The Corona Diaries Vol. 95: Those Darn Republicans Even Have Their Own Street

(mid-June 2023)

(Watch the prelude.)

What I needed after a nice bit of hiking was a beer. And so I headed east to Cornell, the home of the MoonRidge Brewing Co. I could not recall ever having been to Cornell so I'd get a chance to check out a new place in addition to enjoying some muscle relaxant. Swinging into town, I noticed a rather large crane type thingy by the shore of the river. (Cornell lies on the Chippewa River.) On the way out of town I would stop and check out this rusting hulk.

 

There was a smattering of people there as I stepped inside. It looked very nice. I am used to craft brewery taprooms being industrial chic with exposed duct work and whatnot. Here at MoonRidge, however, an up north aesthetic prevailed with wood everywhere. Cozy and welcoming.

 

I cannot recall what I drank first – probably a golden ale or whatever the lightest beer they had on offer was. As a last drop of sweat fell from the tip of my nose, I took my first sip and I can tell you it tasted incredibly good.

 

 

The brewmaster is apparently quite fond of honey as there were 3 beers that had the sticky sweet stuff in them: a hefeweizen, a brown ale, and another one that might have been a Kölsch. I appreciate it when a brewer has their own niche that takes you off the beaten path instead of just dosing their brews with various combinations of hops that taste like tropical fruit as too many brewers do these days.

 

In addition to a young couple enjoying lunch, there was a local at the bar holding court. He was middle aged and wearing leather so I assumed that he rode a motorcycle. I chatted with him a bit and found that he was a funny guy. He talked about various and sundry things and would refer to nearby towns and events that transpired down on some local road or other. I told him at one point that I wasn’t from these parts and didn’t know where he was referring to. Obligingly, he explained where such-and-such town was or where the road in question was in relation to Cornell.

 

But, after continuing his tale for, oh, another 10 seconds, he resorted to his old ways, assuming I had any clue who Harriet from Holcombe was or that I knew anything about a particular farm out on County W.

 

Nothing like some local color.

After a couple brews, I was suitably refreshed and found that my muscles had stopped aching. I grabbed a six pack so I could sample more MoonRidge at home and headed out.

 

Cruising around Cornell a bit, I discovered some nice older buildings downtown but I didn't spy any ghost signs. It seemed a very average town - no statues carved out of trees by drunken lumberjacks nor any mutant beavers with two tails stuffed and mounted at a bar. But it does have Brunet Island State Park which lies on the north side of town so I headed over there for a post-beer hike.

I found that there was a .75 mile trail there which was just perfect.

The first stretch was paved but soon it became a dirt trail.

 

 

Very pretty. I’d like to explore the park and the adjoining Jean Brunet Woods State Natural Area someday.

Feeling good, I hopped in my car and headed out to Chetek with visions of a shower dancing in my head. As I turned onto a county road, I realized that I had completely forgotten to investigate that crane thingy. Oh well. Next time.

After a shower, I went out in search of a meal. I settled on a bar that had a large menu online. On my way there, I ran into a couple of interesting things.

First, there is an Indian Mound that has survived for hundreds of years and now sits precariously next to a gas station.

Too bad we’re in a drought because that grass doesn’t look so good. Still, it was nice to see that the lumber barons didn’t obliterate all signs of the natives that lived there.

The second thing of note was this street.

 

I don’t know who had to do what in order to get their street named “Darn Republican” but it is funny.

For reasons I don’t understand, Chetek has no supper clubs. How it ended up bereft of this Wisconsin staple is a mystery worthy of Agatha Christie herself. And so I went to a bar across the street from Lake Chetek. Throwing caution to the wind, I ordered a beer I had never heard of from Earth Rider Brewery up in Superior. It turned out to be one of those trendy IPAs with enough hops to fell a horse. Not my thing. But I drank it anyway and drowned out its hoppy excesses with some spicy Buffalo wings.

I spent the evening doing a little reading and writing.

