Pelican Lake
Traffic on I-35 was heavy for miles, trucks towing jet-skis, campers hauling canoes, bumpers belted with lawn chairs and coolers, kayaks and bikes, outdoor enthusiasts racing north for the holiday, thinning just past a junction called Can of Worms connecting I-35 to US-53. Finally a stretch of cruise control for my legs, a fresh posture for my back. I’d upgraded from a Kia Soul or similar, at the time thinking I’d save a dime, cop a new identity — hip old dude. The upgrade, your uncle’s Camry, was still in budget, leg room, low profile, and comfier, if still false, identity — hip replacement dude. But I was glad for it. I’d already stopped twice to tend my body: lunch in Duluth, and two hours before that, Starbucks near the Minneapolis airport where I bought a coffee and croissant microwaved without my consent by a young Nordic blonde which was fine, I would’ve said yes. I had placed my chocolate croissant on the car roof to ooze in its wrapper before stripping bare-chested in the parking lot. The morning sun warmed my skin. I was feeling California. I buttoned up quickly and stuffed my undershirt in the console where I forgot it the next six days. Heavy on camera equipment, light on clothing, the tee I could’ve used. Where I was staying, there would be no towels. No door locks, either. And a breach or two, depending on how you count.
Cruising north of Duluth, I opened the window and sang to cooler air. The highway tunneled into a wilderness corridor, like an Ojibwa arrow speeding through second-growth pine, birch, and aspen. From lofty rolling crests, the canopy sprawled like a rumpled carpet. Deep blue lakes dotted the vernal like gems. Crows and hawks soared. I turned up the music.
I was full-throat into a halting, heartfelt singalong with the Replacements’ raspy Paul Westerburg,
Look me in the eye, then tell me, that I’m satisfied. Are you satis-fied?
when the music dimmed, an incoming call from Virginia — a town of population 8400, where I knew not a soul. I declined the call. A minute later, the music dimmed again. I declined again, feeling just a bit dissatisfied.
A reviewer on the band’s Wikipedia page wrote of the Replacements’ lead singer-songwriter, “Westerburg has the ability to make you feel you’re right there in the car with him, drinking from the same bottle.”