Black Hills and Beyond

“There used to be a thing or a commodity that we put great store by. It was called the People…. Maybe they never existed, but if there ever were the People, that’s the commodity the Declaration was talking about, and Mr. Lincoln”. ---Steinbeck

Steinbeck often talks of not living in the past, but also is very fond the old ways and often sees them as the better ways. I think the west is full of evidence of the good old days, and Lincoln and Jefferson, larger than life, are there to look upon the People they spoke of. Roosevelt and Washington, the action heroes, join these men of deep thoughts and important words on this South Dakota mountainside. One of the truly iconic American landmarks, it was impressive to see, and to move around. In some spots you can focus on all four men; in other places the angles of the carving and the tough pine trees will leave you one-on-one with a former president. If you thought too long when you stood in those spots, you could feels quite small, and a little scared.

Mt Rushmore had a sign that said clearly, "NO PETS." Luci has little tolerance for this type of discrimination, but it turns out Mt Rushmore may be the most pet-friendly pet-prohibited place on Earth. At the gate, the ranger pointed me to the areas where you can take your pet for a walk, then directed me to the shaded parking, and then pulled out two dog treats for Luci, which she accepted, and thus forgave the park its announced position against Canine-Americans.

On this day the featured guest in the gift shop was an original granite carver. He wasn't there when I walked through. This thing was finished during the FDR administration.......I suspect he was napping.

From there we went to see the Crazy Horse statue. Envisioned as a 500 foot giant granite version of the great chief charging his mount into battle, work on it began when McCain was but a lad. 60 years into the work, the man commissioned for the job is long dead and a beautiful visitors' center gives you a distant glimpse of the Indian's face cut from the rock. And a hole under his arm. I don't know enough Native American culture to know if their perspective on time takes a long view, like some Asian cultures. But if I had been involved in asking for this work, I think my patience may be wearing a little thin as I try to picture the horse, the pointing arm and the 150 foot torso in the remaining rock.

As a child, Crazy Horse was nicknamed "Curly."

From there we traveled to a Sonic Drive-In in Rapid City. I have never lived where Sonic had set up shop. When I was studying at UH in the late 90's, one of the groups in my class, with John and Jodi and others, presented a case study about Sonic. As an old burger flipper, I had long been curious this throwback hamburger joint. It is a brilliant piece of marketing, and a good combination of old and new styles. Unfortunately, where they were not as impressive was in the food quality and value department. The burger was mediocre and a bit pricey (It was summer in a tourist town). And the condiment girl didn't stop by until I was mostly done with my sandwich. But hey, they actually had a condiment girl, slinging ranch and ketchup like a cigarette girl at a supper club in the 40's.

From the time I hit Hot Springs south in the Black Hills, I had seen an increasing presence of motorcycles. I saw a news report about how many people were vacationing this way to lower their gas bills, but I think my timing, a week before the festival in Sturgis, was probably the biggest thing drawing this thundering herd to the area. Luci had pointed out to me that morning at the hotel her general dislike of loud motorbikes; barking ferociously as one rider after another fired up their Hogs, with their distinctive acoustic signature. But I figured this close to Sturgis and this close to their big dance, we had to take a quick drive though.

Even a week a early, the down is decked out and bike-filled. I had a Star Trek-like feeling that I had entered into the alternative universe version of the Ann Arbor Art Fair, the version where Captain Kirk really needed a shave. The tents were everywhere, as were the crowds. But everything for sale in this town was black and silk screened, or it was leather. Luci stayed on high alert as we passed through, and we did stop at very nice community center and park to take care our needs. People here were friendly and the park well kept. I wondered what kind of clean up would be starting two weeks from my visit.

Our day was sliding by and we had a long way to go, so we bypassed Deadwood (of the HBO series), which I heard is still a neat town despite its growing commercialization. From here I did some horrible, as-the-crow-flies guess work on distance, and my four hour plan to Jackson took nine. Next time I'll tell a bit of the beauty there is to be seen in Wyoming.

Coal, Corn and Cows

"From the beginning of my journey, I had avoided the great high-speed slashes of concrete and tar called 'thruways,' or 'super-highways.' ---Steinbeck

I also have mostly avoided the big roads, only sampling I-70 from Lawrence to Manhattan, I-80 from Lincoln to Grand Island and I-90 from Rapid City to Buffalo. It was enough to regain bad habits (my apologies to the Nebraska farmers I sent scattering when I went for an Interstate style pass on a country road), and to cover some land quickly, but until Idaho I was glad with my decision to avoid them. More on that later.

