A Cold Night in Rushford

One of the things I've been wanting to try out is shooting a farm tractor at night. I have a number of ideas for shots that would work well for my calendars, none of which I've been able to try yet, but did come across an opportunity to test the lighting equipment with Lyle Johnson's nicely restored 706 down in Rushford, Minnesota.

A cloudy night meant the shot I had in mind wasn't possible, but Lyle had some Xmas lights in front of his place so I thought I could at least use the equipment I brought along to create a semi-cheesey Xmas shot. I unloaded three 1,000-watt Tungsten lights, a Honda generator, and about 60 feet of extension cords and set those up to light the machine. I did that at dusk, and then killed an hour in Lyle's shed drinking diet Mountain Dew and swapping stories (the most interesting of which was hearing about the Rushford flood, which came right to Lyle's back door and has left much of the town trashed and without flood insurance).

When we went back outside, the sun had been down for 30 minutes or so and the temperature had plummeted to well below zero, mostly because the wind was gusting at 20+ mph. The wind was knocking over stands, and one of the lights was blown out before we even had a chance to fire it up. Lyle brought out some iron bars to weight the stands, which solved the problem, and two lights provided plenty of light (to my surprise).

The shot that resulted is fun, but I'll do the next shot with lights that have barn doors so I can cut down on the light spilling around my subject (the machine). Also, this background is not ideal, as the tree is distracting and the snow was all beat to hell. With more controllable light and cleaner backgrounds, I can use this equipment to create some pretty interesting images.

Oh, and I also managed to nail a tractor pan-blur. I've been shooting them for fun when I do calendar shots, and they are really tricky because tractors move so slowly. You have to use a long shutter speed and pan the camera perfectly to keep the subject sharp. I hit the one below right on the money!

The Road

After a month of buckling down and finishing a book manuscript, I found myself back out on the road yesterday, traveling about 70 miles north to lovely Kimball, Minnesota to photograph some nicely restored Minneapolis-Moline tractors.

I found the road--even that godawful stretch of strip malls and corn fields inbetween Minneapolis and St. Cloud--was a welcome thing. There's something about even an hour spent with the wheel in your hand that clears out the mind. In this case, add in a break in the clouds that brought good light and a freshly plowed field to give me a little something to work with for the images, and the road was an elixir for the soul.

I also had the good fortune to spend some time with Ron Becker, the owner of said farm tractors, who had immaculately restored the tractor his dad bought new in 1951 and used on the family farm until the 1980s.

"It was tired," he said with a laugh, "That tractor worked hard for 30 years."

He also told me that he had the "world's largest collection of Minneapolis-Moline garden tractors." He had a lot of them. There were at least 20 in his shed, and he had another shed at his home place that he said was full of more. Odds are good that he's right, and he does have the world's largest collection.

Never know what you'll find on the road.

Slovenia: Piran

Piran is a historic town on Slovenia's Mediterranean coast, and is one of my favorite places from the trip. My sister, Wendy, and her husband, Tom, discovered the town on a previous trip, and we all gathered there for a few days. The town has a rich cultural heritage, with narrow streets and ancient, gorgeous architecture.


I spent a couple of days there--one night and morning visiting with family, and another couple of evenings on an assignment. The first morning, I woke up early and wandered the main square taking photos. The sun was coming up behind the town, and lit the clouds with an eerie blue light. The town at the hour had a quiet urgency, with a smattering of shopkeepers, fisherman, and commuters on the move in the dark, salty air.


The town is small, old, and the Mediterranean air is wonderful. I also really enjoyed Tom's observations. He loved to measure the town's rhythms and take in the ebb and flow of life from his seaside balcony. He knew which fisherman would go by at what time, when the kids would come out for swimming lessons, and when the markets would open and sell him some pastries. My sister Wendy also had her finger on the pulse of the town, and she found two stray cats that she would feed every morning.

Deadlines beckon, so these images will have to suffice today!

Slovenia: Savna Pec

I've been away for a bit, as the past three weeks were spent in Slovenia. The trip has been by far the best of the year, and one of the best of my life.

The trip began in Zagreb, where I gathered with my sisters, father and his wife. After an entertaining day in Zagreb, we headed into Slovenia to visit our relatives, the Mejac family, in Savna Pec, a tiny cluster of farms not far from Hrastnik. We spent three days there visiting, hiking around the farm, and eating (and then eating some more). We saw the home our great-grandfather, Miha, was born in.


Seeing where you come from is such a powerful experience. The mountain near Savna Pec is evocative of Middle Mound, the hill my grandfather spent his life near. The faces are familiar, and the potica, strukla, and smiles all reminded me of those I've seen in Willard, Wisconsin (my Dad's home town) my entire life.

The Bridge

As most of the world knows, the bridge over 35W collapsed last night. My neighbor, Craig, told me when he stopped by on the way to go out to dinner, and we spent the night in front of the television at a local restaurant, calling friends and relatives to make sure none of them were involved.

One friend crossed the bridge a few minutes before the accident, and another was on his bicycle a few blocks away, but that's it so far. I'm thankful for that.

So far, the loss of life appears to be surprisingly low for such a major catastrophe, and the reports from the scene indicate people stayed relatively calm, resilient and helpful. Their efforts are admirable, and my heart goes out to those who lost friends and loved ones in this tragedy.

The Traveling Life

Just returned from a working vacation in Maine. I profiled an ATV club in Central Maine, photographed an old farm tractor, and spent a couple days camping in Acadia National Park with my 11-year-old niece, Hannah. Hannah and I have been going camping each year since she was five, and she came with this year to help out on the assignments and see a new part of the world. She’s a great kid, and a good little traveler.

One of the best experiences came at Hannaford, a little grocery store chain out there. We had a nice time chatting with the woman at the deli counter, who told us about her grandkids and sailing and how much she loved Bar Harbor. I was trying to get Hannah to touch one of the live lobsters in the store, and she said, “I’m not touching that!” A woman walked by, smiled, and said, “I'm with her—I wouldn’t touch them, either!” At the meat counter, I was buying some salmon to cook over the fire, and another woman walked up to pick up some pork shoulder. She saw Hannah eyeing the lobsters, and took one out for her to touch. Bar Harbor, at least, is a friendly place.

A little coffee shop in Bar Harbor was also a nice little home-away-from-home. They had wireless, so I went there to work for a few hours and Hannah shopped the block. I had her come back every ten minutes, and she’d come in with a bag of stuff and show me her treasures. She bought a sweatshirt for her dad, a bracelet for Amy, a stuffed lobster for Heather, and a bright green stuffed moose for Allie. She also bought a snow globe for Mom (grandma), but that broke while it was in her backpack.

