Still
trying
to
escape the vagaries of Eastern laste-spring weather (and we shall certainly not achieve this today),
breakfast
and
on
the
road
again,
94
across
Wisconsin (thinking about Chris's Beloit College days),
with
some
surpising
topography
in
the
Driftless
Area --
that
part
of
the
Upper
Midwest
that
somehow
avoided
With
a
continued
incremetally
easier
scenic
transit
across
Jackson,
Eau
Claire,
Dunn,
and
St. Croix
Counties --
eventually
across
Minnesota,
including
the
twin gauntlets of cultured St. Paul
and
Minneapolis.
At
last
after
an
inordinate
number
of
stops,
admittedly
featuring
historical
insights,
we
are
over the
Red River of the North (tragically flowing that direction, at times free of ice in the South and not-so-much-so downstream, with catastrophic flooding), into North Dakota at Fargo and beyond to make camp in
Casselton
(named after a person, not a misspelled edifice), and,
despite the continued basic flatness, feels like the West in the spacious lack of arboreal vegetation and increase in long vistas.
Looks
can
be
deceiving,
bedding down in serene conditions and waking up mid-night to howling, torrential rains, first noticed by noting a flickering light outside: not a malfunctioning streetlight, but an entire world of pulsating lighting. Rather frightening, and could this all be a prelude to a tornado, for those of us on the upper level of this hostelry?
To be on the safe side, decamp to downstairs, where the help isn't overly concerned, assuring us that this kind of nightmare weather is not so unusual, but twisters not so much an occurance this far toward the pole, and indeed not seen or predicted tongith.
Head back upstairs after one last look at the purple flashing skies from ground level, and at last sleep, dreaming of the missed 71st day of summer back home, high down 7 to 84 (62 beginning the experience, 88 ending, so at least there's that)...