So I headed out of Lincoln on a Sunday morning, aware of my earlier commitment to try church. I did get invited to a Mega-Church in Omaha, which is exactly what I hoped to see, but the service was late and 40 miles out of the way. The 3-4 hours it would have added to my day was more than I was willing to commit. I looked for another option, but my jones for the road took over, and we headed west. The good news is, while I missed the opportunities to meet folks through the church experience, my soul would not suffer as Nebraska radio offered plenty of what Merle Haggard called "sunday learning." There are a lot of Christian talk, Christian Rock, Christian country, and Country radio stations. I would scan channels and play "Name that Genre." Christian talk, often sprinkled among the NPR stations low on the dial, was amazingly easy to spot. I could usually name that genre in three words or less. Christian Rock also exposes itself pretty quickly. Christian Country and regular Country are tougher, as they seem to be on track for a merger. I know Country has always had a gospel strain, but these syrupy family songs are just sickening.

I went through Grand Island, NE as we used to live on Grand Island, NY, and I have always been curious. It made Ford Road in Canton, MI appear to be a quaint old fashioned village. 7 miles of big box. I think it is shopping central for central Nebraska, but I was really glad I didn't plan a stop there. If I missed a nice business district, I apologize.

Then I took off on Route 2 to Alliance. Here I saw a lot of Nebraska, and it exceeded expectations. It follows the rail tracks, so I think this must be a straight flat route, and yet it was varied and interesting, if at times deserted. Here I watched what we consume being prepared for market. Corn and hay are grown in huge lots. Coal pushed on in a steady stream. Both of these commodities seemed bountiful even though I know they are increasingly scarce. The model I don't get is cows. On the horizon I would spot an old west style windmill, and when I got closer I would always find 10-20 cows milling around and taking a drink. One of these pods of cows may not provide the beef I have eaten on this trip. I have driven a 1000 miles of cow country; these must hide them somewhere because I just can't tie what I see in the meat counter with what I see on the plains. Through Broken Bow and Mullen ("the biggest little town in Hooker County") and past the Nebraska National Forest (a really nice tree) I passed livestock trucks just to get out of the invisible sandstorm they put out, and turned right at Alliance and headed to South Dakota.

My last stop in Nebraska was the Favorite Bar in Chadron (SHAD-run). I was lucky to find it as it was the only bar open in the county. No liquor on Sundays, and beer from noon to eight. Sign on the door informed, "Smoking is allowed on the entire premises." Lincoln is non-smoking, the rest of the state goes that way next year. This is they type of bar where that is just plain big government. Everyone in the place, employee and patrons, save this interloper, puffed away. They allowed me to charge my camera battery, which I thought was generous, and they thought odd.

As I crossed the state line into South Dakota, over increasingly nice countryside there was a barn-now-casino on the roadside, 30 miles from anywhere. My guess is gambling is legal in SD, and not in NE.

I spent that Sunday night in Hot Springs, SD at the southern edge of the Black Hills. A nice town, feeling the hurt of a slow summer, although with the Sturgis motorcycle uber-fest firing up next week, hopes are still high. It was a quiet town with dollar pints and big tough women tending bars. Big, tough ex-military women to be more precise. Not sure this is a response to the biker presence, but I bet it helped keep the peace after too many bored locals had too many cheap drinks. Lanelle, working at The Bar, was colorful. She is taking next week off to go to Sturgis, and work "the Chip" (the Buffalo Chip, a bar and concert venue). She offered some colorful and descriptive nicknames for the local lesbian softball team (her toughest customers), and every Saturday her neighbor, the town's only cab driver, makes her his last fare.

Here I saw the clamato-beer combo known as chelada. This is the second new mainstream product based on Latin brew tastes, the other being lime-beer, like Miller Chill. I had a chelada, and it was spicy and refreshing; a low octane bloody mary sort of thing. Here is my only question: we need to make one with Bud and Clamato, and another with Bud Light and Clamato? Give me a break! The flavor is all clams, spice and tomato, just freshened and carbonated by the beer. I didn't do a side-by-side, but doubt there is a discernible difference.

