FOLLOWING THE MISSISSIPPI: Journey’s End (Natchez To NOLA)

September 28, 2014 by

BIG MUDDY PEEK-A-BOO

2014-07-10 14.35.29As I headed south on Highway 61 out of Vicksburg the Mississippi River reappeared, glistening in the late afternoon sun through a frame of pink flowering shrubs. It was a stirring sight, but the road soon turned inland so I hopped on the Natchez-Trace Parkway hoping for even a faint echo of the magnificent Blue Ridge Parkway. Instead, a monotonous sentry of towering pines dominated the flat landscape.

2014-07-10 16.05.39I arrived in Natchez at 4:00 and made an unplanned stop at a historic park on the outskirts of town. It too was not quite noteworthy—a plantation home of dubious beauty, preservation, or significance. I declined to pay for the final ranger’s tour of the day and instead briskly walked the overgrown ‘gardens’ before heading into town seeking a smaller version of Vicksburg.

(UN)EPIC EPILOGUE

Whereas Vicksburg rose from the river on a steep but sloping hill, Natchez was perched atop a plummeting bluff that provided dramatic views of the Mississippi. A small park along the cliff formed a lovely centerpiece to town, but there was little else to see in this tiny river community.

2014-07-10 16.17.28

View From Natchez Bluff’s Cliff

Natchez once was a thriving riverboat stop between Vicksburg and New Orleans segregated into two distinct sectors. Atop the bluff set ‘Natchez On The Hill’ where wealthy, God-fearing merchants and plantation owners stood removed (at least outwardly) from sin and vice. Along the narrow strip of land at the bottom of the cliff lay ‘Natchez Under The Hill,’ a bustling and rowdy wharf lined with bars, gambling dens, and whorehouses. Multiple attempts from on high to tame Natchez Under The Hill had failed during its frontier days, but now the entire town appears sleepy and reserved—tamed by the sands of time.

2014-07-10 16.33.35It was brutally hot, so after walking down to the river I spread my tent out (I’d left it out overnight to dry but it had rained again) and fled into the lone public establishment within sight for a drink and bite to eat.  The food and atmosphere were pleasant if unremarkable. I relished the chance to jot down some thoughts and reflections but found little other reason to linger.

As I drove out of town, however, I passed a sign pointing to Natchez Under the Hill. Kicking myself for missing a chance to hang out there instead, I drove down the bluff only to find a couple of empty bars and cheesy t-shirt shops.  My disappointment quickly waned, though I did feel a growing melancholy. This was the last stop of my epic journey.

FROM SHACKS & STRIP MALLS TO SILT & RECECDING SOIL

River Casino Below Vicksburg Taking Advantage of the River's Return

River Casino Below Vicksburg Taking Advantage of the River’s Return

Dusk fell as I crossed into Louisiana and passed a steady line of strip malls and country shacks that lead into Baton Rouge. (While New Orleans is a cultural jewel, you’ll never hear many folks raving about the rural Louisiana landscape!) As for Baton Rouge, I’d visited friends who teach at LSU throughout My Year of Mardi Gras and felt little need to return–they were all out of town and beyond the university and a few government buildings deserted on evenings and weekends there was little to see.

I-10 between NOLA and Baton Rouge cuts through large, unpopulated stretches of river and marsh, and as I drove over the receding silt and soil on an endless succession of bridges I reflected on my journey. I had started thousands of miles away at the river’s meager trickle from Lake Itasca and traversed the heart of the country witnessing spectacular changes both geographically and culturally.  Though my journey ended as the lights of the Crescent City rose to embrace me, the river itself meandered on another hundred miles to the Gulf of Mexico. (And I’d already documented this final stretch on a frigid February day.)

VINI VIDI VICI

View From Natchez Under The Hill

View From Natchez Under The Hill

I had been invited to crash at the home of a writer friend, and it was past 9:00 when I arrived.  She was in the throes of revision and I was exhausted, so after minimal obligatory small talk I crawled into bed and sunk into restless sleep, overwhelmed by a swirl of emotions.  Over the past year and a half I’d seen and done so much, yet now it was all over.  There were no more dreams of grandeur, no more tricks to try.  Tomorrow I’d quietly pack up and head back to Florida without stirring a wrinkle on the surface of this deep cultural pond. I came. I saw. I hadn’t conquered. Not by a long shot.

