For the past two years, I’ve made an early-December trek across the US, from my home in the Maine Woods to the Monastery of Saint Gertrude, on Idaho’s Camas Prairie. Over the winter, I’ve worked at the monastery to revitalize and expand eco-spirituality programs. Last May, I drove back to Maine in time for my seasonal job managing the Appalachian Trail Conservancy Visitor Center in Monson. Six weeks from now, I’ll be returning to Maine once again.
In my trusty Subaru, I follow the shortest route between Monson, Maine and Cottonwood, Idaho: 2,668 miles across Maine, Québec, Ontario, the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, North Dakota, Montana, and Idaho. I take eight or nine days, traveling as close to a straight line as the roads will allow, staying between the forty-fifth and forty-seventh parallels of latitude, roughly halfway between the equator and the North Pole. In December, daylight is short, meaning I spend long hours driving in the dark, sometimes as snow falls. On the plus side, demand for motels is low, so rooms are very affordable.
My first day of westward driving is somewhat mundane. As I head through the woods from Monson toward the Canadian border, signage reminds me that I’m traveling the route Benedict Arnold followed in 1775 – struggling with his bedraggled soldiers through what was then rugged wilderness – in an unsuccessful quest to capture Québec City from the British.
I cross into Québec at Coburn Gore, a tiny, low-key border station, then pass through a series of small towns. I skirt Montréal around rush hour. A couple of hours later, I cross into Ontario, pass Ottawa, and stop for the night in the town of Arnprior.
Late in my second day of driving, I reach the north shore of Huron, the second largest of the Great Lakes. This past December, I spent the night in the small town of Bruce Mines – so named because of long-decommissioned copper mines – in a roadside motel a couple of minutes’ walk from the lake. I took time for a stroll the next morning.
The view across the lake felt bleak, yet peaceful at the same time. The scene was quite a contrast to what I found at the same spot in May, when the air was alive with birdsong. Males were proclaiming their territory and their eagerness to share it with a mate. Yellow warblers whistled energetically from the trees. In a cattail marsh along the lakeshore, blackbirds trilled, showing off their bright red wing patches.
The morning of my third day of driving takes me over the International Bridge at Sault Sainte Marie, where I pass from Ontario into Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. In the evening, I arrive in Bessemer, a small town at the western end of the UP, where, a hundred years ago, my mother was born. When I planned my itinerary for my first cross-country trek in December 2023, I was amazed to discover that Bessemer lies on the most direct route from my home in Maine to Saint Gertrude’s, with no tweaking required.
Bessemer is near the boundary of the Ottawa National Forest, and less than a half-hour drive from the southern shore of Superior, the largest of the Great Lakes. During childhood visits here, my mother and her sister took me on day trips that inspired my lifelong love for our country’s northern forests.
Over the fifty-plus years since then, my family has dwindled. I am my mother’s only surviving child – a boy who would have been my older brother died shortly after birth – and my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles are all long gone. I have just one remaining first cousin, who is considerably older than me, and who is experiencing serious health issues. She is still in Bessemer, in the house where she has lived since infancy. So I pause to spend a day or two visiting with her, keenly aware that each farewell could be our last. While there, I take the opportunity to return to some of my favorite natural haunts.
After bidding goodbye to my cousin in Bessemer, my next night is in North Dakota. First, I head across northern Wisconsin. This past December, I took a mid-morning break at a roadside park in Ashland, on the shore of Lake Superior. I walked by a man who was peering intently through a spotting scope, looking across gray ice toward a breakwater. He called to me, asking if I wanted to see a snowy owl. Did I want to see a snowy owl? I had been hoping to catch a glimpse of one for years! I stepped up to the scope and there it was, a small white form perched on the rocks. The man explained that the owls – he had seen four altogether – spent their days resting offshore, then flew inland at night to hunt. As we spoke, a flock of tundra swans flew overhead, calling as they went, sounding something like Canada geese but higher-pitched. I thanked my benefactor, explaining that my birthday was in two days, and that I counted this as a special gift. This was my second birthday in a row that I received owls as a present. In 2023, I arrived at Saint Gertrude’s just before my birthday, and on the day itself, I enjoyed a close encounter with three great horned owls in the monastery forest.
Last May, on my eastward journey, Wisconsin provided another natural gift. I was driving after dark when the black sky above my car unexpectedly lightened. I was momentarily puzzled, then realized I was seeing the Northern Lights. I pulled over onto the shoulder of the road and looked up. A translucent white veil, like a thin layer of luminous clouds, glowed faintly overhead, stretching down toward the northern horizon. Shimmering waves of brighter white pulsed upward, like ocean breakers approaching a celestial shore.
When I head westward from Bessemer, after a morning passing through Wisconsin, I spend the afternoon traversing Minnesota. On a quiet two-lane road, in the hamlet of Jacobson, I cross the not-so-mighty Mississippi River, which at that point is not much more than a creek.
