No bookstores or book signings today, just the 250 mile drive from the upper eastern corner of the state to the western edge of the forests where the land begins to open into the prairies. It’s forest roads the whole way — two lane asphalt winding through pines and lakes, with an occasional small town interspersed on the journey.
In geological terms, it is a movement from the ancient rocks of the Canadian shield, which creates a lake country of craggy promontories and crystal blue waters, to the less dramatic, but still heavily forested land of lakes and streams and bogs that make the land seem almost more water than earth.
You don’t notice the change unless you are watching closely. The forests get slightly less stately and the perimeters of the lakes slightly less rocky. But it is still just mile after mile of forested pathway.
There is one great punctuation, though — the iron range, or, “the range” as it is known; a long, thin stretch of land that contains the iron ore that fueled America’s industrial revolution and shaped the culture and the people that lived, and still live, upon it.
The range is characterized by the “open pit” mines; breathtaking man-made Grand Canyon-like gashes in the land miles wide and hundreds of feet deep where earth moving machines three stories tall dig and move the ore that makes the steel that made America. They look like insects as you peer down upon them from the overlooks on the edge of the pits.
We made our way across that dividing line of the Range and continued through the forests to Bemidji, our old home town. It’s a town of 13000 people in the middle of three Indian reservations, situated on the margins where the forests begin to give way to the vast prairies of North and South Dakota.
As we arrive, we see that nothing has changed, but everything has changed. Like any place you return to that you left years ago, it is unnerving for its combination of familiarity and strangeness.
I do a ZOOM interview with a native language and culture group in upstate New York, and we settle into a 1940’s cabin on the shore of Lake Bemidji, the lake where the Mississippi passes through on its way from its origin in Itasca 60 miles to the west to its ultimate terminus thousands of miles south at the Gulf of Mexico. The cabin is part of a once grand lakeside resort that has fallen into its current shabby state and now survives as a nostalgic curio with only faint echoes of its former glory.
We visit old friends and see old haunts, drive by our one-time homes and reminisce about how it was to live here and how we ended up where we are now. A million thoughts, a million memories.
I could write epistles about this homecoming, but rather than sort through the memories and sensations, I would rather give you pictures of two of my canine friends with whom I had joyful reunions: Sevvie, the dog I looked after last year when his owners were out of town, and Adele, a “dog dog” as I call her — the Platonic vision of a dog as I understand them — and the fourth in a line of excellent golden retrievers owned by an old friend of ours.
A better man, a wiser man, would talk about those old friends. But I am not that man. I am satisfied to leave you with images of Sevvie and Adele. More human encounters are coming soon. For now, these two fine doggies are all you get, and for most of you dog folks, that should be quite enough.
Thanks Kent–so sweet. It is wonderful to hear your stories of northern Minnesota where I grew up on the range. Been in Oregon since 1979 but fond memories.
Oh, how Louise and I miss Oregon. 10 good years. But the kids came back here, so we did, too. Now, however, we get the deep joy of the Minnesota north country when we get up here. The Twin Cities are fine, but the north owns our hearts.
Blessings from Wyoming. 4 years lived in East Grand Forks, 2 weekends ago we were in the Badlands and Wind Cave
A picture is worth a thousand words. But if you can manage it Kent, please share more of your thoughts, all you feel and experience, as much as possible, as you wonderfully do.
Yeah, I know, I only say so much about my kids and grandkids and our zoo. Our personal connections are private, especially with God.
But please ask Sevvie and Adele how they feel if there’s something you’d like to share. Maybe read them a rough draft?
We know the direct look of a canines eyes, twitching nose, raised eyebrows and ears, and most important, a wagging tail and posture.
Oh, if we could free ourselves and exhibit such body language.
Realizing somatic sensations are the key to knowing that our bodies are a temple of the Lord.
(Angels and Daemons included)
And that Dog is God
Jung told us of spiritual alchemists who sought to transform their base nature into Heavenly Gold. For many of them, Jesus was their Philosophers Stone or transforming substance.
Can we save ourselves?
But there is a treatise that Jung included in his final work about several alchemists who experienced Dog is God.
This is no mere theriomorphic musing or projection on our furry companions, who share many of the same traits as us. Mythology gives us numerous clues from ancient Asia with the Monkey God Hanuman and the Egyptian Cat Goddess Bastet.
Native American mythology especially shows this with grand tales of epic vision quests aided by one’s totem or animal friend.
Crazy Horse, most notably.
It is in our dreams, meditations or hypnogogic states, induced or not, that we know inner animals have something to say, as in the Bible and the Brothers Grimm Fairy Tales, like our canine friends.
In knowing our inner friends, we can better connect with our outer friends and their spirit in Our Life’s Journey.
Travels With Charlie
Dogs have no guile. They can smell bs a mile away, especially in us, and try to keep us honest.
If we pay attention, despite our supposed superior nature.
The most famous example, in my mind, is from the play Faust by Goethe, who has a small
stray poodle follow Dr. Faustus home on a wager with God to deceive Faust the Louse in his ambition to know all things and so advance himself. (the epitome of our hubris, pungent arrogance)
The biblical basis for this is 1 Kings 22 when Yahweh sends deceptive spirits to King Ahab’s ruin for waging war instead of peace.
Please excuse the dissertation Kent, but there is more to our dogs or any of our furry friends that meets our eyes.
Especially on a Lone Dog Road.
I can and will respect your silence. But if Sevvie and Adele want you to say something, please do.
We love you Kent, with all you share, opening our hearts and minds, knowing how “All Things Are Connected,” as Native Shamans have long said.
Caring for that connection is essential. It can keep us from needing to see a psychiatrist, shaman or Jungian analyst.
My very good friends have been in a contest, 10 Best Bookstores in America! The results will be shared soon. The Barrow Bookstore in Concord, Mass. Oh, if only you were closer! I am on me second time through Lone Dog Road. As always, THANK YOU!
“. . . and for most of you dog folks, that should be quite enough.” More than enough, Kent, more than enough. You write exquisitely of ‘I-Thou’ encounters with Sevvie and Adele as well as with the land. I am blessed to read every word . . .
An old friend was born and raised in Bemidji. I’ve heard many stories.
DOGS! Much more than a man or families best friend! A grand provider of stress relief and unconditional love!