We got back to the hotel and headed in quick as the bug population was exploding. 30 minutes later we stepped out for Luci's evening routine. She gave up first, in about 3 seconds. It was biblical: grasshoppers (locusts?) large beetles, moths, and mosquitoes pelting us like warm hail. The next morning the side of the hotel looked like the front of my car. More area covered by dead bugs than not.

Next we bit off a lot of road work; through the Black Hills and off to the Grand Tetons.

Huskers of Corn

"Traveling about, I early learned the difference between an American and the Americans. They are so far apart that they might be opposites." ---Steinbeck

This was the day I traveled from my new friend Kansas to its Northern neighbor, a place I have held suspect since end of the 1997 football season, and maybe since Springsteen wrote about it when I was in college. The refrain I hold for Kansas comes from a fluffy John Denver song, where he sings,
"Gold is just a windy Kansas wheat field, blue is just a Kansas summer sky." ---Denver

The repeating lyrics in my head for Nebraska are a little different:

I saw her standin' on her front lawn just twirlin' her baton
Me and her went for a ride sir, and ten innocent people died.
From the town of Lincoln, Nebraska with a sawed-off .410 on my lap
Through to the badlands of Wyoming I killed everything in my path.
I can't say that I'm sorry for the things that we done
At least for a little while sir me and her we had us some fun.
---Springsteen

Bashing Nebraska, or Lincoln, is not my intent. Steinbeck treated the state as the hole in the donut of his journey: Northern North Dakota outbound and Texas inbound. And Bruce's song talks of an American, not the the Americans. His is a stark story of Starkweather (a man who based his life on a James Dean character....just lonely and sad, until ten innocent people died. 40 years later, another killer blamed his own rampage on the Boss's song. As Johnny Cash would sing, "will the Circle be unbroken")? Yes, I am listening to a lot of old music on the road.

Anyway, I left you in Lawrence. I had the chance to have lunch with a first cousin-once removed, my dad's cousin Michael. He moved to Manhattan, KS shortly after we moved to the US, and taught computer science there for 30 years. He is a kind and generous man with a kind and generous wife, doing well with challenges that age can bring. And it so often brings it to 1/2 before the other. I guess I had seen him since England, but remember him only from Uncle Tony's house days before we sailed (I was smitten by his 8 year old daughter, probably in the way only a 6 year old boy could be.....unaware of the delicacies of family relationships, yet it clearly left a mark).

Manhattan left me thinking it is a town with great pride, or a great identity crisis. The name and logo of K-State absolutely everywhere. (like WAY more than Ann Arbor is Maize and Blue). A nice campus, but with far less of its own character (beyond logos) than the others I have known. With the name "State," and the agricultural focus, I probably (and unfortunately) apply my own MSU judgments to the place.

North out of there on route 77, which should take me all the way to Lincoln. Except in this part of the world a detour is really a detour. 15 miles east, 15 mile north and 15 miles west is what it means to go around the block. This led me over an area named Blue Valley. Deep in corn country I was skeptical. Without the detour, I never would have crossed the mile-wide river and wet lands that earned the valley its name.

I liked northern Kansas. They seems to borrow New Hampshire's motto. "Live free or die" trickled all the way down to the marking of passing zones on these byways. Better to meet an F-350 diesel grill-to-grill than to have felt the imposition of governmental restraint on my right to pass cars, by god. I also loved the "Legends of Country" radio station I found. All Waylon, and Willie and the Boys stuff. Took me back to when I hated country, and made me wonder why.

In Northern Kansas I passed by Marysville and fired up what would become my four-state obsession with coal . I crossed a bridge over eight tracks and saw eight coal trains as long as you could see (my later obsession informs me they were 1.3 miles a piece) . In Lincoln, that observation was multiplied three-fold, as 25 tracks became the staging area for the fuel to my home, my lights, my I-Pod. Over the next few days I watched a hundred trains pull that fuel down from the Hills to the Plains. The routine so complete that each train had two engines in front and one behind, that each was made of mostly clean cars, that all were all 1.3 miles long, and that the loading had left each pile of coal identical. Rising a foot or two beyond the hopper,the coal grew from back to front, then dipped and rose again. It struck me how much the load in each car resembled the back of a bison: curved, humped, rising, brooding or charging. I thought this strange picture of the Range also completed an imagined circle. I was able to think the herds were still represented here; we still slaughter them and they still feed us, but how the world has changed.