The next morning I awoke early with little time to say goodbye (for now) to the city that had lured me and captivated my imagination yet never quite felt like home. After a farewell breakfast at Slim Goodies, I picked up a U-Haul trailer, hurriedly loaded my belongings in storage, and set out the nine-hour drive back to Jacksonville where I would recoup, regroup, and decide how to move on from My Year+ of Mardi Gras. I had hoped to launch at least a part-time writing career in New Orleans, but continued to struggle to grow an audience or figure out how to turn warm, fluffy sentiment into cold hard cash.  Deep down I know I’ll type away until the day I day, yet part of my feared I was giving up. I was desperate for closure a sign of some sort, so was grateful when the universe offered a sly wink.

A Cute Coincidence or Sign From God?!?

A Cute Coincidence or Sign From God?!?

During my farewell trip along the Mississippi my favorite destination and fondest memory had been Hannibal, Missouri—home of literary hero Mark Twain. To my surprise and delight the U-Haul trailer I was assigned boasted a picture of a leaping frog illustrating Twain’s most famous short story: “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.” Every U-Haul illustrates a different location, yet out of thousands of American destinations I’d drawn Mark Twain’s hometown.

Perhaps it was just coincidence, but maybe—just maybe—the universe was giving me a little nudge to keep on hauling….

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FOLLOWING THE MISSISSIPPI: Vibrant (No Longer) Vanquished Vicksburg

September 15, 2014 by

MOTHER NATURE-1, GENERAL GRANT-0

City On A Hill

City On A Hill

By the mid 19th Century, Vicksburg was a flourishing antebellum cotton exchange with surprisingly cosmopolitan amenities. Located atop the highest bluff on the southern Mississippi, it was both an important river and railroad junction, so when the Civil War broke out it became arguably the most fiercely contested position of the conflict, its fortress-like perch a defensive blessing that lingered into a curse. Instead of falling quickly to the Union like other river communities, Vicksburg easily frustrated all attempts at capture for over a year, but this would only prolong its suffering.

Vicksburg Past (Lower Mississippi River Museum)

Vicksburg Past
(Lower Mississippi River Museum)

Up-and-coming Union general Ulysses S. Grant (who inherited the failure of the previous command) was so frustrated by Vicksburg that he tried to dig a bypass canal through the horseshoe bend where the city lay at the apex—a colossal failure. Out of desperation, he finally sent his troops on a risky overland maneuver through swampy wilderness in enemy territory cut off from supply lines to lay siege from the city’s rear. The gamble paid off, and over the next few months he starved out the city’s genteel residents while forcing them to live underground like rodents to avoid the ceaseless shelling.

Aware of Vicksburg historically prominent perch, I rolled into town anticipating spectacular views of the mighty Mississippi, but instead discovered I could barely glimpse a narrow, stagnant channel through the trees below.

The Opposing Generals (Battlefield Visitor's Center)

The Opposing Generals
(Battlefield Visitor’s Center)

Vicksburg’s prosperity was fueled by its founding at the Mississippi’s confluence with the Yazoo River, but—in an ironic twist of fate—a dozen years after Grant’s failed detour [Read more…]

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FOLLOWING THE MISSISSIPPI: Highway 61 Visited

September 3, 2014 by

HIGHWAY 61: RELEVANCE OVER RHYME

Bob_Dylan_-_Highway_61_RevisitedGod says to Abraham, “Kill me a son.”

Abe says, “Man, you must be putting me on!”

God says, “No?”

Abe says, “What?”

God says, “You can do what you want, Abe,

But next time you see me you better run.”

Abe says, “Where do you want this killing done?”

God says, “Out on Highway 61.”

2014-07-09 13.19.22Highway 61, paralleling the Mississippi River throughout the state bearing its name, was the road pre-civil rights era field workers followed north seeking a better life and more tolerant culture with guitars strapped to their backs. Memphis was the first stop of this gradual cultural dispersion that crept on to St. Louis before finding a home in Chicago. In this Midwestern Mecca the blues went electric and flourished into an artistic movement that swept the world; thus, many folks—even old blues songwriters—assume that Highway 61 runs to Chicago when in actuality it ends in northern Minnesota near Bob Dylan’s childhood home (which is appropriate since that’s where the river and my journey began).  In fact, one of Dylan’s greatest and most influential albums was titled Highway 61 Revisited, containing a song thus titled.

2014-07-09 13.06.47While Route 66 is better known because of a catchy rhyme (Get your kicks…), Highway 61 is the most storied route in American music. As I penetrated the Mississippi delta along this fabled corridor I relished this extension of my reverse journey through music history (Cargo flowed south with the current but culture swam upstream!), looking for stops along ‘The Mississippi blues Trail’. The Blues Trail is not a trail at all, but rather a collection of historical markers, museums, and birth sites of famous musicians spanning the entire state. The official map displays hundreds of sites in every corner of the state, leaving little area uncovered; therefore I decided to hit a few highlights.

