Chapter 8
Getting there is half the fun
Elise and I had about a week together before she started south. She worked shorter days and we had time to take walks, gloved hand in gloved hand shuffling through the snow – very romantic. There were a few parties, there were talks about our travels, there was clean up around the kitchen as we prepared for the remodeling, and then the time was over and she was gone.
I was as good as my word and did finally finish the last chapter of the Jolliet biography and get it off to my editor at UV Press. She called to tell me her initial reaction was positive, and she would get back to me as the copy editing went forward. I was just glad to have the thing off my desk. I didn’t think the first volume covered much new ground, and I was already thinking far more about the next generations of Jolliets. They had been prominent politically, but had they accomplished anything else? I wasn’t seeing their names among the western explorers.
My other big accomplishment for that period was to get the contractors in from Philadelphia. My father’s company had already imported all the materials we would need so there would be no French “engineering” in our kitchen (hopefully Elise would not notice). Unlike French workers, these guys got right to work. My guess was they had no great interest in spending any more time in Green Bay than absolutely necessary – and that was fine with me.
By the third week in January I was ready to start west when a huge snow storm closed every highway east of the mountains. Days passed and I waited. What does one do in Green Bay in January? Count the days until May. The workmen had rebuilt our kitchen in record-breaking time, so I spend some time putting dishes up on shelves and that sort of thing, but there were still too many unfilled hours in each endless day. Eventually the storm mess was cleared enough to open roads again and I fired up my Citroen for the ride west.
On paper the trip looked easy enough – west out of town on the main military highway – Green Bay, Portage, St. Paul, DeSmet. The highway continued on to the wall and then followed the mountains north and south so troops could be moved to block an invasion from Oregon or California. Neither country having ever invaded, the road mostly supplied ski resorts, but at least it served some purpose. At the moment it was getting me west at a pretty good clip. Even with icy patches and some blowing snow, I was in St. Paul well before dark. Given the quality of the car heater and the quality of my seat, I decided that would be enough for the first day.
As it turned out, I had made a brilliant decision. A few hours later another blizzard hit the plains and closed all roads for three days. What do you do for three days in St. Paul? Mostly you watch reruns of lacrosse matches on tv and talk wheat prices with the local businessmen. I am now an expert on wheat futures. Just ask me.
When the roads were finally clear again, my car wouldn’t start. The battery was frozen. By the time that got replaced, it was too late to start out, so I had another evening of lacrosse and wheat. By now I would have given my soul to have a conversation about corn. Fortunately my car started the next morning and I was able to point it west again.
A funny thing happened west of St. Paul – nothing. I noticed the nothing about an hour out of town. Traffic disappeared and I often had the highway to myself. I also seemed to have the rest of the plains to myself. I might see an occasional farm or even a small grove of trees, but mostly I saw wall to wall nothing. We have no such places in America. Our population is too dense. Even in Wisconsin where they have larger spaces, they have hills and farms and woods, so there is some sense of civilization. But west of St Paul, I felt like I had fallen off the edge of the world. It was almost like being on the ocean. The horizon looked like a line drawn. It occurred to me if my sad little French car had a problem out here, I might be in big trouble fast. I slowed my speed, kept an eye on the gas gauge, and wondered if I would ever see people again.
The sun was near the horizon and I was approaching the Red River when I discovered that no, I was not the last man left on earth. The river had a town – Verendrye. I felt like hugging my car. We had made it. I was still a long way from DeSmet, but I didn’t care. What I wanted was to be off that highway and in some place safe and warm before dark. Verendrye would do fine. I took the highway exit and cruised downtown looking for a hotel. This turned out to be pretty simple. The town was one block long and had one hotel. The neon sign out front announced that they had a “vac cy.” Fine with me. I didn’t care about the quality of the local sign repair people as long as the furnace repair people managed to keep this old barn warm.
I parked in front of the hotel and walked into a lobby that appeared to be three times larger than necessary for a hotel this size. The place was just two stories and looked to have maybe twenty rooms. The good news was the lobby had a bar and a restaurant. The bad news was the whole place was empty. At a registration desk that looked like it could be on the set of an old western movie there was a sign – “ring bell for service.” I looked around trying to find a bell. After circling the desk three times and seeing nothing resembling a bell, I just started shouting “hello.”
I was on my fourth or fifth “hello” when I began to hear noises coming from behind the restaurant. Either the place had really big rats, or there was a person working back there. Fortunately, it was a person – a very old person, a man who looked like he should sit in that restaurant and eat nonstop for a month. On the other hand, if he did eat at that restaurant and was still so skinny, I thought a different restaurant would be a better idea for dinner. He shuffled toward the front of the hotel, wiping his hands on a rag and not paying any particular attention to me. Eventually he arrived at the registration desk, opened a drawer to find his glasses, and with them finally on his face he looked at me.
“Would you like a room?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like one with a bathroom?”
“Sure. Why not live a little?” He didn’t seem to notice my jab. He had a set of questions to ask, and he was going to ask them.
“How many nights would you like to stay?
