It rained last night, and with the downpour, a good amount of thunder, lightning, and wind arrived. Since we were in Pierre, South Dakota, of course, I worried about tornados while Jessica was asleep, deeply oblivious to the chaos outside our window. Come morning we woke with the rising sun and minutes later took a short drive through the state capital looking for photographic moments but didn’t really find anything, so with over 650 miles of driving ahead of us, we were gone. The sun is illuminating its reflection in the Missouri River.

We are remaining on U.S. Route 83 as the plan for this vacation was to cover as much of this route south as we could drive.

This is not the first field of sorghum we’ve driven by, nor will it be the last.

Driving, talking, looking for something to photograph as my daughter Jessica attempts to endure another day of her father’s lectures about all things important (to him). Should she read this particular paragraph, I wonder how she’ll react to the truth that this 4,500-mile haul through the middle of the middle was designed to offer me a platform to lecture her ear off. Maybe she’ll even chuckle at this absurd thought, as although I did talk a lot, no surprise to anyone who knows me; we shared many a moment of laughter about everything under the sun, smoke, heavy clouds, and the overbearing nature of a dad with infinite opinions.

We had a small encounter with Interstate 90 going west to Murdo as the 83 was eaten by progress, but when we got there, the road was closed. A nice enough guy explained that the road ahead was under construction and that with last night’s rains, the mud was too thick to drive through, so we’d have to get back on the 90, returning the way we had come back to the Vivian exit. On South Dakota road number 53, we’d have 7 miles of pavement before we’d have to drive about 25 miles on gravel. He assured us that the road would be just fine.

Being the idiot I often am, I started anticipating the low point on the road where water would have accumulated and make us turn back. The idea that we’d have to return to the 90, go west more than twice as far as we’d already driven to take another road south would mean we’d lose more than two hours here at the beginning of the day, wrecking the chance of getting to our destination. That wouldn’t have been too horrible necessarily as nothing is ever fixed in stone, and of course, there’s flexibility in all things, but all the same, I like reaching my goals.

My eyes were peeled on the lookout for rain clouds that never arrived. The dreaded muddy spots remained at bay, and after nearly an hour plodding along through the rolling hills of South Dakota, we returned to pavement and ultimately the 83 again.

We are inching closer to the middle of America though we are still a good 300 miles away from the absolute geographic center over in Lebanon, Kansas. Caroline and I have been to Lebanon twice (once with our friend Jay), but this trip doesn’t include taking my daughter there. When we reach Oberlin, Kansas, later in the day, we’ll only be 110 miles from that center point, but we can’t afford the time it would take to get there and back. Plus, I don’t want to deviate any further from the 83 than I have to. I suppose that, in some way, I might have a bit of OCD behavior that can be tempered by the silly idea that, at times, I can do it all, even if that means throwing my well-laid plans to the side.

Looking for something, anything, that might capture the essence of the road we’re traveling has us making random stops, hoping for that thing that stands out and might become a part of the story. Well, here we are at an intersection where the utility poles stand at the center of attention. As a younger man, I might have thought this was boring, but today, I understand how fortunate I am to be in a place where the stark aesthetic quality of something so simple and common, and which might otherwise go unseen, can draw my attention.

Neglect the old on the margin and bring the new to center stage. Here I am, standing on the former U.S. Route 83 that wasn’t worth saving and so the new improved version we’ve been driving was built in walking distance parallel to the old road. I guess it was too expensive to remove the pavement to remediate the landscape, and, given enough time, nature will eat the evidence of our presence.

The North Loup River winds its way through the middle of Nebraska before joining the Loup River well east of here. It then runs into the North Platte River, which dumps into the Missouri River south of Omaha.

In Thedford, Nebraska, we waited for this train to pass. It seemed to be hauling at least 100 cars, all of them filled to the top with coal.

Ninety-five years ago, this old segment of U.S. Route 83 started taking shape. Today, we are watching its final moments as it folds into the surrounding earth. It’s kind of silly, my obsession with relics and the value I put on their historic value. I know I’m not alone, but would be interested in reading someone’s thesis that details this form of nostalgia for things we never personally experienced.

I forgot to point out that while we were in Montana, signs were posted far and wide across the environment. They were calling attention to the movement to stop the American Prairie Reserve from setting aside a protected area where elk, pronghorn, prairie dogs, and, of course, bison would be free to roam. This restoration idea is running afoul of ranchers who want the land to remain available for feeding their cattle and future farmers. The groups that are against this grand idea are taking the position that it will kill off the cowboys and turn these lands into recreation areas for the “elites.” Silly how they fail to see the opportunity for camping in these open lands, resorts on the edges of a giant wildlife sanctuary, and attracting people to eco-friendly adventures and experiences otherwise not available. Such is the reality of people locked in their short-sighted paradigms of routine. Better to go with what you know than risk reinventing yourself.

Is that giant flatness out there, possibly Kansas?

Sure enough, we are dead square in the heartland.

It’s not long, though, before some seriously foul weather moves in and our phones light up with warnings that extremely severe rain, wind, and hail are about to impact the area. For less than one minute, we considered trying to race down the road, but the rain came on so hard we backtracked a quarter mile to the gas station we’d just passed and parked the car under a diesel pump awning. Good thing we acted when we did, as within just a few more minutes, people were crowded around any bit of cover they could find to protect their vehicles. Just as there was a break in the chaos, an 18-wheeler pressed close to our running car, trying to nudge me out of my spot. I wasn’t sure if the driver wanted to fill up or just protect his expensive truck from damage. No matter, he was aggressively trying to get us to move, and I obliged.

As we continued south, the violent storm continued its trek to the northeast. We were driving through nervously, keeping our eyes on the weather all around us.

To live in the deserts of Arizona is about as good as it gets, as we do not have earthquakes, tornadoes, hurricanes, massive flooding, sub-zero winters, days of continuous gray skies, or brutal humidity. We have a couple of months of severe heat, but then again, everything is air-conditioned. Of course, we have some looming drought issues on our horizon, but we are not under threat of falling into the earth or being blown off of it.

It’ll be dark in Liberal, Kansas, when we get there, but we’ll have skirted the storms that later this evening will bring severe flooding to Omaha, Nebraska. The light show from the spiderweb-like lightning gracing the skies was incredible, which can’t be said about the profoundly mediocre meal we had at the highest-rated restaurant in this small town with a shrinking population known as Liberal.

In yesterday’s post, I mentioned the Wizard of Oz and Dorothy’s house. True enough, there’s a replica here at the edge of town, but we’ll never see it as we have 9.5 hours of driving tomorrow we’ll likely turn into 14 hours of fatigue.