 
The next morning I was up early and on the road headed for Trego, about 45 miles to the north. There I was to hike a couple trails that were each about 3 miles long, if I recall correctly. It was still fairly cool when I parked my car at the Trego Nature Trail where I would stroll through the woods and along the Namekagon River.

 
I canoed the Namekagon 25 or so years ago with a friend. While not exactly in the same league as Lewis & Clark, we did a 75-mile trip over 4 days and I fell in love with the river. For the most part, it was easy paddling. The water was very clear so you could see fish and turtles scatter beneath your paddle as the canoe cut the water. A deer looked down upon us from a short ridge a couple of times. Pure bucolic goodness.

I pulled out my deet and gave myself a bath in it. I was ready to go.

It was very beautiful despite the din of Highway 63 in the background which grew as the morning went on. Every time I stopped to take photographs, I was immediately beset by a large swarm of mosquitoes. Large enough to make an audible and very sinister hum. The threat of exsanguination was real, I tell you. Thankfully, my deet was up to the task and the shroud of blood-suckers stayed a half inch away from my precious skin. It was still eerie, though.

The trail began in the woods but the Namekagon slowly came into view.

And then there she was.

 

Just so pretty. At the far end of the trail the sound of the highway was extremely faint and was replaced by the sound of flowing water. Perfect.

After a few miles, the hike was over and I drove to the north side of town to my next destination which was the similarly named Trego Lake Trail. It would take me along a stretch of the Namekagon before coming to Trego Lake.

Although it too was gorgeous, the lake bore signs of human activity as it was dotted with docks and slips for boats. Still, another beautiful hike.

At one point, I turned the corner and saw a woodpecker not too far in the distance hanging on the side of the remains of a dead tree. It was very patient and allowed me to take several photographs before heading off into the woods. Of course, none of the pictures turned out to be in focus.

So it goes. 

I don’t think I’d ever been to Trego before this trip. Or, if I had, it had been decades and when I was very young. So I cruised around town. Trego is a tiny place – surely less than 1,000 people. It didn't seem to have a downtown but rather a smattering of businesses on frontage roads along the four lanes of Highway 53. However, I did find this really neat ghost sign for Occident Flour.

I find that Occident Flour is not a brand but rather an old timey name for what we now call all-purpose flour. I think the top of the sign was for somebody’s general store and that along the bottom it read “Costs More – Worth It”. 

While I found no downtown, I did run across an abandoned church smack dab in the middle of a neighborhood.

Some of the windows were broken and I was able to get a good look inside.

Somebody appears to be working on something in there.

After a couple minutes, a woman emerged from the house next door to politely tell me to leave their property.

Despite it being a sunny morning, there was just something creepy about that place…

********

Bonus photo! I saw this ad at the grocery store.

(Now watch the postlude.)

The Corona Diaries Vol. 76: Like a Kid in a Candy Store

(late October 2022)

(Listen to the prelude.)

Just as I did last year, I spent a relaxing evening in a hotel room in Chetek. Feeling a bit pensive, I began doing a little bit of writing – just noting some thoughts that had come to mind on the trip. I then listened to a little bit of music including “Unquiet Slumbers for the Sleepers...” by Genesis. With its waves of acoustic guitar and the drone of bass pedals, it has a dreamy, almost solemn feel to it. It is now my evensong on my treks up north.

With the music being done, I did a spot of reading.

I’d been meaning to read Philip José Farmer’s novella, Riverworld, for a while now and figured this trip would give me a little time to dig into it.

I thought that this tale was expanded into Farmer’s Riverworld novels, that he liked it so much that he would take the concept and mold it into a series. Well, it turns out that this story was written around the time he was writing the material which ended up being the second Riverworld book. So it’s a supplement and not a foundational text.

My introduction to the Riverworld books came back in the mid-80s when I bought Gods of Riverworld on a whim based mainly on the cover at a Waldenbooks(?) at Six Corners. After bringing it home, I discovered that this was the fifth book in the series. Oops. So I went and acquired the first, To Your Scattered Bodies Go. It didn’t take long before I was completely entranced by the story.