2014-07-09 14.18.12While glancing down the list of birth sites, however, I was surprised to learn that truly every blues great I could think of from the twenties through the seventies was born in Mississippi except for Buddy Guy, who was born just across the border in Louisiana: B.B. King, Muddy Waters, Robert Johnson, Albert King, Freddie King, Son House, Elmore James, W.C. Handy, Howlin’ Wolf, John Lee Hooker, Lighting Hopkin’, and on and on and on. When Mississippi claims to be the birthplace of the blues, it is being quite literal. There isn’t even a second pace contender!

NOT ENOUGH MEAT ON THE BONE (THE DELTA BLUES MUSEUM)

2014-07-09 13.06.28The first noteworthy site I passed was in Tunica, which brands itself ‘The Gateway to the Blues.’ The town has converted an old trains depot into a visitor’s center which makes a rustically appealing photo backdrop. One of the friendly staff even came out and snapped a picture for me, though, inside the depot was more a really cool gift shop than educational center so I continued on to an intersection just outside of Clarksdale which is one of several claiming to be the crossroads where, according to blues lore, Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil to learn how to play guitar. It is a great—if ridiculous—story and I had fun taking a great but ridiculous photo before driving into town to visit the Delta Blues Museum.

2014-07-09 14.21.05Clarksdale isn’t much to look at and the museum is a difficult to find and unremarkable in appearance. The entrance fee is reasonable, though I was a little miffed when they informed me they forbid photography. I requested some stock photos for the blog per their sign addressing the media, but they brushed me off (so I snuck a few pictures when no one was looking!)

2014-07-09 14.20.43Not that there was too much to photograph besides Muddy Water’s salvaged cabin. Waters’ story was told in some—if not elaborate–detail, but he was the only artist who received significant treatment. Displays on other artists were flimsy and revealed little that a moderately informed blues fan wouldn’t already know. More disappointing, the collection made little attempt to build a narrative to explain the birth and evolution of delta blues from a field hand’s diversion to a worldwide cultural institution. Instead, it was a random and spotty collection of artifacts and bios. Perhaps after my incredible Memphis musical ménage à trios of the previous day anything would have trouble measuring up, but I left feeling like the museum barely scraped the surface.

2014-07-09 14.56.59

Muddy Waters Cabin

It was after lunchtime so I stuck my head in Morgan Freeman’s eclectically cluttered Ground Zero Blues Club across the road, but the place was empty and I decided to move on. The club featured live local music every night from ground zero of the blues, but there was little else in Clarksdale to hold me through the afternoon.

DISPERSED COTTON & FANTASTIC CLAIMS

Led Zeppelin's Gift To The Delta Blues Museum Honoring The Music That Inspired Their Launch To International Fame

Led Zeppelin’s Gift To The Delta Blues Museum Honoring The Music That Inspired Their Launch To International Fame

It was too late to divert east of Highway 61 to B.B. King’s Birthplace and Museum in Indianola (for which I’d make a special trip), so I stopped for lunch at another famous barbecue joint located at the crossroads—Abe’s. It still couldn’t compete with my beloved Mojo’s in Jacksonville, though, so I continued south, stopping for a few historical markers along the way.

Morgan Freeman's GROUND ZERO BLUES CLUB

Morgan Freeman’s GROUND ZERO BLUES CLUB

It was thrilling to drive through such cultural significant fertile countryside as the afternoon sun began to fall in the sky, but the fields where the blues were born are too dispersed to conjure the same sense of history as the condensed confines of Memphis. My next planned stop was The Dockery Plantation which claims to be the spot where cotton workers first gathered to develop their new form of music, but the signage directing the way was poor so I kept driving—I had enough photos at spots making fantastic claims and didn’t want to drive late into the night again after another disappointing detour. Besides, I was eager to reach Vicksburg where I had decided to pamper myself on the last night of my journey at a Bed & Breakfast after spending two soggy nights in a leaking tent!

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FOLLOWING THE MISSISSIPPI: Motel In Memphis–Pride (In The Name of Love)

August 24, 2014 by

 MOTEL IN MEMPHIS

2014-07-08 19.28.39

Where you there when the man from Atlanta was murdered in Memphis?

Did you see him laying at the Lorraine Motel?

