Looking north at Lake Sakakawea
The Pacifica labored. The Crestliner, trailer, and 60hp Mercury behind the Chrysler slowed the old van to a tepid 60mph and reduced gas mileage to 17mpg. Nylon ropes securing my new fishing kayak to the roof sang as we sped west along US Highway 2, towards North Dakota and the iconic reservoir, Lake Sakakawea, where our son, Dylan, and his wife, Shelly, would spend two nights with us tent camping at a state park on the eastern-most shoreline of the big lake. (Find out more at: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lake_Sakakawea and http://www.parkrec.nd.gov/parks/lssp/lssp.html.) Rene’ had reserved two campsites. We were staying three nights; the kids two. We were supplying the boat, gasoline, camping equipment, the campsites, and bait. Shelly and Dylan were bringing the food.
As we chugged west, the sky open, the sun beating down, the temperature climbing above 90 degrees, Rene’ and I listened to The Girl on the Train on CD (read a review of the book on this website) and watched the forests of northern Minnesota disappear. We skirted Devil’s Lake, another big body of water in North Dakota, another fishing lake located where no fishing lake should be, stopped for lunch at a Pizza Hut in Rugby (but didn’t see any heavy-thighed Brits milling about!), before pulling into Riverdale, a tiny hamlet located just outside the state park, for gas and ice. After obtaining camping permits from the nice young lady working the entry booth, we found our campsites, parked the Pacifica, and commenced to building a temporary home surrounded by a vague and artificial sort of beauty. What do I mean?
Well, if you’ve camped at Bear Head State Park outside Ely or any of the Minnesota State Parks along the North Shore, you’ve had the good fortune to be immersed in near-wilderness. Not so at Lake Sakakawea. Though the lake, at 180 feet deep, two miles wide, and nearly 200 miles long is a marvel of human engineering, sitting in camp chairs in Sakakawea State Park, one doesn’t get the sense of nature in the same, completely indulgent way one does when camping in northeastern Minnesota. This is prairie country. Yes, there are trees and wildlife to be found (I nearly had a heart attack when a covey of fifty Hungarian partridge exploded from beneath the front tire of my mountain bike as I pedaled on a nearby trail). And the lake, formed from the ice cold, mountain fed, snow melt waters of the Missouri River to depths that cool salmon, is a wondrous fishery: a slash of silver, shimmering relief against the stalled heat and humidity of July on the Plains. The early morning cackling of rooster pheasants reminded me that we weren’t in Fredenberg, Minnesota and that we were camping alongside of waters very different and distant from my beloved Cloquet. So there was nature to be found along the shores of Sakakawea. But wilderness? Not so much.
Before Dylan and Shelly arrived, Rene’ and I towed the Crestliner down to the boat landing and launched it, intent upon doing some evening fishing. The launch was easily accomplished despite the number of campers in the park. And, thankfully, I didn’t repeat my recent error, one that nearly sank my new boat, my brother-in-law Allen, my nephew Alex, and me in Fish Lake. This time, I remembered to put the plug in the stern of the boat before it was launched. It only takes once…
Rene’ fishing the big lake.
Dylan cooking dinner.
After the kids arrived, I helped Dylan and Shelly set up a new screen tent that, though purchased as a haven against mosquitoes, was never utilized due to the complete absence of flying pests at the campground. As the sun sank in the west, a slight breeze cooling the parched land, we sipped bottled beer and talked, catching up on family gossip and news from Williston, the boomtown of North Dakota. Dylan and Shelly have good jobs in Williston, jobs related to the oil industry that haven’t been affected by the downturn in drilling. Fracking: We avoid any heavy discussions about the environmental impact of using fresh water filled with sand and chemicals injected into the earth to force oil to the surface. Or the wasteful flaring of natural gas. No need to provoke family discord while on vacation.
Dylan and Rene’.
As tenters, we were in the distinct minority. Even after Dyl and Shelly arrived to raise their K-Mart special family tent (a dubious shelter against rain and wind) alongside my BWCA tested Eureka two-man dome, our tents were only two of about ten in a campground that boasted hundreds of fifth-wheelers, motor homes, and large pull behinds. The amount of money folks spend to get away from it all just so they can take it all with them!