I crossed into Nebraska near Beatrice, and fatigue, and the arrival of long, east-facing shadows left me ready to sneak into a bar. I was able to leave Luci in the shaded car, and to have beer. I had that beer with Schroeder at Poo's Palace. A man as proud of his 3rd cousin connection to the Silver Spoons star Ricky Schroeder as he was to be a "DIE-rect DEE-cedent" of Abraham Lincoln. And on the wife's side, related to Raymond Burr as well. For all his near fame and distant fortune, I liked the polite, honest man, and the respectful way he addressed an issue. I referred to the to the town name as as BEE-u-truss, and he said "pardon me, but here we say it, "Bee-A-truss. It's German." He wasn't offended, but didn't want me to say it wrong to the wrong fella. As I would soon learn, many western towns are pronounced differently from how they appear.

From there we are on to Lincoln, where I spent a couple of nights. Falsely worried about civilization (laundry, internet) as I moved on, and ready for a slower day, I set up camp. As you may guess, it wouldn't be a place I would favor again with extra time, but it was fine.

Lincoln is home to 222,000 souls, the seat of government and the largest campus. I had been told O Street was the place to hang out, and it was happening, but I found smaller, nicer joints on P Street or on the edge of town. Also on O street, if you wander East to the Wonder Bar, you may wonder where you've gone. It quickly loses the college feel, and doesn't hold out a welcoming hand to strangers. The place I went the first night, in search of food, but missed the closing of the kitchen, was Bison Witches.

On O Street the bartenders where male models or members of the Cornhusker demo squad. Either way, they weren't making it in the world on their brain power. Here on P Street, they were engaging and informed. The manager stopped by, perhaps not his first stop of the night, and when I inquired about buying a tee-shirt, he sent the bartender for one of the ones they had made for their softball team, and gave it to me for free. I went back the next night for food, hung out with a great young couple (he teaches 4th grade and hopes to coach, she sells drugs. Oh, sorry, she reps pharmaceuticals), and ate a fantastic beef and brie half sandwich. One beer, one margarita and too much food? $6.50. The couple wanted to make Lincoln my favorite place. They helped me to like them a lot and the bar a lot, but couldn't put all of Lincoln on their shoulders.

The next day, after chores, I headed out and had the obligatory runza for lunch. It is the national dish of the Big Red Nation. I thought it was like some one tried to make a Cornish Pasty after looking at a picture of one. Ground beef, cubed potatoes, diced onion and too much salt and thyme baked inside little more than a hot dog bun. Not horrible, but not good enough to taste for several hours, and that was its impact on me.

My journey will get me one day soon to Oahu. If you see Captain Cook's first map, he spells it Wahoo. Imagine my luck in finding that spelling just 30 miles north of Lincoln.. Hey, they have a Grand Island, NE which, like Mt Pleasant MI, is neither. Perhaps they also had a Hawaiian island hidden there. Not exactly. We got there as the shadows again provided safety for Luci in the car, and I headed into Chez Place, which bragged of the "coldest beer on the block." Loud music and three young guys playing a video game, I drank my beer and explored the town. Not too much to see. An aging corn town, but 30 miles from Lincoln and about the same from Omaha, it seems hopeful of a future as a bedroom community, especially if the occupants of that bed work in each of the two cities.

Anyway, I stopped back in Chez Place and the place was transformed, maybe even transported. Local hero, and QB of UN, Omaha, Zach Miller had just been married to his sweetheart, and the guests all had an hour to kill while the family took photos and the steamboat roast rested. Well of course they all wanted the coldest beer on the block, so here they were. A great crowd of mostly young, well dressed folks all in a good mood. The one guy my age was rugged, trim and handsome in black jeans and shirt, a pin stripe black jacket, boots and a chain on his wallet. It sounds like I'm funnin' him, but he pulled it off neatly, and was with his wife, whom I suspect once sat atop a float in this town. A beautiful young woman named Tara, fresh with her MSW thought she wanted to follow Janis's career, and took the time to tell me of the day ("oh that detour? We just went around the barricade. the wedding party is in a stretch Hummer, after all"). Her significant other, together with old buddies, stopped by long enough to convince himself of my harmlessness, and went back to Jose Cuervo.

