June 2

I was in a hurry to leave Tiskilwa, Illinois, today.

I enjoyed my brief stay there after my day on the Hennepin Canal towpath and the conversation I had with Jeremy, the owner of The Tiskilwa Inn, but I was eager to get to my destination about 40 miles away. Waiting for me in Ottawa, Illinois, was one of my mentors who played a significant role in rescuing and guiding my journalism career, and who has remained a good friend for 37 years.

Here's our story:

In July 1983 I took a job with a newspaper in Tyler, Texas. I had been working as a part-time reporter and clerk at The Milwaukee Journal after getting my journalism degree at Marquette University. I had hoped I could someday move up to a full-time position at the Journal, but when I heard about the opening in Texas I thought it would be good to build my journalistic foundation by exploring a different part of the country with a very different culture.

The Tyler Morning Telegraph's managing editor had interviewed me extensively over the phone. He said the paper couldn't pay to fly me there for a visit. Instead, he mailed me a big packet of their latest editions to help me in my decision. I thought the paper was  bad, but I was naive enough to think that meant I would have an opportunity to make it better. So, not really knowing what I was getting myself into, I hitched U-Haul's smallest trailer to the bumper of my Ford Pinto hatchback and drove the 1,000 miles from Milwaukee to East Texas.

Over the next several months I did, indeed, have enriching experiences and adventures I couldn't have had in Milwaukee. But ultimately, the job didn't work out. I quit over what I considered an ethical issue with the publisher. The following February I was driving back to the Midwest in my trailer-pulling Pinto, with no job. The last thing I wanted to do was move back in with my parents, so I persuaded my good friend from college, Jon Drummond, to let me sleep on the floor of his one-bedroom apartment in Joliet, Illinois, where he worked as a copy editor for the Joliet Herald-News.

I picked up a couple freelance assignments from the Herald-News, but by April my bank account was down to $100 and I was scouring the classified ads for restaurant jobs or whatever I could find until I could get hired by a newspaper. One evening, Jon invited me to go out for beers with some of the guys from the Joliet paper. I declined until he said he'd pay for my drinks. I already knew Jon's buddies from the paper, but this time there was a new guy at the opposite end of the table — Lonny Cain.

Lonny had been an investigative reporter for the Herald-News before becoming a journalism instructor at Northern Illinois University. But he had recently been hired as the managing editor of a newspaper that needed help, The Daily Times, in the little town of Ottawa, Illinois. From my end of the table I heard him talking about wanting to turn a paper into something respectable — and that he was looking for a reporter to help him do it!

I introduced myself. 

Lonny scheduled an interview. We hit it off. And a week later I was back to working in journalism.

With Lonny's ideas and guidance and my execution, we shook up Ottawa a bit. People quickly noticed their newspaper was changing. I covered the police department, city hall and courts, and wrote all sorts of features. One of our biggest stories was a series I wrote on the 25th anniversary of the Starved Rock Murders, the gruesome killings of three women from Chicago as they hiked at nearby Starved Rock State Park. The series concluded with my interview of Chester Otto Weger, who was found guilty of the crime and sentenced to life in the Stateville Correctional Center in Joliet.

From April 1984 until October 1985 I had the pleasure of working with Lonny. Not only was he a solid journalist with great ideas and thoughtful critiques, he was just fun to work with and be around. (I left The Daily Times when I was hired to be a reporter for the San Diego Tribune. A friend from the Tyler  paper had since been hired there and tipped me off to a reporting position that I applied for and got. My stories from The Daily Times were a big reason why.)

Lonny retired a few years ago but still writes a column for the newspaper chain that bought The Daily Times. He continues to investigate the 1957 disappearance of a corruption-fighting woman journalist in Joliet, who many suspect was murdered by the mob.  And he's still my mentor. When I was struggling with whether to write this journal for my trip, he gave me advice that got me started.

This morning, when I left Tiskilwa, I wanted to get to Ottawa quickly so I could spend as much time as possible with Lonny and his wife, Cindy. A section of the Hennepin Canal remained, but I'd seen enough yesterday. I took roads that roughly paralleled the canal. When I got to the city of LaSalle, I went looking for the next trail on my list, the towpath of the Illinois & Michigan Canal, which runs to Ottawa and points east.  

Once again, the trailhead started out looking good.

I then met a fellow bicycle tourist, Mark, who was going in the opposite direction. He gave me a discouraging report on what he had just been through and that I could expect. (By the way, Mark said he spends his life riding around the country. He said he was on his way to Montana, where he planned to put his bike in a boat and paddle the length of the Missouri River. I have no idea whether he was telling the truth.) 

In the direction I was going, Mark said, the trail would eventually disappear. Even though I was racing to get to Lonny's place, I still wanted to see for myself what the I&M Canal was like, so I forged ahead. 

True to Mark's report, the path gradually became overgrown with weeds and grass.

I then ran into a section with mud and muck. It was too much of a struggle. As soon as I could, I got off the trail and back onto roads that would lead me to Ottawa.

I had told Lonny I would be at his house by 1 p.m. But I left Tiskilwa a half-hour later than planned because I kept gabbing with Jeremy. And then the hassles with the I&M Canal slowed me down even more.

I got to Lonny's at about 3. He was waiting for me in a lawn chair on his driveway. 

We went inside and sat down at his kitchen table and started catching up over cheese and crackers. (Cindy came home soon after.) Lonny knew all about my frustrations with the I&M Canal. He'd written numerous editorials arguing for the state of Illinois to develop it into a recreational and tourist attraction, to no avail.

We chatted for a couple hours. I then got back on my bike and rode to my hotel to quickly get cleaned up before Lonny and Cindy took me to a restaurant downtown, the Lone Buffalo. We had a wonderful meal. After all the junk I've eaten the last several weeks, my entree was a delight. I felt like I was eating in L.A.

Charred Cauliflower Grain Bowl

Char-grilled cauliflower “steak” served with a wild mushroom and ancient grain blend, pistachio pistou, balsamic braised beets, lemon tahini drizzle, and pickled onions.

Ottawa has changed so much for the better. When I lived there, it had the appearance of a tired, struggling town. Today, the downtown has flower beds decorating the sidewalks and new businesses are everywhere. On some of the buildings' walls, murals depict moments in the city's history — notably its having hosted one of the Lincoln-Douglas Debates — giving the downtown a more vibrant feel. 

After dinner, Lonny and I walked to The Daily Times, where Cindy took our picture.

I wish we'd had more time. I don't consider it a coincidence that this trip of a lifetime included a stop to see Lonny. He got me back on my career path when I was young, and I value the direction he continues to provide today when I'm lost or stuck.

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