The minister meeting in Minot, ND is over and I head east in my van, pulling Half Moon, my popup camper. I am off to  the Turtle Mountains up on the border between
Canada and ND. I have been forewarned not to expect real mountains—nothing like the Rocky Mountains, where I lived for 14 years.  I vow not to make comparisons and be open to this kind of mountain experience. I look forward to the fun of hiking and sleeping in the shadow of the Canadian border..

I travel across the prairie that I am beginning to love after moving here 6 months ago. The prairie does not have the majestic vistas of Colorado, rocky coastlines of California, stunning desert landscape of Arizona or the antelope populated plateaus of Wyoming. The beauty here is soft, rolling, and wet. Saturated. Small ponds, prairie potholes, roadside marshes rimmed with cattails. Shelter belts planted by homesteaders contain the only trees. I pass rich farmland, some not plowed or planted yet. Too early? Fallow?

I see the ever-present ducks swimming calmly and prolific hawks soaring then swooping down for lunch. Flocks of the small Horned Skylark fly up from the fields as I pass by.

After 100 miles of prairie, I turn towards the north. The mountain silhouette appears in the distance, a small, gentle landform rising a thousand feet or so above the prairie. The top of the range appears nearly flat, but not abruptly so, like a mesa in New Mexico. Trees, greenery, and watery air soften the profile.

Before driving into the North Dakota mountains, I stop in Bottineau for food and water. Bottineau is small, maybe a thousand people. I already know it is home to a Walmart after researching the town online before I left. Walmart? I have not yet found a Walmart in such a small town.  Odd.. I wonder, do Canadians come across the border? Energy workers? Pipeline staff? Who supports this Walmart? I bought my small pile of necessities and headed out.

I wander up the gentle winding road, following signs to Lake Metigoshi State Park. Ponds, small lakes, and marshes that lie around every curve remind me I am not in the arid west anymore. And then, Aspen trees! Their presence seems as odd to me as a Walmart in a tiny town along the Canadian border. I associate Aspen trees with the grand valleys and mountainsides of the dry Rockies. Yet, here they are, in the wet Turtle Mountains. I am reminded the Aspen tree is adaptable and shows a different growth  in each of its habitats- tall, slender, short, stocky. However, there is no mistaking the Aspen thanks to the whitish bark, and manic, jittery leaves. The oak woodlands is find here are less surprising –  oaks seems to grow everywhere and also in many shapes and size.s  Aspens and oaks: old friends who make me feel at home.

My thoughts are interrupted as I drive over a corrugated patch of road—those annoying bumps that remind me to slow down for a stop sign. At the intersection I see a wall of advertising signs: drive-inns, small hotels, insurance, worship services. They are lined up in a row, like the signs mounted to the low wall that surrounds a hometown baseball field. Hmmm. Seems that Lake Metigoshe, which is only 5 miles to the right, is more than a State Park. As I approach, I discover this area is quite a summer destination. Hundreds of cabins surround the lake edge. I hope that the State Park is separated from that mayhem. I begin to understand the Walmart now.

Soon, the turnoff to the State Park heads away from  people, into more aspen/oak woodlands. To my relief, I discover a swimming beach in the park.  The old-fashion tent sites are near the shoreline, and  I briefly remember my tent camping days and how wonderful it was to find tent-only camping separated from the noisy RVs. For a few moments I wonder if I can be a tent—Half Moon is a tent pop-up camper, after all.  However, I settle in at my reserved campsite up in the new, modern section, which is about ½ mile from the water. Since I am here during the week, the campground is nearly empty. The shower house, with clean shower and toilet stalls is amazing and also free. No need for a roll of quarters this trip.

Tomorrow: how the Turtle Mountains received their name