Generally, the moment you cross a state line there isn't an awful lot to indicate you've done so - aside from the sign welcoming you to that state, I mean. You don't expect an instantaneous change of scenery, the Sun to look any different or the air to change.

I said generally.

I certainly didn't expect driving over the Minnesota line to be anything like crossing the River Jordan into Paradise. On the other hand, I didn't expect driving into Minnesota to be like crossing over into Purgatory, either. And that 'land of milk and honey' Laura Ingalls Wilder depicts in Little House on the Prairie...well, it's a load of bunk! I say that because no one in Minnesota could possibly be responsible for anything being there because no one in Minnesota knows where anything is! I remain convinced there isn't a single person in the entire state who can tell you where they're standing let alone what's across the street. In fact, I doubt you could scrape up anyone who could factually tell you what's standing in the corner of their own bedroom. Just how serious this strange phenomenon was would very soon become a hair-pulling experience.

The first place I stopped was at a truck stop near the town of St. Joseph and settled down for a much needed rest. At about 4:30 AM I awoke and went inside the restaurant for some breakfast and a little information. I mean, what better source for propane information can you ask for than a truck stop, right?

"Good morning," the gal behind the counter said, smiling, "coffee?"

"You bet." I said and took a seat on one of them revolving stools you always see in truck stops and ice cream parlors. When she returned with the coffee I ordered my predetermined breakfast of pancakes, eggs and orange juice. Presently, two truck drivers came in and took what appeared to me to be their usual seats. I deduced this because of how they passed up several vacant ones by actually going out of their way to get to theirs.

"Mornin' boys." the waitress said in a mid-western accented voice, "Having the usual are ya now?

"Ya, you bet, Mabel" they both said in unison, sharing the same accent as the waitress. It seemed my earlier deduction proved to be correct; they were regulars so I settled back to listen in on their conservation. They talked some about the current rainy weather but an awful lot of their conservation was about one of their colleagues who, from all apparent, thought himself to be an exceptional truck driver. These two, however, didn't agree with that man's self-assessment and one of them expressed it by saying, "I've got more miles backing up than he has going forward." They both got a good chuckle over that clever analogy and because it was so clever he applied it again when yet another truck driver came in and joined them. Their conservation quickly turned to fishing and at that precise moment I knew I was going to have a difficult time getting any useful information from anyone in the place.

"By golly, I am at that, Ralph, yu wanna go too?"

 

"Yaa, I'd like that a lot, Wally, vere yu tink we oughta go?"

 

So, then the third guy, thinking he has something to offer, joins in.

I almost choked on my orange juice with that one.

"Yaa, I'd like that a lot Wally and Ralph. Do enny of yu know what the name of that lake is?"

 

As I sipped my orange juice I couldn't help but think these people continually call each other by their names because they'll forget who they are.

The conservation stopped cold at this point and all three of them sat staring at each other with nearly blank expressions but with raised eyebrows.

"Good gravy," I said to myself. Here these men have been fishing in a lake up that one road for years and not only don't they know the name of the lake, they don't know what the damn road is either! "Jesus on a jet ski," I breathed, "And here I sit…believing someone in this bunch will be able to tell me where I can get propane!" Shaking my head, I laid five dollars on the counter for my meal and stood to leave, satisfied I'd find another truck stop a few miles further on.

Thirty miles later an exit saying the town of Monticello was there and that it had a truck stop. Throwing all caution to the wind, I took the exit, pulled into the lot and went inside with my all too familiar question.

"Good morning, can you tell me where I can find propane in this town." I asked.

The girl behind the counter looked at me as if she didn't hear what I said. Finally, she blinked and said, "Propane?" From the look on her face it was obvious she was doing a fair bit of 'tinking'.

"Yes, propane. You see, my bus runs on propane."

"Ahh, by golly, I don't know ennyone who has propane."

Then I had a brainstorm, "Could I take a look at your phone book, please?" Egads, why didn't I think of this before? Some brainstorms are slow in coming. She handed me the book and I took a seat in a booth. There were several entries but one really caught my eye…it was a propane bulk plant! I called and asked the nice gal who answered the phone for the street address and wrote it down. For all the good it would do I might as well have written it in Greek.