Back in town, I took Luci again for a walk on the Campus. Large, and largely car free, built of brick in a consistent style and with some green space, she thought it pee-worthy. But this night the lights were on at the Shrine of St Tom......yes, a game afoot at Memorial Stadium, and in July no less. It was the high school all-star game, with the teams wearing the home and away Husker uniforms. It was the second half and I walked in for free. I am adolescently proud that it took me less than 10 seconds to start a fight over the 1997 national championship. "Huh, that's odd, they listed 1997 on your Wall of Champions. Well, that can't be right," I said Columbo-like. Just a few quick points:
1. They are happy to have a share of the title. Similar to the false mother's reaction to Solomon's offer to split the baby.
2. Their only argument: "We would have kicked your ass." Nice work. Pick the one totally unprovable fact and rest everything on it.
3. When in Lincoln, or perhaps the whole state, avoid saying, "Tom Osborne is a whore." I was warned in Lawrence about that. In the future I will heed such warnings.
4. On the mighty football statue in front of the stadium, they have roughly cemented plaques to the smooth brass, each representing the championship years. 1997 is around the corner, missed by most. I believe that if I traveled with hammer and chisel, I would have that with me today. I asked a Nebraska fan in South Dakota if he thought that would be a misdemeanor or a felony, he calmly replied, "a capital offense."

Time to leave Lincoln. Where is my .410?

Itinerary

I am sure some people look at this not looking for all these thoughts, but to see where I have been. here is the drive so far:

Monday, July 21: I-94 and I-80 to the Quad cities (Moline, or actually Cordova)

Tuesday, July 22: Side trip to Field of Dreams. Illinois 84N to Illinois 20N to Dubuque (Wisconsin, Illinois, Iowa confluence), then Iowa 20W to Iowa 136N. Return trip, Iowa 61S to DeWitt, 30E to Clinton, 84S to Cordova.

Wednesday, July 23: Illinois 67S from Quad Cities to Macomb. West to Carthage, 336S to Quincy. Crossed into MO. 61S to 19S to 22W to 63S to Columbia.

Thursday, July 24: 63S from Columbia to Jefferson City. 50W to Lawrence, Kansas.

Friday, July 25: I-70W to 177N to Manhattan, lunch with cousin Michael. 77N, with 45 minute detour, to Lincoln, Nebraska

Saturday, July 26: Side trip Wahoo, Nebraska. 77N, returned on 77S.

Sunday, July 27: I-80W from Lincoln to Grand Island (which is neither), 24N to 2W to Alliance. 385N to Hot Springs. SD.

Monday, July 28: Winding through the Black Hills, N from Hot Springs, SD, by Custer, Crazy Horse, Mount Rushmore, Rapid City and Sturgis (Rally is next week) to I-90. W to Buffalo, Wyoming. Then 16W to Worland, 20S to Shoshoni, 26W to Moran Junction, 189S to Jackson (long day, beautiful drive).

Tuesday, July 29: Side trip to Yellowstone National Park by way of Grand Tetons National Park, all by way of 189. I went as far North as Old Faithful.

Wednesday, July 30: WY 22 out of Jackson and through Teton Pass into Idaho. The ID 26 through Arco and Shoshone to Gooding. I-84 with a stop at Glenns Ferry and then on to Boise.

Thursday, July 31: I-84 from Boise to Portland OR, with a stop in Pendleton for the world's best bacon cheeseburger.

Friday, August 1: Stayed in greater Portland

Closing in on 4000 miles

Saturday, August 2: NWA flight to Honolulu

Well over 6000 miles now.

No Place Like Home

"Much earlier I spoke of the changes at state lines, changes in Highway English, in prose forms on the signs, changes in permitted speeds. The states' rights guaranteed under the Constitution seem to be passionately and gleefully exercised."---Steinbeck

I think these differences exist, but a lot of national chains, products and advertising may hide the differences. By avoiding chains (except for my home-away-from-home, dog friendly, wi-fi kicking Motel 6's) and mostly staying off the interstates, I think I have found more differences along the way than hurried travelers might. In the last few days I have made my first stop in several of the states in the middle of the country, states that in the past I lumped into one: the plains, the fly-over states, the heartland. It has been a great opportunity see both the similarities and differences, at least those which jumped off the wall at me in these very short visits. I am sure longer stays and meeting more people would prove some and disprove some of my thoughts.

