Grassroot Goodness in the American Heartland

It’s true that riding the U.S. Midwest gives you lots of time to think. Straight, flat roads have stamped a uniform grid on the American plains. But if you search the horizon (and maybe Google), your travel can be punctuated with interesting and unusual experiences. Racing east across South Dakota, for example, I did a double take at a large sculpture of a skeleton man out walking his pet Tyrannosaurus on a leash. They were heading to 1880 Town, an attraction where visitors donned period dress and browsed buildings packed with relics and photographs from pioneer days. 

And on a bluff overlooking the Missouri River, I encountered a 15-metre-high stainless steel Indigenous woman receiving a star quilt. Created by South Dakota artist Dale Lamphere to honour the cultures of the Lakota and Dakota people, the sculpture, called Dignity of Earth and Sky, stood tall over Chamberlain, a frontier town whose history is most celebrated for Lewis and Clark’s westward explorations. The striking monument eloquently attempts to balance the narrative. 

After an hour or so, I needed to stretch, and my timing quite conveniently brought me to the big city of Mitchell, SD, population 15,660. There on North Main Street stood the Corn Palace, a fitting venue for the “Corn Capital of the World.” The sports complex/convention centre, with its Russian onion domes and minarets, is redecorated annually from roof to sidewalk in murals made entirely of corn. Like a tourist, I snapped photos of this year’s theme, “Under the Big Top,” depicting clowns, lions and tigers, trapeze artists and elephants — all in variously coloured kernels and cobs. Then I wandered in to watch the Dakota Wesleyan University Tigers, an NAIA basketball team, running drills. The interior walls displayed photos of murals past. 

SNOT ON THE PRAIRIE

In the late afternoon, I arrived in the comparatively tiny town of De Smet, the childhood home of Laura Ingalls. Her books capture the town’s early days, and I was interested to learn that her Little House on the Prairie was the first building in a town whose population, even now, numbers barely 1,000. Although the sand and clay road to her homestead had just seen rain, it wasn’t until I was already committed that I discovered how very slippery it was, and to turn around seemed almost as risky as just getting up on the pegs. Happily, a knobby front tire, a 50/50 rear, and the wider handlebars of the Suzuki V-Strom 800DE all got me to my destination — just in time to see a woman turn the window sign to CLOSED. I surveyed the shuttered buildings, read a few plaques, and then got to ride the snot all over again.

Tracking ever eastward, I watched as dry ranch land became crops-by-irrigation, and then, as precipitation became more abundant, crops that grew on their own. Even the shoulders of the road grew green. Corn and soybeans stood tall and dense and ready for harvest.

When I began to spot small ponds edged with cattails and busy with ducks, I knew Minnesota was approaching. And just over the state line, I stopped in front of a giant Indigenous American pipe where
Pipestone National Monument preserved a quarry of catlinite, the traditional material for native pipe-making. Often mislabeled as a “peace pipe,” local artisans continue to craft the ceremonial pipes, which are used for prayer and community-building.

Ahead of me, the pavement was dark and wet. The rumble strip along the shoulder formed a long row of tiny rectangular puddles. I slowed my pace at the sight of purple clouds, checked the weather radar, and decided to stall over dinner in Slayton while I waited for the cell to move on. When I again ventured out, it was night, but it was only 45 minutes to a municipal campground in Windom on the banks of the Des Moines River. I followed a spectacular light show — and never got wet.

The Rise of Mega Farms

On a picture-perfect morning, wispy balls of cotton floated in a deep blue sky. The harvest was just beginning and combines, tractors, gravity bins, and trucks were everywhere. In West Bend, Iowa (pop. 791), I had coffee with three farmers in their eighties — only two of them retired. Waxing philosophical about how farming has changed, I mentioned how I had grown up on a hundred acres. Stan agreed, “We all did. But farms keep getting bigger: we work 10,000 acres now. And every generation gets farther away from the land.”

He was still speaking when an enormous green combine pulled into the pumps and a young farmer in coveralls descended from the cab. Travis came in with a half-grin and said, “Are you guys gonna drink coffee all day?”

As they took a last mouthful and stood to leave, his dad winked, “I have a tough boss.”

From there, it was a mere four blocks to West Bend’s claim to fame: The Shrine of the Grotto of the Redemption. A local priest had begun his 42-year project “to tell in silent stone…the story of man’s fall and his redemption” in 1912. The outcome was a four-storey, football field-sized monument of shells, minerals, and rare stones. The detail and the
commitment were equally impressive. Had my timing been better, I would have taken advantage of the clean and inexpensive grotto campground.

A powerful south wind had become so steady that the bike and I simply leaned against it. The unexpected gusts jerking my head sideways were another story, and I hunkered in my cockpit. It was reassuring how Suzette clung to the road like a keyboard warrior sticks to an opinion.

