The Absolute Middle – Day 3

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Kearney, Nebraska

Sit in the car too long and neglect walking and you too might consider rising before dawn and exercising your legs to get the old peristalsis working again. That was our idea anyway when it came to fetching breakfast. Down the road, barely a half mile or so from our motel was the Good Evans Breakfast & Lunch joint. It opens after the sun rises, so we paced back and forth in the parking lot, logging more steps and hoping that the walking plus breakfast coffee would be adding momentum to the peristaltic effect we were hoping to make part of this morning’s experience. For those too lazy to look up the word, I’ll give you a clue: we kept our room key just in case we were successful.

Only about 20 miles north on Nebraska Highway 10 near Pleasanton, we had to stop for the shimmering reflective surface of the South Loup River. I’ve likely said it dozens of times in previous blog posts, but flowing wild water holds special significance to us desert dwellers where that essential fluid is not often seen coursing over the landscape. Add to this beautiful aesthetic the cliff swallows that dart out from under the bridge, and if time allows, we could just hang out for an hour or more, taking things in.

At first blush, you might think you are only looking at a crop of some sort or other, but there’s more than meets the eye, and that more is the center pivot irrigation system off in the distance. We’ve seen these watering systems many times but never gave them much thought, and I’m sure most people who’ve flown over the United States have seen the circular crop patterns from high overhead. Upon our return home, I looked up the details and learned that these rigs are often custom-made to work with the contours of the land and the crop requirements of the farmer. Also, they are not cheap, costing between $35,000 and $90,000 each. The pivot point is located near a water and electricity source that will supply the elements required to put the irrigation system to work, and it turns out that newer versions are controllable by smart apps. The world leader in this tech (and it really has matured into a smart agriculture technology platform) is a company called Valley, found 190 miles east of us near Omaha, Nebraska. Finally, the inventor of the center point irrigation system was Frank Zybach of Columbus, Nebraska, which is only about 100 miles from where we were at this moment on the road. When considering that he revolutionized farming and that this form of irrigation is used in more than 100 countries, I’m surprised there aren’t signs directing us to his birthplace or the home where he built his first prototype. Not having social media in 1947 impacted his ability to find fame, I suppose.

I might consider lamenting that here we are, driving through the middle of America and half oblivious to the importance the Great Plains have played in shaping modern America, but I wouldn’t be the only one with blinders on as who really cares about the conveniences that already exist and are taken for granted while butts, brawn, and banality are all the rage here in the second decade of the 21st century.

Big thanks to the Nilsen Hay Company of Hazard, Nebraska, for supplying the two-story rest area, including a vintage payphone, should one need help. Fortunately for me, my peristaltic equilibrium was reawakened by coffee and walking while still in Kearney, but poor Caroline needed to perch beneath the haybale on the conveniently located commode next to the road. Trust me, I tried calling her on that phone so I could ask her to look over and smile, but she was too immersed in reading White Trash: The 400-Year Untold History of Class in America by Nancy Isenberg to care about the phone ringing off the hook. Regarding the book, it’s our current car reader (when we are not traveling) and a great companion to the last depressing tome we read this year titled Fantasyland: How America Went Haywire: A 500-Year History by Kurt Anderson.

Every mile we drive through farmland, we encounter another dirt road, which translates into 640-acre (259-hectare) plots of land, and from our vantage point, we typically cannot see where these roads terminate. We could take a gander at the map and figure it out, but I’m good with the mystery of what is out beyond my line of sight. Not knowing what lies beyond is like an invitation to return and discover where we’ve not been yet, which in turn makes the world infinitely large because we can never learn what is outside of our view in one lifetime.

A bunch of cliff swallows are here at the Middle Loup River off Nebraska Route 10, south of Loup City. When we approach these bridges where cliff swallows make their nests, they don’t seem perturbed by the passing cars, but when Caroline and I get out of the car and start talking, it seems as though they all leave their nests to investigate if we are threats to their clutches of eggs just below us. Strange thought I’m having as I write this: tomorrow afternoon, we’ll be crossing the Middle Loup again on U.S. Route 83, about 90 miles west of us right now, and we are yet to pass through South and North Dakota.

