Walden Pond of the West

I went on my first trip to the Elkhorn Ranch site today. I had not gone before because the prospect of taking an aging car with half a new suspension 30 miles one way down a dirt road was not appealing. But if I was going to ride in a 4wd SUV for work, that was fine by me.

There isn't a whole lot going on at the site but for some new signs that need updating. That's one of the reasons we were there. The park likes to keep it pristine that way, quiet and with a sense of the solitude Roosevelt sought there. The only real sign that anything ever occurred there is the depression and the big rocks that made up the foundation of the Elkhorn Ranch Cabin, Roosevelt's main operation along the Little Missouri. It's pretty neat to stand in the spot that was the veranda and try to imagine Roosevelt rocking in his chair in that exact spot. The cottonwood trees are still there, and an old warrior of a cottonwood just off the SW corner of the cabin was probably there as a small sapling while Roosevelt lived there. That was pretty interesting to think about.

I didn't take any of my own pictures because the weather was not ideal. It was snowing those big lumpy snowflakes just like lake effect snow in Milwaukee, except about twice that size. It rained in Medora later in the day. It was just enough moisture to turn the clay silt into the familiar, awful mud that gets everywhere and yet is impossible to get off. One step into it, I realize "Oh, I'm in soft mud." By the second time that foot lands in the mud, I can really feel the mud. By the fourth, there is literally an inch of mud and grass attached to the bottom of the boot and it feels like walking with watermelons for shoes.

I was excited to see some waxwings in a tree, but couldn't tell right off whether they were Bohemian or cedar waxwings, that I didn't see a sharp-shinned hawk nearby right away. I saw a lone Canada goose flying north along the Little Missouri in the morning. I believed it was migrating, but a source who shall remain anonymous said it probably never left over winter. Well, I haven't seen a goose all winter, so draw your own conclusions. I did hear a chickadee singing "DEE-dee DEE-dee." Correct me if I'm wrong, but that's a call they make during mating season.

Wildlife Report

Not much has changed, really, and I don't have much to report. That will make this blog entry fairly boring compared to the popular barber shop tale. Sorry.

There were a few warm days in a row, peaking at 50 degrees yesterday. It was nice to get outside, and although these temperatures will not last, it was enough to get some fresh air and to open the windows and air out the apartment. I was starting to feel like I was suffocating in there.

If you want to see robins, we've got them. They never left. I tried counting them along the roadway while I drove, but stopped trying after a short while. There are hundreds and hundreds of them. I also have seen more individual prairie dogs and bison this week than any other trip around the park. A rooster pheasant has been walking around the Maltese Cross Cabin lately, but it won't let me get a picture of it. Without anything more interesting than that to say, I'll just list the animals I remember seeing. I'll be excited when something new shows up to indicate spring coming.

bison
pronghorn
horse
elk
white-tailed deer
mule deer
porcupines
prairie dogs
cottontail rabbits
wild turkey
golden eagle
red-tailed hawk
black-capped chickadee
pine siskin
white-breasted nuthatch
ring-necked pheasant
American robin
American goldfinch
house finch
hairy woodpecker
another unidentified hawk, possibly a goshawk

The Fine Art of Selecting a Barber Shop

I have to plan trips into town based on daylight, fair weather, and the desperation of my food supply. Luckily, all these things converged today, and I spent the afternoon in Dickinson getting a haircut, groceries, some new music, and a new computer game to occupy me.

I have had the discussion with my dad about barber shops and how to choose the right one after I had been really upset with having to go to places like Supercuts in Rochester. I hate over-explaining how I want my hair cut, and being asked if I want gel in my hair. When I say short, I don't mean I want you to stop halfway and ask me how you're doing - GO FOR IT.

So I had already scouted out the barber shops in Dickinson. There are at least three on the same block in the old downtown (Google Maps lies). Last time I was down there, it was a Monday, and apparently they collude to all be closed on Monday. I growled and left. I knew better this time, and the one with the biggest barber pole and the shiniest chairs I had seen last time got my business this time. It was called "Queen City Barber Shop."

Now, I didn't put much thought into the "Queen" part of the name - this isn't Madison - before I went in. I assumed it had something to do with some sort of obscure Dickinson history*. But when I saw the empty barber chair and the wide-smiling barber wearing a leather vest waiting for me, the famous words of GOB from Arrested Development leapt into my head: "I've made a huge mistake."
*It does.

