We had been packed for several days, eagerly anticipating our departure on a train-bus-auto rental-public transit-and foot trip in Minnesota and Dakota. Tuesday morning, 17 May, 2016, I was awake a 04:00. The kind of awake that loudly announces The night is overt; let’s get on with it. Hearing no other stirrings in the dark room, I let Pat sleep until 07:00 and she rose with the echoes of Buddy and Jerri rising upstairs. So it began.

Cleaning up our basement room (once referred to as The Dungeon by Jerri), we parked our car in the alley behind the motor home, took out our trash and recycling, and carried our bags upstairs. Four  of them: Two Rick Steves rolling packs—one each, one computer backpack for electronics and an extra pair of Ron’s shoes, another smaller backpack of Pat’s…things, the purple LL Bean tote full of Pat’s mysteries, and a blue Thrive bag full of magazines and whatever to be left at the Kelso train station.

At 09:20, ten minutes late, Train 500 arrived and we boarded Business Class and were swept on our way. The seat trays were down and on one, an index card in hand-lettered print, Ronald. The other, Patricia.

A less than perfect ride, a wheel on our car was being noisy and rattled the window in front of us. We ran into more slowdown orders than has become typical for this run. But we lost time and made it up, and rattled and shook, and arrived in Seattle at worst only a few minutes late.

We had worried about loosing our precious and anticipated layover time, hoping to walk to Metzger Maps at Seattle’s Pike Place Market. Not to worry, we had plenty of time. We held the bags at Baggage, paid the $12.00 fee and set off to find a read for me and a deck of information cards as a present to Scott. And another Cascadia patch for my new travel bag.

A near capacity Train 8, The Empire Builder, left at 16:40 with us occupying Room 14 of Car 831.

The great watchdogs of Congress are unable to complain about the extravagant waste of space on Amtrak roomettes which is why they raised the issue of hamburgers a few years ago. The quarters are close in the most optimistic light. Once in our adequate bunk beds, however, we are fairly comfortable. Until then, any movement is a challenge and potentially painful.

Despite the closeness, the two night trip was comfortable and relaxing. The meals and service were good, our dining room table companions were pleasant and interesting, and the spring scenery varied and beautiful. The dwindling snow on Glacier Park peaks was compensated for by the lush green of much of the prairies of Eastern Montana and North Dakota. More meals, another night.

Awake early, we readied our bags and caught a quick breakfast before our arrival at St. Paul’s Union Station. The station, completed in 1926 and built in the classic train station style of that era, had been closed for decades before an updating and renovation project was completed in 2012. It now is a functioning multi-modal transit facility providing bus (local and regional), rail, and urban light rail for Minneapolis and St. Paul and the surrounding suburban region.

Our plan was to take transit as near as we could get to Pat’s brother’s home in Ham Lake. I had researched this before, but—just for sure—called a transit voice to hear it again. We missed one bus standing at the wrong stop but made the second, and were on our way to a transfer point in downtown Minneapolis.

A brief pause to provide some background. A few weks before leaving on this journey, we had joined our son, Scott, and family for a weekend at South Beach State Park at Newport Oregon. They were in the campground. We, fearing rain, took a motel. Knowing Grand daughter Paige loved swimming, we took a motel with a pool, and she stayed with us the second night. She swam. And swam.

Grandfather our writer took a shower. During the shower, he didn’t fall. He plummeted like a boulder off a cliff frequented by Eagles and Condors, smashing his eyebrow and left shoulder. Paige looked at the pool of blood and the mighty noise created by the plummet and said, “We should take Grandpa to the hospital.” Besides the obvious eyebrow, the kindly ER Doctor also mentioned the torn rotator cuff and how we should maybe have that looked at when we get home and have some time.

Paige thought the ER visit was really cool.

And now, back to our story. The bus stopped, just like the man said on the telephone, at area G where we were to disembark and wait for the other bus. As we moved to leave, Pat’s rolling bag tipped, spilling magazines and other sundry items all over the bus aisle. I grabbed and put my backpack partially on, took Pat’s backpack and my rolling bag and started down the stairs to exit and make room. Buses run on a schedule. We try not to make them late.

Of course I fell over. The weight of the bags threw me off balance and off the bus to land on my right knee skiddingly, removing a moderately important layer of skin, and then to fall further and slam my left shoulder into the sidewalk.

“Well, that should take care of that old rotator cuff,” I thought.

We regrouped, reorganized, and boarded the next bus, making it safely to Northtown Shopping Center and Duane’s waiting welcome.

“How was the trip?” he asked.

Area G. Pat with bags.