By the time I reach North Dakota, the early dark of December has already fallen, but I still want to crank out another couple hours of driving. This past December, I stopped for the night in Jamestown, which boasts an impressive example of an icon of the prairies: the grain elevator. I would love to get a guided tour of one of these structures someday. I’m particularly curious as to why there’s a need for what amounts to a five-story building on top of the silos.
After my night in North Dakota, I head onward to Montana. As I near the border, I stop at Theodore Roosevelt National Park, a landscape of badlands etched into the plains by the Little Missouri River. As a young man in his mid-twenties, Roosevelt purchased a cattle ranch nearby while on a buffalo hunting trip. He later said “It was here that the romance of my life began.”
The colorful badlands are best viewed when snow-free, as I learned on my visit last May. And in May, bison wandered around the lawn and parking area of the Painted Canyon Visitor Center. I’m not sure where they go in the winter. I can’t resist sharing the whimsical thought that perhaps the National Park Service employs them as seasonal parking attendants.
From the park, I head west through Montana’s rolling plains. Here, large farms and ranches are the norm, averaging well over 2,000 acres in size (that’s more than three square miles).
This past December, my night in Montana was in Billings, a city that serves as an agricultural hub. It’s also home to two refineries capable of processing a total of over 125,000 barrels of crude oil per day. In December 2023 and May 2024, I stayed in Livingston, a picturesque town with a retro vibe that serves as a northern gateway to Yellowstone National Park. At night, Livingston comes to life with multicolored neon lighting.
As I continue westward through Montana, the plains give way to the Rocky Mountains. The road climbs up to cross the Continental Divide via Homestake Pass, at an elevation of 6,329 feet above sea level, then heads down to the Deer Lodge Valley. At this point, I have one more climb to reach Idaho: up to Lolo Pass, along the route followed by Lewis, Clark, and their Corps of Discovery in 1805. The boundary between present-day Montana and Idaho is at the top of the pass.
As I descend into Idaho from the pass, I stop at an ancient grove of western red cedars, some more than 2,000 years old. Last May, I paused to admire Pacific trillium blooming beneath the towering trees.
This past December, I crossed Lolo Pass on my birthday. Saint Gertrude’s is a little over three hours beyond the pass. But I had found a discount code for a room at Lochsa Lodge, a cozy refuge in the Clearwater National Forest, and I decided to treat myself. I enjoyed a dinner of Idaho trout, with berry cobbler for dessert, and a sound night’s sleep.
The next morning, before resuming my descent from the pass, I chatted briefly with some fellow lodge guests – a group of men heading off to hunt mountain lions – and I confess I ordered another round of berry cobbler for breakfast. About ten miles down the road, I parked along the Lochsa River, strapped my microspikes onto my winter boots, and hiked an icy mile and a half through the woods to the Jerry Johnson Hot Springs, named for a nineteenth-century prospector.
I had the springs all to myself for a long stretch. What bliss, on a cold day, to immerse myself in a warm pool, surrounded by snowy forest and mountains, steam rising into the wintry air above. I felt I was in the womb of Mother Earth.
I first visited this spot on my eastward trek last May. I prefer the hot springs in winter, when the contrast between cold air and warm water feels exquisitely satisfying. But each season offers its own gifts. In spring, I was delighted to find orchids in bloom along the trail.
After returning to my Subaru, I had a final two and a half hours of driving to reach Saint Gertrude’s. In December 2023, my last three miles, from the small town of Cottonwood to the monastery, were in a whiteout. I had trouble seeing where the road lay. I crept along, following faint, barely visible tracks left by another vehicle, somehow managing to avoid plunging over what I now know were steep drop-offs to my right. At last, amidst the swirling chaos, I saw the lights of the monastery shining through the darkness from a hill above me, a beacon of hope, offering sanctuary from the storm.
My arrival at the monastery this past December was much less dramatic, but joyful nonetheless. I found friends waiting with a warm welcome, and we immediately sat down for a satisfying catch-up chat.
Since then, the days have flown by. I can hardly believe that I’ve been here for three and a half months, and that winter is transitioning into spring.
Six weeks from now, when I bid farewell to the monastery in early May, canola fields will be blossoming on the Camas Prairie.
2,513 miles later, as I approach the Québec – U.S. border, I’ll stop at the IGA supermarket in Cookshire-Eaton to pick up a frozen tourtière (a traditional Québécois meat pie) to take along for future suppers. At the Coburn Gore station, the border patrol agent will likely warn me to watch out for moose. Perhaps, as I drive through the woods of western Maine, I will cross paths with one of the many one-year-olds recently kicked out by their moms to make room for this spring’s calves. In mid-May, they wander back and forth across roads, bewildered, seemingly oblivious to the approach of vehicles. Last year, I followed one of these adolescent moose for quite a distance, feeling a mix of frustration and sympathy as I unsuccessfully tried to navigate my way around her. When she finally headed back into the woods, I continued onward into the night with a sense of inner warmth. The Maine Woods had given me a fitting welcome home.
