I had seen very few people (other than in Duluth), including one day where the only person I saw was in the campsite I stopped at for the night, and the next day where the only person I saw was a Minnesota Department of Agriculture forester out doing field research on gypsy moth populations. That all changed as I hiked through Jay Cooke State Park on a bluebird sky Saturday, the 15th and final day of my hike. Throngs of people were out enjoying the beautiful fall colors. It was great fun to cross the historic swinging bridge over the St. Louis River, rubbing elbows with the day-hiking masses. I felt like a world beater, and in spite of significant trail fatigue, I hiked at a rapid pace all day after starting in the frigid, dark pre-dawn at the private Fond du Lac campground that was the only option for my last night. 

 

I had phoned Anne a few times since the return of phone and internet service in the Duluth area, and we had arranged for a 4:30 p.m. pickup at the Wild Valley Road trailhead. The southern terminus is 1.9 miles past the trailhead parking lot, so when I hit the parking lot at around 2:55, I knew I had just over 90 minutes to hike the 3.8 miles to the southern terminus and back. This wouldn’t be at all challenging walking at a normal pace at home, where I can easily average about 18-minute miles with a full backpack on. However, on the still-rugged trail, I knew I would really have to scoot to keep Anne from waiting. I scurried along and hit the long-anticipated southern terminus at around 3:40. Jubilation! I checked the log book, and saw that my friend Kathy B, who had seen a post on Facebook when I hit Canal Park Brewing that I would likely be at the terminus on Saturday, had congratulated me in advance as she and her dog Zest had been there the day before! After making a brief entry in the log book, I flew back down the trail and made it back the parking lot and the waiting Anne (and faithful cairn terrier Ruby) at 4:25. 

 

The thru-hike complete, I was overcome with gratitude for the opportunity I had to spend 15 days totally immersed in nature in a part of the world I already knew and loved, but had gotten to know and appreciate immeasurably more as a result of the experience. The ever-changing rugged landscape and ecosystems above Lake Superior, the old growth cedars, the colorful hardwood leaves, the beautiful creeks, rivers, and overlooks, the towering ancient pines, the innumerable and remarkably varied fungi, the friendly trail community – all combined for a wondrous 15 days that made all the hard physical work worthwhile. The trail has been developed and maintained through the hard work of many at the Superior Hiking Trail Association (staff, board, volunteers, members, and other supporters) since its creation in 1986. 

 

I have a renewed appreciation of the value of living life in the slow lane, with my home on my back. I know that this will remain a big part of my life as long as I am physically able to lace on my trail runners, put a pack on my back, and make my way slowly through the wondrous landscapes that remain on this beautiful planet. Let us praise backpacking!

Making Good Decisions

Sometimes a DNF (“did not finish” for those unfamiliar with race lingo) is a good decision. Yesterday’s DAMn DNF after 152 miles of 242.5 planned miles left me feeling a tiny bit disappointed but mostly just fine. (The DAMn -- Day Across Minnesota -- is a body- and mind-punishing 24-hour race across the state on gravel roads, starting at midnight in Gary, South Dakota and ending at Hager City, Wisconsin.)

 

I’ve been riding my bike my whole life (58 of my 63 years on this beautiful planet), and I almost always finish what I start. I’ve done bike races and cross country ski races since 1980, most recently bike races on gravel roads since 2012, and I’ve only DNFed two times before yesterday (the first after an irreparable tire blowout 46 miles into the 102-mile Almanzo in 2014; the second when I began descending into the grip of hypothermia in mid-30s sleet and rain and turned back, ultimately riding 92 miles of the planned 162 of the 2017 Royal). Since I started racing and loving the gravel-event scene at the September 2012 Heck of the North, I’ve probably ridden in something like 60 organized events, all of them hard and wonderfully challenging in their own way, none more so than The DAMn, so the decision to voluntarily pull the plug is highly unusual and not taken lightly.

