Editor's note: This is the 12th installment of columnist's Dan Wegmueller's series on his recent motorcycle trip to Alaska.
What skill. Do you realize that I pulled into Monroe on Wednesday, July 21? This indicates that I am able to stretch a three-week motorcycle trip out to three and a half months' worth of articles - amazing. Just wait until I write the book. Like I said, skill.
Up until now, the return trip had been plagued with miserable weather, a mechanical breakdown, and (worst of all), Minneapolis. The last day of our cross-continental motorcycle trip to Alaska was blessedly better.
Dad, Dave, Stewbert and I hit Interstate 94 and headed south, toward Madison.
Realize, that four guys were wrapping up a trip where, for three weeks straight, we literally slept, ate and breathed together. And, this is something that is worth pointing out: We all got along, no small feat. No one straggled, no one complained, and for the record, we have already planned our destination for 2011, fingers crossed.
Also, there is one quintessential aspect of the trip that has, until now, remained unmentioned. In order to make our drive to Alaska possible, I had to delegate three straight weeks, 21 consecutive days, from the dairy farm. Those of you who have even the slightest experience with production agriculture know what a big deal this is. The trip would have never been possible without exceptional relief help. And, as I sped south toward Madison, I realized that I was never nervous about leaving; I knew throughout the trip that the farm was in good hands.
I met Chris Guthrie through my part-time, seasonal job at Craigo Grain. We both share a passion for agriculture, and as one conversation led to another, he and his family became very competent, efficient and willing relief milkers to my dairy operation. To put my relationship with Chris into perspective, realize that throughout the three-week trip to Alaska, I never worried about the farm. In fact, I only spoke to Chris once during my absence, a clear indication of his skill. I was just outside Anchorage when I finally gave Chris a call, to check in. His exact words were, "Everything is fine, don't worry about a thing."
And, I didn't.
Helping out by feeding the young stock and steers, was Brett Parr. There is a stereotype of young people; they are lazy and unwilling to work. Brett represents the opposite. Here is a young man who, with a great sense of humor and incredible work ethic, can be entrusted with greater responsibility than men decades his senior.
And finally, my mom, who selflessly volunteered to feed calves, despite her summertime work commitments. Exceptional mothers rarely receive the credit they are due; it is just assumed they will always be there. While her husband and two sons were away, Becky took care of a flock of baby calves, entertained visiting grandchildren and in-laws; and held a part-time, off-farm teaching job. History is outspokenly replete with great men, who undoubtedly had mothers just like Becky, working tirelessly behind the scenes.
Despite this world-class crew, I was ready to get back. Although the farm was in good hands, and although I never once worried about them, I missed my cows. Simply, I was looking forward to getting back to work (a clear indication of a successful vacation).
Of course, there was another reason I needed to get back - I was out of money. People have asked how much a trip like this costs. I had allocated some $2,500 to cover food, lodging and fuel. As it turns out, it required $764.20 worth of gasoline to propel my Kawasaki KLR 650 to the Arctic Ocean and back. The rest was spent on burgers, pizza, beer, energy drinks and warm beds, whether they were warm and cozy like Duke's in Anchorage, or a flea-infested dive like Ida's. Thus, one day before arriving back in Monroe, I ran out of cash and had to resort to credit cards - not bad, if you ask me.
Just south of Lake Delton, we ditched the interstate for Highway 12, and proceeded south through Baraboo, Sauk City, Black Earth and Mount Horeb; the perfect conclusion to our journey. The final day of our trip was a hot and sunny July afternoon. I remember the corn being much taller than when we departed. As we meandered through the small towns of Wisconsin, I wanted to shout, "Hey. We just came back from ALASKA. Take that, Sturgis."
South of Mount Horeb we grabbed County J, dipping and slicing across the now familiar terrain of America's Dairyland. We crossed into Green County, and suddenly I knew I was home. There on the road, ambling in our direction was one of Doug Mayer's milk trucks, with its signature stripes. It's funny, out of everything else, that's how I knew I was back. As if to prove my point, a second Mayer milk truck, gleaming and spotless, appeared on Highway 81. This may sound redundant, but trust me - you can travel the continent and not see another fleet like them.
My mother, bless her heart, had prepared a small party to celebrate our safe return home. The farm, having been in good hands, looked exceptional, the cows clean and well cared for. I also caught up on three weeks' worth of missed mail, and was overjoyed to receive a package from Australia.
My friends from Downunder had sent me a bottle of celebratory Bundaberg Rum, which I am now drinking the last of. Amazing - I made that bottle last three and a half months. That, indisputably, is skill.