The tidepools were a nice experience, and rummaging through them is a great thing to do with a kid. We found a little tiny crab, shells, a sea anomene, and tons of snails on Wonderland. We also hung out at Seal Beach a couple of nights, and Hannah found lots of shells there and a little stream to play in.

During the trip, Hannah asked me how much fun I had over the past few years, and I said I have so much fun doing what I do that it ought to be illegal. That stuck with me, and I was thinking about it last night. Right now, nearly everything I do in my life, I enjoy. I’m lucky and proud of what I’ve done during the past six months of trying to make this business work. I focus so much on where I want to be that I sometimes forget to appreciate where I’m at.

Serendipity

While flying back from the Crooked Road tour in Virginia, I sat next to Brian, who is from Ohio. We talked for a while, and I found out that he used to work for the Ohio Tourism Office. He also told me that Hocking Hills was a great place for motorcycling, and I should visit.


A month later, a hand-carved bird shows up in the mail along with an invitation from Amy Weirick of the local tourism office to come down and see Hocking Hills. So I agree to go, figuring I can profile an ATV club, do a motorcycle tour story, and see the area.

The day comes closer and I'm starting to think, what the hell? I have a plate full of deadlines and I'm headed down on a press trip? Why am I doing this?

As it turns out, I had a productive and vastly entertaining trip. The Hocking Hills remind of the Ozarks, with rolling hills, great motorcycle roads, and gorgeous caves and valleys. Plus the people down there are grounded Midwestern sorts with a little southern twang. And the little bit of the Short North and Germantown neighborhoods I saw in Columbus were really nice--that's a cool, livable town that reminds me a bit of MSP.

So here's a few photos--I'm running short on writing time--but let's leave it that I found another place I want to visit again.

The valley leading to Cedar Falls in Hocking Hills. I missed a wine tasting to get this shot . . .

















Trenner Wile is 8 years old and likes shooting BB guns and racing his DRR quad. He’s been at it since he was 5 years old, and is leading his class in SOCC.
















Katherine Page is 10 years old. She told me she likes beating the boys. She’s leading the Mini ATV (9-10) class, and had four wins as of mid-July.

Bahamamania

I spent the past week working in the Bahamas with Michael Kranefuss. We are working on a book about his life in racing, and weren't happy with the results of collaborating via e-mail. We needed to be face to face, and he and his wife, Immy, are at their place on Eleuthera Island until mid-July, so down I went.

Although most of the trip was spent interviewing Michael, I did get a little taste of the Bahamas through my travels. The time with Michael and Immy was a real treat, as they are fun people and gracious hosts, and swimming on the pink sand beach in front of their home was also a lovely way to break up the day. I was struck the most, however, by the way that time operates in the Bahamas . . .


Schedules in the Bahamas are like stop signs in Brazil; both are mere suggestions, a nice idea when convenient and a non-factor when not. Airline flights through Nassau do have scheduled times. It said so on my ticket, and it even said so on the battered TV monitor in the terminal.

But those times, clearly, are not something anyone takes terribly seriously.

I discovered this by arriving nearly three hours early for my flight from Nassau to Eletheura Island Monday morning. I was early only because my cab driver was coming by the hotel at 5 a.m., and that was the only time she could pick me up. Rather than risk calling another cab company and hoping someone would show up, I rode with this one. She was there when I blearily came down from my room at 5, so off I went to the airport.

At the Nassau Airport at 5:45 a.m., I anticipated finding a ghost town. What I walked into was complete chaos. The line at the Bahamas Air counter was only about 40 people deep, but that was enough to fill the stanchions and spill out into the walkway. People waited with duct-taped cardboard boxes and heaped piles of battered luggage. Everyone seemed to know each other, and people were constantly swapping places to talk with someone they knew. Many of these conversations ended with the person who moved up just happening to hang around with their "friend," so the line was a shifting sea of changing positions.

The lined moved at a snail's pace, with each customer's arrival at the Bahamasair counter prompting lots of discussion and hand-waving. And after about fifteen minutes (with maybe two passengers processed), one of the women from behind the counter came out and suggested everyone in Line A who was on Flight X move to Line B. She did this with great authority and precision.

Once we all shifted properly, she returned to patrolling the back of the counter. Then another woman came out and sternly admonished all the people in Line B on Flight X, as they were supposed to be in Line A. So everyone shifted back.

In the meantime, people were streaming in for the flight that was nearly late, and moving right to the front of the line. They simply ambled in, stepped in front of everyone, and blithely ignored all the dirty looks shot their way. In fact, the second stern woman came over to move one man in a bright yellow jumpsuit who had strolled to the front of the line, and he completely ignored her, as well.

"Sir, you need to go to the back of the line," she said. He didn't even look at her, just stood in his spot. She finally resorted to asking him to at least clear the aisle. The expression on his face gave no indication he was aware she even existed, but he did move about 12 inches back. That was enough for the stern woman, who went back to her job rearranging lines.

In the end, I made my plane, but spent two hours in that line and the flight door was closed shortly after I boarded. We were assured that the planes would be kept waiting until all ticketed passengers were onboard, but the plane left with empty seats and several people behind me were left behind.

And this of course begs the question, if the lines continue to move slowly and flights are held until everyone is on board, delays would backlog until even the day of departure would be dubious.

Another example of time came when I made arrangements to get a ride to the airport back home on Sunday morning. I asked Stanton, who operates the local car rental service and is also the town's taxi driver, to pick me up at 6:00 a.m.

"That's much too early," Stanton said. "I'll be there at 6:30."

He showed up at 6:15, surprising me. Maybe he couldn't sleep that night?

I asked him about flight times on the ride in. The flight was scheduled to leave at 8:10 a.m.

"Oh, you'll have plenty of time," he said. "The flight won't leave until 8:30. Unless it lands early. Then they leave at 7:30. But sometimes it doesn't land until 7:45, and then it leaves at 8:10."

I nodded obliquely, and he gave me that bouyant, hearty tone I believe locals reserve for tourists.

"No worries, mon," he boomed, "You will be there in plenty of time."

He was right, and I even had time to drink some terrible instant coffee before boarding my flight to Nassau. In the Nassau airport, things were again completely messed up, and I spent another two and a half hours standing in lines which were constantly juggled to make sure the people whose flight was supposed to have left 10 minutes ago were in line for the flight to leave when it left, which was about 30 minutes after the scheduled time, which was "on time" or possibly early in the Bahamas.

As a footnote, this concept of time is incredibly liberating. Maddening for those of us married to schedules--which is, sadly, most of us who live in this land of Blackberry, Twitter, and Download Now!--but the idea of time as a relative rather than absolute master frees you of a lot of baggage. Speaking of which, baggage is something else that didn't show up on time on my trip, but that's another story entirely . . .

