Less than six hours later, Kylie called to say that Mexico City has closed its airport and UDLA has closed its campus.  As of this moment, she’s literally stuck there, washing her hands frequently and not kissing anyone.  That’s all I know.

I don’t know much.  Aargh!

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In some parts of Canada, they’d call this a snow chesterfield.

This was my first winter camp experience, brief as it was in the BWCA, and we’d left the west end of Snowbank Lake mid-morning, the temp slightly above zero.  We skied across to the southeast end and trudged the portage to Disappointment before noon, and were about half way across Disappointment when I nearly became a pathetic caricature straight out of Jack London.

We’d hit slush for the umpteenth time, which iced up my sled and made it impossible to pull.  On Scott’s advice (unfailing wise sage of the Norr), I’d taken to unharnessing, and flipping the sled to pound the ice off of it.  I thought I’d stopped beyond the slush patch, but when I stepped off of my skis, I suddenly plunged through the snow crust and was ankle deep in 33 degree slush.

“Explative!”

I scrambled on top of my sled, and by some miracle, my ankle high ski boots were just high enough.  Scott, at this point, was three or four hundred yards ahead of me, a dot in the expanse of white.  I managed to put on my snowshoes and pull the sled to a safer place to pound the ice off it, by which time Scott had backtracked to see whether his prized rookie was going to be come dead weight.

“Everything alright, rookie?”

“Yeah,”  I said.  “Damned slush.”

By the time we reached the east end of Disappointment, Scott (did I mention his wisdom) abandoned the original itinerary – snowshoeing another three hours through the beaver country to Muzzle Lake – and he suggested we set up camp right there.  Still counting the blessings and my dry toes, I concurred.

There, in the shadow of Disappointment Mountain, we stripped of our sweat soaked ski clothes and put on some layers of dry.  I put on about 5 layers, I think.  We spent the afternoon setting up camp, gathering firewood, and then dropping some lines into Disappointment with the expected result.  Dark by 4:30, we swapped stories around the fire, ate spaghetti and bratwurst (Scott’s menu that deserves some serious respect), howled at the moon, fondly remembered Governor Blagojevich and other notables, and took a brisk walk out onto the lake to get the blood flowing before we slipped into our sleeping bags, the real test.  It was here that I would either die, or live to tell the story.

The good news is that sometime in the night, clouds crept in and the temperature started to rise so that by morning, it was a balmy twelve degrees.  If it had crept below zero or if a wind had come up, I wouldn’t have felt any toes come morning.  I thank my father-in-law back in Grygla for praying for me all night long.

Not to Disappoint, the next morning Scott actually caught a fat Walleye (I hooked him first and lost him…yes, really!).  We broke camp about noon as the east wind kicked up and snow started to fall.  Compared to the brilliance of Friday’s sunshine, the near snow-blindness of skiing through the half light of a snowstorm was breathtaking.   Scott, a black speck in a vast, soft edged swirling whiteness, slowly lead me back westward.

The clincher was when Scott stopped and pointed to a dark spot off to the left.

“I think that’s a wolf kill.  How curious are you?”

It looked pretty far, and like a speck, but I said, “Pretty curious.”

We skied over, and sure enough, the deer carcass was bright red with gnawed flesh - nearly all of it gone – but Scott figured they’d be back again to clean it up.  Since we hadn’t seen it on the way out the day before, it must have happened that night under the waxing quarter moon, about two miles from where we’d slumbered.

I didn’t take any samples for the crime lab.  Nature’s justice was served, and my toes were intact for the next trip.

Of course winter camping is dangerous, but then again, so it taking a shower.  I arrived home that night to learn that my sister-in-law had fainted in her shower and broken her jaw when she hit the vanity.  She’s got her jaw wired shut for three weeks now.  Poor kid.  She’s got some tough sledding ahead of her.

I’d rather have a cold toe any day of the week.

Note:  I took no pictures because there’s enough futzing with gloves off as it is on a trip like this.  But maybe next time.

