Finding Fame in Aitkin: Day 12, May 22, 2014

Finding Fame in Aitkin: Day 12, May 22, 2014

It’s amazing how much a little color can enhance a landscape, bringing it from dreary and drag to bright and interesting. Since we left Lake Itasca 11 days ago, we have been meandering through a labyrinth of seemingly dead forest, still deep in their winter slumber. The only signs of living wood being the stoic pine trees. Slowly as we drift south, the soft tones of green and emerald emerge on the river banks.  I find myself staring more into the forests around me, feeling that spring has finally come and that the harsh weather we experienced early on will not be back.

The journey today saw us arising early, around 5:30, to make the short 25 or so mile trip to the small town of Aiktin, MN.  Quite excited to finally get back to even this small remnant of civilization, we quickly packed the boat and started paddling down river. Our course took us through a number of small farms. Old barns with saggy roofs, greeted us around many bends. The surrounding yards littered with broken or soon to be broken farm equipment. The little two story farm house standing quaint yet kept, obviously seeing better days and attention than the barn.

Much of the day was spent in silence.  There is only so much two people can talk about before we start repeating the same topics. Only so much gossip and news to be spread before any of it seems even interesting, so we just keep paddling. We knew we were going into town, where we would charge our phones and battery banks, so Toby decided to listen to the radio off his phone.  Music was a welcome reprieve from the constant monotony of paddling. It focused our minds elsewhere, away from our tired arms and sore butts, away from the knowledge that we still had miles to go.  We decided that at the top of the list of things to buy was a small FM radio.

Aiktin is small town, a town of around 2000 people, or so I’m told. To us it was an oasis in the wilderness.  Walking into town after landing the canoe, I could not help but see Aitkin is the quintessential American Midwest town, instead with a heavy Minnesotan accent.  There are the industrial buildings on outskirts, employing a significant portion of the population.  The quiet neighborhoods lined with modest two story homes, most of the yards well-kept except that one on corner. Two busy roads intersect in the center of town, requiring the only stoplight. The sides walks are wide and people shuffle up and down, walking at pace that seems as if they have no place to be at in a hurry. There is a bank near one of the three churches; the bank an obscure regional brand unheard of beyond the county. Flags wave from lampposts going down Main Street. The war memorial being more well-kept then the poor excuse of a park.

We walked past the local pharmacy and the random assortment of shops tucked into storefronts of two story brick buildings.  Our target was Rosalennies Pizza.  We walked in the door, tripping the overly loud door alert bell; everyone stares at our haggard and dirty faces then quickly looks back at their food.   The décor is psudo-italian, the green, red and white,  basically the classcic small town America pizza shop experience.  I ordered a large because I read a while back that it makes the most financial sense, at least if you leave some for later (Which I did). I always find a way to mention our little adventure in conversations with strangers, trying to work it into the natural flow of conversation. I only slightly enjoy the shocked looks and second questions about where we came from and where we are going, especially when they are said in Minnesotan accents.  Word must have spread in the kitchen because one the waitresses who worked there had the phone in hand and asked if she could call the newspaper. We humbly gave permission.  With two hours to kill before our scheduled interview at the campsite, we decided to explore the bustling little town.

We saw a used book store on the way to the pizza shop and headed back to it, the prospect of good reading material for the days ahead.  I’ve never seen so many books crammed into such a little space. I carefully stepped by 5 foot stacks of mystery novels, the walls latterly being covered with row upon row of harlequin and romance novels.  It was bewildering to even begin to look for anything of interest. I barely even noticed the top of the head of the clerk, behind even more books, the checkout essentially being a small slot between more books. I asked where the travel books were. Apparently even on such an adventure, I still like to read about adventure. The clerk was quite helpful but entirely and thoroughly eccentric. She was plump, red dyed hair, unmatching lipstick and had the countenance of what could be your great aunt who tried to make it in Hollywood and failed. I say this only as description, because she was entirely kind, cheerful and mildly funny but at the same time had an entirely flat boring tone. She talked seemingly absent mindedly, forgetting about every five words she meant to say, with us finishing her thoughts for her within the conversation. We bought some books and left, being careful not to cause an avalanche of steamy novels on the way out.  Before we headed back to camp we bought some camp fuel (denatured alcohol) at the hardware store, and a much overpriced loaf of bread and jam at the gas station. We couldn’t help but comment how strange we must look walking back to camp; a loaf of bread sticking out of my backpack while I hold a can of denatured alcohol. Toby walking beside me, thoroughly sun burnt and holding a pile of books.

The journalist arrived at our camp seemingly unexcited about the amazing scoop she was about to have for the next issue. We made our greetings and she pulled out her pen and paper.  Before she began to write she mentioned she does this about 4 times a year. This took at least some wind out of my sails, quenching the small flame of fame I thought I was about to enjoy. Regardless, we had fun answering questions. After taking our pictures, she was up and gone. Soon, in two weeks, everyone almost everyone in Aiktin will know our names.  Fame and fortune start small they say.  We decided to walk into town again, this time seeking the local watering hole.  Like any wholesome town, the bar is tucked away in the corner of town, away from the churches, schools and public buildings.  Bars were quite foreign to my upbringing,  so grandma if you’re reading this, blame your son.  I have discovered though bars have a much more innocuous reputation than many think, people sit, talk, eat and yes, drink.  We sat there quietly, somewhat uncomfortable in this environment. In one corner a very fat man jabbered loudly while he shotgunned a bag of chips. I couldn’t help feel at least a little safer in old chair I sat in. In the other corner, three guys, Glen, Bill, and another who I’m sure was named Bubba loudly managed to converse about nothing at all.  While it was awkward and strange, it was nice to at least witness other humans interact.

We are planning a long haul day tomorrow to Brainerd.  We hope to be up by five, on the river by six and in Brainerd by evening. I hope to have enough energy to post. If not,  I hope to keep you all informed as soon as I can. Adieu.