Petrified and Enchanted

I have been so very fortunate in the diorama mannequin department on this trip. I found this Days-of-Our-Lives couple contemplating the sacrament of marriage in the Lemmon Petrified Wood Park Museum when I went for a visit Wednesday morning. The museum is so charming because it's obvious that everyone in at least a 100 mile radius has brought in any old bric-a-brac they find to help round out the extensive collection of old stuff. Aunt Dora's dress and fancy hat that she wore to the big wedding in '56, still protected by an ancient dusty dry cleaning bag is right next to a decaying toothbrush from the early 1900s found by the Collins boy while he was fixing up his daddy's old barn. The Museum is an adjunct to the adjacent Lemmon Petrified Wood Park, the largest Petrified Wood display in the world! I could not believe how lucky I was that this little gem was a mere 4 blocks from my hotel in Lemmon! Who knew Lemmon, SD, was such a happening place? Wow.

The Petrified Wood Park was begun in 1930 and completed in 1932 . It has over 100 freestanding sculptures that are covered mostly with chunks of petrified wood, but also a good number of fossils and miscellaneous geology from the region. The structure shown in the image to the right has a chamber in the middle that is completely covered with pieces of fossilized dinosaur bone. I guess they only use it for extra special occasions since it seems to have a portcullis for a door! I also like this display (left) of fossilized dinosaur claw marks. It's cool enough to see one set, but how cool is it to see lots and lots of them all massed together? One of the signature items at the Park are the conical towers sprinkled throughout the park's footprint. Some are as high as 20 feet tall, all are stolidly and exotically handsome. Visually, I really liked the ones covered with round, geode looking stones the best. The gift shop offered miniature versions of the cone shaped towers, covered with petrified wood chips. I couldn't live without one and it is now firmly ensconced on the road trip altar on the dashboard of my car. The lady in the gift shop told me there were made by volunteers there in Lemmon, which tickled me even more.

After one more pleasant turn through the park, I got back in the car and began heading north toward Regent, North Dakota. Regent is one the two endpoints of a stretch of road in North Dakota known as the Enchanted Highway seeing as how there are seven gigantenormous sets of metal scultptures sprinkled along its 30 mile length. Regent looked to be pretty small on the map, so I had to remain hopeful that I would be able to gas up there when I arrived. I did NOT, however, expect to find a metal art gift shop (I loved their enormous aluminum Christmas tree outside) and an espresso bar that served pannini sandwiches! I was thrilled when I saw that they had wi-fi, good coffee and something besides cheeseburgers. I settled down at a table and spent several happy hours writing, sipping coffee and waiting for the afternoon light to arrive. I figured the scenery along the Enchanted Highway would be that much more enchanting during the golden hour. Before I left, the nice young gal at the gift shop indulged me by taking my picture in this rig they had out in front. I love these things - you, know, where you stick your face in and take a picture - I sure wish I knew what they were called! If anyone knows the name for these things, PLEASE tell me! It's driving me crazy that there's a vocabulary word so conspicuously absent from my mind.

Not long after I turned onto the Enchanted Highway, I came upon the first set of sculptures. Handily, for comparison's sake, the first one I encountered was the same one I had put my face in for the photo back in Regent! I loved the saucy curls of the original. I had only enough time to snap a picture of the wife and the husband figures before I was forced to literally RUN back to the car to get the mosquito spray. It was like that old Off commercial where the guy stuck his arm in the aquarium of live mosquitoes. Yikes! Good thing I brought the heavy duty Deet on Sharon's advice. I moved on to the next sculpture on the route - Teddy Roosevelt on a rearing horse. I spent a good 10 minutes trying to figure out how to get my camera to do what I wanted it to while waving away swarming skeeters. I finally relented and hauled out the camera manual and had it figured out in no time. And I'm glad to report that the combination of the Octopus tripod and shutter delay function resulted in the fine image seen on the right.