The Hobo National

In less than an hour we blew into Britt, the tiny Iowa town that has hosted the National Hobo Convention every August since (believe it or not) 1900. On the diminutive main street, I found the National Hobo Museum, which offered fascinating and — at least to me — previously unknown information. For example, while the moniker has uncertain origins, it seems likely that because 18th-century migratory workers were often called “hoe boys,” the term soon morphed into hobo.

Also, eager to distinguish themselves from a “bum” looking for handouts, modern hoboes emphasize their skills and willingness to work. And every summer, hundreds gather in Britt to celebrate with a parade, games, and the naming of the annual hobo king and queen. Who knew? As a lover of the open road, I had to admit a certain affinity for these free-spirited nomads.

On a more somber note, it was on the edge of a cornfield near Clear Lake that I spotted a giant pair of thick black glasses resting on two fence posts. The unassuming monument marked the site where, on a severe, wintry day in 1959, a small plane crash killed Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and J.P. “The Big Bopper” Richardson. Forever altering the shape of rock and roll, the tragedy was memorialized as “The Day the Music Died” in the classic Don McLean song American Pie. During the short time I’d paused to pay my respects, two separate carloads of music lovers arrived to leave glasses and other tokens of their own.

Matchstick Mayhem

Still pensive, I almost didn’t stop at an ordinary storefront in Gladbrook: How exciting could it really be to see Matchstick Marvels? But I was in for a treat. For over 40 years, Patrick Acton has glued more than 8.6 million ordinary matchsticks into 75 incredibly detailed models. Inside the front door, I was met by his 1/70-scale model of the battleship USS Iowa involving 137,000 matchsticks, and a four-metre-tall lighted model of the U.S. Capitol. I was enthralled with Space Shuttle Challenger and the Millenium Falcon, Notre Dame Cathedral and — my favourite — a work-in-progress: the downtown square from Back to the Future, complete with a 1985 DeLorean that races toward the clock tower for the fateful lightning strike.

Thirty minutes was all it took to reverse the scale. Iowa’s Largest Frying Pan greeted me in Brandon, where I snapped a selfie. Built to promote their recurring Cowboy Breakfast fundraisers, it was only after completion that they discovered it was 7.6 centimetres smaller than the world’s largest in Washington. Nevertheless, they proudly declare that the 5-metre, 545-kg iron skillet can cook 528 eggs, 40 kg of bacon, or 440 hamburgers.

Dusk was falling over the bare fields of corn and soybean stalks, and the smell of threshing dust hung in the evening air. Arriving at an established campground in Monticello, I was immediately reminded why I avoid them: The rate rivalled what I had recently paid for a motel, and even though it was only the first week of October, a Halloween theme had begun: haunted corn maze, screaming, and exploding fireworks included. No judgment for the hundreds who were enjoying the party, but I just wanted to sleep. Even after the festivities ended, I was denied repose by kids whose parents had not taught them about quiet hours. On the bright side, it was warm, there were no bugs, and the probability of precipitation was one per cent.

Baseball Fame

When the morning sun shone bright on my bivy, I was a little afraid I might jinx it to say, “Another perfect day!” so I simply breathed deep in silent gratitude. A half hour of rolling farmland brought me to a gravel road outside Dyersville that led to the magical setting for Field of Dreams, the 1989 Oscar nominee for Best Picture with Kevin Costner and James Earl Jones. In the film, Ray Kinsella (Costner) is walking through these very cornfields one evening when he hears the now iconic words, “If you build it, they will come.”

 “It,” of course, was a baseball field, and on this day they were still coming in carloads to watch a seniors’ league game. I sat with fans on bleachers in front of the white farmhouse and absorbed their passion. I also learned the field hosts an annual MLB game — last year it was the Chicago Cubs vs. the Cincinnati Reds. And as I strolled the edges of the field, something ethereal whispered through the corn.

Reflecting on my exploration of the United States over many weeks, I thought of the regional differences I had observed between urban and rural, north and south, red and blue—from cowboy hats to business suits to surfboards. To pause in this sanctuary seemed an especially appropriate summation for my journey. As Terrance Mann (James Earl Jones) proclaimed, “The one constant through the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers … [But] this field, this game—it’s a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good, and it could be again.”

By the time I crossed Illinois, I would hit a triple-header of ballparks, visiting Little Cubs Field in Freeport, a one-third-scale replica of Chicago’s Wrigley Field; and Rockford’s Beyer Stadium, home of the Rockford Peaches, the women’s pro team featured in the 1992 film, A League of Their Own. 

Beyond that, like the Midwest itself, the interstate leading home offered a few more hours to think. As the scenery blurred, I pondered
Terrence’s words and thought of other unifying pursuits touching all that is good. Like, say, adventure riding — relishing the natural world, meeting fine people, exploring our past. Fortunately, there’s more than one way to fill the soul. And mine was overflowing.  MM