“Just one”
“Oh.” He seemed so put out, I hurried to add,
“But if the weather turns bad, I might stay a little longer.” I am not sure he remembered how to smile, but his face moved a bit and that might have been what it was doing.
“That will be forty francs – in advance.”
“Does that include the bathroom?”
“Oh yes, with soap and towels.”
“Well, that sounds very good.” I pulled out forty francs and our conversation was largely at an end. He had run through his questions. I asked about where to park and he looked at me like I was a simpleton. “There are places all over town.” I took that to mean I could park on the street, which is what I did. I left my car pretty much where it had been when I arrived, grabbed a bag out of it and headed up to my room.
It was a pretty interesting room. I have no idea how old this hotel was, but I would guess well over a century. I would also guess it was built before electric lights and indoor plumbing given the way pipes were routed along walls, and wires just seemed to hang down from the ceiling. Why the place had not burned down decades ago was a mystery to me. Was it safe for me to spend the night? Probably safer than sleeping out in the cold, but not by much.
I tried to phone Elise, but it appeared cell towers hadn’t reached this far west. So I checked my maps, gave some thought to how much driving I might be doing the next day, and then went downstairs in search of food. The ancient bellman was still standing at the registration desk filling in some form. It appeared on-line reservation systems were as absent as cell towers.
“Could you recommend a restaurant in town?”
“What’s wrong with this one?” He seemed more shocked than disturbed by my request. It appeared obvious to him that he had the best restaurant. It was equally obvious to me the place was empty. Surely it was closed for the season.
/> “What time do you open?” I seemed to confuse him even more deeply.
“We’re open now.” He pointed toward that side of the lobby just in case I was too stupid to see he had a restaurant with tables and everything.
“And the bar?”
“Yes, it’s open too.” Another gesture to the other side of the lobby. Either I was a moron or I was blind. Couldn’t I see the restaurant and bar were right there?
“Could I get a glass of wine?” At this point he was staring at me like I might belong in an institution. The bar was right there, that was obvious. Bars serve wine, that was obvious. How stupid was I?
“We have a wine there along the wall. Pick a bottle, and I will serve you when I have finished all this paperwork.” All this paperwork appeared to be a ledger entry with date, time, room number, and amount received – 30 francs. He might be old, but he wasn’t stupid.
I went to the wine rack only to discover they had about half a dozen bottles, all well-aged, none from wineries I had ever heard of. Manitoba Merlot? I grabbed a bottle at random and sat down to wait, and wait, and wait. Eventually my ancient friend shuffled over and rummaged around some drawers near the wine and came back with a glass and a corkscrew. He had the good sense to give me the corkscrew. I doubted he had the strength to open the bottle, and I was certain I didn’t have the patience to wait hours while he tried.
“What would you like to eat?” Was he my cook too?
“What is the specialty of the house?”
“We make buffalo burgers, but we are out of buns. How about a buffalo steak? I think I have some potatoes.”
“That would be perfect. I’ll have it medium rare.” I think he understood my first sentence; but the second confused him. Apparently I was uttering idiot babble again. He just wandered off and disappeared through one of the doors in the back of the lobby.
So, this was my big night in Verendrye. The wine was desperation in a bottle, the lobby was drafty and dusty, and the company? I wondered when I would see him again. While I waited, I sipped the wine and looked across the lobby at the windows. They were frosted up pretty good, and it was deep dark by now, but I thought I saw snow coming down. Another blizzard? Might I be locked in here for days? Was cannibalism part of my future?
Eventually, the ancient chef returned pushing a cart before him. On it were two plates with meat hanging over the edges, a few utensils, and several packed soda crackers.
“The potatoes went bad.” He said as he put a plate in front of my and then put the crackers in the middle of the table. He then set the other plate on the table across from me and sat down.
“So, you’ll be joining me?” Wow, I said stupid things. I was pretty sure if another customer ever came into the place the old man’s first words would be - you wouldn’t believe the dummy who was here last.
“I’ve got to eat too.” Which is exactly what he did. I tried. Maybe my knife was dull. I did get one chunk off and spent the next ten minutes chewing what I could. This buffalo had led a hard life. I started opening the cracker packages. It appeared they would be my dinner.
“I suppose it is pretty quiet around here in the winter. When is your busy season?”
“Threshing is big. We get three or four people a night.”
“This is a pretty big place for three or four people.”
“Used to be bigger. There was a whole wing off the back with fifty more rooms. Burned down. Used to fill the place. Buffalo hunters mostly.”
“Not enough buffalo?”
“Too many Sioux.” What do you say to that? In my case, nothing. In his case, a little more.
“You headed to them or from them?”
“I’m headed for DeSmet.”
“Stay on your side of town and you’ll be fine. Do you have people there?”
“Yes, my fiancée has contacts in the Interior Ministry there.”
“The government is useless. Stay on the east side of town.” He seemed to have nothing more to say. I ate the last of the packaged crackers, laid ten francs on the table, and went to bed.
The Canadian Civil War: Volume 3 - West to the Wall Page 8
