Lake Pepin
Pedaling back across the narrow bridge was not an option. We had cheated death once. I could not now, knowing the danger, subject myself and my son to that peril on purpose. One cool thing at a swank hotel is the staff are primed to serve because the clientele are primed to tip. I told the desk I was in the market for someone in a pickup to drive us across the bridge. The maintenance chief loaded up the Choctawhatchee Chariot and our travel across the span of U.S. Highway 63 was a revelatory breeze. It was a breeze because we were in the cab of a pickup. Revelatory because, boy was that bridge narrow. I’d been far too focused on imminent death to take detailed notes the day before.
Our shuttle savior dropped us at the Hager Heights Drive-In and I think, with a little cajoling, we could have had fried chicken for second breakfast. (First breakfast featured fine food, but a more notable retinue of retirees, a male peanut gallery that, across several tables comprehensively repeated the talking points from Fox News the night previous.) Instead – and a good thing given our upcoming stop in Stockholm – we got underway in the sunshine and with light trailing winds.
After passing by the Red Wing Municipal Airport along the bottoms of Wisconsin, our route veered away from the river.
On Day Two I already knew this augured ill.
Soon enough we were toiling upward. Shortly after we were pushing upward on foot. A plateau gave us a flat interregnum before descending back riverside where the road was level once again.
For more than half of today’s 39 miles we rode along Lake Pepin, a natural impoundment of water piled up behind a dam of silt deposits from the Chipewa River, entering on river left – the Wisconsin side – right below Pepin, home of Laura Ingalls Wilder fetishists.
Have you read her books recently? I’m here to tell you, the regular appearance of trials to rival those visited on the Egyptians in Exodus are not the most remarkable thing about those Wilder books. The most notable feature of the Little House books is how bad they are. We tried to read them aloud together a decade ago and they are slow, objectionable, and bad. Check yourself if you want to challenge me on this: I went to Laura Ingalls Wilder Elementary School (the actress who played Nellie on the TV show visited the school and a student assembly was called to receive her) and I claim a proprietary interest in the reputed author of the books. (Hardy Boys books are even worse.)
The river up here betwixt Wisconsin and Minnesota is wide. Lake Pepin is wider.
Our route along the Great River Road takes us through river-hugging, highway-lining small towns. Maiden Rock. Stockholm. Pepin.
We stop in Stockholm mid-morning to follow our shuttle driver Brandon’s advice. He said forking up a slice at Stockholm Pie & General Store was required. Avery had butterscotch with a root beer (route beer?). I ordered chocolate cream and coffee. It was memorably delicious.
On an overcast day, we pedaled on with Lake Pepin to the right. Tugs and barges plied the waters. Minnesota’s Department of Natural Resources says water skiing was “invented” on Lake Pepin some time after the French built Fort Beauharnois along its shores in 1727. After our unexpected tour the night before, this trip is turning into a powerhouse of skiing tourism.
In Pepin proper we turned into a neighborhood and rolled down toward the shore for a lunch at the Pickle Factory. Avery was less than enthusiastic going in. He thought it was an actual producer of brined cucumbers instead of a pub-grub eatery over the water. Heading out, it was among his favorite lunch spots. New experiences are personal. He had his first mushroom swiss burger with in-sandwich onion rings and it was a revelation.
On we rode, through the over-its-banks delta of the Chipewa River.
We hung a right at Nelson to poke along causeways and raised roads back to the Mississippi. A new bridge with broad shoulders rose high to usher us down to Minnesota. I make these bridge crossings by focusing on the road ahead. I do not take in the view.
Wabasha is a tiny town. We curl around off the bridge and back to the Anderson Hotel. It’s ramshackle and jury-rigged, but we’ve arrived happily in late afternoon on this pleasant day. After settling in to our creaky and kitschy room – flocked wallpaper, cramped after-market shower, dust-catching tchotchkes – we ventured around the corner to Turning Waters Brewery, a cozy bar tended by Brenda and chattily populated by a gaggle of regulars. The beer brewed on site and the Dr Pepper trucked in was a welcome accompaniment to the store-bought pizza (see for reference last year’s lunch at Michael’s 16 Deli in the middle of Mississippi for an endorsement of unlikely grub found in surprising places. We made connections, hung out, told tales, and laughed. A map guided us here, but friendship made it special.
What a wonderful evening along the Mississippi, drinking beer and making memories.