I woke up on a recent Friday morning with the urge to drive. No destination in mind, no timeline involved: just get in the car, point in a certain direction, and go.
I pulled up Google Maps and started scrolling around Minnesota. I wanted to see a town I’d driven past or through but never really stopped to see; to get off the highway and crisscross my way through the communities just beyond the Top Travel Destinations of Duluth, Ely, Grand Marais, and Bemidji. As I zoomed in on that chunk of the state, a name popped out at me: Happy Wanderer. Sold.
Climbing into my trusty Toyota Yaris (his name is Murphy; we are inseparable; yes, I realize it’s just a car and not even a cool one at that, but that doesn’t deter my loyalty or my love toward him) with snacks and podcasts in tow, I set off. It was a perfect blue-sky day, just cool enough to avoid needing A/C. I drove north on I-35, allowing myself to get lost in the stories of gangsters and corrupt politicians as told by “Crimetown” and stopping only to refuel on caffeine via a can of Blackeye Coffee nitro cold press (PSA: they’re at Holiday gas stations; you’re welcome). I got to Duluth just in time for the lunch rush (then again, summer in Duluth is a constant breakfast/lunch/dinner/post-dinner rush), grabbed my Northern Water Smokehaus sandwich to go, and got back on the road as quickly as possible.
Happy Wanderer is located in the middle of the Superior National Forest. It is equidistant from Babbitt and Isabella (approximately 35 minutes from each) and appears to be reasonably accessible–just off Highway 1, with a little jaunt on smaller roads as you near it. At least that’s how you’d get there if you were paying attention and had done any semblance of research on the condition of backroads in middle-of-nowhere Minnesota.
The route I took to get to Happy Wanderer was a little less direct. In one of my podcasts (I was on to “Invisibilia” now), Eagles Nest, Minnesota, was mentioned. The story intrigued me and, when I pulled up the city on my map, it was close (enough) to where I already was, so I decided to make a detour. Making the detour to Eagles Nest (not actually a town, it turns out, rather a scattering of homes and cabins along a scattering of lakes, just north of Bear Head Lake State Park) took me far enough off my original path that I reentered the coordinates for Happy Wanderer into my phone and decided to take a more scenic route to get there. Because that’s always a good idea, right?
You’d think I would have learned my lesson about under-researched “good idea scenic routes” while in Europe. My miles-long detour to see a less-than-worthy tourist trap in Lisbon. My genius decision to hike up to the castle in Sintra. My poorly planned day-long sprint across Scotland that ended with me almost getting hit by the bus I needed to catch. But apparently I have a short memory for self-inflicted travel trials, so instead of being cautious of my sudden change of plans, I defaulted to, “What could be the harm?”
The harm, as I soon found out, would be a narrow, gravel-and-dirt road riddled with potholes the size of my tires, puddles the size of my hood, and boulders sharp and large enough to destroy my poor little Murphy. The “scenic route” I’d chosen had taken me from Eagles Nest through Soudan and Tower, down MN-135 to Wahlsten, along Highway 21, and onto roads called Forest Route 112, National Forest Route 424, and Forest Route 178. Perhaps the words “forest” and “route” taking the place of words like “highway” or “road” would raise red flags for most people. And perhaps, most of the time, I would be included in that “most people” category. But for whatever reason–the sunshine, the freedom of having no timeline and no agenda, the small-town charm and combination of lakes, open prairie, forest, and streams surrounding me–no red flags were raised. I was going to Happy Wanderer. I was a happy wanderer.
At least until I got to Forest Route 178. Then I was a worried wanderer.
Looking back, I don’t know why I continued. It was obvious that my car was not equipped to handle the kind of off-roading I was forcing it into. I had no idea how bad conditions would get or what I would do if I got stuck in one of the holes or popped a tire. I had no cellphone service, no extra gas, no flat surface on which I could change a flat, and no desire to become an early dinner for the dozens of giant horseflies diligently following me on my misguided foray into the wilderness. Yet I kept going. I kept swerving around the puddles and boulders, kept easing Murphy through the potholes, kept breathing despite my racing heart and Red Alert brain telling me to stop being a stubborn idiot and turn around before it was too late.
And then, it all came to a halt. The road to Happy Wanderer was blocked by a barrier saying it was government property and only authorized vehicles were allowed. My mission had come to an end.
Unsure as to how long a drive it would be (or what the conditions facing me would be) if I continued on Route 178 to Highway 1, I had no choice but to turn around and slowly backtrack through the now-familiar potholes, fallen trees, puddles, and horseflies back to National Forest Route 424, Forest Route 112, and Highway 21.
Somehow I made it back to Tower with little more than a few new scratches and a lot of mud on Murphy. My gas tank had been on empty for far longer than I though it would last, and indeed was very empty as I pumped unleaded into it and watched as it reached its 10-gallon limit. It was 6pm–much later than I’d planned my turn-around time to be; I still had a five-and-a-half-hour drive back to St. Paul. But as I scrubbed my windshield and waited for the gas to finish pumping, I saw the sunset. And I felt the breeze. And I realized I wasn’t tired yet–maybe due to adrenaline, maybe due to the copious amounts of caffeine still buzzing through my veins due to the Blackeye cold press. And on top of all that, I still had plenty of podcast episodes (“This American Life” for the win!) to keep me occupied.
So, with a fresh tank of gas, clean windshield, bottle of iced tea, and stash of snacks at hand, I got back on the road, gave a little shout-out of praise for it being paved, and set my cruise control. It was time to head home.
Somewhere in the Middle. 