Do we wake up exultant because the sun is shining and we have a sweet prototype hybrid to drive, with miles of open road ahead? No. We wake up smiling because nothing is better in the morning than cracking open a sandy eyelid and smelling bacon. Steve and Nancy Sandstrom, the beatific administrators of our felicity, give us a tour of their carbon-neutral, solar-heated bed-and-breakfast, complete with a biodiesel converter in the garage, an aerobically aerated septic system, and native-plant landscaping. Aside from the solar panel in the garden, all of these attributes blend seamlessly into the swank trappings of their classy B&B, the Pinehurst Inn. "We judge our success not only by our financial bottom line but by our environmental health and social equity as well," says Steve, the kind of guy you'd assume, purely on looks, cares more about Monday Night Football than offsetting his carbon debt. Happily, few of the Midwesterners we're meeting see these interests as mutually exclusive.

The road beckons, so we heed its call and peel out. The radio's playing a song with a gravelly refrain that goes "Minnesota . . . we got pride, pride, pride!" Motorcycle gangs, all bandannas and flapping leather fringe, thrum down the asphalt. A crust of butterflies forms on the front bumper. We slow down to let wild horses cross, and I wrestle splinters of beef jerky out of my molars. We tear through towns with lush, satisfying names—Cornucopia, Blueberry, Maple—and a faint smell of smokehouse. Just past Duluth, Route 61 occupies an ample balcony where the sapphire-hued lake begins. The road shapes itself into a long shelf along the lake, like a promenade, and goes on to Canada.

Until about ten years ago, Grand Marais, Minnesota, was just a sleepy little town 40 miles from the border. A sociologist wanting to get a read on the community might have found the supermarkets useful territory for fieldwork: The Norwegian Lutherans shopped at Johnson's Foods, the Polish Catholics congregated at Gene's IGA, and the hippies communed at the co-op. Now, due in large part to the North House Folk School, inspired by the nineteenth-century Nordic movement to preserve traditional craft and lore, summers can increase the town's population to 5,000 people. Students stitch moose-hide mukluks, make Swedish potato sausage, carve birch skis, and even build their own casket during a four-day workshop called Bury Yourself in Your Work. While some of them might fall into the same category as historical re-enactors, a surprising number come from the swelling circle of (often urban) people newly interested in tradition, locality, and the handmade.

Dinner at the Angry Trout, right behind the school, reflects a similar ethic. Sustainability there is a lifestyle, not just a buzzword at the apex of its 15 minutes. Food isn't the only locally sourced ingredient: The flowers, plates, stained glass windows, credit card trays, timber-frame entryway, and salt-and-pepper shakers are all made by different local artisans. Their philosophy is panoptic: Napkins are woven from organic cotton, beer flows from taps rather than bottles, and takeout containers must be signed out and returned within four days. It seems joyless on paper, but the young, collegial staff bring their convictions vivaciously to life.