God's Country

I returned to Texas for the first time since May 1988. I lived in Irving during the second year of my eight-year-long college odyssey, and three assignments took me back. In between photographing the Texas Mud Mafia at play near Kilgore, the Rahr and Sons Brewing Company, and The Texican Chop Shop in San Angelo, I took a little nostalgic tour of my old stomping grounds.

Despite the fact that the Dallas area has experienced tremendous development since the late 1980s, Irving really hasn't changed that much. The school I attended had changed hands, and a few of the businesses in the strip malls on Belt Line Road were rebuilt and new, but the old apartment building I lived in was pretty much the same. I was mostly shocked to see the area I called home for nine months was so small.
















Seeing Texas with a more mature eye was fascinating. I did a brewery profile of a local micro-brewery, Rahr and Sons Brewing, and one of the owners, Tony Formby, took me on a tour of some of the Fort Worth venues that serve his beers. Downtown Fort Worth is a really great little area, with gorgeous rennovated old buildings and a small-town blend of Texan hospitality and character. The Flying Saucer was probably my favorite stop, a great bar with enough history and architecture to be attractive and a cast of colorful regulars.

We also caught a heavy metal band playing at a horror show and band outing at the brewery that night. The music was heavier and louder than my tastes, but the beer and crowd were interesting enough to more than compensate.

Thanks to Jeff Holt, a West Texan who blogs about beer at Wort's Going on Here, for recommending Rahr & Sons.
















I spent Sunday riding with the Texas Mud Mafia, a fun-loving crew who fed me great barbequed chicken, braved a torrential downpour to ride, and taught me that mud riding can be a family affair. Who knew? They also have a great sense of humor. My favorite quote came from Johnene McLarry, who was sporting pink rubber boots and riding with her boyfriend. "I ride on the back and work his paddle," she said with a laugh. Her BF came over when he heard us laughing and rolled his eyes. "What did she say now?" he said.

On Monday, I had the privilege of visiting with the guys at The Texican Chop Shop. The shop is owned by Los Lonely Boys, and blends building hot rods with community activism in the building where one of the boys from the band worked long before being discovered. My only regret with that visit was I didn't have time to check out the town and really get to know the guys at the shop.

On Saturday night, my rental car drained the battery (or maybe I left the lights on--nice move), so I had to get a jump. In true Texas style, help was not hard to find. The parking lot attendant provided jumper cables, a guy on the sidewalk stopped to help push the car out so we could access the battery. Then two six-foot-plus Texans in crisp polo shirts and a big white Chevy truck came over and offered to jump the car. It was quite a scene--I was parked on a lot across from a packed patio bar, and every guy who walked by offered his two cents on how to make the operation work. When the car was up and running, the two tall Texans asked me why I was in town (apparently I don't look or sound Texan--surprise, surprise). One of them turned to me as he left and and said, "Welcome to God's Country."

Yep, that's Texas. Big, helpful, and full of beer. Not a bad combination, in my book.

Rediscovering North Country

My assignment last weekend took me up to Nashwauk, Minnesota to visit with the Range Riders ATV Club. I'll be honest, I wasn't that excited to be spending the start of my long weekend with strangers. To me, that weekend is a time to see friends, old or new, and relax.

But a deadline beckoned, so off I went on the four-hour drive to Nashwauk, Minnesota with the weatherman telling me bad weather was rolling in (great). I rolled in late in the day, and immediately got on the trail to get some shots before the clouds opened up for a late May drenching.

When we returned to the cabin, I grabbed some shots of the place while the rest of the crew prepped for supper. I was struck by the smell of pine and lake that reminds me of time spent canoeing the BWCA, and the way that life's frenetic pace slows when in Northern Minnesota.

I was called in for supper, and found the largest pan of pork ribs I've ever seen (enough to feed 20 hungry men) made by by Mari Kaminen and served on a 100-year-old table rescued from a logging camp. The cabin was home-built by Gary Kaminen's Dad in the 1940s, and is one of those classic up-north hunting shacks where a guy like me can truly relax because a spilled beer or dropped rib is more likely to improve the place than cause any harm. Gary and Mike had a great story tell after dinner, one that will make this club feature fun to read (and to write). The night was finished off out by the lake next to a Buick-sized bonfire and a seemingly endless supply of beers and stories (I'm a sucker for both).

The next day dawned relatively clear, and we rode through about 10 miles of backcountry to a hospital-sized rock the locals dubbed "The Whale." Standing on the spine of this ancient chunk of granite, swatting mosquitoes and surrounded by the virginal green of north country in the spring, I remembered that I happen to love Minnesota as much as more exotic locales.

I'm a sucker for travel, even in my own backyard.

Stones

May has been all about new construction. For my little business, it's about building some leads and connections. I sent proposals to Men's Journal, National Geographic Adventure, and Backpacker. I think there's some salable, strong story ideas that went out, but I yet have to make a confirmed sale.

In the meantime, I've been building contacts for the garage book, and feel like I'm starting to get a foothold on that project. I found a number of architects who may be able to help find the right kind of garages, and scheduled shoots at places in Wisconsin and Texas. The most exciting is The Texican Shop, a customization shop owned by Los Lonely Boys down in San Angelo, Texas. They do a lot of great things in the community, and also have some great cars and music heritage. Should be a fascinating place to visit.

On the home front, it 's been home improvement month, and Casa de Klanchero has refinished floors, new paint, a new patio, and an asphalt drive going in. This past weekend was the first in the patio-building process. I can't quite say I enjoy laying brick--hauling the blocks and leveling the sand is painstaking, back-straining work. But the results are satisfying. With help from my neighbor, Pete, I finally have a walk in front of my office door in the garage (and another 300 square feet to lay!).

Completing the walk this weekend was no small task, and the result is a cobblestone path that feels solid and substantial. I like working on stone, and my office floor is Chinese slate that lends a rugged look and strong foundation. After a week of working on queries, which you send off into the editorosphere and hope that they get some lift, the contrast of doing work with immediately tangible results is wonderful. I can only hope that the month's queries build a base for my little business as solid as the stones under my feet.

Rooms with (and without) a View . . .

I was in New York for the ASJA Conference last weeked. A great experience. But I had two different views of the city from various rooms. One came thanks to a friend of mine who recommended a hostel on the Upper West Side that is undoubtedly one of the cheapest private rooms in the city, charging $50 per night. Proof that you get what you pay for. Here's the view from that room:


The other came compliments of Bill Dyszel, who hosts a party for ASJA members at his penthouse in Manhattan on Saturday night:

A Sunday Drive in Virginia

April 15, 2007
3:23 p.m.
Photo taken through the window of my rental car as I was driving on the Highlands Parkway (Hwy. 58) crossing Mount Rogers Recreation Area in western Virginia.

