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My car is packed to the windows with a tent, sleeping bag, self-inflating sleeping pad, lamp, string lights (for ambience), firewood, the works, as well as two coolers\u2014one for food, the other for water and beer. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d also prepared a lengthy and appropriately moody playlist\u2014tracks from Sea Oleena and Kelsey Lu and Maria Somerville, a Wacka Flocka witch house rework, some slowed and throwed Mazzy Star, older singles from Antonio Williams and SALEM and Dirty Beaches, the requisite Grouper, Black Marble, Peter Cat Recording Co., some spooky jazz from an avant-garde improvisational Norwegian quintet\u2014but keep returning to Thom Yorke\u2019s \u201cCreep (Very 2021 Rmx),\u201d which seems to fit the vibe perfectly. Whereas Radiohead\u2019s 1992 breakout tore through the speakers like an outsider\u2019s anthem, this sprawling rendition\u2014originally composed for Japanese fashion designer Jun Takahashi\u2019s Undercover Fall 2021 show\u2014plays like its source material on codeine, with symphonic synths and subaquatic vocals: more dirge than anthem.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The landscape between Saint Paul and, say, Chatfield is basically a proletarian circuit board of name-brand crops and GAS FOOD LODGING, everything tidy and well-kept as a widow\u2019s garden. The city of Rochester feels somehow Canadian. And then, as 52 crosses the Root River, the earth transforms; all jutting hills and sunbaked mesas and dramatic bluffs of eroded Cambrian bedrock. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lately, my mood has been oscillating between oblique sadness and the anhedonic void. My therapist has urged me to manage time in increments\u2014thirty minutes, ten, five. My dogs, whom I\u2019ve left with a sitter, have been unusually affectionate, following me around my loft, waiting outside the shower, flanking my pillow at night. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
So I\u2019ve come out here to reset. It\u2019s a Friday on the edge of summer; clouds move through the sky like old mammals through water.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had originally planned to camp on Jim Gardner\u2019s 160-acre family farm outside Spring Grove (pop. 1,320), which I\u2019d booked on Hipcamp as \u201cDriftless Farm Getaway.\u201d But when I arrive, I instead opt to book their cabin, available under the same name on Airbnb. It\u2019s a little more expensive\u2014camping is $40\/night; the cabin\u2019s $89\u2014but there\u2019s a fire pit, grill and an outhouse. And it\u2019s, like, 90\u00b0 out here. The hosts, Jim and his wife Ellen, are extremely accommodating and flexible, allowing me to cancel my Hipcamp reservation and book the cabin right there, swiping my card on Ellen\u2019s phone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u201cI\u2019ve lived here and helped farm all my life,\u201d Jim, 25, tells me as we tour the property in his side-by-side. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
And the word \u201cDriftless\u201d begins to take on another resonance. Whereas all my life I\u2019ve drifted like a parade balloon\u2014Chicago, rural Montana, Los Angeles, Portland, Minneapolis\u2014searching for meaning and happiness with urgency, many of these folks have felt no such compulsion; what they\u2019re searching for is already here. And, now 38, I know that I have passed through some people\u2019s lives like a soft breeze, and others like buckshot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Jim and Ellen (and little daughter Esther) currently offer pasture-raised chickens, turkeys and eggs, and sell on their website and at farmers markets in Winona and East Isles. He says, \u201cWe plan to add other livestock, such as cattle, pigs, sheep and goats to raise regeneratively.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Regenerative agriculture is the future\u2014it refers to farming dedicated to the reversal of climate change and, among other benefits, restoring soil biodiversity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThis winter,\u201d Jim says, \u201cwe\u2019re starting a buyers\u2019 club where people can order and we\u2019ll deliver to drop-off sites around the area and the Twin Cities.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I ask what Jim likes to do in his spare time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI love to read non-fiction and listen to shortwave radio.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After the tour, I lug my bag into the cabin\u2014fridge, fresh water dispenser, large-screen TV, microwave, two-bed loft, comfy sitting area, great cross-breeze\u2014and say to the empty room, \u201cOkay, now I\u2019m happy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The view from the porch is stunning, lush and green: the inverse of my geometric view from downtown Saint Paul, which is a network of lines and planes and different shades of the same color, reflected from a thousand panes of smoked glass. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
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It\u2019s late afternoon. I drive into town to check out RockFilter Distillery, which, according to Jim, serves \u201cthe best bourbon [you\u2019ll have] in your life.\u201d Spring Grove is a farming community, a crossroads among cornfields marked by church steeple and water tower. That an award-winning organic small-batch bourbon and whiskey distillery even exists here (with a very fashionable bartender, and his equally fashionable partner sitting opposite) is impressive and unexpected. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I have indulged all over the world\u2014from lecherous dives in Key West, to inspired cocktail rooms in the Haut-Marais\u2014and the mixed drinks at RockFilter are some of the most delicious and multidimensional I\u2019ve ever tasted. After every sip of every cocktail, I shake my head. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
A guy walks up and says, \u201cWhich race were you in?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I blink at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He gestures at my t-shirt. \u201cWhich RAGBRAI.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I look down, and I\u2019m wearing a RAGBRAI XX 1992 shirt. \u201cOh, my partner sells vintage clothing,\u201d I say, and feel a pronounced downshift in mood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As I\u2019m building a fire back at the cabin, the Gardners\u2019 dog Kaya\u2014a large black-and-white Karakachan\u2014approaches, hesitantly at first, but then basically tackles me. I get up, laughing, and Kaya runs off, doubles back, and comes bounding toward me with such energy that I sort of square off and lean into the impact. She hangs out for most of the evening, trying to climb onto my lap, and in the morning she\u2019s lazing outside the cabin door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I see my exes in dreams, in places I\u2019ve never been. They look happy, fulfilled, ageless. They never recognize me, and I can\u2019t seem to speak. But I try to communicate through desperate gestures. Then I wake up, blinking at the ceiling. Sometimes I\u2019ll cry, my entire face suddenly animated, trembling, as if some fault line inside my head has been tripped. And I\u2019m always careful not to disturb the dogs, hiccupping instead like a jammed machine. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
