Fargo to Medora: Kind of a Weird Day

Kelly and I are parked in the Routan, drinking beer and eating pretzels. Our tent is pitched, our beds made, and we’d hoped to take a walk through “downtown” Medora to find out about the famous musical and the pitchfork fondue, but it’s raining, raining, raining. Hard. With thunder and lightning for extra flavor.

Earlier today, we drove down the Enchanted Highway — which was cool, indeed — in a massive hail storm, stopping at the end of the wacky, sculpture punctuated stretch in a Regent cafe.

“Oh NO! The crops!” said the nice lady behind the espresso counter, and then, “What can I get for you?” The manic tone of this conversation continued, “Oh dear, oh my, the hail!The crops!” following such mundanities as “What size drink?” and “Separate checks, dear?” She’d relocated three years ago back to her home town, but she’d been living just down the road from me in Burien, where, it turns out, she loved to go eat at my favorite Mexican joint. Twenty to thirty thousand people take the Enchanted Highway each year, we learned, and we also learned that the crops around us were sunflowers, canola, and soybeans, and wheat.

While we’re sticking to our routine of talking to strangers and bringing wacky sense of humor to our adventures, we do miss our third. Peter left us in Chicago to head off to Australia and now, pitching the tent is sound track free, as are a number of other events. I never would have guessed that three is a magic road trip number, but it is better than two because you’ve got one person in the back, minding their own business, napping away or thinking big thoughts, one person up front helping the driver with, well, everything including staying awake, and a driver. I’m absolutely comfortable enough to doze off while Kelly is at the wheel, but I feel like I’m shirking my co-driver duties when I do. Peter, we miss you.

Fargo was a terrible bust for camping, we caved and booked a hotel while perched in an absurdly named coffee house on Main Street. We hauled ourselves across North Dakota in a day, dulled into lethargy by the flatness of the eastern regions, pounded awake by pellets of hail in the afternoon. It was a long day with a lot of weird intervals. A Twilight Zone gas station in an abandoned town, a giant metal farm family, a campground serenade by a creaky duet in spectacular matching cowboy shirts. The fact that now, we’ve made the minivan into our happy hour cocktail room, complete with cold beer and snacks, well, that doesn’t seem so weird at all.