On a tour of The Crooked Road, a rustic highway that crosses a number of great bluegrass destinations, I ran smack dab into a nasty nor'easter that dumped three inches of fresh snow on the road. Cars were spun out and abandoned on the road, and my rented Dodge 300 barely made it over the 3,600-foot passes. Just goes to show that a Sunday drive can quickly turn into an adventure!

P.S. Yeah, I still had one hand on the wheel and had the vehicle (mostly) under control at all times. Kids, don't try this at home . . .

St. Paul, Minnesota on April 11 at 9:12 a.m.

Shot this image out of my office door this morning. Selling Minnesotans on the importance of reducing greenhouse gases isn't going to be easy today . . .

Speeding Past Fifty

On a Ride Through Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, Racing Legend Dick Burleson Shows No Signs of Slowing Down
By Lee Klancher

[This article is destined for Robb Report Motorcycling. I'm putting it up here for comments. Fire away . . . ]



As the sun rose over Lake Superior, Dick Burleson piloted a KTM 950 Adventure to the top of the ancient chunk of granite that watches over the town of Marquette, Michigan. This battered old rock has survived four ice ages. The heavy ice pushed the mountains of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula into the earth and, 11,000 years later, they are still rising back up.

Nearly three decades after winning his eighth off-road championship, Burleson is still one of the faster off-road riders in the country. Active and fit, the compact 58-year-old man is a bundle of high energy who relishes a tough challenge on two wheels.

Michigan is home for Burleson. He lives in Travers City and grew up in St. Joseph, both of which are on Michigan’s lower peninsula. His childhood was spent under the thumb of his father, who pushed him to become a concert pianist. Burleson worked hard to fulfill his father’s dream until he turned 18, but his path was more aligned with that of his outgoing, athletic mother. Having some freedom at a summer camp near Stueben in the UP allowed him to come to grips with that.

“When I was a kid, I went to a summer camp in the center of the UP. That was fantastic,” he said. “It was one of those things where you realize who you are and what you can do. They just threw us out there and let us have it. I realized I was pretty good at a lot of stuff. It was a big confidence builder for me.”

He enjoyed the camp so much he ended up working up there after he went to the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor to study mechanical engineering. He started riding motorcycles in college, and took his Honda S90 with him up to camp to explore the area.

His love of riding led to racing, and Burleson became the best off-road racer in America. He dominated the sport from 1974 to 1981. After his racing career was over, Burleson became a factory rep for KTM and Moose Racing.

On this warm August morning, Burleson, myself, and my long-time riding buddy Mark Frederick are saddled on KTM 950s with the intention of spending three days revisiting some of Burleson’s favorite places in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.

This was an assignment, sure, but I considered it a personal mission as well. I was turning 40 on the last day of the trip, and could think of no better way to do that than riding with one of my favorite motorcycle heroes.

The UP has 287 miles of designated off-road motorcycle trails, but that’s just the tip of the off-road iceberg up there. The area is about the size of Maryland, with only 328,000 residents. Three of the Great Lakes border the UP—Superior, Michigan, and Huron—with 1,700 miles of shoreline bordering vast tracts of national forest and land owned by lumber and mining companies.

The UP also features an abundance of waterfalls, lighthouses, beaches, and wilderness to explore. We based out of the Lake Superior port town of Marquette, Michigan, which has a historic downtown near the town’s harbor district.

After burning some pavement over to one of Dick’s favorite breakfast stops, we headed down some snowmobile trails near Trout Lake in the east central part of the UP. Burleson led us down a fire road that turned into a narrower trail and became a deep sandy trail and we soon found ourselves riding a gnarly little piece of singletrack.

Approaching a nasty rock-covered hill, I wondered how expensive it would be to replace the 950’s plastic if I dropped it as I attacked the hill. The big bike snorted and positively ate the incline for breakfast, the supple rear suspenders keeping the fat rear tire putting the big twin-cylinder’s ample power to the ground with aplomb.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, either by the KTM’s capability or by the fact that a dual-sport ride with a former enduro champion took about three hours to turn into an off-road ride.
Burleson rides hard for a man one-third his age, but he’s one of many riding off-road after becoming eligible for an AARP membership.

“Use it or lose it. If I stopped . . .well, first of all, I’d go postal,” Burleson said. “I’d lock up and be taking drugs so I can walk. You keep doing it and you can do it. Part of the issue, too, is these stinking motorcycles are so good. You don’t have to work it all the time. Just go ride.”


The bikes may be good, but Burleson is no slouch. With his 60th birthday just around the corner, he’s still one of the fastest riders in the country. At the 2005 Moose Run, a notoriously tough off-road race, Burleson finished inside the top ten.

“You have to have realistic expectations,” Burleson said. “There was a time up until I was 40, that if I was racing, I wanted to win. Now I would kind of like to win, but I’m not gonna. I want to do the best I can possibly do and maybe embarrass some young kids. The goal is a little different. Part of the issue is to ride within yourself and to do that, you’ve got to train. You’ve got to take care of yourself.”

Burleson lives up to that. He maintains his physical condition with a combination of active sports and hard work at the gym.
That work pays off in speed, and he manhandled the big 950 through the woods with grace. The bike is so tall he has to hop off the side to touch the ground, but that doesn’t slow him down.

After our off-road foray near Trout Lake, we hit the pavement and turned up the wick on a bomb run to the 8,614-foot-long Mackinac Bridge. North of the bridge is a strip of the Upper Peninsula on Lake Superior’s Whitefish Bay that offers great beaches and sleepy little resorts. Along this shore on highway 123 on the way to Paradise, Michigan, we were treated to warm sun and a cool, fresh breeze blowing off the big lake.

The next leg of the journey was a cut through some of the two-track fire roads running west across the top of the eastern side of the UP. Bombing through a pine forest, a dark streak ran across the trail ahead of us and loped into the woods.

The tall, shaggy animal was one of the 434 wolves the DNR estimates live in the UP. That is a relatively small wolf population—Minnesota has more than 2,000—so the sighting was a rare treat.

The trail came out at the coast town of Grand Marais, a historic little town with gorgeous old homes lining sand-swept beaches on Lake Superior. Grand Marais is the gateway for Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, a place that inspired 1820s explorer Henry Rowe Schoolcraft. “Some of the most sublime and commanding views in nature,” he wrote.

The geographic features of note in the 70,000-acre park are the brown, tan and green cliffs lining 42 miles of Lake Superior shoreline. America’s first National Lakeshore, the wilderness park features waterfall-dotted outcroppings, which rise more than a hundred feet above the blue-green waters. Much of the lakeshore is only accessible by foot or water. There are also several overlooks in the park where you can walk from your vehicle to view the formations.

Our tour of the park was done as the light was fading, and we arrived at our hotel in Marquette at midnight with more than 500 miles of travel under our belts. Even Burleson’s famed energy seemed a bit sapped that night, but he was up at the crack of dawn the next day, bright, chipper and ready for another day of exploration when Mark and I came down for breakfast at 7:30 a.m.