We fished for two days in extreme heat, catching and releasing dozens of feisty white bass (fun to catch but supposedly horrible in the fry pan), a few large mouth bass, and the biggest fish of Shelly’s life (a one pound northern that she refused to touch!)
Shelly’s lunker.
After fishing and loading the boat back on the trailer, Dylan and I dove headlong into the cool waters of Sakakawea, fulfilling one of my bucket list wishes: to swim in the same waters Lewis and Clark did. Once in the waist deep water, despite the 95 degree afternoon’s heat, Sakakawea was nearly as cold as Lake Superior.
Saturday evening. Rather than attempt dinner with a storm rolling in, the majority (I was a dissenter) voted to head to a restaurant. At the first eatery we entered, a Riverdale bar, a burly waitress took one look at my wife’s “Hillary in 2016” T-shirt and announced “We’re no longer serving food.” Happenstance or political fallout? You decide. From the looks of the crowd in that bar, I pretty much drew the conclusion that we were the only four Democrats in the house. Disappointed, we tried a few places in various little hamlets surrounding the park until we found a bar that was still serving food. We ate, and laughed, and told stories, sipping cold beer and telling tall tales before heading back to our tents. There was a brief storm Saturday night, a storm that the Eureka weathered but one that the K-Mart special and the screen tent were unable to withstand. Despite the failure of the kids’ shelter, they stayed dry.
Sunday dawned clear and bright, bringing with it the promise of another sweltering day. After Dylan cooked us a hearty breakfast of pancakes, eggs, sausage, juice, and coffee, we launched the boat for another day on the water. It was brutally hot out on the flat plain of Sakakawea. With no shade, no respite from the sun’s brilliance, I doubted we’d catch fish. But the white bass were still there, angry and wanting our nightcrawlers. After loading the boat back on the trailer, Dylan and Shelly packed up their gear, ready to head back to Williston.
“Mom, what made you pick this campground anyway?” Dylan asked before leaving. “I mean, there are state park campgrounds closer to Williston.” Rene’s answer was slyly non-commital: “Well. I thought since you said Williston was ‘by’ Sakakawea, this state park would be close to you guys.” Of course, my wife didn’t consult Google Maps to discover that, in fact, the state park we were at is about three hours from Dylan and Shelly’s home, or that there are two other state parks between where we ended up and Williston. But that was all forgiven. The park was pretty, easily accessible in terms of parking and launching the boat, and had a nice nature trail that, after concluding a final dip in the water and saying our goodbyes to our son and his wife, Rene’ and I hiked for the better part of an hour as a storm rolled in from the west.
Storm over Sakakawea
“You better come in the van,” Rene’ admonished as the sky darkened, rumors of a vicious thunder storm scrolling across my wife’s iPhone as she studied the Weather Underground site.
“I’ll be fine. If it gets too bad, I’ll join you in the Pacifica.”
“Your tent is under a tree. It’s starting to lightning. Do you really think that’s very smart?”
I didn’t reply. I buttoned up the Eureka against increasingly violent gusts. Jimi, my wife’s miniature dachshund, cuddled my wife in the Pacifica as I hunkered down in the tent to finish reading Joyce’s Ulysses, a project that had taken me over nine months of dogged, unpleasant study, to conquer. (See a review of the book elsewhere on this site.) As the storm hit, the tent leapt and crouched with the wind. Lightening lit up the sky. Rain pummeled nylon. But the stakes held fast, I stayed dry, and the weather cleared.
Reading Joyce during the storm.
Monday morning, Rene’ and I strapped the kayak back to the van’s roof (it never touched the cool waters of Sakakawea despite my best intentions), secured our bikes in the Crestliner, covered the boat, loaded our camping gear into the Pacifica, and headed back to Minnesota. Would I come back? Yes, but I think we’ll try for a campsite closer to Williston next time ’round.
Peace.
Mark
Jimi: You can see the excitement for camping in his eyes!