 

I rode in and finished honorably in the first two versions of The DAMn (16^th place in 2017 in 16 hours and 42 minutes; 21^st place in 16 hours and 53 minutes in 2018), especially for an old guy (two months past 60 in 2018). My plan this year was to stay within my capabilities, ride as hard as I could sustainably, soak up the experience, and finish whenever my body could get me to the finish line, preferably in around 17 hours or a bit more. 

 

That I was on the start line at all was not really planned. Even though I loved my first two grueling DAMn experiences, I thought I had ridden my last DAMn in 2018. In a blog post I wrote about the 2017 DAMn, I talked of the likelihood that I would be doing fewer truly grueling things in the future: “I’ll likely do fewer Hard Things going forward than I have in recent years, as I want to make more time for other things that matter to me, including family, writing, and other creative pursuits. I also want to do everything possible to ensure that I can keep using my body for fairly physically hard things for many years yet.” I’ve mostly hewed to that intention, doing very few bike events, but getting back into backpacking (the Wind River Range, the Escalante Canyon twice, and the Superior Hiking Trail), harvesting wild rice (twice), doing more canoeing in the BWCA (including twice this summer), spending more time with my wife Anne, and generally seeking balance in life.

 

That being said, when Trenton Raygor announced to the world on November 25^th, 2020 that the 2021 DAMn would be the fifth and final version, I couldn’t help myself when registration went live on January 2^nd, 2021.

 

My initial thoughts after registering were “What have you done, you fool?!?” and “Baby, you have a looooong way to go to get ready for this thing.” At that point I was about 10 weeks into a painful, difficult, and lengthy recovery and rehab from rotator cuff surgery on October 22^nd, and wouldn’t be able to ride my bike outdoors for a few months yet. In addition, race day (August 14^th) is my anniversary, and I was less than thrilled about spending most of it away from my love, Anne, and being physically trashed after finishing, and she was even less thrilled than I was.

 

However, by August, I was feeling pretty confident in my level of fitness and was excited to experience the madness of The DAMn one last time. After being driven out to Gary, South Dakota and the start by friend and cycling buddy of about 28 years, Dave Strachan, along with Northfielders Galen M and Owen M, I was stoked when the fireworks went off at the Minnesota border at the stroke of midnight and I headed east into the star-spangled night along with 500 or so other DAMn fools, including a number of Northfield friends. 

 

The usual unique DAMn madness ensued. Flying through the dark night frequently at 20 to 25 mph on the first flat and slightly descending section of the course in tight formation on sandy, sketchy gravel, the first 28 miles passed like a fever dream, averaging about 20 mph. An excess of pre-ride coffee forced me to stop and pee at 28 miles, losing contact with a strong group of 12 or so I was working with at the time. A few other people picked me up after five or six miles, and we then hit the sandiest stretch of gravel I have ever ridden at mile 40, about a mile of what would have made a passable sand trap on a golf course, and the rest of the night was a blur of seeking out the most ridable line in almost-always sandy gravel, often by myself, occasionally with one to several others. 

 

I felt pretty good for the first four hours when I passed the 70-mile mark. However, I was riding unsupported this year, unlike my 2017 and 2018 rides, and rode longer than I should have to stop for a break at the first C store, a BP gas station in Morton at 5:10 a.m. at 85 miles. Those last 15 miles I felt like a zombie, even more so than I remembered feeling on that hauntingly beautiful section of the Sioux Trail along the Minnesota River the previous two rides. A handful of other unsupported riders were already there refueling, and more trickled in (including fellow Northfielder Phil B) over the 33 minutes I spent there. 

 

That was significantly longer than I planned, mostly because I felt wrung out and extremely chilly after about 15 minutes, and decided I needed to sit down and drink a cup of coffee indoors. An older gentleman sitting next to me playing solitaire was watching the grimy riders wander in and out and asked what was going on. We chatted for a few minutes as I sipped my coffee, and he wished me well when I departed.

