Back in November, 2002, before I had a blog or even knew what a blog was, Frank, Alex and I ventured north to Minnesota, North Dakota, and Canada. This is the beginning of a series of stories from that trip, a little walk through the snow down memory lane.
❄ November 3-5, 2002 ❄
Frank, Alexander and I started our Great Northern Adventure by flying from San Jose, California, U.S.A. to Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada on Sunday, November 3, 2002. Alex was 2 1/2, a talkative, bright toddler with a will of titanium. Our journey took us from Winnipeg to such glamor spots as Angle Inlet, Minnesota; Pembina, North Dakota; and Steinbach, Manitoba, all the way north to our final destination in Churchill, Manitoba to witness the annual polar bear migration. We could have dubbed this the “Bears or Bust Tour.”
Our trip started out auspiciously enough. The California weather was cool and clear, and perfect for flying. At the San Jose Airport, Alexander got to burn off a little of his excess toddler-energy at the play scape in Terminal C, then we boarded a United flight to Denver. We changed planes in Denver to a small regional jet, where Alexander tortured the man in front of him for two solid hours by alternately screeching maniacally and kicking his seat. We arrived in Winnipeg later that night.We spent the first night in the 4 Points Hotel, a comfortable and convenient place that was literally across the street from the airport. The next morning, Frank picked up a rented Volvo station wagon, and we were off. Our first mission was to find some extra snow gear before heading to the wilds of Canada and the Northern United States. The friendly hotel staff directed us to a nearby mall, but recommended the local Wal-Mart as the place to shop for snow gear. We found the mall, and promptly bought snow boots for Alexander at Sears. We didn’t find much for ourselves, and everyone we asked recommended that we go to—you guessed it—Wal-Mart. After the fifth person recommended Wal-Mart, I gritted my teeth to overcome my deep-seated anti-Wal-Mart bias (I am a loyal Target shopper), and reluctantly agreed to go there.
Wal-Mart was all the locals said it would be and more, and did not disappoint. Evidently, not all Wal-Marts are created equal. This one was spacious, clean, with clearly marked aisles. The one we have near our home has the perpetual look of a store that has just been looted, so this was surprising to me. After arming ourselves with cheaper-than-cheap boots, scarves, film, and miscellaneous other winter-vacation related items, we headed blindly into the snow country.
After several hours, which felt more like an eternity, we finally saw a sign saying “Entering the United States.” The sign instructed us to go to the Customs Station at Jim’s Corner. Since this is perhaps the remotest border crossing in the entire U.S. of A, there is no live customs agent stationed there, just something that looks like a phone booth with a camera. An actual human being would likely go insane being stuck out in the middle of nowhere. The instructions on the Official Customs Phone Booth said to call in and show them your passport on the videophone, so Frank dutifully did so. We probably woke up the Customs Agent from a dream involving Britney Spears and a vat of hot chocolate, but he forgave us and let us pass. I guess we didn’t look much like terrorists, and a strip search would not have been possible by phone, not to mention terribly, terribly cold.
We then proceeded to search for our lodging, the Angle Outpost Resort. We found it, but it was completely dark and deserted. There was no note or instructions on what we were to do, so we left to find a phone or at least a human being who might tell us what was going on here. Once again, I started feeling slightly panicky as we drove around in the pitch dark. I had visions in my head of us and our precious baby boy sleeping in a car, deep in the woods with no heat and only clothes from Wal-Mart to keep us warm. I could just see the CNN headline banner: “Stupid California Tourist Family Eaten by Giant Beaver in Remote Corner of Minnesota.”
We drove around until we found Carlson’s Lake of the Woods Resort, which had the only house in town with a light on, so Frank went to the door. “Resort” in Minnesota does not mean “Chilly Club Med”; evidently, it means “group of fishing lean-tos by a lake”. The Carlsons seemed a little startled to see Frank on their doorstep. Frank told them we had a reservation at the Angle Outpost Resort, but no one was there. The proprietor told him that David and Jessica, the couple who owned the Outpost, had left for the mainland to have a baby. They found the phone number of the motel where David and Jessica were holed up, undoubtedly practicing their Lamaze breathing techniques, and kindly called to find out what we were supposed to do.
Frank talked to Jessica on the phone and got instructions. Jessica told Frank that she thought David was crazy for booking us in there, but that David had only given in because Frank “really really wanted to come.” I suppose she was highly amused by this between having contractions every 5 minutes. She said she was in labor, but had not progressed enough to be admitted to the hospital yet, so they would not be back before we left. Frank asked Jessica why the place was so deserted. She told him that it was too cold for the summer fisherman, and not cold enough for the lake to be frozen over for the ice fisherman. Jessica told Frank that they left the cabin door open and that the heat was on, so we should just go on in to Cabin 9 and make ourselves at home.