For a city of close to 100,000, Cholula has a small town feel.  Below, for example, is el camino real, the main street, west of the UDLA campus.  We walked this street several times between our hotel and Kylie’s campus.

Below, you can even see a small Scandinavian influence on the main drag.  I’m a little disappointed now that we didn’t stop in for a hamburger.

A couple of kilometers (gotta use the local measurements) west of the UDLA is el zocalo, or the town square.  Here’s a view from our hotel window.

Kylie had arranged for us to stay at a couple of places near the zocalo, the first being a bed and breakfast called estrella de belem, or Star of Bethlehem.

This was a pretty cool place to stay.  It’s an old, colonial hacienda (house) with all of its rooms arranged around a courtyard.

Our room had about a 25 foot ceiling of old wooden timbers and we were told it had been the kitchen.  I didn’t smell any bacon.

Friday morning (we’d arrived in the dark Thursday night), I went up to the roof to see Popocatepetl, el vulcan de Cholula.

The church in the foreground was next to estrella de belem.  According to Kylie, Cholula has the highest density of churches in all of Mexico.

In the other direction, spitting distance away, was the Great Pyramid of Cholula.

It looks like a hill topped by a colonial church, but under that hill is the Great Pyramid, which was either destroyed by the Conquistadors or covered by the Cholutecas themselves to protect it, depending on who you talk to (more later on the pyramid).  Below is a shot of estrella de belem from on top of the pyramid.  The glass pyramid on top of the building was right above the common area next to our room.

Our last night in Cholula we stayed at hostel del zocalo right on the zocalo.  Being it was a Saturday night, it was a little crazy down below, but fun to be so close to the action.  We had the corner room on the upper level.

Here’s the side street down below.  Pizza delivery, anyone?

There’s a brief tour for you.  I plan to post more about Kylie, and also some cultural observations, in the coming days, so here’s to following through!

Of the other three muskies, I had one on the line.  I’m sure it was 43 inches to Ken’s 42 shown here, but we’ll never know, now, will we, because I couldn’t land her.

It went like this.  It was the morning of our second day on the Little Fork.  Upon breaking camp, we’d fished a long, slow hole adjacent to our campsite, and this is where Ken landed Wilma.  It was a grand battle, and we all beached to assist.  Ned Dagler is shown here gingerly handling her in Ken’s home made “muskie cradle.”  She was released unharmed to attack again.  Say “muskie cradle” in hushed, reverent tones.

With renewed hope in out hearts, we drifted through some rapids into the next hole, a much smaller, cozier one.  i was casting with an ancient 3 treble crank bait that I’d inherited from the famed Illinois and New Mexico fisherman, Verlin Biggs (crappie king of Lake McFee, but that’s maybe another story).  Anyway, since it wasn’t the recommended #7 Shad Rap, I really wasn’t ’spectin much in the way of muskage, but suddenly there she was.

There was no mistaking her, really.  It was like snagging a stump, only not like snagging a stump at all, and I didn’t want to believe it for the first two seconds, but as I cranked slowly, I watched her swim down stream at us, pass the canoe, then turn and head straight under.  Scott in the front of the canoe calmly announced, “Fish on.”

She didn’t seem to notice me for those first 30 seconds, and I knew my job was just to tire her out and give her line, but it just seemed like she was going to let me reel her in.  That changed in a hurry.

Suddenly she headed back upstream and was pulling line out of my real at an alarming rate.  I should have relaxed the drag to give her whatever she wanted, especially considering the light tackle I was using and the age of my line, but all I could do was hold on.  Too late.  My line went slack.  She’s down there somewhere, Verlin’s lure dangling from her jaw.  She’ll shake it off.

I can replay it, and I know what I’ll do next time, but that doesn’t take the edge off my disappointment; however, I have fond memories of that 60 seconds she and I were connected by a nearly invisible strand of monofilament.  If I’d landed her, I’d have let her go, anyway.  One could argue that the only real difference between Ken’s success and mine is that I elected to bypass the muskie cradle.  Err…I’m not buyin’ that either.

