This past weekend was unexpectedly powerful. For the first time in a long while, I was able to drive

Written: March 24, 2025

This past weekend was unexpectedly powerful. For the first time in a long while, I was able to drive around on my own, taking in places I hadn’t truly seen in years. You can hear about change, even browse satellite images on Google Maps—but nothing prepares you for the emotional weight of witnessing it with your own eyes.
Back in 1985, I saw LaValle and the Rabuck farm for the first time. It felt timeless—like a scene from a Boy's Life magazine or the kind of town my parents would’ve described from their childhood. A woman on horseback. Immaculate fields. A river winding gently through lush, untouched land. It was pure. It was beautiful.
Now, after fifteen years away, I returned with new eyes. And what I saw hit hard.
The town I once knew is half gone. Nature, through the power of the Baraboo River, has erased parts of the place I grew up. But man’s hand has done worse. The farm—once a green, tranquil valley that marked the beginning of my Wisconsin life—is now just another stretch of steel and storage. Huge, soulless warehouses stand where rolling fields once breathed. It doesn't feel like progress.
Every patch of land now seems stuffed with someone’s clutter, their overpriced toys and forgotten junk left to rot in the open. Driving the back roads feels less like a peaceful country ride and more like a slow tour of a rural junkyard. I get it—my home won’t be featured in Better Homes & Gardens either. But the complete disregard for natural beauty, for what once made this place special, is disheartening.
We don’t always notice the slow creep of ugliness when we live among it. But stepping away, then coming back? You see it all too clearly. And what I saw this weekend made me feel like something sacred has been lost—traded in for convenience, ego, and a place to park a boat.