Trip Home from Northwoods Recalls Worst Travel Day Ever

   The little city of Eveleth, Minnesota, is 65 miles north of Duluth, and it’s home to the U.S. Hockey Hall of Fame.

   It’s also just west of U.S. Highway 53, and I overnighted there in October 1994 after deer hunting in Ontario. More often, though, I’ve bypassed Eveleth while driving to fish or hunt anywhere between Ely and Fort Frances.

   Eveleth is also 90 miles southeast of Ray, Minnesota, and roughly 5 miles south of Virginia, population 8,267. If you ever drive south on Highway 53 from International Falls, look for a road-sign listing the miles to nearby Ray and distant Virginia.

   I mention that mileage sign only because I’ve long wondered if it inspired John Prine to use the names “Virginia” and “Ray” when writing his song, “Donald and Lydia.” As the Prine lyrics go, Lydia was “the fat-girl daughter of Virginia and Ray.”

   Prine often folded folksy sights and sounds into his music. Plus, he liked fishing, and fished in Canada, so it’s possible he passed that sign while driving home to Illinois. In fact, his song “Lake Marie” mentions fishing in Canada with a girl he married. As Prine sang, they went there “Trying to save our marriage and perhaps catch a few fish, whatever came first.”

   Anyway, my wife and I took a short detour at Eveleth last week while driving home on Highway 53 after fishing six days on Lake Vermilion near Tower. As we inched our way through the detour, something failed in my truck’s exhaust system. The old Ford suddenly sounded like a pack of Harley-Davidson motorcycles when I accelerated.

The sun rises over Lake Vermilion in northeastern Minnesota in mid-August. 

— Patrick Durkin photo

  A less-experienced traveler might have complained or turned ornery, but not me. I felt as tranquil as a Lake Vermilion sunrise.

   I had perspective. Most previous drives past Eveleth were scenic and uneventful. The exception, the trip by which I measure all other excursions and mishaps, occurred near there in November 1996 after a frustrating deer hunt northeast of Fort Frances.

   That trip home began on schedule at 4:15 a.m. I crossed the U.S.-Canada border about an hour later, and soon spotted an orange-clad deer hunter hitchhiking beside his disabled truck. I stopped, picked up my brother hunter, and dropped him off 10 miles later near his tent-camp south of Ray.

   My act of goodwill was duly penalized. Snow was falling and coating the highway. Maybe that’s why I didn’t quickly notice my trailer’s left tire was flat. I usually don’t use utility trailers when hunting, but I was driving a friend’s Suburban and thought I’d need more than a Hitch-Haul for all my gear and the giant Ontario buck I expected to shoot, but never did.

   By the time I noticed my trailer listing to port in the rear-view mirror at 6:15 a.m., the tire was gone and the rim road-chewed beyond use. No problem, I thought. I had a spare rim and tire from Fleet Farm. But after removing the battered rim, I noticed the brand-new rim had four holes while my trailer’s wheel hub had five studs.

Disgusted sigh.

   I cursed, disconnected the trailer and dragged it farther off the highway. I drove to Orr and pulled into a roadside garage to see when it opened. A hand-painted sign read, “If you need help, go to the house behind the garage.” I did as instructed, interrupting Tom Long’s shower at 7 a.m.

   Long, a friendly man, soon emerged and opened his garage. He scoured his shop and tire racks, but found no rim to fit my spare tire. Instead, he removed an oversized spare from his boat trailer to “get you down the road.” He accepted $25 and said to return his wheel the next time I passed through.

   That turned out to be 90 minutes. After retreating 5 miles to my trailer, mounting Long’s spare to the hub, and driving south a mile, I groaned when that tire went flat, too. I again disconnected the trailer, returned to Orr, and found Long and his wife eating breakfast at a café.

   Long called a garage in Cook, just 20 miles farther south on Highway 53. “Good news,” Long told me. “My buddy has a spare for you.”

   I drove to Cook, found the garage, bought a new wheel, and asked to buy a second one for a spare, given that I was still six hours from home.

   “That’s the last rim I’ve got in that size,” the man said. “Ask around when you reach Virginia. Someone should have one.”

   I retraced the 25 miles north up Highway 53, mounted the new wheel to my trailer, and headed south again. Shortly before noon, I found a tire store in Virginia. It didn’t have a five-hole rim, but the helpful clerk called three nearby tire stores, none of which had one, either.

   Next he called a garage in Hibbing, 23 miles to the west. “Good news, dude. They have one for you.”

   By 2 p.m., I crossed the John A. Blatnik bridge at Duluth to reach Superior, Wisconsin. As I approached Chippewa Falls around 4:30 p.m., I noticed the Suburban’s dash lights were out. A blown fuse, no doubt, so I replaced it. It blew two more times. Hmm. The trailer lights must be shorting out.

   I stopped to refuel and bought electrician’s tape and more fuses. I rewired the trailer’s connections. I smiled when everything worked. I continued eastward on Highway 29 at 5:30 p.m., feeling proud and ever so mechanical.

   But at 5:45 p.m. I was again stopped on the highway’s shoulder, this time by Sgt. J.R. Barnier of the State Patrol, whose squad car was flashing red and blue lights. Officer Friendly said, “You were going 75 and the posted speed is 65.”

   Forlorn sigh.

   I called my wife from the Hardee’s in Abbotsford at 6:30 p.m., and told her I’d be home around 8 p.m., roughly six hours behind schedule. My ever-sweet Penny said: “I’m (very bad word) mad at you, Pat.” I responded: “Join the club. So is Sgt. Barnier. He fined me $141.50.”

   And that’s why I’ll soon forget last week’s detour at Eveleth. Yes, the repair bill for my truck’s blown exhaust system will cost more than the speeding ticket, but I’m counting my blessings:

   My wife isn’t mad at me, and neither is the State Patrol.