My next stop yielded the most surreal and delightful moments of my trip down the Enchanted Highway. As I neared the next installation, (a group of five giant quail, very common in the area), I noticed a trio of visitors grouped in front of the sculptures, taking turns snapping each others photos. It took me a moment to realize as I passed by, slowing for the parking lot entrance, that the fellow that was currently being photographed held a very dead pheasant extended at arm's length as far away from the rest of him as possible. I SO wish I had had my camera at the ready to take a picture of that scenario - it was hilarious! It'll just have to live on in my mind, I guess. When I got out of my car, I walked over to the fellow who had been holding the pheasant when I arrived and said, "Hey! That's no fair! Y'all brought props!" He got a twinkle in his eye and asked without responding to my taunt, "Are you an artist?" I laughed and said, "Yes, I guess it's pretty obvious, isn't it?" He told me that they had found the inanimate bird on the side of the road when they arrived and that it didn't appear to have been dead long. I admired his courage in being willing to pick up a dead animal, simply for a good photograph. I asked where they were from. "Wis-cahhhn-sin" he replied in a sing-song cadence that proved his statement must certainly be true. After we finished exchanging pleasantries, the intrepid Wisconsites departed and I walked out to the road to take a picture and have a look at the dead pheasant myself. Sure enough, it was dead. I noticed that scattered in the grass near the carcass were a few feathers that had been knocked loose from the poor gal on impact. I retrieved them for my dashboard altar because that's exactly what it's for.

Next stop was the most recent addition to the highway gallery: the underwater scene. You can't help but be struck by the ambition of this grouping - it's huge and complex. It was the stop along this route where I finally gave considerable thought to how wonderful it is when people just decide to do something ambitious, even if it doesn't make sense and is hard work. The prospect of erecting a huge muskie (?) leaping up from a wheat field in the middle of nowhere North Dakota would probably be too daunting for most of us. Thank you Gary Greff for your courage and determination.

Then there were the giant grasshoppers, the leaping deer and finally the enormous "Geese in Flight" overlooking I-94. Geese in Flight is listed in the Guiness Book of World Records as the largest metal sculpture in the world. It is 110-feet tall, 154-feet long and weighs in at 78.8 tons. It was built from used oil well pipe and oil tanks and the largest goose is 19-feet long and has a 30-foot wing span. The best part of it for me was seeing it from many miles away and realizing that what I was looking at was the actual sculpture. I also really like the driveway up the hillside to the sculpture, lined as it was with lots and lots of geese on posts. Very fetching. I couldn't take the sculpture seriously when I stood in front of it, though. I personally found it somewhat menacing and cryptic, even though I was very impressed with the execution of the thing. Hats off to Gary!


I swung back onto the interstate, and headed off in the direction of Montana, my brief fling with North Dakota concluded. Until I got to Exit 7, that is. Just at the best part of the golden hour, I came upon a highway sign on the side of the road that read "Exit 7, Home on the Range". Set against the gorgeous High Plains backdrop of grasslands and golden light, the sign evoked a halcyon fantasy - you know - the one where the deer and the antelope play. I pulled over and trod through the weeds, making sure to watch for snakes since I had on sandals and jockeying for the best position to capture the sign in all it's glory.

The funny part, in retrospect, is here I was trying so hard to take a nice artistic picture of the Home on the Range sign and then turned around and took this other photo as an afterthought. It turns out that the one I shot as an afterthought is the one that brings tears to my eyes. I just love this image so much.

I got back in the car and sped off toward Montana, eager to add another state magnet to my display on the tailgate. I knew that I'd need to stop at the first largish town, Glendive, to get a hotel room because cities large enough to have lodging were about to get really scarce. When I made it to Glendive, I learned that there was not a single hotel room available anywhere in the area. What on earth was it? Sturgis? Summer? Unsure, but I would have to drive another hour and a half to Miles City to see if they had anything there. I was a little daunted until I pulled back onto the darkened freeway and realized that a large lightning storm was in progress in exactly the direction I'd be heading. I hadn't driven long before I had left all the lights of Glendive behind me and was immersed in the total darkness of long stretches of Montana highway. The only light to be seen was the pool in front of me (traffic was virtually nonexistent) formed by my headlights and the constant flash of bolts being thrown from the thunderclouds. to my northwest. It was beyond fabulous! Thinking quickly, I popped the Chemical Brothers album "Push the Button" into the CD player, cranked it up and proceeded to have an experience that went right off the charts. I SWEAR to you the lightning was choregraphed with the music! I could even point to the sky on the beat and a flash would appear! I felt like Mickey Mouse in the Sorcerer's Apprentice!

