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AS A MINNESOTAN for quite a few years now, I pay our state taxes, drive a car bearing the state license plates, and even speak with a bit of the state accent—or so my Iowan family tells me.

I've been to Betty's Pies on North Shore Drive and Tobie's in Hinckley. I've made tater-tot hotdish. I've shopped in the Mall of America. I've closed my e yes and ridden that fast green roller coaster at Valleyfair. And I even caught a fish once while staying at a cabin in Hackensack.

Still, I haven't done some of the things that make a person quintessentially Minnesotan. I've never ridden a snowmobile. I've never seen any sporting event in the Metrodome. I've never been to the State Fair, which means I've never eaten any of the famous things on sticks. And I have no woman-versus-nature stories from trips to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area.

For now, I can get away with not having done these things. I'm from Iowa. But as time goes by, I'll just be considered boring, uncultured, out of touch. So this is the year that I embrace my Minnesotan citizenship by checking off items on the haven't-done-yet list.

The catch is that my all-things-Minnesota summer can't begin until I start and finish my late-late-spring cleaning project, because a few vital things are buried in a certain storage closet: my shorts, my yellow bike (the regular riding of which would help me squeeze back into those shorts), and all my camping gear. Those are just the things I know I need. Who knows what else I've forgotten about in The Closet?

I've managed to avoid finding out by telling myself I might never be found if I go in there alone. But there's no one else intrepid enough to tackle the job. Only me.

So one fine day, I steel my jaw, lace up my boots, and open the door, instinctively ducking to one side as a suitcase and faux Christmas tree fall out, followed by a library book I've already paid the fines on. I feel like I'm waist-high in a trout stream as I wade through a stack of old newspapers, shoes, and books piled close to the front. I toss those over my shoulder into the living room, then step onto a plastic storage bin and start tossing things into the hallway: three shoes without mates, a clock, a frying pan, mittens, keys to my last apartment, a rug, and a "Happy Birthday" banner I've been saving for the next birthday party I throw.

I cut through some scarves and a jump rope hanging from the ceiling, and fight my way back to three winter coats and a Thighmaster. I can almost reach the Coleman stove and kerosene lanterns if I climb over the plastic storage bin, the file box, and a sleeping bag, then balance my knee on the seat of my bike. It's pretty simple, really—no map needed.

Then, about a third of the way into my ascent, I pause, frozen in a face-off with a spider. He lifts one leg menacingly, as if shaking an itsy-bitsy fist in challenge. In the wild, I've read, we humans, like other animals, meet threats with one of three automatic responses: fight, flight, or freeze. I'd choose flight if I weren't teetering atop Packrat Peak; I just want to run like heck and slam the door behind me. Instead, I go to Plan B: fight. I wrap a paper towel around a nearby shoe, close my eyes, and smack! The rest of the climb is a breeze, and I emerge victorious again, setting the stove, the sleeping bag, and the lanterns in the camping pile.

My next trip in is for the bike. This is the farthest in I have to go. I lift the bike free of television cables and load it onto my back for the portage to the living room, noticing that the tires are flat and rotted. At the same time, I notice that this spot in the far regions of my closet might be just as isolated as a campsite in the Boundary Waters. From where I'm standing, I can't hear the sounds of cars, planes, or televisions—even in the distance.

After I carry out the bike, I'm home free. Before the sun has set, my closet has been emptied, cleaned, and organized. I take inventory and realize my tent is still M.I.A.

I'm not so sure I want to find it.

Oh, I'm still into confirming my Minnesotan-ness. I'll get my bike tires fixed. I'll pedal my way back into those shorts. I'll proudly take my first bite of a Pronto Pup at the State Fair.

As for the Boundary Waters? Maybe next year.

My boyfriend tells me I'm more of a B&B girl, anyway.

And I've already conquered my own BWCA: The Bursting, Wildly-overstuffed Closet Area. MM

Sarah Tieck is assistant editor of Minnesota Monthly.