Fifty States in 50 Years

Two summers ago I set out literally on a voyage to complete a life’s mission of setting foot in my 50th state prior to turning 50 years of age. 

It was a bucket list item that was accomplished largely with the help of my very patient parents. As a kid, they carted my siblings and me to most of the states east, and many west (including four corners!) of the Mississippi River in the back of their 1968 apple red Ford Country Sedan station wagon.

Another dozen or so states were checked off on various business and pleasure trips through my 20s and 30s leaving me with the final four for my 40s. Number 47 was all pleasure - a Hawaiian vacation with my wife. Number 48 on the other hand was almost arduous. I would even argue that the 48th state on my list, North Dakota, is the hardest state to get to, because there is simply no normal reason to go there.  That is unless you go specifically to say you’ve been to North Dakota or you’re on your way to Winnipeg and have a fear of flying. 

It was my last weekend working for the Minnesota Thunder pro soccer team in 1997, and I had a day off. Fargo, with a hair over 100,000 residents, is North Dakota’s largest “city” barely topping 100,000 residents. It was a mere 215 miles from Minneapolis, so I spontaneously made the short jaunt past Fargo's twin city of Moorhead, Minnesota. 

I had made no little plans (nor grand plans) for my short stay, but I did manage to get a good flavor of the place. I saw the 28,000-seat Fargo Dome, I scalped a ticket to get into a sold out Fargo-Moorhead Red Hawks minor league baseball game (vs. the Winnipeg Gold Eyes with ex-San Francisco Giant Hal Lanier managing) and I walked the Fargo Walk of Fame. Roger Maris and Tiny Tim are in it, Frances McDormand and Donna Fargo are not. Donna Fargo, by the way, is actually from Mount Airy, North Carolina which served as the basis for television’s fictional Mayberry, NC.

The date of my date with the state of North Dakota was August 30, 1997. I know this, because that’s the day Princess Diana was killed in a car crash in Paris. I’ll always remember where I was when Princess Di died – in a bar in Fargo, North Dakota eating a pickled egg.

Idaho was my 49th state.  It was close to being my 38th state, but after a close call in 1978, it ended up as the penultimate state on my list. I first saw Idaho when I was wilderness hiking in Yellowstone National Park with my brother Tim, but viewing it in the distance from Wyoming didn’t count.  It wasn’t until 24 years later that I would have another opportunity to set foot in Idaho. The Chicago Fire, the Major League Soccer team I was running, was honored in 2002 as the recipient of the World Sports Humanitarian Hall of Fame's Pro Team Community Award. The Hall of Fame is in Boise, Idaho and I made sure I was on hand for the award presentation. Meeting the daughter of inductee Jesse Owens and retired Atlanta Braves slugger Dale Murphy, who was also inducted, were highlights of the trip, but not nearly as important as checking off state number 49.

Five years later and just nine months short of my 50th birthday, I finally set foot on Alaskan soil. I was 49 years and 3 months old when I flew to Vancouver and hopped on a Holland America Cruise ship bound for Ketchikan.

Stepping off the gangplank onto our nation’s 49th (and my 50th) state was fulfilling, exhilarating and bemusing. I celebrated by hiking to a nearby park and then to an IGA, where I completed the celebration with a lamp heated jalapeno cheddar corn dog.

I’m writing now about this “accomplishment", because recently I was one upped - rather 50 upped – by my brother Tim. A month ago, August 15th to be exact, he climbed to the top of Maine: Baxter Peak on Mt. Katahdin.  It completed his quest to reach the summit of all 50 state highpoints, most of which he has done with his wife Kris and daughters Grete and Ingrid.  Tim is now a member of an elite group of individuals known as the “50 Completers”.

While my accomplishment pretty much relied on breathing and getting into a car, boat and/or airplane, Tim actually had to work to fulfill his mission.  My last state involved a short walk for a corn dog. His first highpoint was to the top of Denali (aka Mount McKinley, at 20,320 feet above sea level, the highest point in North America). From there it was all downhill – literally - but still not an easy task.  In his own words:

“Treacherous highpoints included Montana (tapping the table-top summit amidst lightning and hail), New York (crawling on all fours in a late autumn windy, snowy white-out: “Mom and Dad we gotta do it – we’re not coming back!”) and Rhode Island (in the era before the current landowners purchased the property and approved access we used Stealth-mode technique to sneak to the true highpoint, only to set off barking dogs when getting tangled in bramble bushes on the way back).”

I think I’ll carve a few minutes out of my afternoon tomorrow, so I can “hike” to the highpoint of Whitefish Bay…I’m guessing it’s at the intersection of Lake Drive and School Road.  Afterwards, you’ll likely find me celebrating yet another bucket list accomplishment with a corn dog at the .