Changing seasons, changing landscapes

I've begun to feel the summer transitioning into autumn. It can be subtle sometimes, piercing others: a flaming red tree contrasting with the foliage of its neighbors; shade, once so vital for cover, has become chillingly cold, even in the high afternoon sun; the noticeable loss of precious minutes of daylight. Last night the temperature got down to 36˚. I feel positively jubilant about the onset of fall, but a little worried, too; in terms of time, my trip is barely even half over (if that), and in the waning hours of light and the growing cold, I fear I have a hard month or so ahead of me.

Wisconsin has udderly (yes, udderly) stolen my heart. Every facet I've seen of this state has been something to love. (Well, last night I was disappointed by a locked Trader Joe's dumpster, but that's really my only complaint.) I entered Wisconsin from the outer suburbs of the Twin Cities, and wended my way along the Mississippi river. The land was unexpectedly and uncannily similar to how I imagine the river's delta region: warm, boggy, slow and expansive; an alligator would not have been out of place. At some point I serendipitously happened upon a bike trail that split off the highway and into rural marshland. This one trail ended up connecting to a whole network of rails-to-trails bike paths that I've been able to follow for almost the entirety of the state. By the time I leave Wisconsin, I will have spent more than half of the miles here passing through back-country forest and w

etlands. The Sparta-Elroy trail passed through three ancient train tunnels blasted from the hillside, the longest of which was three-quarters of a mile long, freezing cold and containing

nary a photon of light, save for the pinpoint exits at either end.

Entrance to the world's coolest bicycle tunnel

I was hoping to make it to Madison for critical mass on Friday night, as I previously mentioned. Didn't happen, not by a long shot, but arriving Sunday morning proved to be magnitudes better. The city just happened to be throwing their first annual bicycle celebration day (I'm sure it had some more official and impressive sounding name), with giant swaths of city streets and highways open only to bicycle traffic, and replete with street bands and a procession of species and food and bike booths, and much more. I met a couple of other cyclists who have done long-distance tours before, including a great guy named Scott Stoll, who rode more than 25,000 miles circumnavigating the globe, and wrote a wonderful book about it. Another fellow, Keri, rode the Trans-Am route with his son a few years ago, and most graciously shared a round of beers and stories with me, and even showed me around campus.

Penny-farthings owning the streets of Madison

Madison is a beautiful town, strangely sandwiched between two lakes on an isthmus the width of my forearm. It has something of a reputation for being the Eugene of the Midwest, or, as my Couchsurfing host put it, "seven square miles surrounded by reality". I'm beginning to realize that Seattle is not really a bike friendly town at all; sure, it has gobs of cyclists, but is almost totally lacking in supportive infrastructure. (To any of you who defend Seattle by pointing out the existence of the Burke-Gilman trail: boooooo.) This whole damn state seems stitched together by well-maintained bike routes, both in and out of cities. I've really only ventured through the southern parts of Minnesota and Wisconsin, which are not exactly renowned for their aching beauty, but from what little I've seen, I am already planning my next trip to come back and explore the northern lake regions and into the U.P.

Enough. To Milwaukee! I am determined to find some good beer in that city, and salvage its reputation in my mind.