FARGO, N.D. — I've landed in a place you'd never think to go: a prairie paradise of sauerkraut pizza and buffalo hot dogs, of bull-a-ramas and pitchfork fondues; where sunshine and hailstorms take unpredictable turns blasting the fascinating but wind-swept landscape--and the fascinating but wind-swept people.
I'm in a place called Bonanzaville, USA, where, in 102-degree heat, off-duty wheat researchers and auto mechanics are spending their Saturday reenacting the pioneer fur trade, wearing handmade clothes, tanning deer hides in a tepee and chomping on Dilly Bars from the local Dairy Queen.
I'm in a different world, and I'm only in North Dakota.
It's been fairly called America's Outback; it's been unfairly called America's Siberia. But never, ever, despite its mesmerizing, eerie views of endlessly flat farm fields and dramatic desert buttes, has North Dakota been called America's Vacationland.
I've come here because almost nobody else does. This is the state visited by fewer people than any other. Not only does it come in way, way behind Florida and Hawaii; it comes in behind Delaware. Behind Rhode Island. Even behind South Dakota.
This is the state the guidebooks forgot, the last frontier of American tourism: Go ahead, try any big bookstore travel section and search for even a mention. Go west of Minnesota and east of Montana, and you might as well be in Canada. The best I could do for guidance was a disturbingly fleeting passage in a 50-state guide that describes North Dakota as
"somebody's quiet afterthought . . . a place to pass through . . . charming, picturesque and a bit maddening."
This is the state where the governor, Ed (Edward T.) Schafer--who you can easily meet on a free tour of the state capitol--calls its most outstanding characteristic its "nothingness."
And it's the state that endured humiliation on national television last year when the satiric documentary series "TV Nation" visited in the middle of winter, aired endless footage of snowstorms and frozen breath, and asked Schafer why people would ever want to visit.
"It's a place where you can still get lost," the governor answered, carefully adding that he didn't mean lost on a map. He meant, he said on national television, lost . . . mentally.
Actually, he's got something there. A trip around North Dakota turns out to be the essence of travel; it isn't the destination that matters but the journey. It isn't just a state you're exploring; it's a state of mind.
"For us who live here, it's like, 'Why would anyone come?' " said Saundra Perry, who runs the White Lace Bed & Breakfast in Bismarck, but who would rather be in Montana and is continually surprised that anyone ever asks to spend the night in her single guest room. "It's too far between every place."
But ultimately, that's North Dakota's powerful appeal. Montana's already over-trendy with the nouveau ranches of Ted Turner, Meg Ryan and their ilk. This is still undiscovered country, and some people know it.
"My wife and I on the weekends, we put a Thermos of coffee in the car and some sandwiches and go driving," Marlin Kunze told me as he took a cigarette break under the grand stairs of Bismarck's capitol. "When we see a gravel road I hit the brakes. Whichever way the car pulls, that's the way we go."
That's the wisdom of the neglected plains, and that, more or less, is what I did for five eye-opening, tire-spinning June days that mixed the bizarre with the beautiful. I traveled 1,000 miles--and would have liked to have traveled 2,000without ever leaving the state and breaking the spell.
I was transfixed by the impossibly flat, wind-swept landscape of North Dakota's eastern half, where the country's most constant winds ripple the endless fields of grass like the sea. Here and there, a ruined barn sat under flaking coats of faded paint, its roof buckling like the back of an old packhorse and the far-off horizon peeking through its empty door and window frames like a ghost world.
I looked into the painted eyes of the "World's Largest Buffalo," stood beneath the fiberglass hooves of the "World's Largest Holstein Cow," and walked the surreal shores of the country's largest man-made lake, where the water's edges are formed by desert bluffs.
I stood atop the buttes in the western badlands of Theodore Roosevelt National Park--one of the smallest parks in the system, though it seems to go on forever. Rows and rows of buttes, what seemed like billions of buttes, spread out until there was nothing else, like one of those stereoscopic pictures that suddenly pops into three dimensions.
I clambered over clay-streaked bluffs to come upon bison and river bends, and wide-screen vistas that defied logic--and that the rest of the country hasn't appreciated.
"They don't know what they're missing," said Theresa Halstead, leading a Pentecostal church group from nearby Williston on a hike through the seemingly empty park. "And don't tell them. We like it this way."