Yet another night of vivid dreaming. I saw Voa, and she was smiling. I woke up serene, and with a vivified sense of purpose. There was not a could in a sky.
Breakfast at the Comfort Inn: eggs, sausages, make your own waffles, and various bakery items. It was enough incentive for us to get online and book the nearest Comfort Inn to our next destination. It would be a shorter ride today - around 280, compared to the previous day's 400. The next two days will split the distance to the Badlands. I was content with a shorter day, as I spent the morning typing the previous post and the note to my family. The thought of being absent at the funeral of my grandmother still turns my stomach from grief, but I know, as my mother assured me, that ultimately it was the decision more in accordance with what would be Voa's wishes. I last saw her several months ago, when her health began declining at a more rapid pace. We went as a family - my mom, dad, brother, and I - to say goodbye. She still held on for months afterward. My remorse of not being with my family, despite doing what I know is right, is coupled by relief that she has finally let go, and is out of pain. She was with loved ones, who helped her to let go at the end. I am confident that her last thoughts were bucolic.
As we were eating breakfast, we overheard a man talking to his wife and kids about the cougar he saw last night. He looked in my direction, and acknowledged my fascinated countenance. "You saw a cougar last night? Where at?" I inquired. "Were you guys the bikers outside last night? I was the weird guy poking around about 20 ft away. It was just around the corner of the hotel."
We were off to a later start than usual, but I needed the time to collect myself and devote attention to expressing my thoughts to my family. Snake was patient, and politely abided. After the packing ritual, we made a run to Target across the street from the Comfort Inn in preparation for the road ahead. The forecast for Yellowstone in the days to come was very wet. We know better at this point than to bestow complete trust upon meteorology, but we also know better than to be unprepared. The shopping list: rain gear, fuel injector, small can of WD-40 (to silence the squeak in my front wheel), binoculars, a plastic bowl (for camping, so I wouldn't have to borrow Snake's), a cheap pair of low-cut shoes (in case my riding pair got soaked again), and bandanas. Bandanas are great to have as an on-hand rag for general purposes, as well as face protection from sun and prairie/desert dust. Today, I sported a fresh one as a reminder to keep vigilant at the helm, in honor of Voa. A rebel with a cause. From this point on, I was riding for two.
We took an alternate route to bypass the interstate, which traced the Minnesota border southward. The quaint rural landscapes of Northern Minnesota farmland that rekindled my romanticism were soon superseded by the insidious side of agriculture: the juggernaut of industry. Miles and miles of cornfields; monolithic factories interrupting the flatland; giant tillers decimating acres of dead husks a thousand a minute; and most directly hazardous to us, semi rigs exacerbating the crosswinds to dangerous gusts. Present before our eyes was the hideous bastard sibling of our local neighbors at the herb farm in South Dartmouth. The scale of such agriculture is so massive as to seem permanently irreversible. Such is the present demand and expectation of large-scale agriculture: to produce food for millions. We were cruising through towns with populations a fraction of my high school graduating class, many of which were centered around such huge production plants that no doubt employed a majority of the town. Everybody has to make a buck, true enough. But something about the process at this magnitude is so unnerving and so unnatural to me. In addition to the terror that the very sight of this flavor of agriculture inspired, many if not all of the sugar beet and cornfields we passed were surely Roundup ready crops. Again, not the time or place for a rant, but to anyone informed as to the practices, suppressed data, and consequences of the unchecked power of Monsanto and its cohorts, the horror of bearing witness to ground zero speaks for itself. I couldn't help but wonder as we cruised through, is there no other way at present? Has the situation become such that something catastrophic must happen before we re-evaluate the implications and impact of our actions? There are two sides to every story, no doubt. Jobs are limited in this part of the country, and such farming practices aren't prefaced by malevolent intentions. This is simply the state of affairs; but it does not make it less unfortunate, and doesn't mean it must always be so.
This thought stream was interrupted by the brake lights of a passing police officer. We saw him turn around in our rear views, and before we knew it, we were pulled over. We weren't driving more than 5 mph over the speed limit, which was relatively slow in contrast to others on the road. Turns out Minnesota requires motorcycle headlights to be on at all times, and mine had been off. In the back of my mind was my mother's observation that I never really learned deference to authority. I immediately assumed, okay, this guy is pulling two bikers over to screw with us. Don't they have anything better to do in a small town? The officer was very kind, and although he issued me a warning, he was a healthy exception to my expectation. He asked us about our trip, and cautioned us that the sugar beet trucks left dirt tracks on the road that, when wet, were a serious hazard to all vehicles, and motorcycles in particular. I thanked him for his kind words, and, had I the time for a proper explanation, would also have thanked him for the modicum of faith in authority he had restored in me. It was a pleasant surprise to be proven wrong.
We cruised onward. Miles and miles of corn. Time started playing tricks on me in the way that one underwater can have difficulty discerning up from down. I had no time telling device, and was relying on the sun to determine the hour, in conjunction with the clocks at gas stops that brought a little sense of order back. It was a day of shorter mileage, but a day of deep contemplation. Memories of my grandmother, my discomfort at the thought that I would be blazing through the country as my family would be gathering at the wake and the funeral, and my return to vigilance and keeping Voa's lessons as close as they had always been in my better moments circulated through my head for the duration of the day. As the sun descended, slowly disappearing below the boundless prairie horizon, I reminded myself that the day was a blessing. Every day is a blessing if we will it to be. Voa's incandescence burned brightly within.
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