Frank thanked the Carlsons and we drove back to Angle Outpost. The cabin had two bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, and small bathroom. It smelled faintly of cigar smoke, Crisco, and fish guts. Each spartan bedroom was equipped with three twin-sized beds, along with sheets, blankets and a couple of towels. It was obviously built for groups of rugged, outdoorsy fishermen to rest their weary bones after a long day of fishing and power-napping on the lake, not for a slightly nutty high-tech couple and a toddler. But, it was warm, clean and certainly beat sleeping in the Volvo and fending off killer beaver.
We had not eaten dinner, and only had a delightful array of juice boxes and Goldfish crackers with us, so we ventured out again in search of a restaurant or a grocery store. We found Jerry’s Restaurant a few miles down the road, which turned out to be the only restaurant open in Angle Inlet. When we walked in, it was like a scene from the old TV show, “Northern Exposure”—a rustic bar/restaurant with old wooden tables, a waitress in her 70’s who was also the cook, complete with a couple of logging truckers in fleece-lined caps and red and black plaid CPO jackets sitting at the bar.
On the wall was a fake moose head with head of an “alien” between the antlers. Alexander said, “Oooh, fooky!” which meant “how spooky” in toddler-ese. On the TV over the bar, Walter Mondale was debating the Republican Senate candidate. Former Vice-President Mondale had been taken out of political mothballs to run for Senate against a Minneapolis businessman when the incumbent Democrat, Paul Wellstone, was killed in a plane crash the week before the election. The Republican later won the election, and Mondale went back to playing golf.
The waitress at Jerry’s asked where we were from and what we were doing there. When we told her where we were staying, she excitedly asked, “Did Jessica have that baby yet?” We got that a lot during our stay in Angle Inlet. We told her what we knew and she related the information to the truckers. They nodded in approval. It seemed like everyone knew everyone else, and we were an oddity at this time of year. The big news of the town was the arrival of Jessica and David’s baby. In some ways, the place was like an island, cut off from the rest of civilization by water on one side and trees on the other, with only one long, lonely road leading there.After a dinner of greasy cheeseburgers and fries, with chicken nuggets and canned orange juice for Alexander, we made our way back to our rustic fishing cabin and turned in for the night. The cabin was roomy, and once you got past the smell, was actually quite pleasant. Frank went to the car to get some of our stuff, and met some curious deer. He tried to show them to Alexander, who got scared and started crying. The deer were probably trying to figure out how to drive away so they could find something decent to eat. Alexander said, “Oooh, fooky!” a couple of times, and then he fell asleep on Daddy’s left arm.
The next morning, we awoke to fresh snowfall and more brazen deer in the front of our cabin. We walked outside, and the deer checked us out while we checked them out and snapped a few photos. The snow was still falling in big, wispy flakes and everything around us was completely silent. We looked out over the vast, frozen lake, fringed by evergreens, and soaked in absolute silence. We were the only people at the Angle Outpost, and the deer didn't seem to mind a bit.
It was a gorgeous winter scene, at once lovely and melancholy, with stark white birch trees against the tall green pines. When you live in a temperate climate like Northern California, it is easy to forget how beautiful and serene a winter landscape can be.
We took a walk down to the lake and looked around a bit, then packed up and headed out. After a cholesterol-laden breakfast at Jerry’s, and questions from the breakfast crowd about the status of Jessica’s baby, we set out in search of the landmark that said “Northernmost Point of the Lower 48”. We found the Most Northerly Post Office and the Northernmost One Room School House, but no statue or plaque or flashing neon arrow showing us the exact location of this geographically significant spot. At one point, I was desperate to find the Most Northerly Outhouse, but had to settle for a bathroom in a baitshop instead.
Frustrated, Frank stopped at Prothero’s Post Resort, breaking his all-time record for asking for directions not once but twice in one vacation. We found the elderly proprietor in the Live Bait, Candy & Souvenir Shop. He informed Frank that the Northernmost Point marker could only be accessed by boat, and that to reach it, we would need a guide who knew the lake well. Since the lake was in the process of freezing over, there was not likely to be anyone willing to risk it. Frank was crushed. We’d come so far out of our way just to have our hopes dashed by a nice old guy in a fur hat with earflaps.
We then gave up our quest for Far Far Continental North and vowed to return someday. Frank and I had previously visited Barrow, Alaska, another frozen, God-forsaken location, so that we can honestly say we have been to the Northernmost Point of the entire United States. I mentioned to Frank that my dad loved to fish in Minnesota and Canada, so coming back in the summer was not far out of the realm of possibility. Disappointed, yet undaunted, we revved up the Volvo and headed back across the border to Canada. The road out of town was quite beautiful in the light of day.
Through all the trials and tribulations of the long car ride, creepy cabin, and greasy food, Alexander took it all in stride. He was cheerful, but a bit world-weary. He charmed waitresses and truckers alike, and never failed to make us smile when things did not go as planned. Our Christmas card in 2002 was a photo I took of Alexander outside our cabin, looking up at me with eyes wide, as if to say, “Isn’t the world a wonderful place?”
