Driving Des Lacs Lakes Wildlife Refuge

DRIVING DES LACS LAKES NATIONAL WILDLIFE REFUGE

IN THE NORTHWEST CORNER OF NORTH DAKOTA

WITH MY WIFE AND PARTNER OF THE PAST HALF-CENTURY

A blizzard of snow geese 400,000 strong visit this place each year.

Why did I ever think I grew up here? I was ten years old for Christ’s sake.

This place is the Central Flyway from New Mexico to the Arctic Circle,

passing through Prairie Potholes, largest flyway in the country.

I have memories of Mom and Dad driving to Kenmare from Bowbells,

coming to the steep grade down to Des Lacs Lakes and between them,

thinking the same thing as my mother, her thoughts out loud,

Be careful, Wayne. Drive straight.

It just means, The Lakes, I say to Karen,

who says, Didn’t you know that? Can’t you see it?

I see that grade running down to the lake,

hoping Dad makes it up the other side,

that’s what I see. How am I supposed to see

French explorers in coon skin hats exclaiming over beauty?

I get the train whistles right. All night long

from both ends of town. In Kenmare,

we stop at the pizza place alongside the highway.

Sign on the counter in marking pen,

We serve Dakota Pride Ice Cream

and a list of flavors, including Juneberry.

Not Juneberry! I say to the man taking my order.

Yes, they make it in Bottineau. June berries.

And they carry this ice cream at Jack & Jill’s in Kenmare.

No wonder Teddy Roosevelt loved North Dakota.

Mircea Eliade says all narration, even the most common,

connects to the great myths that show

how the world came into being.

We hustle right on down to Jack & Jill’s

and find the last half gallon of June Berry Ice Cream

hidden behind five tubs of Chokecherry.

The Mothership is a special ops vehicle running lake front

in North Dakota, following French fur traders.

The Mothership follows the shoreline.

Marsh wren, coot, mink, sage pond weed,

mallard and shiner minnows mix it up here.

Invertebrate diets for insect and duck.

Birds, grassland dependent,

are the most imperiled birds in North Dakota.

Karen and I drive these loops of dirt road

trying to find our way to Tasker’s Coulee

where I have memories of family picnics.

Men driving tractors guess I might have   

made a wrong turn out of KOA.

This is homecoming as validated by Canadian honkers.

O to hear Canadian Honkers over North Dakota one time!

When we pull into Bowbells City Park mid-afternoon,

October sunshine, I grab a lawn chair

and ask myself, What is this about?

Not a time to ask that question.

Calling my cousin, she says, Come on out now.

What happens to these geese if FDR

doesn’t make this place a wildlife preserve?

These are the Dirty 30s.

A 28-mile stretch of Des Lacs River Valley.

Three naturally occurring lakes separated by marshlands.

CCC construct dikes and water control.

Some of the farmers hate the government

that saved this wonderland. One refuge

runs into another. Count them.

Homecoming is not a football game friends.

In Chile, 20 years ago, my companion

is a history professor exiled from his homeland

when Kissenger and the Chicago Boys

overthrew Allende. He guides me

through the blind spots every day for a month

until he cracked up. We were in a bookstore

in Valdivia. Small town like Bowbells.

Pinochet shows up with his Carabineros.

I’m holding a copy of Neruda’s poems.

My friend’s holding a copy of Quixote

too large to hold. My friend never takes

another sober breath. He leaves his homeland

in an alcoholic haze and never taught again.

After arriving in the New Land,

Cortez burns his ships to keep the men going forward.
Those mountain climbers ascending.
They make it to the top, they die in the descent.

And Meriwether Lewis himself, confidant

of President Jefferson, journal keeper, journeyman

and trailblazer—abrecaminos after your own heart.

Sophisticate. He gets the Corps of Discovery

to the mouth of the Columbia River

but it’s not so easy coming home.

He ends up solitary putting a bullet

through his head on the Nachez Trace.

No homecoming is not for the weak.

Out here in the wetlands, though,

you can honk all you want.

Some native peoples say you can’t trust any story

that’s not told. Only what can be heard through the ear

can be trusted. Anything written down is suspect.

These are glory days with the Boss.

You sing with him, you don’t buy his books.

This is North Dakota, not New Jersey.

You go from the wetlands to the water tower.

You park your camper in the city park.

No one gives you a number or takes your money.

There’s a donation box if you want to leave something

for your stay. You belong but it’s temporary.

This is a scrub for the heart in the heartland.

Jim Bodeen

Bowbells—Bismarck, North Dakota

17-20 October 2015