Beards and Other Wonders

Tuesday was a beautiful day. I met Hans Langseth, an award-winning woodcarver who lives in Minneiska (Minnesota) and the great grandson of Hans Langseth, who gets the credit from the folks at Guinness (the record-keepeers, not the beer makers) for having the world’s longest beard. You know it’s going to be a great day when you are talking to someone who is related to a Guinness record holder, especially if it involves 18 ½ feet of facial hair, 17 ½ feet of which is now housed at the Smithsonian. Even though the younger Hans is an award-winning woodcarver, Googling “Hans Langseth” turns up pages and pages of links about the bearded man and virtually none about the woodcarver. One of the links describes an Ohio man, Matt Bischoff, who got a tattoo of Hans Langseth the elder on his back during an episode of Miami Ink. If you want a tattoo of a talented woodcarver on your back, Hans the younger might be able to help. By the way, I believe Tom Cruise holds the record for having the most consecutive beards.

Before I met Hans, I climbed to the top of Mount Charity at John A. Latsch State Park. (The neighboring peaks are called Faith and Hope, in case you were wondering.) The climb to the top is deceivingly difficult. Some years ago, the state built a series of wooden steps—592 steps, according to the Department of Natural Resources website—apparently believing this would make the trek to the top easier. Steeled with the confidence that comes from having climbed many more steps in the past, I assumed this would be an easy climb. Wrong. I’m still sore, three days later. But the view was so worth it.

Back in Winona, I recharged with a deeply satisfying dinner of spring rolls and fish larp from Chong’s Noodle Shop in Winona, quite possibly the only restaurant in town that doesn’t feature hamburgers prominently on its menu. I ended a nearly perfect day with a beer and jazz at The Root Note in La Crosse, my new favorite hangout.

Bad Decision of the Day: Ordering French fries—again and again and again. I am incapable of resisting the temptation of those lovely, deep-fried slices of potato goodness, even when faced with options that are inarguably better for me. Baked potato? No thanks. Steamed veggies? Nah. Side salad? Are you kidding? (In my defense, a side salad in Wisconsin is going to be a small plate of iceberg lettuce sprinkled with three carrot shreds. Who really wants that?)