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Each one of us is a grid of selves, a messy flux of psychic debris\u2014and once I started to look outside myself, back at Sacred Heart Elementary, my personal debris started to collect\u2014but out of our own disconsolate mappings love somehow withstands. We are equipped with this ability, to engage in the untranslatable rapport between two hearts, epic but still simple and natural, like the crosscurrents of prayer or a sign language among sea life. It is holy, this ability. It is perhaps holiness itself. And love becomes our most essential unit of measurement\u2014quantifying everything, occupying us entirely\u2014and we definitely feel its lack. No wonder we use such devastating words\u2014crush<\/em>, fall<\/em>, breakup<\/em>\u2014to talk about it. In fact, neuroimaging studies have found that the same areas of the brain associated with physical pain light up during a breakup; similarly, \u201cTylenol has been shown to reduce emotional hurt\u201d (Kross et al., 2011). Over the years, many flings and partners have taught me that love can leave your deepest and most romantic parts feeling empty as a whistling shell. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Turns out, all that dime-store psychology starts to make sense when you\u2019re in distress: In the event of a difficult breakup, it is imperative that the most essential relationship you must rekindle is the one with yourself. And that\u2019s why I\u2019m out here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In Lanesboro the following afternoon, I rent a canoe from River Rats Outfitters. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou got another person with you?\u201d asks Ken, the proprietor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo,\u201d I say. Again: downshift.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He looks sideways at me, and then glances in the river\u2019s direction. \u201cWell, shouldn\u2019t be a problem. You\u2019ll just have to paddle backwards.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I spend all day on the Root. And while not exactly the experience I\u2019d anticipated\u2014my partner and I once canoed this same river out by Preston, and the afternoon was quiet and peaceful, punctuated by a spotted riverside fawn bent and drinking as we passed\u2014this feels vaguely spring-breakish; I am the only canoe navigating hundreds of booze-swilling tubers. But one of the lessons this trip is apparently teaching me is to accept what I cannot change. So I apply a little cognitive dissonance: this is not an annoyance; I am lucky to be surrounded by such fun energy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHey, bro,\u201d one guy calls out. \u201cWhatcha drinkin?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDouble IPA,\u201d I say. \u201cWant one?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHell yeah!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I open the cooler and toss him a can. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He holds it up. \u201cShotgun with me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I laugh. \u201cNah. Still got a lot of river ahead of me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n This and exchanges like it follow me down the Root. And it\u2019s the most fun I have all summer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Back at the cabin, exhausted, I build a fire and spend the evening staring into it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n In the morning, mist will roll in and this entire landscape will disappear into obscurity. It will feel like driving down a mountain. I will take it easy on the corners, happy, content, reset. I will see two spotted fawns, delicate as origami, and a field of sand hill cranes, hunched as shepherd\u2019s crooks. <\/p>\n\n\n\n But, for now, I sit with Kaya and listen to the fire, the sighs and bleats of changing properties. I listen to the electric purr of nocturnal insects, to a nearby barred owl\u2019s forlorn chant\u2014hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hooooo-ah<\/em>\u2014a call that has been described phonetically as Who-cooks-for-you? Who-cooks-for-you-all?<\/em> The answer, of course, is nobody. And that\u2019s okay, because I can cook for myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It can be difficult to sit in silence with certain memories, which now seem frozen in amber like dead things preserved in full view. But it\u2019ll get easier. It already has.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Driftless is a peaceful and haunting and beautiful place. And if these trees could talk, I bet they\u2019d sing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n For more information on the Gardner Family Farm, visit gfamilyfarm.com<\/a>; for information on RockFilter Distillery, visit rockfilterdistillery.com<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I have planned this trip to reset. Retail therapy hasn\u2019t worked, substances haven\u2019t. Meditation didn\u2019t take. I have very little appetite. I either sleep too much or not at all. It\u2019s textbook. My partner recently moved out. A trial separation graded pretty swiftly into a concrete breakup. We\u2019d been together for eight years, and married…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":105,"featured_media":184962,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"wds_primary_category":146,"footnotes":""},"categories":[146,278,140],"tags":[17568],"class_list":["post-184376","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-dating-relationships","category-featured-home-page","category-our-lives","tag-issue-687"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lavendermagazine.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/184376","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lavendermagazine.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lavendermagazine.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lavendermagazine.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/105"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lavendermagazine.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=184376"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/lavendermagazine.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/184376\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":184963,"href":"https:\/\/lavendermagazine.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/184376\/revisions\/184963"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lavendermagazine.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/184962"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lavendermagazine.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=184376"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lavendermagazine.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=184376"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lavendermagazine.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=184376"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}![\"\"](\"https:\/\/lavendermagazine-com.s3.us-east-2.amazonaws.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/09\/IMG_2705.jpg\")
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