|A Guitar Ted Productions Series|
When I returned home from this tour I wrote a rough draft manuscript of about half of the trip. It is 27 pages of hand written stuff, front and back, and this is what I will be posting to begin with. You'll be able to identify the 1994 manuscript material by my using italics to post it here. After the manuscript information ends, the rest of the story will be picked up from memories written down in 2008. That will appear as regular text here. As mentioned last week, cameras, smart phones, and the like did not exist for us in 1994, so images will be few. There are some though, and I will sprinkle those in when they are relevant.
We rejoin the tale of the "Beg, Borrow, and Bastard Tour" with the beginning of Day Two that started out at the Old Barn campground on the Root River Trail.
Day two dawned cool and overcast. We had our first breakfast on the road: oatmeal. We decided to cover the Root River Trail north eastwards. We left around 7:30 am or so and hit the trail. The trail was overgrown above with trees and was made darker by their shadows. The sumac was already turning red and the hint of fall was seen here and there in the woods as we sped on our way. Well, maybe that is too strong a word for our early morning travel. Troy complained of, "...legs that feel like lead." I should have been making that complaint, but I felt fine. Before I left I stretched out according to Steve's directions and had some ibuprofen.
Soon it became apparent that the next town would be further than I had hoped. The trail kept meandering around the feet of the tall hills. Rising slightly, then falling a little as we went. One of the guys called for a halt at a little bridge at the foot of a steep hill that we had been skirting. Here it was that Troy felt compelled to defile this most innocent of structures with his vile expectorations. I promptly admonished him to no avail, but much to the amusement of Steve, who snapped a photo of the event.
After remounting and cruising along a while longer, we finally came upon the first small town on our mornings journey, Lanesboro. It looked very quaint, with morning hustle and bustle in high gear. We had a good pace going and did not stop to investigate further, although the town looked worthy of it.
The road to the next town was not as long but more anticipated. Steve knew of a business owner there that ran a small pie and coffee shop. The thought of a little extra fare for the belly sounded excellent at that time. However, when we reached Whalan it was as if the town was deserted. We spent about a half an hour wondering what to do when it was decided to just leave a note and depart. We left without prospects for pie and coffee being fulfilled, but our appetites demanded something. At the next town of Petersen, a concerted effort to find something to satisfy our hunger was made.
This city was at least awake and operating, if at only a slow pace. There were a few shops open, so we poked around and found out what people in these parts had to offer. It seemed that junk food was the order of the day. We managed to find a few tidbits and parked ourselves along a brick wall on a side street. My Fig Newton munching was interrupted by the appearance of three elderly gentlemen making their way slowly towards us. One of the trio looked nigh unto ancient. A man of 80 or 90 years, no doubt. He was responsible for the trios slow approach, his feet barely coming off the ground as he shuffled along in his old leather "shit kickers".
We exchanged pleasant "hellos" when the old man stopped and gazed upon us. "Why aren't you boys lookin' fer girls?", he said shortly.
I replied with, "Well, we would, but we don't see any around here."
"They're all in the bathroom!", the old man snorted, as he motioned towards the building we were leaning against.
"Oh!, Ha ha!", was our general response, being polite and all.
"Do you guys know who you are talkin' to?", one of the younger, but still elderly gents says, as he propped up the older man from behind, guiding him to their car.
"No!", we all said in unison.
"He's an old stonemason!"
"Oh, really...That's uh...great, uh......"
They were getting in their car as we all sat dumbfounded by what we had just experienced. It must have been a generation gap, perhaps, but I'd wager that the "gap" was between their ears!
We left the strange people of Petersen to ponder why all their women were in the bathroom while "Stonemasons" were about on the streets, and we hit the trail once again. Suddenly we came out of the valley we had been wandering in all morning and out into the open. We ran a straight path on towards Rushford.
This was one of my chief memories of this tour and a story I've told countless times ever since. The Stonemason of Petersen incident was so bizarre that it seems made up, but it really happened that way!
Next: To The Mighty Miss'