Carolina Chad had close encounters with two more.  One chomped a small mouth bass on his stringer in half, and later another followed his monster lure up to the boat.  It would have been nice for he or Wylie Bracie to land one, since they’d come all the say from Myrtle Beach.  Above is the whole crew.  Left to right:  Dagler, Ken, Scott, Chad, and Wylie.  You won’t see a better line up at the Koochaching county jail.

Of course, a true wilderness experience is never complete without wildlife (I’m sparing you the image of the bull simlutaneously drinking and urinating).

And hot pursuit.

And just general peacefulness.

There’s more to tell, mostly about expressing oneself, but in general, most things that happen on the Dagler Stretch stay on the Dagler Stretch.

Sing with me.  “And holds goats in the palm…of his hand…”

Note:  Done completely without Photoshop.

Included in my sabbatical plan was a poorly conceived goal of taking a bicycle tour of northern Minnesota. It was my dream to bike up the North Shore, circle west through International Falls to Warroad to visit my brother, head southwest to TRF to visit my parents and my other brother, and then head back home. I thought maybe I could do this in the late spring in about two weeks. What was I thinking?

Between the weather and Kylie’s graduation, there was just no way such a thing could ever happen. I did, however, put in 160 miles last Sunday and Monday taking the Willard Munger Trail from Duluth to Hinkley and back. It was my friend Andy’s idea.

Andy is a long time family friend, soon to be a junior at Denfeld High, and he’s caught the cycling craze. He scored a free room coupon at the Casino hotel in Hinkley somewhere and asked me if I’d bike along with he and four friends. I said, “Sure,” but called my friend Tanner for backup. Then, as things go, all of Andy’s posse dropped out one by one, leaving only Andy, Tanner, and I Sunday morning heading down the trail in the dust of some spandex clad bullet heads.

The Munger Trail is an old rail bed, one of many Minnesota bike trails developed over the last twenty years. I think I can safely say I now know every inch of it. Most of it looks like this.

I shot this from the hip on the fly. I like the Batmanesque tilt to the photo. Here’s the only picture of Tanner, for you Tanner groupies.

The sad news was that Tanner woke up Monday morning and puked his guts out. This, however, didn’t bother Andy and I. We abandoned T-Money at the Grand Northern Inn and headed north, taking an alternate route (six unexpected and character building miles of loose gravel) to Banning State Park.

Banning’s claim to fame is it’s rapids on the Kettle River. Our alternate route also revisited highway 61, which should please Andy’s dad, Big G, the biggest Dylan aficionado north of Antarctica (don’t worry, Greg, about any messages from God regarding your son).

Some other notable stops along the way were the Moose Lake City Park beach, where I won the cannon ball contest (Andy Silver, Tanner Bronze), Peggy Sue’s Cafe in Willow River…

…where Andy’s rear tire went flat and he fixed it in 15 minutes flat. Andy also handily devoured Peggy Sue’s double California Burger…

…TJ’s Country Store in Mahtowa (thanks for the strawberry rhubarb jam from the flea market, Mrs. Oberg)…

…some great bridges over the Kettle River, which kept reappearing…

…some woods (did I mention woods?)…

…and, naturally, The Ponderosa. Who knew?

Finally, this narrative wouldn’t be complete without mention of the Oregon Emergency Weather Radio I won at the Casino. To reserve our motel room, I had to become a Grand Rewards member, and my signing bonus was a chance at this lovely instrument. It’s still only partially out of the box, but I think it will easily make me the weather czar of my neighborhood.

Also, let the record reflect that we were buffeted by headwinds all the way to Hinkley and averaged 11.9 mph. In the night, the wind shifted, naturally, to buffet us all the way home; however, being it’s all down hill, we averaged 12.7 mph (thanks to our nifty odometers).

For those who doubt that I actually completed this journey, submit this final photo as exhibit A.