 

Things picked up as I continued along the Sioux Trail. I was enough behind schedule from my previous DAMn rides that I was able to enjoy some pre-dawn miles in the Minnesota River valley as the sky began to lighten here for the first time in three tries, and my spirits were raised by the natural beauty and the prospect of the return of Old Sol. By the time I climbed out of the valley at the 95-mile mark on a nice bit of minimum maintenance road I’ve loved on all three DAMn rides, I was back in my usual groove and felt great. Riding on into the heart of the sunrise, I clicked past 100 miles at just over six hours. I rode for a few miles each with a couple of guys, both of whom had to stop for nature breaks independently, so my ride was pretty much solo from here on out. 

 

(Begin digressionary rant.) Something that struck me even more forcefully this year than on my previous DAMn rides was how completely dedicated to industrial agriculture this part of the state is. From the climb out of the Minnesota River valley at 95 miles to about 145 miles, the landscape is almost completely flat, and nearly 100% corn and soybean fields. As essentially all of these commodities go to animal feed and ethanol (and a bit of biodiesel) production, this is one giant meat and fuel factory. The prairie that sustained bison and an amazingly diverse ecosystem from the time of the last retreat of the mighty glaciers 12,000 years ago until the 1850s is not even a distant memory here anymore, which I find sad and lamentable, and something that I hope a more-mature civilization changes someday. Soon. (End of digressionary rant.)

 

Doubt and pain began creeping in around 140 miles. I was still feeling pretty decent, but I didn’t want to stop until the next C store option in Henderson at 152 miles. My pace dropped, and I was passed by several riders and didn’t have enough giddyup to jump onto any wheels. Along with the physical droop and psychological struggles I often have at roughly this point in a long, hard effort, I began second-guessing my decision to do the dang DAMn ride at all. This is not the proper state of mind for an event as hard as this. Merely completing the ride, let alone finishing strong, requires 100% commitment. At this point, that commitment was clearly lacking.

 

Anne, in spite of her grave concerns about my doing the ride, was gamely willing to pick me up at the expected 5:00 or 5:30 finish at Hager City, and take me from there to our planned anniversary night stay at an Airbnb 28 miles downriver at Reads Landing. As my pace slowed and my regrets about not prioritizing our anniversary over my desire to do one last DAMn ride increased, I realized I'd be finishing later than 5:30 and slowly came to the decision to call it quits at Henderson and get a ride home. Anne had urged me to call her at any point if I wasn’t able to complete the ride, so I planned to give her a call for the 42-mile taxi ride home. I could then take a shower, collapse for a short nap, and we could then enjoy the rest of our anniversary weekend together.

 

As I descended into the river valley, entered Henderson, and pulled into the Shell station on Main Street at 10:02 (151.55 miles, 10:02 total time, and 9:25 in the saddle at 16.1 mph), I felt no regrets about my decision, only relief. 

 

I stepped into the store to pick up a root beer before making the call home, and as I turned away from the cash register, came face to face with none other than Dave Strachan! Dave, after watching the DAMn start at midnight, had returned to the Buffalo Ridge Resort in Gary to get a good night’s sleep before driving back to Hager City to drop off Galen’s Jeep and ride his bike back to Northfield. Dave had stopped at the Shell station in Henderson to buy gas and was just pulling back out onto Main Street/Highway 19 when he saw me pull in! I quickly explained my decision to Dave, asked him if he could give me a lift home, and was extremely grateful when he immediately agreed. I couldn’t have been more grateful for Dave’s help and the remarkable timing of our coincidental meeting!

 

An hour later I was hugging Anne (even before taking a shower!). By 2:00, we were on our way to Reads Landing, where we proceeded to have a lovely afternoon and evening, including dinner on the patio at Reads Landing Brewing Company in the company of our 13-year-old cairn terrier Ruby. After sleeping like a dead man for nine hours, a stroll in beautiful downtown Reads Landing, a
drive on some old, familiar biking roads in the Nelson, Wisconsin area this morning, and brunch at Stockholm Pies, it feels good to be home and refreshed. 