Did you hear them say that the CIA is witness

To the murder of a man at motel in Memphis

Motel in Memphis, Motel in Memphis

Run and tell somebody there’s blood on the riverside

Oh, muddy water / Roll into Memphis

If you were there you would swear it was more than a man who died

2014-07-08 19.29.14The wispy summer sky was turning a dark purple and a gentle breeze was blowing off the Mississippi as I strolled east through a decaying stretch of downtown. My soul was still buoyant from its dip in the fountains of Memphis music history but was slowing waxing with a melancholy tide. I was nearing the American Civil Rights Museum at the Lorraine Motel where on April 4, 1968 a great man was gunned down for the crime of demanding human dignity. Although it was after hours I felt compelled to pay my respects, particularly after hearing the recorded testimonials at Stax Records—whose artists often stayed at the Lorraine—of the stark and immediate repercussions of this hateful day.

The song “Motel In Memphis” by Old Crow Medicine Show was on endless loop in my head as I approached, the Stax Museum having provided affirmation of the song’s claim “it was more than a man who died.” As I write these words several weeks after my visit, racial tension is spilling over in Ferguson, Missouri outside of St. Louis where I had just left.

LorraineRegardless of what we learn about the incident at the core of this turmoil, such frustration doesn’t boil over without antecedent. Yet where is a Martin Luther King, Jr. to channel violent backlash into peaceful and effective protest? Nearly fifty years later his shoes have yet to be filled—his dream of a post-racial America still not fully realized. A black man is no more likely than a white man to use drugs, but is ten times more likely to go to jail for it, and we jail more citizens (not per capita–literally more) than China with its repressive government and population topping a billion. Our for-profit prison system has become the new Jim Crow.

More than a man, indeed.

PRIDE (IN THE NAME OF LOVE)

Early morning, April 4

A shot rings out in the Memphis sky

Free at last, they took your life

They could not take your pride

In the name of love

One more in the name of love

The scene outside the Lorraine Motel is frozen to April 4, 1968, including the same model cars that were in the parking lot that evening (not morning).  The lobby, though, has been converted into the National Civil Rights Museum and a huge brick extension sits across the road in place of the dilapidated building where the assassin hid.

2014-07-08 19.28.09As I stood outside room 306–a reef on the door just like the one placed April 5th–my eyes welled up and a lump rose in my throat. I’d spent the day luxuriating in the heights our people can soar when white and black harmoniously collaborate—the sublime emerging from subjugation. Yet here lay a stark reminder of the unseemly flip side—a nation’s deepest shame played out upon the same soil that gave birth to so much splendor.

I don’t necessarily buy into the concept of white guilt, but suddenly felt embarrassed standing amidst black families who had come to pay tribute, as though I were intruding. Part of me wanted to apologize for every idiotic thing ever done in the name of racial hate, though I knew that would be patronizing (and just plain awkward!) Besides, King’s dream was of peaceful coexistence.

National-Civil-Rights-Museum-BannerThe U2 song “Pride (In The Name Of Love)” now dominated my thoughts, and I choked on the line “They took your life, they could not take your pride.” King had come to town in support of a sanitation workers strike and was gunned for standing up for basic human dignity. It boggles the mind how a man of love could inspire so much hate. He was aware of the threats on his life, but would not be bullied or marginalized. So they took his life.

They could not take his pride.

FROM UNBEARABLE PAIN, TRANSCENDENT BEAUTY

Rain Began To Descend Upon The Memphis Waterfont

Rain Began To Descend Upon The Memphis Waterfont

I was unprepared for how deeply that moment outside a motel in Memphis would affect me through mere proximity. As I walked back to Beale Street along the Memphis shoreline a gentle rain began to fall. It felt as though God himself were mourning our capacity to wrench pain and discord from an already indifferent universe.

Mississippi River At State Park Just North of Memphis

Mississippi River At Meeman-Shelby State Park Outside of Memphis

The next morning I packed my soggy camping gear and headed south down legendary Highway 61 which cuts through the Mississippi cotton fields where slaves once coped with backbreaking labor (their compessation: degradation, humiliation, brutality, rape, and death) through the only means available—music. From these fields of nightmare emerged America’s one indigenous art form and greatest cultural gift to the world: the blues/jazz/rock-n-roll continuum. How ironic that from unbearable pain came such transcendent beauty.

