Editor’s note: Jerry is taking some time off. Here is one of his past columns from his Oldies But Goodies file.

Mesabi is the Ojibwa word for giant. Mesabi is also the name given to a range of iron-rich hills in northern Minnesota, knolls that the Ojibwa believed held a sleeping giant.

Some years ago, my wife and I made a foray to northern Minnesota to see about sleeping giants and other Iron Range legends.

First on our list was the town of Bemidji where stands humungous statues of Paul Bunyan and his blue ox, Babe. Being a farm kid, I had to examine Babe up close to solve a mystery that had bugged me for a long time. A quick examination revealed that Babe is clearly a steer.

But this just gave rise to yet another mystery, namely: who neutered Babe? How?

Nearby is Lake Itaska, the birthplace of the epic Mississippi River. The source of our nation’s longest river attracts flocks of tourists. Even a small child can easily walk across the Father of Waters where it exits Lake Itaska.

Hibbing is located in the midst of the Iron Range. The city of 17,000 is where a giant of American music grew up, where a boy named Robert Zimmerman went to school, made friends, and eventually became the legendary troubadour known as Bob Dylan.

I once read a review of Dylan’s music, a screed that included a description of Hibbing. The city was portrayed as a dismal and rust-colored, its phlegmatic citizens creaking mechanically through their rust-colored lives.

This stood in sharp contrast to the Hibbing that my wife and I experienced. We saw a vibrant, thriving community that was clean with nary an empty storefront in sight.

My wife and I decided to duck into a main street pub called Zimmy’s to have a sandwich and a cold beverage. The walls of Zimmy’s were plastered with photos of Bob Dylan, most of them from his album covers, most of them depicting Dylan as the Brooding Genius.

I was curious, so I asked our waitress if Dylan owned an interest in the joint.

“No,” she replied. “He’s not connected with Zimmy’s in any way, shape, or form. We’re just using the Zimmy’s name.”

Noting that Zimmy’s was once a gas station, I asked, “Is it possible that young Bob once had his car serviced here?”

The waitress brightened considerably. “Well, sure! I guess that’s possible.”

The waitress then gave us some Dylan tips. “You really need to see our high school,” she said. “It’s spectacular. Plus, you can visit the stage where Bob got booed off of during a high school talent show. And just down the street from the school is the house where he grew up.”

Hibbing’s high school is indeed spectacular. A plaque out front states that it was completed in 1922 at a cost of about $4 million, with the bulk of the construction funds furnished by local iron mining companies.

I strode into the building and was instantly awed by the polished granite, the larger-than-life frescoes depicting early pioneer life, the profusion of filigree. I stood at center stage of the auditorium and gazed out at the astounding opulence, the sparkling cut glass chandeliers, the colossal pipe organ waiting silently, the firehose at the ready in its stained-glass case.

We drove down a street named Bob Dylan Drive to the block that was said to have the Zimmerman home. Tidy middle-class houses lined the avenue, but there was no indication as to which was the famed house.

Giving up, we motored about a mile north from the school to the Hull Rust Mahoning Mine open pit iron mine, one of the oldest on the Iron Range. I wanted to see where all of the tractors I have driven and all of the cars I have owned began their lives.

An open pit iron mine is an unearthly place. My first impression was that it closely resembles photos of the surface of Mars. It looked like a gaping wound in the planet, a desolate, lifeless tableau dotted by ponds of water whose colors ranged from turquoise to emerald.

The contrast between the lavishness of the auditorium and the godforsaken desolation of the iron mine couldn’t have been starker.

Perhaps it was this vision of the scarred planet and the prospect of a life in the iron mines that helped spur young Bob’s interest in music. Perhaps the harsh reception from his schoolmates only intensified his drive. Perhaps, as he knocked the dust of Hibbing from his shoes, he thought, “No prophet is accepted in his own hometown.”

That is all conjecture, of course. The real answers, my friend, are blowing in the wind, the same wind that gently caresses the legends of northern Minnesota.

— Jerry’s book, Dear County Agent Guy, is available at Workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.