 

“Make good decisions.” So says Joel Raygor, father of gravel race organizer extraordinaire and all-around great guy Trenton Raygor. (Edit: Joel's actual catchphrase is "Stay safe, have fun, and use good judgment." I'll stick with my paraphrase, though. :-)) Trenton, Joel, the rest of their family, and a team of dedicated volunteers have made The DAMn possible for the past five years. I’m eternally grateful for the amazing DAMn experiences they have facilitated for me and so many kindred spirits. I can now say with confidence that, even if someone else picks up the DAMn mantle and revives the race, I have ridden my final DAMn. I regret not getting a Trenton Raygor low five at the DAMn finish line, and all the good feels that come with being a DAMn Champion, but I’m at peace with pulling the plug on my ride yesterday. I have many wonderful memories of the day, and it was a good decision.

A Boy and His Van: Moby the Great White Van Is Road-Ready at Last!

Those of you interested in my van conversion project have no doubt been waiting with bated breath for news of the van’s completion. It’s only been… WHAT?!? TEN MONTHS AND 23 DAYS?!? …since I last wrote about my struggles to complete the conversion. In my defense, three days after that last blog post, I had a bit of a bike crash on September 5^th, and ended up with a badly torn rotator cuff (including two severed tendons that really kinda needed to be reattached), had surgery on October 22^nd, and spent about the next six months rehabbing my shoulder before I could do any significant work with that arm. 

The winter-long layoff on the project got me to fretting about the sole remaining major task, plumbing in the kitchen sink, water heater, and shower, and my utter incompetence to complete these tasks. I had been no more competent to accomplish anything else on the van project, of course, and had still managed to muddle through. For some reason, likely the many idle months, the thought of doing the plumbing work really messed with me. After those months of fretting, I finally decided that I would pay someone more competent than myself to accomplish these tasks, and found my man in Doug of RV Repair & Renovation in rural Medford, who told me he could fit the work in between larger projects “sometime in May.” May turned into June, but Doug finally turned the van back over to me late in the month, leaving only some finishing details to complete.

I’m beyond thrilled to report that Moby the Great White Van (henceforth to be known as Moby) is now 100% done and ready to hit the road!
Though I didn’t do all the work on the project myself (besides the plumbing, I also hired out some body work to address cancerous rust to Valley Autohaus), it still feels like a major accomplishment to have this sucker done.

 

Here are a few details on the build should you have any interest in reading on:

• ·      All the power for the van (for 12-volt lighting, mini-fridge, plumbing system pump, and inverter for 120-volt plug loads, including the seven-gallon mini water heater, two-burner induction countertop stove, phone chargers, speaker, etc.) is provided by two 100-watt Renogy solar panels and the 170 amp-hour Renogy lithium-iron phosphate battery they charge. No propane or other fossil fuels needed (other than the diesel fuel to move the rig down the road, of course…).

·      Most of the lumber and other wood used is reclaimed, including the cedar fence planks
used to finish the walls.

·      The cabinet countertops are made from raw ash lumber I purchased from Glenn Switzer at the Workshop at the Gardens (from a tree harvested on-site at Switzer’s Nursery).

·      The tiny fold-down table is made from black walnut milled from a tree that blew down on my father-in-law Loren Larson’s property in Walden Place many years ago. Loren provided major assistance in making the countertops and table!

·      The van walls and ceiling are insulated with 2” to 4” of two-part polyurethane foam insulation (roughly R-13 to R-26).

·      There is no air conditioning (other than for the cab of the van), but there is a 10-speed ceiling fan that can move air in or out, which provides good ventilation coupled with the two screened windows.

·      There is a huge amount of storage space under the queen-sized bed, including room for two bikes.

·      The flooring is Marmoleum Click tiles (made from all natural materials).

·      The tiny shower stall also houses a composting toilet (made by Nature’s Head).

 

Anne and I are ready to take Moby on the road Wednesday for a quick one-night shakedown outing to Duluth and the North Shore and have multiple adventures planned for the near future. Onward!

A Boy and His Van: Why Do I Keep Fuckin' Up?