In a nutshell: Explorer Richard Francis Burton wakes up on the shore of a river completely naked. Around him are countless others, including beings not from Earth, in the same predicament. They died and wake to find themselves in Riverworld. And so the books detail the exploits of Burton, as well as others, as his band of afterlifers trek down the river to find out just where they hell they are as well as how and why.

Such a scenario offers countless opportunities for human dramas to play out – love, conflict, the value of religion, contemplation on the meaning of life, and so on. And all the while the mystery of the river and its environs looms large.

The novella features Tom Mix, actor and star of many a Western in the 1920s. He and a couple of companions flee a group led by the evil Kramer, who is a dictator figure that commands armies and looses them on other groups along the river. Mix and company join up with a rival faction and they go to war with Kramer.

I didn’t get too far in but it was fun.

The next morning, I was up just before dawn and found that there was a hard freeze the previous night. I had to put a little effort into scraping my windshield. On my way out of town, I stopped at the Northwoods Bakery in search of Swedish limpa bread. I found none. The bakery was under new ownership and limpa bread had been taken off of the menu. However, this still left many a tasty treat.

It all looked so good that I had a hard time choosing. As I was gazing into the display cases and nosing around the shelves, a woman behind the counter informed me that the day’s lunch special was to be a Long John grilled cheese with tomato soup. I told her that, sadly, I would miss out on the doughnut sandwich as I was on my way north.

I ended up buying some onion rolls which were excellent; a loaf of sweet cream bread which is cylindrical and about 4 inches in diameter. This is the stuff you normally see as cinnamon raisin bread. And a chocolate croissant which I decided to save for later.

Ooh! I almost forgot. I also bought a couple sheets of lefse, a Norwegian potato flatbread.

The Norske Nook’s menu is full of wraps made with the stuff instead of tortillas including a smelt wrap, an Upper Midwestern dish if there ever was one.

With the back of my car getting ever more full with every stop, I was off to Loon Lake Wildlife Area for another hike hoping that it was not home to any bears with a fondness for pastries. This was a 30-something mile drive and, after I got what I figured was fairly close, I found myself lost in an area where the roads had these odd numerical names – with fractions, no less. 16th Avenue was normal enough but then I found myself on ¾ Street. I missed a turn and was suddenly going down 17 ¼ Avenue. Silly me! I forgot to turn onto ¾ 1st Avenue.

Whoever named all these roads was either a mathematician or had a wicked sense of humor. Or both.

I eventually found the entrance to the wildlife area despite the best attempt by the DNR to hide it. There were no signs on the way leading you to it. In fact, I almost drove right by it as there was nothing but a small sign saying “Parking” visible from the road. Had I been coming from the north, I wouldn’t have even had that.

Based on the size of the letters on the sign at the trailhead, I guessed that this area is primarily used for hunting and trapping as those words were written in nice, big letters while the small print nearly hid the fact that hiking was also allowed. Thankfully gun season was still a few weeks away so I felt safe entering even though I wasn’t wearing blaze orange.

The trail, or at least the easily traversable part, wasn’t very long as it took me only about half an hour to reach the end. Along the way there were small lakes such as this one.

There were various and sundry prints to be found in the muddier parts of the trail though most were like this.

Deer!

In fact, I scared one that was on the shore of one of the small lakes. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and turned to see a deer butt and white tail bounding off into the woods.

The trail ended at a small clearing and I discovered that it used to continue down a hill but that it hadn’t been groomed, i.e. – driven on, in a while. The former tire tracks were overgrown and the path was cut with deep ruts but I followed them for a while anyway.

I looked down just in time to avoid stepping in some further evidence of deer.

I had now seen both kinds of deer poo: the real stuff and the edible kind which I found at a gift shop in Osseo along with the rabbit variety. 

I continued up a hill and onwards for a little while before turning around and heading back. Despite a lack of sun, it was fairly warm out and very quiet. Another wonderful walk.

********

When my hike was done, I figured I’d go grab a snack in Hayward. I hadn’t been there since c.2005 and wasn’t able to do much beyond work and dinner at that time. After visiting Stone Lake last year, it only seemed right to go there next as I had spent some time there as a boy. This means I’ll be visiting Spooner next year, I suppose.