We headed west of Marquette, intending to work our way up the Keweenaw Peninsula. The Keweenaw is one of the prime motorcycle destinations of the UP, a narrow sliver of land surrounded by rocky coastline and filled with intriguing two-track to explore.

We got sidetracked exploring the backcountry near the town of Big Bay. The town is a great off-the-beaten track destination, with old hotels and small town cafes.

On the final day of the ride—my 40th birthday—we left the 950s back at the hotel, and took off-road bikes into Dick’s favorite riding area, the Sands. He laid out the Loose Moose National Enduro there, one of the toughest off-road rides in Michigan.

Among the motorcycle industry, Burleson’s love of nasty off-road terrain is legendary. He has no sympathy for those who don’t share his tastes in challenging terrain.

While describing the reaction of participants to his enduro course, he had no patience for those who felt the race was too difficult. The complaints, he said, were simply more evidence of the “pussification of America.”

We parked at a trailhead in the area, and unloaded two KTMs off-road bikes and a Suzuki DRZ400S, a bit nervous about what was ahead. Following Dick Burleson around his home country is the equivalent of being led through the gates of Hades by Beelzebub. Both have intimate knowledge of their domains, and take delight in tormenting their victims.

Burleson led us through a gnarly piece of singletrack snaking through rocks, hills, and logs. I struggled with the 400, and Burleson took the bike and let Mark and I ride the KTMs, which were much better suited to the difficult terrain. At the time, I thought he was being gracious, but after some reflection, I think he just wanted to be sure we were able to survive his nastiest trails.

Burleson is fluid and graceful off-road, even on the heavy Suzuki dual-sport. One of the nastiest spots on the course was a rocky downhill. After a fairly arduous climb to the top of a house-sized block of granite, the trail dropped off the rock with a four-foot vertical cliff. The landing point was a steep jumble of head-sized rocks. I watched Burleson drop smoothly off the ledge to the trail below.

I sat at the top, mustering my nerve to leap off.

“Don’t gas it,” Burleson said. “Just roll it and let the forks soak up the hit when you land.”

I took a deep breath, gently let out the clutch, kept my body centered on the bike, and rolled off the SX off the ledge. It landed awkwardly and squirted down the hill. Not pretty, but I made it.
Later that night, we had a great meal in Marquette and Burleson shared his views on riding as he approached 60 years of age.

“When I’m no longer able to run in the top ten in the country at a national-caliber race, I’ll quit,” he told us. “I figure I have ten more years in me.”

Aging is one of the universal life challenges, and everyone finds their own way to deal with it. Burleson deals with age like he did racing—well prepared and charging in at full-throttle.

He won a plus-50 downhill mountain biking title a few years back, and still spends his time wind surfing, mountain biking, running, and riding his off-road bike. I spoke to him in March 2007, and he had just returned from a visit to the doctor.

“My wife and I made a high-speed trip over to the Mayo Clinic,” he said. “I did a whole mega-industrial strength physical exam.”

He told me that his health was so good it surprised his doctor.

“My body fat was the lowest she’d ever seen. She was like, what?” he said, bursting into his distinctive staccato laugh.

Burleson’s eight enduro championships are a feat that may never be matched. The way he’s attacking life speaks volumes about why that is so. Like the ancient mountains rising back out of the Upper Peninsula, Burleson hasn’t let time keep him down.

Burleson Quotes

“I said, ‘I’m sorry, I’m not a team player.’”
—Dick Burleson, about his response to a request from the running coach at the University of Michigan, who noticed Burleson set the fast time at the U’s indoor track and wanted him to join the team

“It’s all part of the pussification of America.”
—Dick Burleson, responding to criticism from race participants that the course he designed for the 2006 Loose Moose Enduro was too tough

“The government has to protect us from ourselves.”
—Dick Burleson, commenting on a “trail closed” sign

“When I’m no longer able to run in the top ten in the country at a national-caliber race, I’ll quit. I figure I have ten more years in me.”
—Dick Burleson, commenting on racing at age 58

“If I stopped . . .well, first of all, I’d go postal.”
—Dick Burleson, on riding off-road after reaching 50 years of age

“Since my hand was big enough to reach an octave, my dad was convinced I would be a concert pianist . . . I was actually pretty good.”
—Dick Burleson, who played avidly until he turned 18

“I have a piano. It’s not fair to say I don’t play, but I don’t play.”
—Dick Burleson, who now plays only for fun with his grandkids

“My dad was easily the most conservative guy in the world . . . My mom was quite the opposite. She was very athletic and outgoing. We have pictures of her surfing behind a boat in 19-like-20.”
—Dick Burleson

“There was no money—zero. I had a Ford van. A buddy of mine loaned me $500 so I could buy a Husky . . . Half the series was on 250 and half was on open. I had two motors. I’d race on weekend and swap motors for the next week. The chassis were all bent. I’d drive in my Ford van and sleep in my van. You’d make maybe enough to pay for gas. There was no money in that.”
—Dick Burleson on racing against the Europeans in the 1970 Trans-AMA

Geeking Out

I've been home catching up on a few things the past week, and I've been playing around with some new technology. The first bit was something I've had for a while, an Olympus DM-1 digital audio recorder. I've been meaning to use it for the ATV club features for a while, and I tried it out on the Arkansas trip, and it worked great.

I taped most of the interviews with the ATV club, and it worked really slick for that. The unit is small and innocuous, which is good, and you turn it on with a simple record button. I left it resting on my Honda's tank bag (the interviews all took place by the bike) and it picked up the voices of anyone within about eight feet of it.

The built-in microphone works pretty well. I found a reference to an external microphone that is supposed to work better that I may try down the road. For now, this is fine.

The files go on to SmartMedia cards, and can be transferred to my computer. I downloaded the latest Olympus software, and I could play them on the computer. A foot-operated rocker switch would help to cue the audo to start and stop as I type, and I'd like to find some automatic transcription software, but those are niggles. Using tape is something I'll do from now on.

I found that meant I can take thinner notes, and just write the prime quotes down. I can also get a much richer quote by using the recorder. And the 128mb cards hold 20 hours of audio. I have three cards, so I'm set on that front.

I also hooked up my new Sunrocket phone so that I can record phone interviews, which will help out a ton with that process.

Speaking of which, internet phones (like Sunrocket) are cheap and very slick to use. You can set it up to have messages sent as audio files to your e-mail. This means I'll get phone messages even when I'm on the road. That has been a good addition.

My last bit of geeking out this week is setting up a wireless network at home. A friend of mine wanted to upgrade to the new Airport base station, so he sold me his old one cheap. I installed that in the office--which took all of about 20 minutes--and had a wireless office. Nice.