The gift of the lightning storm easily entertained me all the way to Miles City. The first place I stopped, the girl told me she was sold out and everyone was full, but there might be a couple of places left at a hotel in the old downtown area called The Olive. She called to check and I was in luck. I followed her directions to a part of town I probably would never have discovered so late at night, what I'm coming to know as the old core. The part with the old bars that have cool signs and little diners and dime stores and appliance stores with weird sounding names. As I drove down the main drag, I spotted with glee two wonderful old neon bar signs on my left - The Bison Bar and the Montana. I fervently wished The Olive would be just down the street and sure enough it was! As soon as I checked in, I put my purse over my shoulder and walked directly over to the Bison Bar for a longneck, before I even unloaded my luggage from my car. As before, I was greeted with what I consider to be Draconian beer selection and settled once again for the only vaguely non-standard beer they carried: Corona. At least it wasn't lite! The bartender was friendly and got out his atlas to help me figure out a good route west when I told him where I was headed. I liked this little town. It had a good feel.

After a quick half beer, I stumbled back over to my oppressively 70s flavored room at the Olive (including a world class swag lamp) and fell into a deep and satisfied sleep.

The Inspiring Tale and Resulting Fire of Hugh Glass

When I awoke and opened the door of my hotel room early Monday morning, I was greeted by a pleasant drizzle and a temperature of 65 degrees. Awesome. I noticed the nip in the air gave all the bikers at my motel a chance to sport full leathers for breakfast, which seeemed to more than offset their annoyance of having to deal with the rain and they were all happy and cocky about wearing their drag around town.

The route I'd planned for the day would take me right back through the heart of Sturgis, but I actually relished the opportunity to make the just-short-of-maddeningly-slow crawl down the main drag one more time, watching the press and throng of biker humanity go by, safe in my little automotive bubble. As I headed up the interstate toward Sturgis, though, I had to make a quick pit stop when I spotted this gigantic gleaming silver tube on the side of the road.

I chatted up the fellow that seemed to be the pointer of the group, while the others remained curiously silent. What they were doing was assembling a railway tunnel that will be incorporated into a cement overpass when a road is built through the area in the not too distant future. He told me the pieces of the tunnel came pre-formed and that the crew simply had to bolt the pieces together in the correct order. I tried to imagine what the project would have required in the age of rivets. I was personally mesmerized by it all and I feel certain those four construction workers were left with something to chew on the rest of the day, trying to figure out why some pink-haired woman wanted to take pictures of their damn tunnel.

On to Sturgis and into the press. I quickly found myself so completely surrounded by bikes that for a while I could easily imagine that I was on another planet - it was intriguing. Just before I rolled out of town, I saw the first two black faces (or any ethnic faces, for that matter) I'd seen the entire time and it made me wonder again to myself why events like this and Burning Man are such a white, white thing. Hmmm.

Eventually, I emerged on the other side of the Sturgis fray and guided the car northeast onto the open road toward the city of Lemmon. Light summer rain showers refreshed me from time to time as I rolled along the smooth blacktops of rural South Dakota, surrounded by vast expanses of tan, beige, gold, emerald and brown. My eyes drank in long, cool draughts of symmetry, color and texture and I was deeply satisfied. As I drove along, I found myself on yet another planet, different from my own familiar one or the one I had just visited in the Sturgis galaxy.

I passed through a tiny little town called Faith that's famous for being the site of a discovery by an amateur paleontologist of one of the oldest, largest and most complete T Rex skeletons ever recovered. In front of an exhibit pertaining to the find, I spied this wonderful metal sculpture. It was a beautifully done piece with a great sense of shape. It's stumbling across things just such as this that fuel my fervor for the road. Wahooooo!

A short while later, I was honing in on my intended target for the day, a place I had just happened to spot while perusing the map days earlier. As soon as I saw it was in my vicinity, I was firmly resolved to go. But, ahem, you'll have to bare with me a minute while I explain.

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Hugh Glass, if you believe the various written accounts of his life, was most notable in history because of his extreme suffering. We know little else of his accomplishments, but what can generally be agreed on is that Hugh is a potent symbol of being a colossal victim. Or so I thought.

