Date: 2007-03-07
To: In which I dare you read this long-winded entry
Miles today: 0.0

I took a little trip by myself the other week, and while it has little to do with hiking itself, my mind often wandered to the AT¢¦My boss recently purchased a used Chevy 350 on eBay from a man who lives south of Duluth, Minnesota, and he asked me to drive it down to the Florida Keys for him where he has a second home. I had never been to Minnesota or the Keys before. If I can¢t drive 2000 miles, my boss tells me, I sure as hell won¢t be able to hike it.On Monday I fly out to Duluth, a city of 80,000 hardscrabble folks eking out a living on the western tip of the frozen wasteland that is Lake Superior. Excepting a 3-hour layover in Detroit that¢s more of a hassle than anything else, I arrive without a hitch. A cabbie named Dennis is waiting for me outside the airport to take me to the Econo Lodge a mile away.¢So, how¢s the weather been like?¢ I ask, striking up conversation.¢Ooh, not bad,¢ he says. ¢It¢s only been 0 out instead of like ¢30.¢¢Well¢¦ I guess that¢s something to be happy about.¢Minnesota, I think, is a land that has taken everything away from its people, except for maybe the ability to look out for themselves, and each other. It is so much different than New York, where everyone is focused only on him or herself.When I arrive at Moose Lake, the town where I am picking up the vehicle, I see that Larry, the owner, has been running the truck for almost an hour with the heat on. Minnesota mornings are cold. Dennis, who has also picked me up this morning, has reduced my fare from $87.60 to a flat $70. I tip him $40, wish him well, sling my bag over my shoulder and step outside. Although there is almost no snow on the ground, it¢s wicked cold, and I walk in the front door as quick as I can. Larry¢s wife owns an embroidery store in front of the shop, and we talk a little bit about my forthcoming trip. She¢s a sixty-something woman whose folksy small-town cheerfulness immediately breaks down any early morning fatigue I have. She speaks just like Marge Gunderson from the movie ¢Fargo.¢ I walk out smiling.Despite being 20 years old, the Suburban is in nearly perfect condition, and the interior seems to have never been sat in. The engine looks its age, but it drives smoothly, and doesn¢t burn oil. On the rear window are two hilarious bumperstickers that read ¢Don¢t worry, I¢m a gigolo!¢ and ¢It¢s a business doing pleasure with you.¢In order to get back onto I-35 South from which I came to St. Paul, I have to drive through the town. Moose Lake is one of those villages of Greater Minnesota straight out of a Garrison Keillor fable, and Norwegian bachelor farmers probably till the surrounding frozen tundra. As I drive through this quiet hamlet, I keep a lookout for the icons of Lake Wobegon, the Chatterbox Caf©, Ralph¢s Pretty Good Grocery, and of course Our Lady of Perpetual Suffering Church, but I see only a handful of gas stations a liquor store. But wait! When I get turned around after getting gas, I pass a restaurant called Poor Gary¢s Pizza. Not too shabby. For some reason I feel more at home here than I ever have on Long Island, where my detachment from society is growing by alarmingly exponential bounds.And so the trip begins. I drive through Minnesota, Wisconsin and Illinois without a problem, listening to NPR and AM stations discussing farm input-output along the way. Upon entering Indiana do I feel the first waves of tiredness creeping up on me, but I can¢t stop yet. It¢s not until I get through the industrial strongholds of Gary and Indianapolis do I pull in to a Waffle House and eat a remarkably cheap meal and amuse myself by watching a middle aged couple make out in the booth in front of me. I drive almost 750 miles on the first day, not stopping until midnight at a rest area, totally wiped out.I awake a little before 7AM and get driving as soon as I pee and rub the sleep from my eyes. I¢m driving in the thickest fog I have ever seen in my life; I can hardly see 15 feet ahead of me. For an hour and half I¢m terrified, and the fog doesn¢t let up until I reach Louisville around 8:30. The rolling hills of Kentucky are beautiful, but I can¢t help but think that the abandoned dilapidated shacks I see from time to time along I-75 are relics from the age of slavery. I thankfully don¢t see any of those in Tennessee a few hundred miles later, but after listening to the radio, I find myself forced to push fast through the Smokies and cross into Georgia because President Bush is scheduled to visit Chattanooga just as I¢m passing through it and they¢re closing down the interstate for his motorcade.That night, after driving more than 900 miles that day, I stop at friends of my Dad in The Villages, just south of Ocala. Although it is a retirement community, I could never live there when I¢m old and crippled. Everyone rides around in cute, tacky golf carts, and I don¢t think they have much contact with what¢s going on outside their sprawling community, some of which has been ravaged by tornadoes as of late. It¢s not the real world.The Florida Keys, that endless archipelago of quaint highway tourism, is one of the oddest yet most beautiful places I¢ve ever visited, a year round summer paradise whose streets and sidewalks are peppered with wild chickens and where key lime pie is sold on every street corner. Upon arrival on Thursday night, my boss and his family greet me with open arms. It feels strange to have driven over 2000 miles in three days-- the rapid change in temperature and scenery is hard getting used to.The following days are a haze of easygoing excitement: water skiing, wakeboarding, scuba diving (the highlight of the trip) and enjoying the perfect weather occupy our time. On Saturday my boss¢s sons take me to Key West, a city I¢ve been eager to visit for a while. Luminaries I've lionized since childhood like President Harry Truman, Ernest Hemingway, and Jimmy Buffet have made it their second home. Surely it is rich in elegance as it is in history. It would probably be only be a small town with a few cabanas, an IGA and an ¢ice cream shoppe¢, right?Okay, I knew it wouldn¢t be that remote. But I really had no clue at the extent tourism had taken over the city. Other than perhaps fishing, it seems to be Key West¢s only industry. As we saunter down Duval Street in the enveloping dusk, our eyes aglow with the bombardment of fluorescent lights, those nefarious agents of marketing entice us to perhaps consider an overpriced drink at the kitschy yet seedy haven of grotesquerie on the corner, consume greasy conch fritters seeped in trans fat at the nearby outdoor caf©, or rent a brightly colored moped and/or golf cart from the shifty man in the Hawaiian shirt and relax in stop-and-go traffic for a few hours. It¢s bemusing yet hilarious to an almost nauseating degree.I still don¢t really understand the Keys, but from what I do know, it¢s a far cry from Minnesota. And a further cry from something like the Appalachian Trail. And in the end, I didn't even drive as far as I'll be hiking this year. Le sigh.