What skill. Do you realize that I pulled into Monroe on Wednesday, July 21? This indicates that I am able to stretch a three-week motorcycle trip out to three and a half months' worth of articles - amazing. Just wait until I write the book. Like I said, skill.
Up until now, the return trip had been plagued with miserable weather, a mechanical breakdown, and (worst of all), Minneapolis. The last day of our cross-continental motorcycle trip to Alaska was blessedly better.
Dad, Dave, Stewbert and I hit Interstate 94 and headed south, toward Madison.
Realize, that four guys were wrapping up a trip where, for three weeks straight, we literally slept, ate and breathed together. And, this is something that is worth pointing out: We all got along, no small feat. No one straggled, no one complained, and for the record, we have already planned our destination for 2011, fingers crossed.
Also, there is one quintessential aspect of the trip that has, until now, remained unmentioned. In order to make our drive to Alaska possible, I had to delegate three straight weeks, 21 consecutive days, from the dairy farm. Those of you who have even the slightest experience with production agriculture know what a big deal this is. The trip would have never been possible without exceptional relief help. And, as I sped south toward Madison, I realized that I was never nervous about leaving; I knew throughout the trip that the farm was in good hands.
I met Chris Guthrie through my part-time, seasonal job at Craigo Grain. We both share a passion for agriculture, and as one conversation led to another, he and his family became very competent, efficient and willing relief milkers to my dairy operation. To put my relationship with Chris into perspective, realize that throughout the three-week trip to Alaska, I never worried about the farm. In fact, I only spoke to Chris once during my absence, a clear indication of his skill. I was just outside Anchorage when I finally gave Chris a call, to check in. His exact words were, "Everything is fine, don't worry about a thing."
And, I didn't.
Helping out by feeding the young stock and steers, was Brett Parr. There is a stereotype of young people; they are lazy and unwilling to work. Brett represents the opposite. Here is a young man who, with a great sense of humor and incredible work ethic, can be entrusted with greater responsibility than men decades his senior.
And finally, my mom, who selflessly volunteered to feed calves, despite her summertime work commitments. Exceptional mothers rarely receive the credit they are due; it is just assumed they will always be there. While her husband and two sons were away, Becky took care of a flock of baby calves, entertained visiting grandchildren and in-laws; and held a part-time, off-farm teaching job. History is outspokenly replete with great men, who undoubtedly had mothers just like Becky, working tirelessly behind the scenes.
Despite this world-class crew, I was ready to get back. Although the farm was in good hands, and although I never once worried about them, I missed my cows. Simply, I was looking forward to getting back to work (a clear indication of a successful vacation).
Of course, there was another reason I needed to get back - I was out of money. People have asked how much a trip like this costs. I had allocated some $2,500 to cover food, lodging and fuel. As it turns out, it required $764.20 worth of gasoline to propel my Kawasaki KLR 650 to the Arctic Ocean and back. The rest was spent on burgers, pizza, beer, energy drinks and warm beds, whether they were warm and cozy like Duke's in Anchorage, or a flea-infested dive like Ida's. Thus, one day before arriving back in Monroe, I ran out of cash and had to resort to credit cards - not bad, if you ask me.
Just south of Lake Delton, we ditched the interstate for Highway 12, and proceeded south through Baraboo, Sauk City, Black Earth and Mount Horeb; the perfect conclusion to our journey. The final day of our trip was a hot and sunny July afternoon. I remember the corn being much taller than when we departed. As we meandered through the small towns of Wisconsin, I wanted to shout, "Hey. We just came back from ALASKA. Take that, Sturgis."
South of Mount Horeb we grabbed County J, dipping and slicing across the now familiar terrain of America's Dairyland. We crossed into Green County, and suddenly I knew I was home. There on the road, ambling in our direction was one of Doug Mayer's milk trucks, with its signature stripes. It's funny, out of everything else, that's how I knew I was back. As if to prove my point, a second Mayer milk truck, gleaming and spotless, appeared on Highway 81. This may sound redundant, but trust me - you can travel the continent and not see another fleet like them.
My mother, bless her heart, had prepared a small party to celebrate our safe return home. The farm, having been in good hands, looked exceptional, the cows clean and well cared for. I also caught up on three weeks' worth of missed mail, and was overjoyed to receive a package from Australia.
My friends from Downunder had sent me a bottle of celebratory Bundaberg Rum, which I am now drinking the last of. Amazing - I made that bottle last three and a half months. That, indisputably, is skill.