Hugh was on a fur and scouting run in 1843, camping several miles down below the marker you see at the left, at the fork of the two branches of the Grand River near Lemmon, South Dakota. His party was attacked by a grizzly bear, and Hugh was unfortunately slashed to ribbons. So much so that the group figured he was a goner, and left one/two individuals (accounts vary) behind to bury him after he died and then rejoin the party. The death watch babysitters seemed to decide pretty quickly that it wasn't worth waiting around, and so took all Hugh's stuff, his gun, his food, everything, and left him to die alone. Well, as you might guess, Hugh didn't die. As he faded in and out of consciousness over the next two months, with a broken leg and grievous bear attack wounds, he was forced to literally CRAWL back toward civilization in order to live. One thing that pretty much EVERY account agrees on is that during his ordeal, his raw wounded back became infested with maggots. Sorry, just had to say that. All the accounts agree. He had to evade groups of hostile indians and scavenge what food and water he could find along the river. He even had to do without lattes! Damn!

Okay, so as you can see, Hugh Glass is a tragi-heroic figure of huge porportions, and since one of the constructs I've been closely examining in my life for the last several years is victimhood, I was very strongly drawn to this monument erected to the poster boy for suffering. It was enough to make me drive out to the middle of absolute nowhere without a doubt in my mind. It was also enough, once I saw the beauty and isolation of the place to make me decide it was the perfect place to do my next fire project.

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As soon as I had completed a quick evaluation of the site and realized how ideal it would be, I drove straight into Lemmon and got a hotel room and began a mad dash to carve a brick for the evening's fire so it would have time to dry out. There I was, leaning over the tub with the water running in a motel bathroom in rural South Dakota, madly filing a wet kiln brick into the shape of a drinking glass. How fun is that? You see, in thinking about it, I realized that Hugh Glass was in fact the exact OPPOSITE of a victim. If Hugh had been a true symbol of being a victim, he would have curled right up there on the banks of the Grand and checked out as soon as the bear was finished. What Hugh Glass did that was worthy of every bit of notariety he gained was to REFUSE to be a victim. He somehow managed to regain consciousness every day for over two months and decide he was not to going to be a victim again that day. He endured hardships beyond any imaginings I have, thankfully, and refused to give up. To honor this truly awe-inspiring feat, I carved my brick in the shape of a glass, with a line indicating the half filled line. I figure Hugh pretty much always saw the glass as half full to do what he did.

I returned to the Hugh Glass memorial just as the golden hour approached. The remoteness of the site insured that the likelihood of me seeing a single other human being the entire evening was extremely slim, so I set about setting up for my fire in a gloriously relaxed and happy fashion. A deliciously pleasant breeze played across the hilltop and the site was breaktakingly beautiful, enhanced by the golden light beginning to rim every stalk of the abundant grasses flowing down from the hilltop. As I prepared, I watched the sunset orange up the sky and once again on this charmed journey experienced moments of perfect golden happy satisfaction. I cried when the Dixie Chicks sang to me about taking the Long Way Around. I reverberated with gratitude to Mark for helping me create the space that I'm getting to play in. I'd imagine there was a beam of pure white light shooting up from that hilltop it was feeling so good up there. I turned off the stereo and waited patiently for the dark, listening to the wind and absolutely nothing else. I sat on the back side of Hugh's monument, overlooking the river and spent a few minutes thanking him for the fire he had inspired.

Finally, it was time. I first experimented with incorporating the canvas the dirt in front of the monument provided, but found that it didn't really burn very well, so I then concentrated on the monument itself and just enjoyed the interaction of the flame and the words the photons illuminated. Here are some of my favorite images from the fire. (PS: I'll try and keep the number of pictures here on my blog to a reasonable number. After I get home, I'll put them all up on my Gallery webpage if you're interested in seeing more. )

Shoppers and Bikers and Bitches, OH MY!

I woke up Sunday morning with a minor dilemma of sorts: I wasn't quite sure where the hell I was going to head that day. Out in the mid-mid-middle of the mid-Midwest, the spectacular attractions get a little farrer and fewer betweener and it's a good idea to have a general plan about what's within striking distance and where you'll be headed after that. I was unsure of my quarry though, drawn as I was by the siren song of an enormous biker rally, yet afraid of that many people in one place.