If we were birds, we’d fly about 30 miles west and drop in on the geographical center of Nebraska, which would put us literally in the middle of nowhere. This will be the closest we’ll get to that today here at 805th Road and Nebraska Route 70 south of the town of Ord. I’d have loved to explore the interior of this long abandoned house, but the dilapidated state of things I was looking at as I peered in suggested that wasn’t a great idea. Then there’s the matter of ticks; after having one buried in my leg last year during our trip to Oregon, I assure you that I have no lust for a second encounter.

The temptation is strong to hang around Ord, Nebraska, this morning. Who doesn’t want to take in an 8-hour accordion festival? With 90 minutes until things get underway over at the Golden Husk Theater (pictured left), we made the difficult decision that if we were going to make the Canadian border, we’d have to forego the accordion jams and get our polka on at another time.

Based on the time of day between the towns of Ord and O’Neill, Nebraska, along with the fact that we are traveling north on U.S. 281, I’m guessing that this shot of Caroline taking in the broad landscape is near Wheeler, Nebraska.

It appears that we are looking at an overflow channel of the Elkhorn River south of O’Neill, as satellite views show that this body of water can simply up and disappear. As much as we stopped for the river, it should be obvious that we are also here for the swallows.

It’s Memorial Day Weekend, and each of these flags honors a different local veteran. We noted the name of Callan Arnold Peter from O’Neill, who enlisted in the U.S. Army the year I was born, 1963, and subsequently shipped off to fight in the Vietnam War with the 1st Cavalry Division. He was awarded the Bronze Star, married a woman named Jane, had a couple of children, and passed away on Christmas day in 2017 at the age of 74.

There is so much aesthetic value to love about these beautiful old towns distributed across America, while there’s also a lot to hold in disdain. The religiosity of these communities can be off-putting as, at times, it feels that their dogma is so deeply enmeshed in the fabric of the inhabitants that they have an irrational fear of change. This is often evidenced by the faltering economy that isn’t able to invest in a few things that might help retain its young population and welcome tourism, but change is anathema to the mindset that hides frightened in the hinterlands of America. And so, decrepitude creeps in and removes any hope for revival as business after business must go away just as the local children do as they come of age.

Take Huffy’s Airport Windsocks in the brick building on the left, which is up for sale. What is the likelihood that the operation will continue here in town? Since 1985, the Hoffman family has been part of the economic prosperity of the town of Spencer, Nebraska, but for how much longer can they hold out without selling their family business before they simply walk away? If an outsider does come in to take over the operation, they’d likely move manufacturing to a location where labor is more readily available and cheap. My hope for small-town America is on shaky ground.

I look at myself about to visit South Dakota and can’t help but see that I’ve aged in the past 30 years, possibly more in the previous 10 years. Those of you who’ve also reached this age will likely have a better idea of what I mean, as for a long time, it seemed like I just looked like John, and from year to year, nothing much changed. When the gray started coming on harder, I knew it was an inevitability and that change was ahead. I’m certainly not lamenting the process as it is, after all just life, but I am thinking, will I be taking another selfie here at the South Dakota state line 20 years from now? Likely not, is my thought about that return date, maybe in 5 or 10, but who cares? Better live it up now, and with that, we unpacked our lunch stuff and picnicked on a windy, quiet side of the road between Nebraska and South Dakota.

We’d left Phoenix with an ice chest packed for this occasion, though we had assumed we’d get to those vittles prior to now. On that first day of traveling, we get those first inklings of hunger, but the idea of digging into a tightly packed ice chest is daunting, and it feels as though it will take too long to get to the essentials that lie deep below the ice and so we typically opt for some kind of fast food so we can maintain our pace of getting down the road. And so it was back on Thursday. Yesterday, we made it to Canadian, Texas, to find the Cattle Exchange was open for lunch. We left so stuffed that dinner was never a question, and we made do with a handful of nuts and a piece of fruit. Today, though, we lunched on cross sections of a fat dachshund named Mortadella wrapped in lettuce, slathered with mustard, and topped with a hard-boiled egg. We listened to the rush of the wind through the trees, the birds playing their favorite songs to serenade us, and smiled at one another that we both are in love with these simple things, even as we age. To celebrate our good fortune, we popped open the single can of Spindrift grapefruit soda we had brought with us, our version of sparkling wine.