When I left Columbia, MO I did a drive-by of the state capital in Jefferson City and then continued west on Route 50 toward Lawrence, KS. Let me start with the quickest impression of all: the capital building is brilliantly positioned. Coming in on 63S, you come over a rise, and there it is, several miles away, completely dominating the skyline. Driving away on 50W, I look in the mirror, and again, all I see is the dome of the capital. And this building doesn't appear to do it by height alone, like the Nebraska ("only unicameral legislature in the country") capital, which appears to be compensating for something.

On to Sedalia, MO for frisbee and lunch. We found a nice park by a 19th century train depot that spoke to a time of glory for this small, now tired, town. I did have a nice lunch served by a nice bartender. She was 6'2", and the size must have come from her father's side, as I doubt her proportions would ever take her from that awkward stage. She told me Sedalia's current glory comes but twice a year as it hosts the Ragtime Festival and the State Fair. She was from Omaha, and thought I should change my plan and make that my Nebraska stop. I gave it good thought, as not much recommended Lincoln to me, but decided to keep to my route, and to my college town strategy.

From there we listened to the farm report and raced a train full of T.E.U.'s across the countryside, one labeled MATSON. I imagined it contained our household, although I knew the route and the time wasn't right. We gained on the train, eventually passing its length only to hit the speed zone of a small town and watch it again charge to the front. Dresden, Knob Noster and Lone Jack were all good for the train; the highway between was good for me and Luci. The highway outweighed the towns, and we led comfortably when the tracks peeled off to Kansas City.

Far Eastern Kansas is green and hilly, a continuation of Missouri. It is growing flatter by Lawrence, which then rises above like an acropolis. Atop this mound, The University of Kansas, dyslexically abbreviated KU, is a very nice campus. Tasteful buildings in complimentary yet different styles form a really nice college feel. You can see for miles in all directions. And then you head down the ski slope-like streets to the college town section of Lawrence. Laid on on state-named north-south avenues, it centers on Massachusetts, referred to locally a Mass. Little would dissuade young drinkers from long nights on Mass more than the Stairmaster of a hike back to the dorm on "the Hill."

I met Gary and Kari at Louise's Downtown, where most were drinking schooners of domestic for $1.75. A schooner being a 32 oz. glass, only slightly larger than the wagon of beer I thought they were ordering. College towns are cheap for eating and drinking. This is something I was missing in Ann Arbor, where the town/gown separation makes the college bars a place I wouldn't go, and where it would be viewed as creepy if I did. In Columbia, Lawrence and Lincoln, the crowd was varied in age and affiliation everywhere I stopped. Kari told me where to go in her hometown of Lincoln, and that saved me driving and research. People in each of these middle states often seemed connected to the nearby states, and all helped me along. Louise's is a place I would return to, and only partly because I owe the buying of some drinks there.

On the way out of town, and near my hotel I stopped in Johnny's, as recommended by Gary. A loud band, but a great Hawaii connected bartender named Blair. Elementary School at Maunawili in Kailua. He also gave me Portland info as his brother lives there. Someone else I owe a drink to. When they buy me a drink, I think they must of worried about the frequency of my fuel stops and took pity on me, but it is a trend that nicely continues.....

I came to Kansas with low expectations and little knowledge. As I drove from the state I passed the billboard for the OZ Museum and thought of Dorothy. Today I better understand her desire to return.

Entering Big 12 Country

"When show people come into what they call the sticks, they have contempt for the yokels. It took a little time, but when I learned there aren't any yokels, I began to get on fine." ---Steinbeck

I dipped further south than my destination called for to visit some places I had never been before: Missouri, Kansas and now into Nebraska. Janis had a bit of an epiphany when I was driving into Lincoln when she realized I was perhaps only a four hour drive from the Quad Cities. Yes, the same Quad Cities I set forth from three days earlier. Of course exploration is the mission, not expediency. Was it worth the detour? Yes.

Arriving in Missouri offered little promise. Light industry and agricultural businesses on wide divided highways replaced the old river town of Quincy, Illinois. but that gave way to nicer, smaller roads as I tried to find the angle from Quincy to Columbia that kept me off the highway, but on the path. A spot along the way that worried me, because I still don't know farming, or Missouri, was the village of Ladonia. The road forked there, and dirt alleys got longer connecting the tines as they spread southeast and southwest. Along these alleys were small white shacks on low stilts, and a lot of them. 500 yards down the road, there is more open space than one from east of the Mississippi can conceive , and yet some one needs to live in these close, soulless dwellings. Again, my ignorance: farmer workers? families? migrants? immigrants? displaced locals? I don't know, but I do know political correctness had not run amok as this little junction. Here route K joined with route KK, demanding signs in all directions that declared K KK, or KK K. A few miles down the road I saw a farm peddling "live bait" and "corgi puppies." I really hope they weren't from the same litter.......