I took what I highly suspect was the route my family drove every summer up to the cabins. First I went to Rice Lake where I caught Highway 48 over to Birchwood. From there I turned north onto County F which took me along the western shores of Lake Chetac. Finally, after this very scenic stretch, I could turn onto Highway 27 which would take me into Hayward.

As I was heading north, I spied a family of deer out for a stroll.

I was curious to see if the gentleman’s club that was at the intersection of 27 and 70 was still there. My memories are of a not particularly fancy place whose entrance was flanked by wagon wheels.

Now, why, you may ask, did I retain memories of a gentleman’s club from when I was 10 or 12 years old? To this I have no answer beyond the memory is a funny thing.

As it turned out, the club had moved a little west into what I later found out was formerly a German restaurant.

Why yes, I did have to look up “whip shitties”. Its former location is now a gas station.

I rolled into Hayward and sought out sustenance first thing and I found it at the Angry Minnow Brew Pub.

I had slaked my thirst there back in 2005 and proceeded to do so once again. The Angry Minnow is in a wonderful old building that dates back to 1889 when it was built to house the offices of the Northern Wisconsin Lumber Company. Credit must be given to the brew pub owners for maintaining a late-19th century look to the place. 

Cozying up to the bar, I was greeted by the barkeep who, I think, was happy to have a customer at last. An Oaky's Oatmeal Stout looked to fit the bill and I ordered a pint of that to restore my strength along with a bowl of chili to warm my bones. The stout was on tap and given a healthy dose of nitrogen. I utterly failed to get a decent photograph of the pint replete with swirls of those tiny nitrogen bubbles cascading around the glass.

The beer was tasty as was the chili. For her part, the barkeep was friendly and happy to engage in conversation. She had much more to say than the gal behind the bar in Bloomer and told me a bit about events in Hayward, what brought her and her husband there, et al.

I left feeling sated but not full. One 4-pack of beer was purchased before I was on my way downtown. While I mainly have vague recollections of Hayward’s Main Street, my memories of this place, Tremblay's Sweet Shop, are rather clear.

It would seem that candy and the prospect of naked ladies were of high importance to my pre-teen self. And just as that boy did, this middle-aged man stood in the front window and watched the candymakers ply their trade. In this case, it was brittle.

Upon entering, my nose was sent into fits of rapture by never-ending clouds of butter-sugar vapor that wafted throughout the store. This wonderful aroma brought back childhood memories aplenty and my excitement grew exponentially after crossing the threshold. It was like being a kid in a candy store once again.

Fudge, brittle, truffles, hard candy, jaw breakers, chocolate covered everything – this place had it all.

I felt my resistance being whittled away so I bought some dark chocolate covered pretzels and beat a hasty retreat before I developed a cavity vicariously.

I didn’t get very far as there was a bakery a storefront or two away. There I purchased the last loaf of what is surely a leading contender for the quintessential bread of northern Wisconsin, if not the state as a whole: cranberry wild rice.

Wisconsin leads the nation in cranberry production but I don’t think there’s much wild rice harvesting any longer. (Our neighbors in Minnesota seem to have a prosperous wild rice industry, though.) Recall that I had made my way up to Hayward via Rice Lake. I presume that wild rice was grown there in the days of yore.

Wild rice is a distant cousin of the stuff that provides a bed for sushi or soaks up all that sweet & sour sauce when we order Chinese takeout. It is very much an Upper Midwestern grain.

The bread was a bit on the heavy side and quite tasty.

The cranberries were sweet-tart and the wild rice added a nice nutty flavor.

On my way out of town, I spied the Hayward Masonic Temple and just had to take a snap because this trip, as it turned out, was all about stopping to photograph the quotidian and sometimes banal.

On my way back to Rice Lake, where a hotel room awaited me, I saw a flock of turkeys off to the side of the road in a field.

********

Bonus photo. This time it’s an ad from an issue of the Milwaukee Journal from 1918.