"Ummm, say," I asked the girl, showing her the piece of paper, "can you please tell me how to get to this street?" She took it and stared at it. As I watched, I guessed her to be about 30-years-old.

"Ahh, by golly, I don't know vere that street is." Then she turned to yell into the back room, "Mabel! Do yu know vere Flatline Street is?"

Mabel yells back, "Ahh, by golly, I don't, Ellen. Ask Ralph, you tink?."

"Mabel, remember? Ralph went fishing up that one road?"

I was beginning to think that every place I would walk into in Minnesota would have its own special time warp.

"Ahh, by golly, yu are right, I am sorry Ellen.

I asked the girl how long she had lived in Monticello. "Ohh, about tirty years now, I tink."

"Thirty years?" I said. "Let me get this straight, you're saying you've been driving around your own town for…what?…fifteen years and you don't know where the streets are? What do you people 'tink' about when you're walking or driving around for crimony sakes?" Miraculously, an older man came in wearing khaki shorts and a white ball cap - obviously on his way to a round of golf and obviously not from Minnesota, either.

"Ummm, excuse me Mister, but could you tell me where Flatline Street is?" I asked, showing him the address. He told me it wasn't far away and instantly started to rattle off the directions. I stopped him at the fifth turn and explained about the school bus and my desire not to be taking it any further through the side streets of a town than I had to. He offered to lead me there, which I eagerly accepted. Five minutes later he motioned out his window as we drove by the propane bulk plant and I flashed my lights in thanks. After parking the bus I went inside to get someone to dispense the propane. The only someone in there was the nice gal I had previously spoken to on the phone; she watched me drive into the lot and had already called Stan. I was glad to find a bulk plant because it seemed to me they would probably be the only people able to fix my disabled tank and when Stan appeared I explained the trouble.

The tanks are arranged whereby a fill valve is attached to the side of the bus and then there is a fill tube from that valve to another identical valve on the tank itself. Stan was trying to be very helpful and after he tried to fill it the conventional way, he crawled down underneath the bus and disconnected the fill tube and attempted to fill it directly at the tank. It still wouldn't work and he speculated on the fact the tanks were outfitted with auto-shutoff valves and that the float on the valve had jammed shut and, unfortunately, there wasn't anything he could do because he didn't have that kind of valve to replace it.

With the good tank filled once again I retraced my path though Monticello and merged back onto I-94 while thinking about what Stan had said. Later it would occur to me that if I had only sat on his lot and thought about it a few moments longer, I could have fixed it right there. However, I was in too much of a hurry to do any real thinking and the simple solution for this problem would not cross my mind again until during the return trip home in Fargo, North Dakota.

The next leg of my adventure would take me from Monticello through the Twin Cities and onward another 180 miles to Black River Falls, Wisconsin where the next FJTP was located. But, to get there I had to successfully make it through the Twin Cities; the first major city of the trip.

There are three other things about Minnesota that pisses me off. First, the streets I traveled on were too narrow for a school bus. Second, those streets do not allow you to just turn around and go the other way. And third, every damn street, interstate, side road and pig path is under construction. I'll buy you many rounds of beer if you can tell me how they can supply enough manpower and equipment to work on every drivable surface all at once? As for me, I could only imagine…

"By golly, I'm not sure either, Ralph."

 

"Vell, Wally, I've got a gud idear den. What say yu und I tear it up reel gud 'til lunch then ve'll go on over to dat one road den ve'll start tearing dat one up?"

 

"Daa, Ralph, dat sounds like a gud idear, sure."

 

I wish there were some way to adequately write about how much fun it was to drive through the Twin Cities during rush hour in the midst of total construction pandemonium while everyone around me was out looking for that one road to turn onto. I dare say the entire 101st Airborne division didn't suffer as much during Operation Market Garden as I did during that 25-mile ride through Hell. Oh, and you know how every normal driving school teaches defensive driving? Well, in Minnesota they teach offensive driving - everyone's a potential target and the bigger you are the better because they feel you'll make a better impact as they force you off the road. In spite of all this, I eventually crossed safely over the Mississippi River and ventured into Wisconsin.

Continue to CHAPTER SEVEN