Drive To Twin Falls

I left the parking lot of Leinenkugel in Chippewa Falls and drove just a few blocks to a grocery store/laundromat/gas station I had spotted during yesterday’s walk around town. It had been a couple of weeks since I’d done laundry, and this was as convenient as it gets. I parked along the side of the gas station, right in front of the laundromat.

It was $2.25 to wash—a bargain by this year’s standards. As I was thinking that, two women were talking about how the other laundromat had recently raised their prices by a dollar, while this one only bumped up by a quarter.

As I loaded my machine, a man walked in with his daughter—probably about 10. He was short, with a round Eastern European face, longish hair, a few days of stubble, and a perfectly styled handlebar mustache. Wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He walked his daughter through the laundry process, even letting her count out the quarters and feed the machine.

As I finished loading, he struck up a conversation. I must have looked out of place, because he quickly launched into a detailed oral history of Wisconsin. In the next 15 minutes, we covered floods, witches (both local and European), the lumberjack era, Leinenkugel Brewery, and something I had never heard of: the Peshtigo Fires.

He was like a walking encyclopedia—dates, places, context—all surprisingly accurate. I told him I had lived in Connecticut and Pennsylvania, and he used Connecticut to estimate the size of the Peshtigo Fire: about half the state. (Gemini says 46%, for the record.) He knew the death toll, how it started, and why it spread. Eventually, his daughter reminded him they were going to the park and zoo, and they headed off.

They returned just as I was finishing my folding. He wished me well and hoped I’d enjoy the rest of my visit to Wisconsin. I thanked him, topped off the gas tank, and entered “Taylors Falls, WI” into Google Maps.

I set the route to avoid highways. You see so much more on the back roads. The drive time said two hours, but I knew it would be closer to five with my usual stops. The skies were sunny but hazy—smoke from distant forest fires mixing with moisture off Lake Superior.

Fresh coffee in hand and The Rest Is Politics: US podcast in my ears, I settled in for the drive through cornfields and small towns.

Chetek

It was past noon when I pulled into Chetek, Wisconsin (population ~2,000). I drove past an old-fashioned diner and couldn’t resist the free parking in town. I walked back half a block to the Chetek Cafe and Meat Shop, a butcher shop/diner combo on the corner. The owner, probably in his 70s, was tall, thin, and German, complete with a strong accent. They closed at 1 p.m., and I had 45 minutes. They took my order for a large salad right away, and I pulled out my laptop, expecting a wait. But the food came quickly.

Two men sat down in the booth next to me—farm equipment salesmen from different regions, meeting up for lunch. They talked loudly, comparing sales notes and trading stories from past careers. Both owned over 100 acres of land. Their conversation was hard to ignore—not because I was eavesdropping, but because they were basically broadcasting.

Most patrons were locals. The waitresses often asked, “The usual?” Lunch was fast—order, eat, pay, and out the door in under 20 minutes.

Chetek had that down-home, small-town feel, but it was also clearly a stopover for tourists. After lunch, I noticed I had parked next to Hope & Anchor Coffee House. I stepped in for a cappuccino and a homemade cinnamon roll. I ate the entire cinnamon roll—no regrets until later—and the coffee was excellent and served in a big ceramic mug.

The building looked like it had once been a garden center, now repurposed into a set of small upscale boutiques selling handmade goods, jewelry, kitchen wares, and things tourists didn’t need but somehow wanted.

As I drive, I sometimes spot things that catch my attention—unusual, odd, or just plain dilapidated. Today, I marveled at the expanses of corn fields, the strange beauty of grain storage towers, cyprus trees, and corn planted around telephone poles to make use of every bit of land possible.

National Riverway Visitor Center

I left Chetek just before 2 p.m., but progress was slower than expected. Two hours later, I rolled into the St. Croix National Scenic Riverway Visitor Center on the Wisconsin side of the river, across from Taylors Falls, Minnesota.

The building looked brand new—modern, spotless, well-kept. But the ranger informed me it was over 20 years old.

We chatted for a while. I explained I was traveling to all 50 states and their capitals. She lit up—turns out she’s also a serious traveler. In the winter, she house-sits for wealthy families around the world—France, New Zealand, Australia, parts of Asia—caring for their homes and pets while they’re away. In summer, she works for the Park Service.

She spoke fluent French and insisted her kids grow up multilingual. “It’s a gift they appreciate later,” she said. I agreed.

The Happiness of Pursuit

Besides the usual park brochures, she gave me a few websites to check out and recommended a book: The Happiness of Pursuit. It’s a twist on the classic phrase, focused on the fulfillment that comes not from reaching a goal, but from the pursuit itself. She thought it would resonate with my journey across the states.

I could’ve talked with her all afternoon, but others were waiting.

Wrapping Up the Day

I drove upriver looking for a free campsite but soon discovered—thanks to some online searches—that many were only accessible by river. I pulled into a picnic area to make dinner, even though signs clearly stated “No Overnight Camping or Parking.” There was a wide clearing in the trees, and I had solid Starlink reception.

By 10 p.m., I packed up and drove about 15 minutes to a nearby Walmart. A few vans and big trucks were already parked for the night. I went in for some groceries and then settled in.

Before bed, I read about kayaking options on the river and the nearby riverboat tour. Another adventure for another day.