Dave Wood

D'you know what's wrong with most large motel chains? We found out recently on a trip that began in Wisconsin Dells, moved on to Madison, and ended miles later in my home county of Trempealeau, hard by Buffalo, Pepin and Pierce. What's wrong is multifold. First their prices make you gasp. Second, most of their stylings are cold and forbidding. Third their complimentary breakfasts are surprisingly tawdry and more often nonexistent. Fourth the contemporary chain motel is devoid of information about what is surrounding its tenants. That is, unless you consider pamphlets promising “great deals” at local establishments “information.” Search not for a local phonebook or a chat with a knowledgeable desk clerk.

But let’s get specific. Most big outfits deal with booking agents and have little control over making a good impression. My wife reserved a room in the huge Doubletree (a Hilton spin-off in Madison.) The booker cited a price of $250 per night. B.W. thought that was pretty steep, so called and cancelled at the booker. The booker said, “Would you come if we lowered the rate? When B.W.  heard the words “$100,” she replied, “Sign us up for two nights!” AND THEY DID!! When we arrived, the motel was almost empty. It was a good deal for us but left us with a bad taste about Doubletree, whose breakfasts featured watery orange juice and Danish pastries that tasted as if they were baked in Copenhagen several months ago.

Nevertheless, we stuck with Hilton for the Dells stop, opting for a spinoff they call Hampton Inn, where our room featured NO maps of the Dells region, no menus for myriad of restaurants in this very touristy town. Our couldn’t-have-been-native desk clerk rattled off a number of nearby chains like Taco John's, Red Lobster and Culver's (well known for its buttery, mushy buns). Fortunately, we were very close to the best restaurant in the Dells, the 75-year old Del-Bar. Heaven forbid that the motel management could have included mention of such an old establishment that discriminating visitors might actually prefer over kitschy tourist traps like Lumberjack Flapjack Houses and a Roman Colosseum made out of papier mâché.

Finally, I raise a topic too delicate for a Beau Brummel like yours truly. Oh, what the heck? The “powder rooms” in these cookie cutter inns are loaded with toiletries, big towels, medium towels, make-up remover towels, shaving lotions, talcum powder. No problem there. But what, I ask you, about the toilet stools, which, though flanked by rolls of cheap tissue that break into one sheet, one ply sections, are so low to the floor that relieving oneself recalls trying to do the straddle hop the first time you went out for football.

Once the B.W. had manhandled me out of one of those sinkholes (she's not only a Beautiful Wife, but also a Brutish Wench), I limped to the bed, my artificial hips ajar, and looked for a guide to the flat screen TV hanging on a wall that one must strain his neck to view. What was missing? A TV guide, of course. All the management would have to do would be to provide a list of the channels available and the corresponding number on our remote. What's the deal? Don't they want us to partake of TV, after downing a gut bomb at the nearby McDonald's? But, no, we from the service generation must struggle with screen scrolling and scan down a list of hundreds of stations, without ever finding the one or two we’d hoped to watch.

There, I'm done with my rant, so I can introduce you to Trempealeau, Wis., the oldest extant town in my home county. When I was a kid, Trempealeau was a dying little village, former site of John Jay Astor's fur trading post. It boasted a couple beer joints, some empty brick buildings, and fishing shacks and make-do docks for the old fishermen who came to angle for Northern Pike, Catfish and Bullheads. Such a fisherman was my Grandpa Wood, who periodically accompanied his two bachelor friends, Evan and Arthur Finstad. When I lived with Grandpa and Grandma, she always shoved me into Grandpa's '36 Ford for the trip to Trempealeau, admonishing me to stay close to my elders, “so they don't tarry in a tavern.”

Back then I think Trempealeau boasted 500 citizens, so imagine my surprise last month when we entered the little old town and its green and white sign said “Trempealeau, Pop. 1,800!” My Golly, all the old store fronts were stocked with antiques, the fishing shacks were gone, replaced by starter mansions along the river that certainly cost a half million. There was an old hotel, recently restored to attract bikers and fans of river life. It was a frou-frou place, that featured walnut burgers and other vegetarian goodies, as well as craft beers and the ever-popular French beer that nobody in town can pronounce, a far cry from my grandpa's favorites Bub's of Winona and Fountain Brew of nearby Fountain City!

And TWO – count them – TWO motels! We chose Inn on the River across the main drag from the frou-frou hotel. All rooms had terraces or balconies facing the barges on the Mississippi. Its owners greeted us and showed us a beautifully remodeled room, bedecked with tasteful paintings, a marbleized table, two comfy chairs (most chains only offer one chair, so if a couple wants to play Gin Rummy, one has to sit on the bed—or ask a testy assistant manager if we could borrow one from another room).

The owner’s tour complete, he quoted the price – $99 – and added that they did not offer breakfast, but several cafes nearby and good offerings. 

The tasteful twin queen room was full of good stuff. Fifty-plus channels, a guide to using the remote, menus from five restaurants in the area. We chose Sullivan's a half mile along the river from the motel for supper and River Inn on the edge of town to breakfast. Where my bottomless cup contained endless coffee, two eggs over medium (yes, they managed that), three strips of crisp bacon, homemade hashed browns and a bowlful of jellies, which all cost me $7.49. B.W. asked if she could order ala carte and our pretty blonde waitress said, “no problem!'

No problem is right. After mooching a piece of pancake off B.W., I patted my tummy and concluded that I finally got a good breakfast after too many disappointing tries. We'll be back. And like Grandpa and the Finstad brothers, we'll probably wet a line, before racing to Sullivan's to say as those elders said during each trip, “Skaal pa Fiskin! (Which means “Drink to the Fish.”)

By Golly, I forgot to mention another incredible amenity: A HIGH TOILET STOOL, which I sprang up from like a young buck.

DAVE WOULD LIKE TO HEAR FROM YOU, SO PHONE AT 715-426-9554. SO WOULD INN ON THE RIVER (1-608-534-7784).