Photo credit: Philip Patton.

I’m heading this post with the picture above, because I’m kind of proud of it. Not that I took it, of course, but I think it catches the tragedy and grandeur of its subject as no photo ever has before. A Viking with a secret sorrow. A plunderer with dyspepsia. Credit to Philip Patton, a talented young man who came along with me to Missouri, and returned with many splendid pictures.

But none of them as splendid as this one, I think. Subject matter is all.

As you may recall, I left Thursday morning for Knox City, Missouri, home of Sam Shoults’s Ravensborg Longphort. All went swimmingly, and Mrs. Hermanson, my Chevy Tracker, was running at her best, when we suddenly rolled to a stop just outside Ottumwa, Iowa. Then followed a call to AAA, a wait for a tow, and a short hop to a nearby auto mechanic, who I must say proved to be both honest and skillful, so far as I could detect (I have it now as a principle never to go to the shop the tow driver recommends. I disregarded his advice on this occasion, and did not regret it). I’ll say the shop’s name, Superior Automotive.

Turned out it was the clutch, the same thing that stranded me on the road a couple years ago, and got fixed then (apparently only temporarily). They named me a price I thought fair (I had experience with this repair, after all), and said they could get it done by 4:00 the next day. Since that would allow us to still make most of the Viking weekend, I readily agreed. They gave us a lift to a nearby motel. The next day they actually finished the job about 2 ½ hours ahead of the estimated time. So I’ve got no complaints.

We finished the trip, and still arrived ahead of several people. This is Ravensborg:

Not much got done that evening, other than chatting. I had brought a sleeping bag this year, and so slept a little warmer than a year ago. The next day we cleared out all our modern impedimenta, and the public was allowed in. I sold books (had good business, as a matter of fact), and there was fighting.

And in the evening was the Great Feast.

That’s where I went all weird, as I do, you know. There’s something about seeing people having fun that depresses me deeply. I crawled into my sleeping bag while the others were still laughing and drinking, and nursed a good, profound funk into the wee hours. This is why I should never be let out among people.

The next morning we loaded up in the rain and headed home.

Thanks to Sam Shoults and his wife Suzie for all their work in making the event possible.