Neillsville, Wisconsin

 

As I venture from the northern reaches of Wisconsin, the forests no longer predominate, though there are still plenty mixed in with the cornfields and pastures of bovines.  With camping no longer instantaneous I’ve had on occasion to go down dirt roads in search of a place to disappear to, partially because there would be little concern of a vehicle coming along before I could fully slip into the forest.  

Last night after I’d gone a little ways down a dirt road and was about to head into the forest an older women in a bright orange jacket entered the road from a driveway I hadn’t noticed just beyond me.  I was going to turn around and try the dirt road on the other side of the highway, but then thought I’d ask her if it was okay to camp in the forest, permission I rarely ask.  She quickly replied, “Its not my property, so I can’t say.”  

Rather than inviting me to pitch my tent on her property, she politely told me there was a campground on the way to Merrill.  I asked her how far away it was with no intention whatsoever of staying there, especially since it was the opposite direction I was going.  She said six miles.  It was nearly dark and I hadn’t turned on my head light or flashing rear light. I hardly looked equipped to be biking in the dark, but that made no difference to her. 

I told her of my Carnegie quest and that the next one was in Medford, twenty-four miles away.  That didn’t win her favor or alleviate whatever fears she had of letting a stranger camp on her property.  So off I went and two or three minutes later I was pushing my bike through the brush and through some swampy ground to a perfectly suitable campsite happy, but saddened I didn’t have an example of frontier hospitality to report on.

It would have been a dilemma if she had been truly welcoming and invited me to sleep in her guest room, as the night before the temperature was the coldest yet, thirty-three degrees, forcing me to put my sweater on during the night and then later to drape my down vest over the torso portion of my sleeping bag.  I was fine other than a couple of bouts of cramps, one on the inside of my right thigh and the other in my left calf, the first in awhile.  I could actually feel the veins bulging in my calf as I masssaged it.  And I’d had a banana for dinner, but evidently hadn’t drunk enough during the day in the colder temperatures.

The night wasn’t as cold as the night before.  It was forty-one when I awoke, thanks to the low spot where I had camped with the warmer air gathering in the forest.  When I began pedaling on the road, the thermometer on my Garmin cyclometer had fallen to thirty-five degrees. 

The Merrill Carnegie the day before was a bit of a mystery, as it was identified as the T.B. Scott Free Library, and the plaque out front made no mention of Carnegie, giving all the credit for the library to Scott, the town’s first mayor who established a library in the city hall in 1889 until he solicited funds from Carnegie for this library that was built in 1911.  The plaque added that the original library was the first public library to offer English classes to immigrants starting in 1905 and was further distinguished as one of the few traveling libraries in the state beginning in 1898.

I couldn’t ask a librarian about Carnegie being overlooked, as the library closed at one p.m. on Fridays.  I at least was able to find an electric outlet on the large addition behind it to charge my iPad as I took advantage of the WiFi. Several people dropped off books while I was there, disappointed that the library was closed. 

The Carnegie in Antigo, now a museum, had a sign at its entrance stating it had originally been a library and had been provided by Carnegie.  I was relieved that the building had been a library, as it’s Grand Manor architecture was so uncharacteristic of a Carnegie I feared Wikipedia had sent me to the wrong place.  

The building was so spacious with room to spare that the upper floor of the two-story building had headquartered the local college and later the Red Cross from its very opening.  The library could have easily been expanded on the large property it had all to itself, but the community chose to build a new one several blocks away.  

The museum was as packed as the Door County Museum with local artifacts relating to the pioneer days and logging and the three Indian tribes who’d inhabited the region and were now concentrated on a reservation north of the town featuring a casino. Outside was a train car and other large objects.  The curator said people still bring in objects they think that museum would want, but at this point it is very selective about what it takes. 

The Carnegie in Medford was cozy and compact with no alterations other than it becoming the town’s chamber of commerce.  The prairie style building was still identified as “Public Library” though a sign out front gave its new identity. There was no possibility of expanding it on its tiny plot of land overlooking the Black River.

I was happy to turn south from Medford to Neillsville fifty miles away after pushing into a strong westerly wind for all too long. With the forests being replaced by pastures and fields of grains there was little to block the wind.  Since the temperature was falling I was hoping for a more northerly bent to the wind, but there were so few northerly percentages to its angle that it didn’t give me much of an assist.  But at least I wasn’t fighting it.

The Neillsville Carnegie had blocked its original entrance with a cluster of firs.  The addition to its side mirrored the original.  The red-bricked building was less striking than most Carnegies though a plaque by the entrance stated it had been declared a Historic Landmark in contrast to the usual National Register of Historic Places.  A plaque out front didn’t relate to the library, but rather honored General Clarence Sturdevant, a local, who was the chief architect of the Alaskan Highway built during WWII as an escape route from Alaska in case the Japanese invaded it.  I have a strong affection for the Alcan.  I gained a great intimacy of it riding from Chicago to Fairbanks in 1981.  It is one of my most significant rides. It used to make me choke up a bit when I’d recall that momentous moment of finally reaching Alaska and pavement after over a thousand miles of dirt and gravel through British Columbia.

When I turned from reading the plaque a man in a black suit holding a book was standing beside my bike.  “Looks like you’re traveling,” he said. I told him what I was doing and that my next Carnegie was in Durand.  “That’s about seventy miles away,” he said.  I asked if there was a motel there.  He said there was, then asked, “Can I pray for you?”  

He was the pastor of the church across the street and had a Bible in hand.  He put his hand on my back and went on for a minute or so asking the Lord to look after me down the road and to provide for all my needs.   I thanked him and then again a couple minutes later when I stopped at an IGA dumpster on the outskirts of town and found a load of frozen food (spaghetti, egg rolls, garlic rolls stuffed with cheese) right on top.  It gave me extra incentive for a motel besides all the NFL games, knowing it would have a microwave, though the food would still be perfectly fine simply thawed.