I just returned from the Swenson family reunion in Willmar, Minnesota. I know you all want to hear about the relatives, but the most exhilarating thing about it was witnessing a tornado. I took pictures on my cellphone, but I’m just luddite enough that I haven’t figured out how to send them to myself. Lucky for you, gentle reader, there’s a ton of footage on YouTube already. I chose one here that’s both terrifying and brief.

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There you have it. I wasn’t quite as close as this video, but my guess is it was about a mile south of our motel. A large crowd of Swensons were yacking in the motel lobby when a wet woman stormed into the lobby seeking shelter from the funnel cloud. I calmly announced that we should all seek shelter in the center hallway, at which point Swensons young and old grabbed their cameras and headed for the parking lot. A good time was had by all.

The ensuing damage tour revealed that damage was spectacular, but limited to things like trees, sheet metal roofs, and a few farm implements. The most interesting damage we saw was the roof of the turkey quonset. The turkeys, largely unscathed, remained looking up in wonder far into the evening.

Maia and Maritha were sufficient schooled in the terrible power of nature and the nature of our own fragile mortality. They also learned to remember their cameras for the next weather event.

I hope to be posting more regularly in the next two months, so I figure I’d wet your appetite. A preview of future entries looks like this:

• A father examines the milestone of a first daughter’s high school graduation
• Fishing on Lake of the Woods
• John Kelly: Man or Myth?
• Sasquach: Man or Myth?
• Yeti: Man or Myth?
• 50 years of my parents marriage celebrated
• Does a newspaper contain news? And is it made of paper?
• Some book reviews

That should keep you coming back.

P.S. I almost forgot. A young girl is reported to have been knocked unconscious during said twister, and upon awakening, claims to have traveled with her dog via twister to the Mall of America, where she purchased sweet shoes and learned that “There’s nothing like credit.” Her family and the hired men rejoice in her recovery.

Check it out.

It was an all brass (tuba playing bass) with percussion (snare and bass drum) mobile procession. It was loose, fun, everyone got a solo, and I got to play long comping on a banjo (I’m a third rate banjo player, but I’ve learned to fake playing most stringed instruments). We were a bunch of white kids (grant me this one exaggeration) trying on our “soul.”

Turns out that Second Line parades happen nearly every Sunday in New Orleans. They’re local events sponsored by Social and Pleasure Clubs from around the city where a brass band and costumed dancers lead neighborhood people winding through their own streets. No one watches a Second Line parade because everyone’s in it. As it winds its way, it grows as people come out of their houses and join the parade. Since Katrina, these parades have taken on an even more symbolic role of hope, unity, and community than they already had.

Our particular Second Line Parade was sponsored by the Bayou Steppers, (advertised on their banner as the first integrated social and pleasure club in NO). The picture here I stole from NOLA Entertainment, but we were at this very parade. It started at the very humble intersection of 2nd and Dryades where people were milling around while the band got organized. Sherry and I had a quick lunch of some great Cajun shrimp soup with a boiled egg in it sold from the back of a rusty pickup. Then the band started up and we headed out.

It was an amazingly beautiful day, which my pathetic photos don’t do justice to, but suffice it to say that the music was amazing and I’d have missed my flight home to be there if I’d have needed to.

It was a great party – sunny and 80 degrees while at home Duluth was in a sleet storm. It wasn’t all happy, though. At one point, the whole parade stopped while the brass band played a dirge (Just a Closer Walk) to honor someone who had recently died (we never found out who, but it’s a frequent Second Line phenomenon). Also, we wound through a neighborhood that was probably only about 1/3 occupied. Below is an upper level apartment that appeared occupied, but still in shambles.

The parade wound toward downtown and pretty near our hotel, so we eventually abandoned it to catch our flight home.

Interestingly enough, when I was asking hotel staff about Second Line parades, one woman directed me to Harrah’s Casino, where a Second Line band parades around 24/7 while people pump cash into slot machines. The average tourist doesn’t get out of the Quarter/Hotel/Casino district of New Orleans, so she was just responding to what’s normally expected, I guess. I’m glad we didn’t take her advice.