But it wasn't that simple. It had all the hallmarks of a quality barber shop. First of all, the bass mounted on the wall was enormous. Plus, they had a huge mule deer mounted on the back wall. I did not notice the bear rug I learned about in later research. And, based on prior experience, these are all hallmarks of a quality establishment. Though it's hard to get any better than the barber shop in Cardston, Alberta, my favorite ever; at one point it had a live parrot next to the archaeological treasures and the cowboy art.

I sat down. Simple instructions landed, and the scent of citrus-scented spray wetting my hair, we discussed wildlife management and the extent to which gray hair has established itself on my head.

Then the unexpected twist, an unsolicited and otherwise not advertised or previously discussed service: a vibrating shoulder massage thing. "Weird," I thought. But it really helped work out that tight spot in my shoulder.

I turned down the offer for gel in my hair.

Here We Go A-Caucusing

We were glad to hear that in order to vote in the North Dakota Democratic Caucus, one only needs to have lived in North Dakota for 30 days. Having met that requirement, I ventured down the street to the Cowboy Hall of Fame, the caucus site for our area. That doesn't sound that exciting, but what happened was worth mentioning.

First of all, I laughed because the sign taped to the door said something about it being the "Cacuas" site. Through the inner door, there were two older guys - in cowboy attire - sitting at the table. We were the only ones there for the moment.

"We have questions," I said. I explained that we were technically Minnesota residents, but we obviously can't vote there and be here at the same time, that we met the 30 day requirement and wanted to participate. I could sense them tensing up as I started explaining all that, but once I said "30 days" then they relaxed and started handing me the pen. I had to write my name and street address on their notepad. Easy enough. No ID required, no piece of mail required.

The gentleman on my left - I imagine him wearing a cowboy hat, but I might have made that up - handed me a pen and a piece of note paper. It was the kind of paper like I would expect to be posted on a refrigerator door, with a decorative border, lined, and some little phrase written at the top like "Friends," "Welcome," or "Kitchen." I paused for a moment, not quite sure what to do. I realized that I was to write the candidate's name I wanted to vote for on the notepaper. I asked anyway, and the man pointed to the back of a pad of paper where the candidates' names were written, "Write the name of one of these two candidates." And here I was used to scan-card balloting and literally waiting in line for an hour at the Wisconsin Union last time I did a Primary.

"Ah, very informal, then," I said, uncontrollably stating the obvious.

There wasn't really a solid place for me to write on, so I had to awkwardly hold the paper in one hand and try to scrawl on the notepaper obviously stolen from someone's kitchen. I folded it in half, then looked for the ballot box. The other man at the table, who had been virtually silent so far, held the box under his left arm.

The ballot box was without fanfare, and I might have expected that by now. It was nothing more than a dusty cardboard box that might as well have come off the UPS truck that same day. The top was still clamped down with tape - no decorative slot had been cut into it - and it bulged with ballots. It was so swollen with democracy, it was tough to get my piece of notepaper in the box. We both strained to pull it open just enough to slide my note under the top flap.

Feeling good about Democracy again, I just had to stand by to find out the results.

North Dakota just gets better all the time. The librarian didn't care how long I kept the DVDs I borrowed even when I tried to return or renew them, the Party was very trusting when it came to selecting a Presidential candidate, and the postmaster greets me by name whenever I see her. Plus, everybody thinks it's a terrible climate to live in, so they stay away. The secret's out, North Dakota!

A Different Kind of Superbowl Party

Amber and I found the only public place open in town was the Knotty Pine Peanut Bar, and it was therefore the only place we might get to watch the Superbowl. The original idea was to go to the Iron Horse, which I find a bit frightening, but the lights were off. I had forgotten that the Knotty Pine existed, but was encouraged by a large concentration of cars in the parking lot. I say large, but it was perhaps 10 trucks and two cars, and that's plenty for around here. I was even more encouraged by the friendly dogs running around outside, a sure sign of a quality establishment.

Inside, I was surprised to learn that there was not only a free snack bar for the Superbowl, they also had - brace yourself - free beer. Best Superbowl ever! I just had to endure the now-familiar once-over by the locals when I walked in the door. I've decided that, even though it's a little uncomfortable to have 6 to 8 men in cowboy hats and boots looking me over, they don't mean any harm by it and just need to digest an unfamiliar face. It reminds me of how the townspeople looked at Marty McFly in Back to the Future Part III.