My road trip last week from Omaha takes me halfway across Iowa and northward to Minnesota. Then eastward to La Crosse, Wisconsin, on the banks of the Mississippi River. Here are three recollections:
In Iowa, wind farms, turning like Don Quixote’s windmills, suddenly appear. Three spinning wings loom on each, white propellors that march to the horizon. Although the massive wings are visually endearing, scientists say painting them black would prevent thousands of bird strikes.
The seven-mile-wide Mississippi River valley is filled with tributaries, sloughs, sandbars and the confluence of three rivers – the Mississippi, Black and La Crosse. Everywhere alongside perch bald eagles, hundreds of them like cattails in a marsh. Dozens of turkey vultures circle the river’s eastern shoreline.
An unexpected blizzard blasts down from Canada to delay my return for a day. Although plowed, the interstate remains ice-covered, with blinding, windborne snow. Despite crawling along, I fishtail and almost spin out in rural Minnesota. Adrenaline and panic roar, and my clenched hands grow sore as I battle winter’s surprise.
Heavy snow, raptors and sheer terror top my recollections.