I called my friend Sharon who hales from South Dakota and solicited her advice. "Sharon," I said, "I have this idea that the combination of Wall Drug and bikers might be worth the 3 hour drive, but I'm a little afraid to head out to a town the size of Round Rock that is expecting 400,000 of its closest friends this weekend." Sharon gave me an answer I didn't expect, "Just GO. It's definitely something to see and you'll probably never get another opportunity as good as this to be there. Good reasoning, but I still had visions of gridlock and crowding beyond anything I could possibly tolerate. I opted for the middle ground and chose to head off to the world famous souvenir mecca, Wall Drug and then decide then and there whether to continue on to the big rally in Sturgis.

Sometimes my days have themes, and I'm not aware of it until later. Sunday's theme was rampant American consumerism (she says pompously while sipping her latte and typing on her laptop). As many souvenir stops as I've made in my travels, I have to say I haven't ever seen anything the SIZE of Wall Drug. It's not a store, it's a complex of buildings (dare I even say a nonlinear strip center?) and every bit of it is about selling the great American tourist the great American souvenir. Want a jackalope? Go to the jackalope section where you can select from nappy ones and bunny fur ones and tiny gold ones that are perched atop a round flask of genuine gold flakes. Stuckey's on long term steroids! In addition to every conceivable piece of cheap tourist junk, the place was also swarming with bikers of every size, age, gender and shape making the experience even more surreal. Look over there! ZZ Top is shopping for rubber tomahawks!

I walked around in a stupor of sorts, eventually stopping at one of the many snack bars to eat a chili dog in celebration of the day's yet-to-be-discovered theme. Then I did some power shopping which resulted in a fine array of new items for my dashboard altar. As I waited at the register for my plastic moose and miniature Mount Rushmore and pink gun/holster set to be wrapped up, the very friendly cash register attendant chatted me up about where I was headed next. When I told her I was toying with the idea of heading to Sturgis, she uttered the fateful third repetition of the same sentiment: JUST GO! That was it. Three people had told me the same exact thing and it was high time I started listening.

As I drove toward Sturgis, the streams of motorcycles were becoming so thick I began to see them as flying monkeys, headed to the Wicked Witch's castle to see Alice Cooper and John McCain and buy t-shirts. The bandana count was beginning to skyrocket.

My strategy became to see if I could possibly find a hotel room in Rapid City (a major city about 25 miles from Sturgis) . I stopped at the Motel 6 on the interstate just for the hell of it and sure enough, they had a few $100 rooms left! I heard the bikers behind me saying that the highly scarce rooms in Sturgis were going for $350 or more so I took the room in a heartbeat and started plotting about how to get into town with as little fuss as possible.

All the worrying I'd been doing, however, was unfounded. For an event of its size, the Sturgis Rally is amazingly well organized and easy to navigate. I was able to drive right down to the Main Street area, park three blocks away from all the action and move around without issue. I wasn't sure what to expect (since I still wasn't aware of the day's theme) but what most impressed me after several hours of walking around was how damn easily we are compelled to spend money in this country. The rally has all sorts of competitions and shows and musical performances, but it's really pretty much all geared to relieve people of as much of their money as possible while they're visiting. The entire city turns into an outdoor shopping mall full of t-shirts, sunglasses and motorcycle and anti-authority gee-gaws of every flavor. As I walked along, I became very grateful for the ethic that Burning Man has put in place about not allowing any vending on site. I shuddered to think what kind of booths would cover the Black Rock desert if money were allowed to change hands there. Ewwww.

I spent several happy hours walking around, absorbing this strange new environment. The people watching was fabulous (including the biker fashion bonanza) and there were plenty of amazing bikes to gawk at if you got bored with the people.

The amount of money rolling around that town at any given moment probably exceeded the GNP of many third world nations. Combined. I did my part for the economy, selecting some BAD ASS sunglasses and a biker chick t-shirt. I wasn't about to come all this way and let American Business down.

As I was headed back to the car, on my last half block of the experience, I fell straight into a vortex of participation that made the reason I had come to Sturgis well and truly clear. What happened isn't really for general public consumption, seeing as how it was of a somewhat adult nature, so ask me about it one day and I'll be happy to tell you in person. With appropriate hand gestures, naturally.

I threaded my way through the sea of drifting bikes back to my humble $100 motel room in Rapid City, being careful to navigate the marshes of motorcycles parked in the motel parking lot when I arrived. I tumbled into bed dazed and satisfied. Wow. Wow...