The range is pretty good, but I wasn't getting good coverage in my house, which is about 50 feet away from my garage. I would get a connection in the house, but not a strong or consistent one. So I added a small Airport Express unit, which Apple is clearing out for less than $100. Setting that up took some doing--I think because of how my security was set up on the base station--but I solved those problems tonight and now have solid wireless throughout the house and in the office.

I have internet access in the house, and can use my laptop to access the files on my main computer out in the garage. Plus, Airport Extreme hooks into your stereo, and allows you to play iTunes through the stereo. I can play music in the house with my laptop, and my CD collection can go into boxes and be put away!

Lastly, I've been doing a little home improvement on the weekends. I did a little painting, am having the living room hardwood floor refinished, and having been getting bids on having the driveway paved. I'm also putting some thought into the back patio, and have a rough plan for that and hope to start in the next few weeks.

And, yes, I did file a story, sell some photos for the Seasons on the Farm collection MBI is publishing, and make a contact with the managing editor at one of Buzz Kanter's magazines.

A fine geek week, all around.

Motorcycle Paradise

I just returned from a few days in the Ozarks, one of my favorite parts of the world. The country is gorgeous, the weather is great this time of the year, and the people are friendly. Plus the motorcycling is outstanding, with great twisty roads to ride on the street and tons of good off-road riding, as well.

I spent a day playing off-road at Brock Creek with my new (to me) 125SX. The KTM and I fared better than a year ago at the same spot, a day in which I spent most of the time picking the bike up off the ground. I rode with Darrick Anderson and his brother, Trevor.

I also spent a day doing a club profile for ATV Rider magazine. This month it was the Northwest Arkansas ATV Club, a good bunch who showed me around the Mill Creek Riding Area. My favorite quote from Tom Scates, a long-time ORV enthusiast, who said, “I don’t drink bourbon or coffee anymore . . . My vice is my Rhino.”



Sunday was spent doing a ride for Cruiser magazine with Billy Bell and his father, Gene. I met the two at a cafe in their hometown of Jasper, a great little town near the Arkansas Grand Canyon (yeah, I didn't know there was one, either). They were having breakfast with a group of cafe regulars, and I was treated to stories abou the town's origins. One of the local guys, John Hudson, told me his dad, who was a well-known doctor who did some innovative work with TB patients. John invited me to stop by his home, which is a much rennovated place built around an 1826 cabin. Gene, Billy, and I stopped in for a tour, and it was amazing. The guy has a complete museum in his house, with medical devices and lots of momentos from his dad's career.

So a good trip to Arkansas. Now I just have to convince Andy at Cruiser that my "favorite ride" is Arkansas, not Colorado! I'm working on an article for him in the next issue which features "Editor's Favorite Rides." Colorado works better for the issue geographically but I prefer Arkansas--it's motorcycle paradise.

Snow!

Governor Tim Pawlenty called in the national guard yesterday to help motorists stranded by the closings of Interstate 35 in the southern part of Minnesota. Schools are closed. Governments are shut down. This is a real snow storm!

My drive to work this morning? Twenty minutes with the snowblower and about 30 seconds walking to the office. Not bad.

The plow knocked off my mailbox (for the second time this week). Message to Mr. Plow driver: wake up and pay attention, wouldja?

A Little Florida . . .

We're being bombed with snow here in the Midwest, which is lovely. The timing has been perfect--I was in Florida on assignment last week and came back just in time for one big snowstorm last week with another coming this week.

Thought I'd post a few photos of Florida. The trip included an interesting visit with Terry Thompson, the president of the Ocala National Forest Assocation. He is spearheading the assembly of a group of volunteeer trail rangers who will patrol the trail system in the forest. What Terry's doing is necessary for ORV enthusiasts across the country as new USFS policies are enacted which require national forests to restrict ORV use to "established trails."

Interesting to have found a story with a bit more depth than I expected, and great to see people going out there and doing what it takes to keep the sport alive.

I also spent a day pursuing my "gator quest." I stopped at Lake Apopka, a lake in which a researcher from the University of Florida discovered that the alligators had smaller penises than those who lived in another nearby lake. I stopped at the lake and spoke to a bishop who was there fishing. He said he had seen plenty of gators swimming past while he fished, some as "big as my truck" (tho he didn't comment on their penis size). The whole Lake Apopka alligator issue captured my interest--were these gators seeking help with commerical drugs or therapy?--and I spent the day searching for gators.

I found a gator hotel which had a 60-foot fiberglass gator eating a car out front. I photographed gators. I gathered gator stories, including the tale of a nine-footer battering his head against the door of a woman's house until animal control showed up. That's one knock on the door that would be a shock to answer, eh? I didn't make my final destination--Alligator Point up near Tallahassee--and I didn't get to meet Alligator Bob, so the completion of the gator quest will have to wait for another trip.

Besides good stories and foolish quests for lizards, it was good for this lily white midwesterner to see a little sun. That 80-degree reprieve is hard to imagine today, as a snowstorm has turned the view out of my office window into near white-out conditions. This is the way winter's meant to be!

Farmall Calendar 2008 Update

Here's the cover for the Farmall Calendar 2008. It should be available for pre-orders on Amazon in the next month or two.

Thanks to all the owners for their time (and the cookies and food!), and to editors Amy Glaser and Leah Noel at MBI Publishing for putting it all together.

The list of tractors that made the calendar are listed below, along with the owners:

Farmall Calendar 2008
Final Selects and Owners

Cover
1953 Model H
Albin Sterry
Scrum, Wisconsin

January
1964 International 2806
Sylvester Hohlfield
Chaseburg, Wisconsin

February
2007 Case IH (Steiger) STX 380
Bahl’s Motor & Implement
Hastings, Minnesota

March
1969 International 1256
Sylvester Hohlfield

April
1933 F-12
Jack Bailey
Surrey, British Columbia

May
1972 International 1468
Kevin “Swede” Hanvold
Osseo, Wisconsin

June
1953 Farmall H
Albin Sterry
Scrum, Wisconsin

July
1928 McCormick-Deering 10-20
Scott Anderson
Cadott, Wisconsin

August
1964 International Cub
Bob Bennett

September
1961 International 340 Diesel
Bob Bennett
Poulsbo, Washington

October
1948 Farmall M
Bob Bennett

November (sunrise photo)
1953 Farmall H

December
1960 International 560 Diesel
Richard Kadelbach
Hutchinson, Minnesota

The Waiting Game

Part of this gig that will probably always drive me crazy is waiting. I'm not an inherently patient man. In fact, I'm not patient at all.

So I have several great projects out as proposals for magazine and book projects, and I'm waiting on all of them. If a couple of them come through, well, I can settle a bit and know what I'm doing for the year, but I'm kind of hanging until then. Sri Lanka or Texas . . . who knows? I think they will go through---all are viable projects that should make good reads. Still, I'd like answers shortly. Sigh--that's not how this business works. I've been on the other side of the desk long enough now to be aware of that!

