Adventure #106: Failing to Find The Tallest Point In North Dakota

I'd like to think I'm not stupid. I can be oblivious, clueless, and thoughtless, sure, but that's different than stupid. I hope. You'd tell me, right? Of course you would. Nonetheless, there I was within a mile or so of the tallest point in North Dakota and totally unable to find it. This is Pen Pen, not at the tallest point in North Dakota.

A day off on tour is less like a day off, and more a day to do all the work I haven't had time to do between the hours of driving and performing. But I try to squeeze a few hours in for adventuring. I reason out that if I get an early start, and make up half the 700 miles from Aberdeen, SD and Bozeman, MT, and if don't stop for too much random roadside attraction distractions (or food), I'll have about 3 or 4 hours to do some hiking. And there, right in the middle is the tallest point in North Dakota. White Butte. Perfect. So I make it to Bowman, where there seem to be a handful of inexpensive hotels, and follow the handy directions to White Butte. This is Pen Pen, following the instructions.

I get to the farm where the trail to White Butte is located. There's a little sign and a dirt road through a bunch of corn fields. It's drizzling a bit, and the road is kind of wet. But it doesn't really occur to me why this might be a problem until the first time my car gets stuck in the mud. I'm starting to doubt that you'd really tell me if I were stupid. PT Cruisers aren't exactly known for their torque. Or their durability. Or their design. Well, not in a positive way, anyway. Nevertheless, I soldier on through 3 more mud puddles until the Road. Just. Stops. OK, I think, this must be the trailhead. I'm in a field. Visibility's low from the cloud cover, but it's the tallest damn mountain in North Dakota. I should be able to see it from where I'm standing. Nope. Nothing. Well maybe there's a sign? Nope. No sign. Well, there is one sign. This is Pen Pen and the sign.

I get out of the car and wander for a bit, looking for anything resembling a trail. I had read online that there was a little donation box for the trail, and that the owners of the land request a $5 donation for using it. No box. No trail. No mountain. I prepare a long rant in my head about how messed up it is that the tallest mountain in North Dakota is on someone's private property. You shouldn't be able to own entire mountains, is all I'm saying. It occurs to me that I have the GPS co-ordinates for the mountain saved, so maybe I should just follow those? Then it occurs to me that I'm in North Dakota. I have no cell phone reception, and haven't really had any for a few days. It's drizzling on and off. The radio said thunder showers were likely later in the evening. I have well documented lung problems. No-one knows I'm here. The part of me that loves a good adventure advocates just giving it a shot. The part of me that sort of a little bit wants to be alive argued in favor of giving up. So I did what any mature adult who had lived most of their lives in urban environments would do, and roasted an ear of corn on my engine block while wandering around taking pictures of my stuffed penguin. This is Pen Pen and the best damn corn he's ever tasted.

This is Pen Pen and still not the tallest point in North Dakota.

Well. Today is a bust, I think to myself. It's about to rain. I've failed at hiking. There are three options available to me, as far as I see it. 1. I continue on the road to Bozeman, and maybe get a bit of free time the next day to go hiking in the Rockies. 2. I find a coffee shop and get some of the work done that I really should be doing right now, and then figure things out from there. 3. I find another damn mountain. Guess which one I picked? This is Pen Pen and another damn mountain.

As I pull into the Theodore Roosevelt National Park, the sky clears suddenly as if nature itself is telling me I made the right choice. The prairie dogs greet me as I make my way to a trailhead, as if to say “that's right, Nathan, screw White Butte. Teddy R's National Park is where it's at.” Or maybe “who is that large primate with the tiny stuffed bird and why does he keep trying to put it next to me while looking through a tiny black box?” This is Pen Pen waiting for his new friends to come out and play.

At this point, I'd like to remind you that only 9 days prior I had been in so much pain from pleurisy that I was seriously contemplating canceling the entire tour. 2 weeks ago I'd taken Jack for a walk around the block that left me in agony. Now I'm walking straight for a range of plateaus about 4,000 feet above sea level. This is Pen Pen discovering the spirit.

The trail was indescribably beautiful. The dirt ranged from red, to white, to blue. It was all very patriotic, or whatever. As I crested the first hill, I was tired, this having been the most physical thing I've done since getting sick at the end of May, but not out of breath. This is Pen Pen ruining an otherwise beautiful vista.

And then I lose the trail. OK. Really, I wanted to get to the top of one of the peaks to get a good panoramic view of the park, and wandered off the trail. This is Pen Pen and it being totally worth it.

I'd promised myself wherever I was at 3:30, I'd turn around and head back so as not to overtax myself. But that's not so easy when you have no idea where you are or where the trail is. It occurs to me that I'm headed west. There are mountains to the north, and a river further west. My car is to the south east. So all I have to do is go south to the road, and then head back east to my car. This is easier to do when there aren't very large hills in your way. After half an hour of turning left as often as possible, I see it: my car. This is Pen Pen, literally the happiest anyone has ever been to see a PT Cruiser.

My Converse Chucks caked in a rainbow of mud and grass, I make it back through the prairie full of annoyed prairie dogs, and set about finding a place to stay. After calling 20 hotels within a 45 mile radius of the park, I find one with a single room. I make it to the hotel, my lungs finally catching up to me and giving me hell. I'm sore, and exhausted. It's been 5 days since the last time I needed any pain medication. Maybe next time I'll make it 7. I have no regrets. I lie down in a hotel bed, and watch a marathon of Fresh Prince re-runs while finally catching up on the work I've been avoiding all day. I wonder if anyone else grew up identifying with Carlton. I wonder if this is going to set me back again. But in the morning, my lungs feel fine. All is forgiven. I set back on the road to Bozeman with a brief sojourn in my park. Next year, I'll give myself a full day. Next year, I'll bring a tent. Next year, I won't have to bring any pain medication. This is Pen Pen playing hide and seek in a rock (he's bad at hide and seek).

