On a late-summer (2008) trip to Minneapolis, I had the opportunity to visit North Dakota. No, North Dakota was not on my way, but I hope to one day bring my states visited count up to 50 and I couldn’t fathom one single reason why I would ever actually go there. Now I don’t wish to insinuate that North Dakota has no viable reason to maintain a department of tourism (and could therefore save its taxpayers millions of dollars) nor insult this state in any way, (as did columnist Dave Barry, who subsequently now has a sewage processing plant at Grand Forks named in his honor and has since adamantly warned all writers to NOT mess with this state), it’s just that North Dakota is so . . . north!
Because the purpose of my trip was, in fact, to go to Minneapolis, and time was too crunched to travel west enough to visit the Teddy Roosevelt National Park, I sought to find something interesting to see (in a state that boasts of only ONE natural waterfall, mind you), yet located as close to the Minnesota border as possible. A search on Google introduced me to the Sheyenne River National Scenic Byway — a 63-mile stretch dotted with dozens of must-sees, all within a couple hour’s drive of the North Star State.
After passing through the cornfields of Iowa and South Dakota, we (my cousin, our friend, and me) saw our first glimpse of the Sheyenne River near Lisbon. Now my home state of Arkansas has lots of rivers, so the word “impressive” didn’t come to mind. Still, it was a pleasant-looking waterway, and Lisbon has a nice park alongside it. And, after spending a thousand miles cramped inside a Hyundai, to have finally “arrived” at our side-trip’s point of interest did bring about a bit of excitement among our trio.
We had elected to spend the night in Enderlin, the nation’s sunflower capital. If you’re reading this, looking for links to pictures of acres upon acres of bright yellow sunflowers, bending gently in the breeze, make a note: If you plan to go to North Dakota to see the sunflower fields, go before harvest time. We didn’t.
The next morning launched our much-anticipated trek along the Sheyenne. Although the river itself was no marvel, the quaint shops, sleepy towns, and historical significance to our country made this trip worthwhile. The locals were quite pleasant, too. For the most part. Those we met were astonished to see tourists so far north so late in the season and seemed to make an extra effort to tell us about the area.
Near the community of Fort Ransom, population 70 at last count, we pulled off the unbeaten (gravel) path into the driveway of a church (pictured here), which I believe was erected in 1887. I strolled across the grass, Nikon around neck, while my travel-mates read over the historical marker. Shortly after our arrival, a car pulled up behind mine. I wasn’t too startled. After all, we were touring a national scenic byway, even though we’d been greeted most of the morning with such suspicion-laced pleasantries as, “How’d you find this place, anyway?” and “What made you folks decide to come here?”
In the car sat an elderly couple. The passenger window lowered and a man’s voice called out to us. Being the driver, and I suppose, therefore, the self-appointed leader of our rabble, I approached the car and gave my best how-dy-do.
With the Midwesterner’s no-nonsense fashion we’d become accustomed to during our whole two days in the region, the man spoke. “You folks sight-seeing?”
Let’s see. Cameras. Historical Markers. Licence plate from a state located well below the Mason-Dixon line. Hmm…Yes. Yes, we’re sight-seeing. Being from the South, though, I did add the obligatory “Sir” following my affirmative response.
He pointed to my car tag. “Why is it your state pronounces its name Arkansas when it’s clearly spelled Ar-Kansas?”
Now I wasn’t in on that decision. No one consulted me. Besides, I happen to like my home state and its pronunciation, but I also remembered the fate of Dave Barry… His warning-filled words, “Don’t mess with North Dakota,” echoed in my ears.
“Sir, I’m not sure why it’s pronounced Arkansas. However, it is a lovely state. In fact,” gesturing toward the already autumny-looking hills, “this area reminds me of the Ozarks.” (Sort of.) “And if you ever wish to get away from here during the winter, when it’s 40 below here, it’ll likely be 50 above in Arkansas. You’d be most welcome to come down for a visit.”
HIM (Scowling): I wish it were 40 below year round.
ME (Surprised): Really? You like the cold?
HIM: Nope. But it keeps away the riff-raff.
I don’t always agree with Dave Barry’s opinions, but when it comes to North Dakota, I’m thinking maybe ol’ Dave had a point.