I’m learning that converting a cargo van into a camper van is a reasonable microcosm of life. This is at least true for someone like me possessing few of the skills in advance needed for successful completion of the project. In this van project, as in life, constant learning, striving, occasional failure, and trying again is the only path forward. 

In recent years, with the assistance of a skilled local therapist who my family has come to refer to only half-jokingly as Saint Nancy, my self-awareness has slowly increased. I’ve come to realize that at various critical junctions in my life, I’ve made rash, often damaging decisions in an attempt to avoid failure and flee situations that subconsciously I felt I couldn’t successfully face. I’m gaining a better understanding of why I’ve behaved in this manner, and I think I’m getting better at recognizing when this impulse is driving my thinking, changing my thinking, and avoiding regrettable actions. I haven’t always been successful, unfortunately. To protect the innocent, I will say no more about regrettable actions in larger life, but will say a bit about the van project in this vein.

 

Those who know me will not be surprised that Neil Young’s music is well-represented on the sound track that plays in my mind. One of the songs that has played loudly and frequently recently is “Fuckin’ Up,” first recorded in 1990 on the album Ragged Glory. It played on repeat and loud after a couple of recent major steps in the van build process: insulating with two-part foam and wiring the van’s electrical system.

The two-part foam insulation process was familiar to me, as I had contractors use this insulation method innumerable times in weatherization projects over the past 11 years. However, the number of times I’ve actually done it myself: zero. After watching several YouTube videos and reading about several vanlifers’ experiences insulating their vans, I felt ready to take on the task. I purchased about $700 worth of two-part foam and the specialty spray gun required to mix the two parts, suited up in a Tyvek suit, nitrile gloves, and full respirator and launched into the messy process. An hour or two later, I felt pretty good about it on completion…until I tried to open the side cargo and rear doors and found to my horror that I had somehow gummed up the door latching mechanisms and was unable to open either door. 

 

After several days of mentally beating myself up (“Why do I keep fuckin’ up?” playing on repeat), and deciding I didn’t want to risk further damage, I swallowed my pride, scheduled an appointment at Valley Autohaus, and asked them to make the doors work again, please. Several days and $490 later, the doors worked better than they had before. Onward.

 

The next major step, wiring the van, was a complete plunge into the unknown. Although my father is an electrical engineer and a do-it-yourselfer in all things, including things electrical, I had successfully navigated the first 62 years of my life without learning much of anything at all about wiring and electrical theory. After a lot of online research and another batch of YouTube videos, I was ready (I thought) to install the following 12-volt components:

·      Eight ceiling LED puck-style lights (two circuits on dimmer switches)

·      Two bed-side LED gooseneck reading lamps

·      The ceiling Maxxair exhaust fan

·      The tiny Dometic refrigerator

·      The Nature’s Head composting toilet make-it-not-stink fan

·      The plumbing system pressurization pump 

All of this was powered, of course, by the van’s two 100-watt solar panels and a 170-amp-hour lithium storage battery. In addition, 110-volt power will be provided via a 2000-watt inverter for a tiny seven-gallon electric water heater, the countertop induction two-burner stove, coffeemaker, and anything else we want to plug in (laptop, phone chargers, etc.).

I toiled mightily for several days cutting wire to length and crimping on male and female connectors to various bits of 18- and 14-gauge wire, taking great pains to keep my positives and negatives straight. I set up my 12-circuit DC blade fuse box, labeled carefully. Kept my positives and negatives straight, double- and triple-checking to ensure that I kept them straight. To install the eight ceiling LED lights and exhaust, I had to cut carefully-positioned holes in the plywood ceiling panels. Finally, I enlisted son Jakob’s assistance in hoisting the ceiling plywood panels into place, cutting them carefully to fit into the front and back curvy bits of the van’s ceiling, wedging them into place, and screwing them home with the eight LED lights and Maxxair

exhaust fan in place and their wires tucked between the plywood and foam insulation above. 