The other part that is odd about my new gig is editing. Odd in the sense that it sort of takes some wind out of my sails--I'm suposed to be doing this new thing, but I still need to do some editing to pay the bills. It's not that I don't enjoy the projects, I'm just excited to tackle new magazine markets and see how far I can take this thing.

That aside, it is good to be able to focus exclusively on the projects on my desk. Both of the projects I worked on were terrific books. One is The 200-mph Billboard by Mark Yost. Mark is a WSJ contributor and former Speed Sport News writer who has carved out a niche for himself as a sports business writer. He's a good reporter, and a good writer, and the book is engaging, informative, and welll-constructed--a real pleasure to work with. One of the best parts is Mark is a neighbor and a friend, and being able to talk through things over a meal is a big help to the process. Plus Mark is an interesting guy, so it's all good. I can see the advantages of working in New York or even L.A.--it's rare that I get to work with authors who live in my neck of the woods.

The other is Top Dead Center, a compilation of articles from one of my favorite writers, Kevin Cameron. He's been writing for Cycle (and later Cycle Word) magazine since 1973, and was a well-respected privateer tuner before becoming a writer. I like his stuff, but had honestly forgotten how good he is. His profiles of racers and builders are insightful and a joy to read. He understands the racing mind in a way very few do, and is a great observer of people. The hardest part of the task has been trying to select 30-40 pieces out of the hundreds of great things he's written.

The week wasn't all editing, of course. I found some time to book my next ATV club ride down in Ocala, Florida. I discovered a group that volunteers to patrol the national forest, and the same crew is working hard to create an entirely new system as well as doing state-wide training. I think that will be a worthwhile story, and am also looking forward to taking photographs without freezing my fingers!

I have a bit more editing this week, but the big crush is past and I'll have time to focus on putting together queries and doing some background for a couple of story ideas.

So if I do my job, those queries will go out to magazine editors, and I can wait some more. I guess that's just part of this game, huh? ;-)

Road Ramblings

So I spent the day on the road yesterday. Drove down to a farm just south of La Crosse, Wisconsin to photograph a tractor for the 2008 Farmall Calendar (you'll be able to pre-order this at Amazon.com in a few months--watch this space for a note).

Nice to be out shooting, and nice to be on the road. Some observations from the day.

The built-in navigation system on my Garmin GPS V sucks. I used Mapquest to lay out the route, and the Garmin wanted me to go east on 94. I didn’t. Mapquest (and my contact from La Crosse) told me the way to go was down 52 to 90. The funny part was once I passed 94, the Garmin didn’t recalculate for an hour or so and told me I had 485 miles to go when the actual mileage was 175 or so. Stupid thing.

I like open spaces. I don’t particularly care for the flat, open section of southern Minnesota around Rochester. It has this sort of run-down, mullet and Quiet Riot feel that I don’t care for, but I do like seeing big expanses of sky. There’s something liberating about driving down a nearly flat road with nothing but sky and road in your plane of view. Clears the mind.

A couple of notes from the shoot (despite having done this for a while, I'm still learning ;-) ).

Bring a gazetteer along. Being able to pinpoint precise locations, beyond what you can do with a state map or a slightly whacked GPS unit, would have helped me find my destination (which was off the built-in grid on the GPS and off the Mapquest map).

The winter light is harsh and unusable mid-day, but warms up nicely about 2:30 p.m. and is nice and bright until about 4:30. The saturated light from 4:30 to 5:30 was nice but changed colors enough to be distracting.

Always bring my doubler. I could have used more lens for a shot. I had one of the machiines up high on the hill, and could squeeze a bit of cornfield, the tractor, and the blue sky into the shot. I shot it with my 200 and got it reasonably compressed, but it wasn’t as clean as what I had in mind. A 400 would have been perfect.

I’m concerned about the cheap-ish Manfrotto ballhead ($60) I bought. It just didn’t feel terribly stable. I may have to drop some money on a high-end ballhead down the road. The images confirm my suspicions about the unit's stability--some of the longer shots are not sharp. I shot them using the 2-second timer on the Canon and had the ballhead clamped down, so there's not much more I can do with the tripod. I wonder if I can find a good ballhead used?

I need to make sure that second battery for the 1DS arrives shortly. The battery died several times, as the cold shut it down. I put it in my pocket and warmed it up, which bought me another 10 minutes of time before it died again, but it wasn’t really that cold—the thermometer in my Audi read 24 degrees when I drove up. On a colder day, I would have been struggling with only one batttery.

I stayed relatively warm, by the way. I wore wool long johns under light pants and a heavy snowmobiling jacket. My hands got cold—I would have liked some chemical hand warmers in the my pockets, and a better pair of gloves. I used motocross gloves, which were too thick to allow me to use the small buttons on the back of the camera, and not all that warm. I think some thin poly gloves would be a good addition.

After waxing nostalgic about driving Sam’s pickup last week, I have to say, I really enjoy being on the road in the Audi. The car feels tight and is comfortable, reasonably powerful, and smooth. It’s an effective tool, plus the stereo is good.

Lastly, under the category of what six hours in the car with a CD player does to you, I've come to these conclusions: Jack White is a genius, The Pixies live up to the hype, and I want to hear more of the Dresden Dolls--those vocals are amazing.

Over and out, L

Riding the Rain

Last Sunday was spent riding with the Washington ATV Association, a club based in the Pacific Northwest. They were out on a work weekend, clearing trails in the Capitol State Forest near Olympia. The rain was heavy and steady, and it was a real challenge to keep the cameras working. The 10D fogged after two shoots, and the images were unusable after that (you could see they were fogged in the review screen, thankfully, as I realized the camera was toast and put it away). The 1DS was much better, hanging tough until we got back to the trucks. I think the better environmental seals on the 1DS body paid off. That camera worked through about a dozen stops, and then it fogged up back at the truck. The equipment was soaked by the end of the day, and I had to air out my bag and all of my equipment for a day when I got back. Happily, everything still worked just fine.

Incidentally, my flash and the new 1DS weren't on speaking terms (I think the contact pad wasn't hooking up, but I still have to investigate that glitch further), which meant that I had to shoot a lot of blurs and some static set-ups in low light. The blurs came out surprisingly well. The top photo was one of the first shot without a flash, and I think the soft light gives it a much more interesting look than all the second-curtain sync flash shots you see out there these days. I also hit a few pans on the nose and kept things sharp enough to work well, which I wouldn't have bet I could do in that light. Honestly, given the conditions, I was surprised to find plenty of good images when I came home.