This is a song I wrote one time. You should download it and share it with your friends.

Adventure #105: Looking for Four Leaf Clovers In Wisconsin

I pulled into Kenosha with a few hours to spare. The first few shows had been pretty solid, but I was in dire need of some down time. I found myself a green space to sit down and engage in my favorite vice: reading pulp sci-fi. I walk through the park in search of a tree, ideally next to some picturesque body of water, maybe a Bodhi tree? I could use some enlightenment. Do they have Bodhi trees in Wisconsin? I found myself in a field of clovers in the woods. It became inexplicably necessary to find myself a four leaf clover. I'm not a superstitious person, I just like symbols. This is Pen Pen and a knight of the merch table.

The problem with being dyslexic (in addition to giggling every time I pass Scotrun, PA) is that I can't just eyeball the clovers. I have to count them. So I stand out in the middle of this field, slowly counting each and every clover. Time becomes irrelevant. Only clovers. There are so many clovers. As people pass by, I become a little self-conscious about standing still in the middle of a field staring intently at the ground. But I'm not deterred. I'm on a quest. Two bros diverged in a yellow wood, and I just kept staring at the ground counting the leaves on the clovers. This is Pen Pen fixing the broken serpentine belt.

After an hour, I start to wonder if this is the dumbest possible use of my time. Where I had previously been so absorbed in my quest that I lost all trace of time, now I'm conscious of every second that passes. I should probably stop. I'm not stopping. I'll stop when I get to that big oak tree. I get to the big oak tree. I'm still counting.

Gradually, I start to doubt whether four leaf clovers even exist. What could be the percentage of clovers with four leaves? One in a million? I've easily looked at a million clovers by now. I have actual work I'm supposed to be doing right now. I'll do it tomorrow. Clovers. Maybe it's a metaphor? Maybe luck is a metaphor? No that's sort of a stupid metaphor. Though it is impressive how consistent the clovers are across millions of iterations. Maybe they only exist in Ireland, not in Wisconsin. I'm not even Irish. Why does this matter? Wasn't I just looking for a nice tree to read under?

Then my thoughts turn conspiratorial. Maybe they do exist, but the park employs kids to pick them and sell them. I imagine some teenager scanning the ground intently, but not in search of enlightenment or whatever. He's just trying to get his ten bucks an hour to have enough money to give his older brother in exchange for a six pack of mediocre beer. It's late in the season. Maybe there were four leaf clovers all over the pace a few weeks ago, and now there are none. Is there prime four leaf clover picking season? Have I just wasted an hour and a half of my life? I've wasted more time on dumber things. Maybe I'm just not good at counting to four. All of these questions circle around as I find my tree and sit for a bit with Isaac Asimov presents: yet another story in which a chosen boy discovers that he's actually predestined to save the galaxy and then gets the girl. This is the penguin with a thousand faces.

I make good time the next day on my way to St. Paul. I hole up in a coffee shop in Western Wisconsin to write for a bit. That house in Plymouth ain't gonna buy itself. Then set off in search of a spot to sit and read. I have to find out if the generic hero saves the galaxy! (He does.) As I walk down a trail towards a tree-lined river, I hear music. It's good. Folky. I can't make out the lyrics well, but I hear the word “Zapatista.” I follow the sound to a trio of bearded guys fishing. “Is this your music?” I ask, judging a book by its cover. “Yeah.” I end up talking music, politics, the environment, anarchism, religion, and other things that are vastly more important than clovers with one of the guys for a while. As we say our goodbyes, I pass by some anarchist graffiti. I'd credit my new friend if it weren't for the upside down cross, and his professed Deism. This is Pen Pen smashing the system or whatever.

Then: more clovers. Everywhere. The path is covered in them. I. Count. Each. One. Three leaves. Three leaves. Three leaves. No luck. There's another type of leafy green plant that has four leaves. Does that count? No. I spy a patch of poison ivy intermingled with clovers. Should I bother counting those ones? If I get poison ivy from picking a four leaf clover does that cancel out? Or is it more like a challenge before you get the Grail or whatever? Have I been reading too much chosen one in search of a sacred artifact fiction? The answer to those, and other questions are irrelevant because I didn't find one. I sit out by the river and read until I hear the first clap of thunder. That's my cue. (Isn't it always...) I pass by one of my new friends on the way out and say goodbye again.

So I didn't find a four leaf clover. I didn't find a Bodhi tree. I found neither luck nor enlightenment. But I found people. I'm realizing why I'm here. We're all so afraid and disconnected. Most of us are kind and generous. Most of us want the world to be better. Most of us know it can be. But we feel alone and helpless. Looking for clovers for hours is a waste of time. Talking to people for hours isn't. I want to do something that leaves this world a better place than I found it. I want to put in more than I take out. I want to break the laws of entropy, and any other laws I can think of. I want to let people know that everyone feels just as alone and afraid as they do. That we're all hopeless and frustrated. And that's OK. Because maybe if everyone realizes they're not alone, we won't be so hopeless. I don't know if this is direct action. I don't know if this is the best possible use of my time. But unlike looking for four leaf clovers in Wisconsin, it feels like I'm accomplishing something. I just don't know what yet. This is Pen Pen, over and over.

This is a song I wrote one time. You should download it and share it with your friends.