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FOLLOWING THE MISSISSIPPI: Walking In Memphis (After Fleeing Illinois)

August 18, 2014 by

A SECOND CHANCE FOR A NATIONAL DISGRACE

Walking In Memphis...With My Feet 10 Feet Off Of Beale

Walking In Memphis…With My Feet 10 Feet Off Of Beale

Cairo, Illinois has always seemed mythic to me. Founded on the peninsula where the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers join, it marks the most important intersection of the nation’s original superhighway, connecting the interior of the original states to the Gulf of Mexico and world beyond. I most envision Cairo, though, as the gateway to the abolitionist north that Huckleberry Finn and his runaway companion, Jim, tragically drifted past in a heavy fog. Yet while the Mississippi’s intersection with the Missouri gave birth to mighty St. Louis, Cairo is a small town of little note outside of Mississippi River literature.

For good reason.

Welcome To Historic Cairo

Welcome To Historic Cairo

From the moment I crossed back into Illinois I was confronted by more decay and neglect. I hoped Cairo would be an appealing little hamlet like those of southern Minnesota, embracing its historical significance, but this rundown town on the state’s southern tip was hardly worth a second glance. I continued on the Great River Road to the confluence, but the wayside was overgrown, littered with trash, and abandoned like all the others; the placard was faded and barely readable. It took a minute to get my bearings since there were no markers to make sense of the landscape, only a dilapidated concrete landing that looked like an abandoned military bunker. I assumed it was meant to provide a view (or something for bored [Read more…]

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FOLLOWING THE MISSISSIPPI: The St. Louis News

August 14, 2014 by

FOLLOWING THE RIVER AGAIN (THEORETICALLY)

2014-07-06 16.43.45Although I stayed up late chatting with my neighbor, I was up early the next morning to meet an old friend, Matt Gregg, for the 1:00 Cardinals game in St. Louis. So after heading back to the Java Jive to book a room via their internet (any excuse for great coffee) I headed south along the river.

At least theoretically.

As I left town it was immediately clear that flooding had worsened overnight. After the second major detour around a flooded small town I steered away from the rising waters.

CASINO QUEEN: A MUSICAL LANDMARK (OR NOT)

Casino Queen / My God you’re mean

I’ve been gambling like a fiend / On your tables so green

Casino Queen.

Casino Queen From Across The River

Casino Queen From Across The River

On their debut album, Wilco—a band with Midwestern roots— [Read more…]

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FOLLOWING THE MISSISSIPPI: Celebrating The Nation’s Birthday In America’s Hometown

July 26, 2014 by

BLOGGING BY FIRELIGHT

Spending The 4th With Tom & Huck

Spending The 4th With Tom & Huck

Tonight, after three longs days of driving, I’m spending my second consecutive night in Hannibal, Missouri, having merely traveled the two miles to town and back today. Taking the day off to bask in history and walk in the footsteps of—in my opinion—America’s greatest writer feels luxurious after my whirlwind trek from Lake Itasca.

 

 

Map Of The Web Like Cavern Passages...No Wonder A Young Twain Got Lost!

Map Of The Web Like Cavern Passages…No Wonder A Young Twain Got Lost!

As I write these words I’m basking in a warm, orange glow: my first ever act of blogging by firelight. I’m camped just a few hundred yards from the cavern where Samuel Clemens got lost as a child, an incident that he would recreate as central plot point in his breakthrough novel: The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.

Blogging by a campfire may seem like an odd juxtaposition of the elemental and artificial, but it feels rather romantic. I’d like to think Mark Twain would approve.

BAD LUCK=DIVINE PROVIDENCE

Arriving In Hannibal

Arriving In Hannibal

I’d arrived in Hannibal late in the afternoon on the Fourth of July after spending the previous night in Iowa, too rushed to relax as my idealistic visions of cooking dinner on a scenic bluff gave way to hurriedly pitching my tent while daylight faded as I munched on veggies and lunch meat. I knew I’d have the entire next day to explore Hannibal, though, so that afternoon allowed myself to relax before heading into town for the fireworks.

Relaxing In Hannibal On The Fourth

Relaxing At My Lovely Campsite After Dinner

I’d been worried that [Read more…]

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FOLLOWING THE MISSISSIPPI: Corn Country

July 21, 2014 by

SLUTTY MINNESOTA

La Crosse, Wisconsin

La Crosse, Wisconsin

My drive through rural Wisconsin was bookended by La Crosse and Prairie du Chien, two towns that were nice enough but not as intriguing as those of southern Minnesota. I crossed into Iowa at Marquette, which was nothing more than a couple of motels and a casino with a giant buffet (per the billboard) tucked beneath a steep bluff, but just a couple of miles to the south McGregor turned out to be a comely one street town ending in a T-intersection at a large stone church.