Wahoo! Surprising Colon! Corn Palace!

Saturday morning, I got up more than ready to move on - I'd been in Lincoln for more than 3 days, for crying out loud! The path out of town was clear: about 20 miles north lay the town of Wahoo, Nebraska. Now, seeing as how I say "Wahoooooo!" about 20 times a day, I couldn't very well pass up the opportunity to visit Wahoo now, could I?

After a series of odd diversions (sheriffs blocking off a country two lane black top in the middle of nowhere???) I finally found my way to the town of Wahoo and began looking for a place to break my fast. As I trolled the old downtown area, I spotted it - PERFECT! - the Wigwam Cafe (opened 1930). After causing quite the stir with my pink hair when I walked in, I sat down and looked the menu over and there seemed to be a house speciality, which the waitress eagerly confirmed and I subsequently ordered - a hot beef sandwich. As soon as they brought it out, I got a huge hit of Midwestern off the tendrils rising from the steaming brown gravy. How many white starches can you pack into a single meal? It was absolutely delicious: a roast beef sandwich on thick white bread, split apart on the platter to accomodate a huge mound of homemade mashed potatoes in the middle, all of it covered, no SMOTHERED in brown gravy. I could only eat half of it since I didn't have any steers to get in or anything.

I wandered around town for a bit after lunch, just drinking in the wonder of a place named Wahoo. It didn't take long, though, and I was back on the road after a quick stop at the Wahoo Bakery. Too bad I didn't need to wash any clothes!

Not long after I headed out from Wahoo I passed this sign:

As soon as it registered in my brain, I turned the car around and immediately pointed it down the dirt road that led to Colon, Nebraska. I mean, how could you NOT stop for a beer at a place called the Star Dust Lounge in Colon, NE?

There are really only about 8 buildings to speak of in downtown Colon. The Star Dust was of course by far the busiest place with at least 6 or 8 people milling about (including me). The bartendress is a little short gal named Patty (I believe - her name was volunteered at a time of distraction and unfortunately I didn't record it). She had a sparkle in her eye and a glittering stud in the side of her nose and she did a wonderful job of making me feel right at home. I asked her how the town of Colon got it's name, and she shrugged and said, "Some people say it's because this place is the Nnnnn (dipping her head foward as she used the substitute expletive) of Nebrasksa!" It made me laugh. After I got down to the lukewarm part of my Corona (so international, Colon's beer selection!) I made ready to leave, and as the two of us were chatting, Patty's her eyes flicked behind me at the sound of the door opening. "Take a look behind you," she whispered out of the corner of her mouth, "that's John, the town character." Well as you can imagine, that was music to my ears, and it wasn't more than five minutes before I'd introduced myself and was being led on a vigorous tour of John's amazing shop across the street from the Star Dust.

John Murrin was born and raised in Colon and is a fountain of knowledge about the area as well as being an immensely entertaining story teller. He drew frequently on a large cigar as he showed me around his maze of buildings, each filled with 50s era autos, tools and all manner of fascinating bits of flotsam and jetsam. One item I particularly liked, well it was actually the story I particularly liked, was a massive old hand forged iron chain that was draped gracefully along one wall of the main garage. John explained that when he was a boy, outside the window of his room at night he could hear the sound of the cows that were chained up for the night moving about, filling the night with the tinkling of a cow driven chain chime. He had hung the chain in his shop to remind him of those dark sonorous nights of his youth. He showed me where the cows had been so persistent that they had worn many of the 1/2" thick links to delicate and sculptural shapes. I found myself easily able to summon up vivid pictures from this and other stories John told me, including one of a recent murder. He was a masterful story teller and I really enjoyed my visit.

As I eased the Cruiser back out onto the blacktop and north toward Mitchell, SD, I got an eyeful of corn in preparation for arriving at the palace. That, and various roadside embellishments like this giant fishing rig. Now I've seen fishing lure mailboxes before, but you've got to appreciate this fellow's dedication to the concept! I can just see him in his coveralls in the garage on a snowy evening, busy at work making a giant fishing reel. Tee hee!

