DAY 05 24112017

A peculiar thing happened at the base of the tower today. As you approach from the road, the control room is the closest object to you - the tower landing behind and to the left of the cinder block structure. Yesterday, still somewhat apprehensive of the tower, I stayed in front of that boxy little building, the base of the tower hidden. Today, with the sun quickly setting, I was determined to take photos looking straight up from the base (or as close as I could get to the fence). But as I got closer, that calm I felt yesterday was stripped from me. The wind was much stronger today, and though it was 5 degrees warmer, I was so, so much colder. And that humming sound I heard by the tower was stronger still, the wind strangely failing to drown it out, which is when I realized that the sound wasn't the tower itself, but the wind playing the tower like an instrument. The best way I could describe it is like a jet flying far overhead. You look up trying to spot it, but there's nothing there. You try to pinpoint which direction it's coming from, but it's everywhere. 

With that in mind, I slowly rounded the building. It's unusually accessible, the only fenced off portions found at the very base of the tower and each guy-wire tie back point. In the past, when I've visited these kinds of masts, the whole plot of land was fenced off with signs warning of high voltage transmissions. I didn't expect to be able get this close. And when I did, when I turned that last corner, the rear corner opposite where the tower landed, with the base fully on display, I believe my exact words were "oh fuck nonononononono" and I quickly backed away - literally walking backwards, waving my hands like a character in a sitcom who's been asked to do something unreasonable. 

I'll try to get into why these things are so terrifying to me at some point, though I don't think anyone would disagree when I say they're at least a little eerie. 

Defeated, I walked back to my car. I'm still not used to the height of it. It lies constantly outside your peripheral vision. As you look up, all reference points disappear. Today was sunny and cloudless, which made matters worse. About halfway up the tower, your mind tends to think you're nearly there, and your eyes scramble to focus on a top that's still beyond reach. At my car, it's more manageable, and that's where I stay, waiting for the sun to set. 

Eventually I grew bored and started checking my phone. Piper (Bernbaum) emailed me with some kind words and relevant references. I reread yesterday's entry and found myself once again contemplating that inherent contradiction in being a tourist - and laughing at myself for lamenting the Tower's fading attraction. Did I really want people around? Some family in a minivan from Nebraska? Some amateur photographer wearing cargo pants and a utility vest? I start thinking about what makes me different from them, and I draw a blank. I'm basically trying to claim ownership of this place, but I'm only a voyeur. If there were people here, I'd be mad at them, and they at me, for "spoiling" it. I'm spoiling it right now, but no one knows it. There's that strange mentality when faced with a monument, when your instinct is to "capture" it, to take that photo you see on all the postcards and in National Geographic (woosh, those are some dated references - I mean on Instagram and Snapchat). It's the same photo as everyone else's but it's also your own - and of course, the ultimate prize is when you achieve that impossible feat of excluding other tourists from said photo, running up to your boyfriend shouting "Look! I got a photo of the lighthouse with NO ONE ELSE IN IT" (for the record, Starr, I'm guilt of the same). Adobe (those crooks) even developed software to use dozens of photos taken from the same perspective to form a composite image that excludes non-static elements, which, mostly, are other people.

***Note: I'm not the first person to think about this, obviously, but man am I feeling it out here.***

But before I know it, the sun has set and the beacons shine. This is where my fear started - at night, on the highway, seeing these ominous glowing orbs hover in the sky. It's a slow transition from day to night, especially with these huge, open skies, but one thing I didn't count on is just how absolutely dark it would get. I spent most of my time in my car looking up at the tower, counting the lights as I spotted them (for the record, 28 horrifying red beacons - 21 of which are static and weak, 7 of which are pulsing and strong), taking photos with two cameras (one with a telephoto lens, the other with a wide angle). About an hour after the sun sets I suddenly realize that despite the faint glow beyond the horizon, the ground around me was pitch black. At that point I know I'll never be able to approach the tower a night, partly because of my fear of the thing, but mostly because I'd need a floodlight to even get close. The only light sources discernible from my car were above the door to the control room, and from that strange farm house to the north. 

About the farm house: I did write a note, and was planning on dropping it off on my way out, but as I drove in the dark, my high beams cutting through only enough darkness to safely see the road, I noticed the lights where on and a car had pulled up, it's rear running lights painting the yard red (I couldn't help but think of that scene from Goodfellas where they dig up a rotting corpse). It felt wrong to sneak up and drop a note when people were clearly around, and I didn't think my presence would be welcome in the dark. I'd try again another time.

Tomorrow I think I'll take a break from the Tower and explore that long lonely road between Fargo and Streeter.

Marco Chimienti
24.11.17

P.S. Can we take a moment to appreciate the billboard bellow in all it's confounding, suggestive glory?