 

Crossing Into Iowa

Crossing Into Iowa

This picturesque and abrupt termination made McGregor memorable, but there wasn’t a coffee shop or cafe to distract passers through. This trend would hold throughout much of Iowa. The towns were neat and pleasant, but they were quite chaste compared to those of slutty Minnesota, trying to seduce naïve strangers with its lurid craft boutiques and frilly cafes.

In fact, McGregor was so indifferent to outsiders that this crucial intersection—the only one in town—didn’t bother embellishing route numbers with anything as gaudy as hints about what town…state park…local attraction…or NATIONAL SCENIC BYWAY… may be found by following a particular route. Your choices were 76 or County X56. Locals would know.

Abrupt Ending In McGregor

Abrupt Ending In McGregor

I figured the county route was too obscure to be The Great River Road, so I turned right and soon came to an even more confusing intersection in the middle of nowhere that correlated poorly withthe tattered road atlas from [Read more…]

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FOLLOWING THE MISSISSIPPI: A Cluster of Culture (Southern Minnesota)

July 19, 2014 by

LYRICAL EXAGGERATION & DONUT INDULGENCE

2014-07-03 11.07.23I’d gone to bed a bundle of nerves from pushing too far the day before, but woke feeling refreshed and excited. As an added bonus, I was surprised to discover by daylight that Red Wing was a lovely red brick town filled with towering churches, historically preserved storefronts, and converted warehouses, all nestled beneath a scenic bluff with a park on top providing a panoramic view of it all. I’d visited Allentown once expecting industrial ruin per the Billy Joel song and was shocked to find a bustling, refurbished downtown district. Similarly, the Dylan song had prepared me for Dickensian bleakness, yet Red Wing turned out to be one of the most charming small towns I visited.

2014-07-03 11.00.35I wandered the streets soaking in the sunshine and hometown vibe for a while—my favorite pastime when visiting a new place—before being lured into a bakery and coffee shop prominently featuring a banner proclaiming it had been voted Minnesota’s best. It had a comfy, rustic vibe and the long display case was packed so full of delectable confections that I instantly knew the low carb diet I’d clung to so stubbornly was about to take the morning off.

As I stared lustily at the menagerie of decadence, I asked the girl behind the counter to steer me to the best option, desperate to get the most bang for my buck with my nutritional sin, but she assured me everything was good. Well, that really narrowed things down!

2014-07-03 11.00.25Normally I steer clear of donuts, considering them the cotton candy of pastry. Krispy Kremes in particular dissolve on the tongue before I’m fully aware of what I’m tasting, yet shortly after that millisecond of indulgence my blood sugar spikes and I ache for bed like suffering a bad flu. These hearty round pastries, however, held a greater promise, and I asked about the day’s special— [Read more…]

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FOLLOWING THE MISSISSIPPI: A Winding Wilderness Waterway

July 11, 2014 by

PYTHON THAT SWALLOWED THE THREE LITTLE PIGS

2014-07-01 12.35.04The town of Bemidji lies about 20 miles northeast of the Mississippi’s source and boasts dual claims to fame: first town on the Mississippi River and birthplace of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox (and I’m not sure they realize the latter aren’t actual historical figures!) During its initial wilderness leg the modest Mississippi balloons into three of Minnesota’s largest lakes in quick succession like a python that swallowed the Three Little Pigs. Bemidji, a surprisingly robust college hockey town (home of The U of M-Bemidji), hugs the first of these lakes that dominate the Mississippi’s initial northern arc and is the only one developed beyond small fishing camp and boat resorts.

2014-07-01 17.39.39Upon entering town, it’s near-mandatory to stop by the welcome center and allow the giant statues of Paul & Babe to photo bomb you by the lake. Just around the corner, though, is a nearly completed lakefront arena of grand scale and design that promises to draw legends and giants of a different ilk. Whereas the lakefront is the main draw, there’s a string of alluring coffee shops and cafes mixed amongst the souvenir shops running perpendicular from the waterfront like a spoke. Venture a little further and you run into a cheerily cluttered antique mall perfect for visiting packrats and a small operational wool mill that sells the socks and gloves it produces next door along with an assortment of heavy wool clothing from other manufacturers to help you through the frigid northern winters.

The River Flowing Into Lake Bemidji

The River Flowing Into Lake Bemidji

The primary reason visitors travel this far north, though, is for [Read more…]

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