50 Stories in 50 States: Tales Inspired by a Motorcycle Journey Across the USA Vol 4, the Midwest

50 Stories in 50 States: Tales inspired by a motorcycle journey across the USA

Volume IV: Midwest

By Kevin B Parsons

Copyright 2014 Kevin B Parsons

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Contents

Introduction

Minnesota

Montana

North Dakota

Iowa

Kansas

Nebraska

South Dakota

Missouri

Oklahoma

Arkansas

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Introduction

My wife (Quilter Girl) and I embarked on a ‘50 States in 50 Weeks’ motorcycle tour of America, a once-in-a-lifetime dream. We rode across the country on a Honda Gold Wing, towing a pop top tent trailer. During the more mundane sections of the trip (like the eastern side of South Dakota), we talked on the intercoms and came up with short story ideas. Inspired, I wrote a story for every state, which morphed into a five-books series, compiled by regions, with ten states in each volume.

Some of the stories are based on our experiences, some on history, and some probably from indigestion. Warning; these are not necessarily motorcycle stories, nor are they travel stories (although some are), but a look at Americana with each state a background.

We traveled one year straight through, regardless of weather. Iowa suffered from a drought and we rode across during the peak of it, past myriad farms of corn, completely dead, the temperatures over a hundred. Montana morphed from snow and wind to temperatures in the nineties. Yet states like North Dakota and Minnesota provided excellent weather and beautiful countryside.

Enjoy this volume of ‘50 Stories.’

~Kevin B Parsons

Brian Head, Utah

Minnesota

The home of Paul Bunyan, Northern Minnesota features miles of woods. We saw signs of logging up there, trucks trundling down the highways, carrying long thin logs headed to the mills. As we rode through, I thought of all that machinery—sitting in remote spots—an easy target for naughty people.

Gas ’n Go

Monday mornings at my office—the pine woods of Upper Minnesota—started the same, just like everyone else’s. A guy in an office tower dropped his things at his cubicle and headed to the coffee maker. A dentist got his office opened up and probably made sure all the magazines were at least eight months old, I don’t know. Tons of people checked their emails. I met the crew outside a stand of trees, usually pine, and we went over what we were logging for the week. We also caught up on what happened over the weekend, family and play times. This week we started a new section, three hundred acres just South of Birch Lake. With the residue from a fresh rain and the sun casting long shadows from the trees, it looked to be a perfect week.

Many industries secrete scents—the smell of money—the residents call it. A pulp mill stinks up a town and the locals love it. Dairy farmers must relish the putrid stench of cow manure. On a positive note, the smell of mature corn permeating the air or freshly mown hay smells good to both the farmers and city folks. My business generates three wonderful scents. First the aroma of pine trees, both the standing trees and the felled ones, brings a sense of prosperity to me and connects me to the earth. Ahh, perfume. Exhaust from a two-cycle chainsaw comes in at a distant second place, with diesel engines rounding out the smells of our money.

With my small crew of Caleb and Matt, we walked around our machines, checking fluids, looking for loose panels, broken parts or hydraulic hoses with cracks about to leak. Caleb, of course, already finished and started his machine, a green John Deere 753J feller buncher, an amazing machine that took my logging company to a new level.

Before, we felled trees with chain saws and cut them into lengths, not much more advanced than the loggers of the early twentieth century. But the feller buncher changed all that. It clatters up to a stand of pines and the operator moves the attachment to the nearest tree, clamps it, and cuts the tree as the machine holds it upright. Then rotating it horizontally, the machine sucks the tree through, cutting off branches, clipping the trunk into just over eight-foot lengths and then stacking them. I still watch amazed as the operator and machine work so efficiently. If I can just keep it in good shape until it’s paid for. With Caleb’s help, it looks like a good possibility.

He shut down his machine. Unusual. He seldom shut it off until lunch. He climbed to the opposite side of the cab, shook his head, jumped down and walked over, his shoulders hunched, his body language communicating not good.

Jason, we got a problem. Caleb stopped, hands in his pockets, and spat some chaw onto the forest floor. Somebody stole our fuel.

Really? A stupid question, but they say denial is the first stage of grief, and someone dished out the grief this weekend.

Matt jumped out of the loader and I could tell he bore the same news. Yep. He slid his thumbs under his suspenders. Slick Boots. He’s working north. Just over the highway.

He referred to Bill Harris, a man with a reputation for cutting corners, stealing, lying and cheating. People said he would lie even if the truth served him better.

I don’t know. It could be anyone, way out here. We leave the machines clear out here all weekend and anyone can steal it.

No, they need a John Deere key. Someone just opened the fuel caps and took it. Locked it back up, too. You know it’s Slick Boots.

Well, that’s why they call him that. Still, no proving it. I pointed to my truck, with a hundred gallon fuel cell in the back. Split the fuel between the machines. It’ll get us by. I’ll get some more.

I’m going to smash every window in his machines, Caleb fumed. He always carried a sense of fairness, tilting at windmills, trying to right all the wrongs he encountered.

Matt already moved my pickup by the loader and hooked the nozzle to it. I could see the anger in his posture, and that would be all. He didn’t say much.

First, we don’t know if he did it for sure. Second, two wrongs don’t make a right.

I know. He kicked a branch. I just hate it. He’s such a scumbag.

I agreed, and realized we’d morphed from victims to judge and jury. With Slick Boots within twenty miles, he certainly could have done it.

Slick Boots logged Ben Matheson’s stand. With Ben’s equipment. Fourth of July weekend. Took the timber.

I know. I remember. I watched Matt move the pickup to the feller buncher. Everyone in the industry had a story about Slick Boots. The logging industry is a gossip’s dream, as the truckers line up at the sawmills and spread rumors like loaders spread sawdust.

We returned to a normal Monday, Caleb cutting and stacking the logs, Matt grading roads and clearing brush and piling it while I transferred the logs onto my truck with a log loader. Most owners either sat in an office or ran the crews, but with just the three of us, I liked to haul the logs to the mills. Caleb and Matt both worked for me from the start, four years ago, and earned my trust. They did a better job than I did. Besides, whenever I returned I could easily gauge their