Walz Force One: A day in the life of the national traveling press corps

Congratulations, your bosses decided to spend a giant chunk of cash to send you, a political reporter, on Gov. Tim Walz’s first solo campaign trip on Walz Force One, his Boeing 737-800 campaign plane.

Stops are promised in three Pennsylvania cities: Lancaster, Pittsburgh and Erie. You’re told to be at the airport charter terminal no later than 6:30 a.m. Everything you carry must be labeled with your name. You secure your business card to your suitcase with duct tape.

Any bag that goes into the plane’s cargo hold will not be accessible to you until the hotel in Pittsburgh where you RON, which is campaign-speak for “Remain Overnight.” A campaign staffer sends a late-night update that your arrival deadline has been pushed to 6:45 a.m. “Enjoy those extra 15 minutes,” she writes.

The shifting guidelines are a warning that free will won’t exist for you in the next 36 hours. You won’t know where you’re going or how long you will be there. You are a captive of the campaign machine.

On departure day, you rouse yourself at 5 a.m. and arrive to find Star Tribune photographer Glen Stubbe already waiting. Campaign staff and media arrive and we place all bags and equipment on the tarmac, then walk away so the dog can sniff them.

No TSA lines here. Just a robust U.S. Secret Service contingent, some in suits, some dressed in what Stubbe referred to as “faux casual” — a scruffy baseball cap and a golf shirt over a Kevlar vest. The casual ones blend into crowds.

The governor’s motorcade of black SUVs and an ambulance arrives shortly after 8 a.m. Walz exits and enters at the front of the plane. (Everyone else uses the rear door.)

Media seats are in the back of the plane. There are no middle seats. Every seat is spacious and comfortable. The governor sits near the cockpit, not visible to you. In back, by the galley, an airplane mechanic waits. He’s devoted to troubleshooting any problems with the aircraft.

Before takeoff from Minneapolis, a campaign staffer informs us that Walz will come back and say hello to the traveling press pool that includes the Washington Post, the New York Times and an NBC news producer and photographer.

Walz, surrounded by a passel of staff, comes back while we’re still breakfasting on bagels and eggs.

The exchange was forgettable and jejune. And that, dear readers, would be the only conversation I or any traveling reporter would have with Walz during the trip.

Off the plane, we were kept at a distance of at least 10 feet. Twice, reporters shouted a question and were ignored by Walz.

Did we have time to buy our own treats at all those stops for milkshakes, doughnuts and burgers? No. But the baked goods made their way to the back of the plane, and I will never stop raving about the whoopie pie from Cherry Hill Orchards in Lancaster, Pa.

We were herded and directed to run every time — into the campaign office, the store or back to the van. Then we waited. (That’s referred to on the campaign trail as a “hold.”) The motorcade expanded to some 20 vehicles and that didn’t include the many troopers and police on motorcycles and in squad cars who blocked intersections and freeway access. Traffic signs didn’t apply to us. We didn’t stop for red lights.

Upon boarding the vans in Pittsburgh, our handler told us to get comfortable because it would be an hour to the farm. Local reporters had joined us and tried unsuccessfully to guess our destination. The ride took longer — 90 minutes. We flew past curiously named local chains like GetGo and Eat’n Park, but if you needed a pit stop, you were out of luck.

When we prepared to leave the farm, I was the last to step into the one portable toilet available to all. Within 20 seconds of flipping the handle to secure the door, a campaign staffer bellowed, “Hurry, you need to get in the van.”