Columbia was good to me, and physically impressive, but remains enigmatic. At a bike race the week before I arrived, the back of the pack was wiped out when thumb tacks were spread across the road. My older brother Nick works really hard to train for the Helluva Ride about this time each year, about his birthday. This year, rain ruined his day and he ONLY got in 70 miles, making him think about about doing another century ride later. This vicarious connection left me feeling for the riders, but I really wondered about the tack throwers. Thoughtless teens (guilty of stupid, hurtful, but unintended acts long ago, I know this happens)? Friends of some rider worried about a late charge? Anti bikers that arrived too late to wipe out the leaders? A 007 and "Q" fan that rigged his bike to wipe out pursuers?

There are an amazing number of Walmarts in this part of the world, and they come in many sizes. At school we often speak of Walmart, but here it is easy to see the profound change it would bring to a small community. For this trip, the biggest impact of the mega company was the 40 miles I spent behind a Walmart truck on a road too narrow to pass.

In Columbia we played frisbee and then walked the campus, and it was very nice. Luci had not yet announced her intention to keep me in constant company, but I still wanted to stop for a beer, and the Bengal bar on the edge of campus was happy to allow us on their patio, and supplied my friend with a big dish of water. The Bengal, in location, layout and purpose reminded me of the Linebacker bar in South Bend, but I was glad, with Luci, that I was not there the night before a home game. Anyway, Luci was popular, and I enjoyed the company of young people drawn to her, people that had no trouble with the term and concept of "goldendoodle."

Then to the hotel where Luci announced she would not be left alone during this adventure. After dark I headed into town and lucked into a joint called Booche's, established in 1884 or some similar year. Good beer, good, cheap burgers. and a great bartender. In the 1970's it was a men's club, and the activist women of campus staged a sit in. Booche's joined the decade and opened their doors to all. I suspect that every 3 or 4 days now, a woman actually takes advantage of that hard earned privilege. Actually a nice young woman named Sunny, comfortably looking like she was in costume for that long ago sit in, was there, and a welcoming presence for Columbia.

The bartender, a marathon running, world traveling, story telling historian recommended Ernie's (est. 1938)or breakfast, and a great diner it was, but not to be reached without some adventure.

I woke to see clouds that were altogether unfamiliar to me, heavy and gray, but drawn in long layers like fresh squid-ink pasta pulled through the pasta mills thinnest setting. I wondered if they were unfamiliar to locals as well. I suspected they held violence, but had failed to check the weather before leaving the motel. Luci and I arrived at the nature area Southeast of campus and the sky had greened, the wind now bragged and the light receded to a level where I now knew our minutes were being counted in the single digits. As friend Nord once quoted Gordon Lightfoot, "does anyone know where the love of God goes?" Nord said it when his good golf round disintegrated on the 13th green of Eagle Crest. Well, Luci and I felt the same dropping sensation as we ran back to the bridge (signed "flood area, impassible in high water," see picture) and were pelted by rain drops the size of seagulls.

We got to the car before the full deluge struck, and felt ourselves the lucky ones as we saw a young man, not dressed for exercise (but more for clubbing), jogging, walking and sprinting along the road. Kenny accepted our offer of a ride. Seems he was just dumped by his girls friend, who seems to have timed it brilliantly: miles from home, in a rising hell-storm, and before his college-mate friends had pulled themselves from bed. We took him the miles back to his place, luckily within a few blocks of Ernie's. He was a decent, respectful and good looking young man. I hold absolutely no judgment on the righteousness of his removal.

Ernie's was as good as advertised. I liked the help, I loved the "Boone County Ham" and thought the whiteboard of Dick Tracy longing for Ernie's (and produced by Chester Gould himself) was way better than the average homage. I need to learn Daniel Boone's tie to this area, but he got the county and a lot of schools named for him.

Back on the road, and racing a fright train to Lawrence, by way of Sedalia.

pictures

pictures of trip, mostly bad and taken from a moving car, are at

http://picasaweb.google.com/robin.hadwick