I arrived in Mitchell at what I like to call the golden hour - just as the sun is slanting outrageously as it begins its race to the horizon. It gave the corn an even lovlier hue that usual! I walked around the palace, enjoying the scenes of this year's theme: Everyday Heroes (every year the theme changes and the building is covered with corny goodness anew). Laugh at the ubiquity of the theme if you will, but I can at least say it was the very first (and probably last) time I've ever seen a 20 foot high mural of a school crossing guard rendered entirely in ears of corn. Now that's something to see in and of itself.

After leaving the Corn Palace, I decided to stay the night in Mitchell and gave some thought to staying at the Corn Palace Motel, but alas there was no room at the inn. I contented myself instead with a delicious Ribeye at Louie's steak house next door and had a nice quiet meal until 8 bikers on their way to Sturgis sat at the table next to me and held a loud conversation aimed at naughty eight year olds. I like to think I'm pretty impervious, but even I could only take so much of it and had to finally leave with a smirk on my lips and a shake of my head. How many times can you substitute the word "anus" for "Angus" when ordering steak from the waitress before the funny runs out? That number was definitely exceeded. Little did I know that I would soon be wandering around the epicenter of bikers. But that story is for another time.

Fire in the Hole

I've been holed up in a room at Motel 6 in Lincoln, Nebraska, for the last few days catching up on my laundry and other mundane matters, but I've also been busy preparing to do my first fire project of the trip. Yesterday I went on a successful scouting expedition and located a site I really like and today I spent several very happy hours watching motel TEE-vee while I carved a fire brick to use as the focal point of the fire. It was heavenly.

When I say fire brick (for those of you that don't know), I mean the bricks that are used to build kilns. I brought a supply of them with me on the road to use for my fire project. I wet the bricks when I carve them so all the nasty particulate matter doesn't fly around (definitely not something you want to be breathing). I use a set of metal files I brought to shape the surface. It's a fun medium to carve with - sort of like firm chalk. Man it's been a long time since I did any carving! I'm really enjoying it.

I had gone on a scouting expedition on Thursday and found a really great spot just 6 miles from where I was staying under an overpass on I-80 (which runs east to west slightly north of Lawrence, Nebraska). The remote exit I chose is near a huge active highway construction project and so is in use as a half-hearted staging area for random materials and an occasional bulldozer. I took some scouting photos so I could think about how I wanted to photograph the fire, where it should be placed, etc. The thing that really sold me on the site were the wonderful gothic arches formed by the support beams, making the space instantly grand. I especially liked how from the front, the rough dirt in the background made a lovely geometric backdrop.

A good part of Friday was spent in the luxury of slowly and methodically getting ready to make fire that night. I sat in my pajamas and happily carved away at my brick while I watched "What Not to Wear" on motel tee-vee. I pored over my camera manual, learning how to do fancy presets and shutter delays. I had some serious logistics to consider, after all, since I'd be both making the fire and doing the photography at the same time. It was a marvelous planning exercise. I called Nate for exposure setting advice. I filled a bucket with water and a motel towel as a secondary safety measure (my water fire extinguisher is belted into the passenger seat of the car). I was as ready as humanly possible when I headed out the door of my room shortly after 6 p.m.

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When I arrived at the site and started unloading, I quickly realized my previous plan to put the fire behind the archway on the hill wouldn't work (too much space, not enough fire). Fortunately, I find that a good bit of the fun to be had in this sort of activity comes from seeing what you can do with what you've been handed. What I decided to do instead was to place the fire directly in front of one of the gothic arches. and immediately set about collecting interesting bits from the site to incorporate in the fire. There was a bucket of doo-lollies, 5 of which I used as the base for the brick's skirt, then some bent blee-blahs that I found laying around that I used as upraised arms. Then there were these little black thingies that fit right on the end of the upraised arms and made a flat surface for a rock to sit on. As I went about, collecting things to add to my tableau, I experienced a deep, deep sense of satisfaction that this is what my life looks like. It was about that time that I stumbled across the prize find: an old heart-shaped padlock that had been broken open. The theme in my mind for this fire was forgiveness, and I was stunned at what a beautiful symbol had been laying there in the dirt, waiting for me to find it.

I got everything ready for the encroaching darkness, being careful not to unload anything from the car that would indicate fire or fuel until after the light had receded. I sat and waited for the light to fade, listening to the lullaby of trucks rumbling overhead. Finally, it was time.

And finally it is time for me to stop writing and just show you the damn pictures.