The moment of truth arrived when I hooked up the load positive and negative wires to the solar system’s controller, installed fuses in the blade fuse box for each circuit…and nothing happened. Nothing turned on. Well dang. 

Unfortunately, this final step was occurring on the morning that Anne and I planned to leave to take the van on its first short trip (a three-night affair on Lake Superior’s North Shore, camping at Temperance River State Park). We loaded up the slightly less than half-finished van and headed out with no power. The composting toilet came with us for night-time pee use, but without the no-stink fan, we elected not to use it for its composting function. The plumbing system is sitting in our basement, yet to be installed, so there was no need for the plumbing pressurization pump to be installed anyway. We brought our headlamps for bed-time reading, a cooler for our cold food, and had a wonderful three nights and four days, in spite of having no lighting, no refrigeration, and no ceiling exhaust fan.

Upon our return, a bit of research on the controller function led me to the realization that I had to change a setting to send power to load. I changed the setting, and…lights in the back half of the van! Refrigerator purred into action! Unfortunately, the fuse for the front half of the van lighting instantly blew, as did the fuse for the ceiling fan. 

 

Needless to say, this was a disappointment. I tried upping the size of the fuses for the two failed circuits, but they instantly blew again, and the dimmer switch for the four front LED lights instantly went up in smoke as well. Houston, we have a problem. (Cue “Fuckin’ Up” in repeat mode in the internal play list.)

As I said, my understanding of electrical theory and general wiring practice was nonexistent at the beginning of this process. By this time, it was marginally better, but still shaky at best. I decided I needed to call in The Old Pro, and phoned my 88-year-old dad to come and try to help me troubleshoot the system. He arrived with his multimeter shortly later, and we began checking the faulty circuits. We probed, we checked, we determined that we had open circuits and no shorts. Long story short, The Old Pro recommended that I purchase four new LED puck ceiling lights and dimmer switch for the front of the van and start all over again with that circuit. He was as mystified as I was by the ceiling fan, and I decided to call the manufacturer to see if they had any insight into where I had gone wrong with that. 

While waiting for the LED lights and dimmer to arrive and spending a fruitless 40 minutes on the phone being assured that I would be served by the next available Maxxair representative, I did a bit more research on problems with the Maxxair fan installation. The only thing I could find was a poor fool who had inadvertently reversed the polarity on the fan (black does not connect to black on 12-volt systems – black is positive for reasons unclear to me in the 12-volt world). He switched the wires and the fan worked fine. Could I have inadvertently done the same? Impossible. I had double- and triple-checked the polarity of all my connections. Unfortunately, I couldn’t check the wiring without dropping the ceiling panel (which would be a major hassle entailing disconnecting the four working LEDs installed in the back half of the van as well). 

Anne and I decided to do one more short trip with the van before her teaching year began. We decided to bring sweet Ruby, our 12-year-old cairn terrier with us to see what she thought of van life. We loaded up the van again, this time with the rear LED lights and refrigerator working, and headed to Wild River State Park on the St. Croix River for a quick one-night trip. We (including Ruby) had a wonderful time, with the van a tiny bit closer to its finished state (though still far, far from finished). 

 Upon our return, I decided to just go ahead and switch the positive and negative wires anyway and see what happened. When the new LEDs and dimmer switch arrived, I again went through my crimp and connect routine with the LEDs and dimmer, making SURE that everything was connected properly, called in son Jakob again to drop the front ceiling panel down, removed the failed LEDs, reinstalled the ceiling panel, powered the system back up, and…YES! The lights worked! The fan sprang into action!! All was now well with the entire electrical system!!! JUBILATION!!!

 Whew. I feel better about things now, and perhaps capable of finishing this dang project. I have resolved to work harder on my inner sound track. I realize that I am taking on a significant challenge in this van project, that mistakes will inevitably be made, but that I will learn and recover from them and move on. Henceforth “Fuckin’ Up” will be rejected firmly whenever it begins to howl in my head. Sorry, Neil. 

 

Onward to the plumbing system.