As I noted a few entries back, I wanted to try having someone along to help out during the shoot. Tami Inslee, a graphic designer friend, was willing to lend a hand in order to get a dirt fix. While the tough weather and narrow trails made it pretty much impossible to put her to work while I was shooting on the trail, it was great to have a camera working while I was interviewing club members. As with the Wisconsin club, that is a busy time, and having someone else free to take photos of club members, the setting for the get-together, and so on is a big plus. It's also nice to have someone to help get names. An added bonus was she got one of the best quotes of the day, from four-year-old Hannah. Hannah rides her own ATV, and when asked why she likes it, she said, "Because it's fast." Nice quote, and the help was appreciated.

Big thanks are due to the club members who came out in nasty weather to take part in the ride. They were incredibly generous with time and machinery, and went out of the way to make us feel welcome. In fact, I think we both would have frozen without some borrowed clothes. And thanks to Ron Wolf, a Wisconsin guy who did his best to send us home smashed on his homemade cherry and booze concoctions. We managed to dodge that bullet, but I appreciate the hospitality! The club is doing good work keeping our trails open, and have logged a ton of time clearing trails. A hard-working bunch dedicated to their sport. If you ride in the Capitol State Forest, you have Kathy and Joe Heitmann and the Washington ATV Association to thank.

The Magic of Beater Trucks (long)

I’m in Seattle staying with one of my best friends and his family. He’s been bothering me to come out and see his new house for a long time, so I took the opportunity to join him for his New Year’s Eve party and to stick around and do some work in the Pacific Northwest.

He and his family have been outrageously generous, and it’s been a great way to start off my new venture. They have plenty of space, and provided a basement bedroom, my own bathroom, and let me take over his home office for a few days.

Better than that, my buddy loaned me his 1996 Ford four-by-four. It’s a blue club cab rig with 122,000 miles and a banged-up right fender that spent it’s former life hauling a horse trailer over the local passes. The seat is sacked out, the driver’s side window doesn’t roll down, and the ball joints are so shot the truck practically weaves down the freeway. I love driving it.

You see, I’m a pickup guy. I found my first truck sitting in the weeds while riding motorcycles with buddies. It was a 1940 Chevy nearly buried in the grass behind Bill Burdick’s house, about eight miles from my childhood home north of Brill, Wisconsin. I remember the musty smell when we climbed inside, and the excitement of talking about where we’d drive it if we got it running. I asked Bill if he’d sell the truck, and he was more than happy to get it off his property. We used my neighbor’s tractor to tow the rig down the narrow trail behind Bill’s house and down the 8 miles of pavement and gravel that led to my parent’s home on the Brill River.

We put it in my yard, next to the garage my Dad had built by my uncle and his long-haired crew in 1968, and there that truck sat. I tried to jump start it with Dad’s truck, but my skills were not up to turning the rusted relic into a runner.

The truck sat in the yard for a year or so, and my Dad finally got sick of it and I sold it to a neighbor kid for $40, pretty pleased at the tidy profit I netted on the Chevy.

More importantly than a ten-dollar windfall, I learned the joys of sitting in a truck, hanging your arm out in the breeze.

I ended up spending most of high school driving my Dad’s 1979 Ford F-150 around the countryside, where my truck guy roots were solidified. During college, I mostly drove motorcycles and shunned four-wheeled transportation, with the exception of an old Buick Electra 225 handed down from my folks and a gold 1973 Cadillac my grandmather bought me to haul my stuff home from California after a one-year stint in school there that turned into an extended lesson in surfing, making printed circuit boards, and how the two made it nigh impossible for me to focus enough to get good grades in school. My dreams of attending Berkeley sunk with my GPA, and I came back to the University of Minnesota for my education.

Once I graduated and found myself with a job that paid more than $10 an hour, I promptly returned to my pickup truck roots and bought a early 1980s Ford two-wheel-drive work truck that was clean, had low miles, a faded-out blue topper, and crank windows. That truck was enlisted for hauling motorcycles, dead deer at the cabin, and me to work and all places inbetween.

That truck aged and passed on, and was replaced with a 1995 black F150 that was one of my favorite trucks. I still think that body style is the best one Ford has had, maybe ever, and I just love the way those trucks feel inside.

I’ve been flirting with non-pickups during the past six years, starting with a 2002 Nissan Xterra that I loved dearly but couldn’t haul anything. I went back to a 1997 Ford F150, but didn’t enjoy parking and driving the truck around the Cities, plus the gas mileage was atrocious, so I bought myself an Audi Avant Quattro that gets reasonable gas mileage, has plenty of room to haul camera equipment, and is a joy to drive. I really love the car but . . . it isn’t a truck.

So getting into Sammy’s 1996 reminded me that, well, I’m a pickup truck guy. I love the way you sit up high and look down on everyone but truckers and the misguided Yuppies driving Hummers to the grocery store. I love that you can turn your head and see through that big flat pane of glass whether or not anyone is behind you. I love bouncing over curbs and not worrying about grinding undercarriage or damaging delicate fenders.

I love the cozy feel of the cab, which has just enough room for you, a shot gun, a friend and a dog. And I like the fact that a woman can sit right next to you on that big bench seat if she wants, maybe shift it for you if it’s manual.

There’s also nothing better than being able to throw in a load of gravel or a couple sheets of plywood. You forget what a hassle getting things that home is until you have a car and have to hook up a trailer every time you want to do a little home improvement.

And I really like having a truck with some miles on it, something that already has had the new vehicle shine worn off by branches scraping it as you bounce down the trail. Bounce a few cement blocks off the side of the box, back into a tree while hauling wood, or maybe scrape it up against a parking meter or two. Then you’ve got a truck, because a little scrape doesn’t mean nothing.

A good friend of mine had a white four-wheel-drive Ford that got sideswiped bad, hammered and battered so badly that the tires stuck out past the smashed fenders. He jimmied the door so it would open, cashed the insurance check, and drove the truck for another six months before buying himself a new one. He loved that truck. Loved how it looked mean, and loved the fact that when he took it up the muddy trails that lead up the mountain to his hunting spot, the mud flew off the exposed tires and covered the truck with huge chunks of black, wet Colorado soil.

My brother-in-law is the proud owner of the Ford That Won’t Die. He calls the truck his Cash Cow because it’s been wrecked and paid for by insurance companies so much it’s more than paid for itself. The truck has nearly 300,000 miles on it, and has been run ragged, dry, and hammered into everything you can imagine serving as a mule for my brother-in-law’s business.

During Christmas, said brother-in-law and I made a newspaper run from my grandmother’s house in B.F.N., Wisconsin to the little gas station in Greenwood (Near BFE), and I picked up a copy of the Tradin’ Times, a local paper that features anything and everything for sale, trucks included. I found a dozen trucks for sale with 150,000 or so miles priced less than what you’d spend on a good computer.

Next decent check that comes in, damned if I’m not going to go buy me one of those.