Oh, a scenic overlook ahead? Don’t mind if we do. It’s the Missouri River and Fort Randall Dam in Pickstown, South Dakota, out there, and like so much of this trip out here, we’re the only ones bothering to take the sights in. Surprisingly, there are very few boats out on the water, while it does look like there are a dozen or more potential campers over next to the shore.

This sign makes note of a town called Grand View that was once found here on the right side of the road. That town didn’t make it. I wonder how many more of these signs will be placed roadside over the coming years when all that remains are the few photos when people took time to share their experiences in these faraway places scattered across the middle of the United States.

At this point in our marathon road trip, the southern part of South Dakota has been the most monotonous. This is not a complaint, just an observation because, in reality, we are looking for that legendary place out here that is as flat as a pancake so we can marvel that such a place exists, but so far, there’s enough undulation around that we doubt such a uniformly level landscape exists outside of lore.

Mackenzie at Buzz'n Coffee in Wolsey, South Dakota

Buzz’n Coffee Company in Wolsey, South Dakota, was open and was ready to serve us a couple of cold brews at a time when caffeine was going to come in handy. These kinds of endurance trips require that if we find a local coffee shop that’s open, to take advantage of the opportunity as it may be another one or two hundred miles before the next one is encountered. This little caffeine oasis on the Great Plains was opened by a local retired teacher, Carol Rowen, just before the pandemic hit, and here it is a few years later, and they’ve been able to hang on. Today, we were served by Mackenzie, and after hearing about the shop, we bought a pound of their coffee and a couple of muffins to support their efforts. Should we ever pass through again, I hope they will still be here.

The family that was once living the dream in this house has obviously resigned from the toil of trying to survive the demands of farming and its economic uncertainties.

By the time we reach Redfield, South Dakota, we’d already seen a couple of pheasants but none this large or willing to stay still while I get the camera ready.

At what point will humans no longer have the opportunity to see things with their own eyes before they’ve seen them on an electronic screen? How many times do we see a scene such as this one above where cows are walking across a ranch with members of the herd emerging from a shallow stream slicing across the landscape? Except in the celluloid portrayal, the sky is perfect, the camera frames things just right, and an appropriate amount of dust is kicked up to convey the correct sense of place. Doesn’t this, though, set us up for disappointment with reality? While this hasn’t happened to us, I do wonder how many people allow movies and streaming media to influence their thoughts about what they do and don’t like.

North Dakota State Line on US 281

In our version of a kind of reverse Tetris, where we are the shape going forward, turning, and positioning to be in the place we need to be next, we have entered North Dakota.

We’re a straight piece falling in a line that way. Before you wonder about that slight pink hue of this image, let me explain that I took it through the windshield, which added its own “flavor.”

What an entanglement this is; we have entered the lands of the Spirit Lake Nation, though, for the Caucasian population, the namesake lake of these tribes is Devils Lake. I refer to tribes because there’s an agglutination of native people that have been clumped together on this reservation, including the Pabaksa (Iháŋkthuŋwaŋna), Sisseton (Sisíthuŋwaŋ) and Wahpeton (Waȟpéthuŋwaŋ) Indians. It seems to me that keeping the name Devils Lake for a body of water that the Native Americans hold sacred is a bit rude, maybe even downright disrespectful.

We are crossing the Sheyenne River, and after learning that every bit of lodging around Devils Lake is booked, we are aiming for Rugby, North Dakota, where we snagged one of the two last rooms available this Saturday night.

By the time we reach our destination, the sun has dipped below the horizon here in the small town of Rugby, the Geographical Center of North America. The funny thing is that Caroline and I have been through here before, well, at least according to our map but something didn’t feel right, like, how’d we miss this geographical center the last time? So, I returned to that old series of blog posts from 2004 when we passed through North Dakota with Jay Patel on a cross-country trip. Damn, we left Williston, North Dakota, and aimed for Garrison and finally Mayfield, but apparently never hit U.S. Route 2, which means our map is inaccurate, drats. I guess we’ll be fixing that after we take possession of a new map, seeing our 19-year-old disintegrating relic of a map held together with more tape than paper is going to be retired following this trip.

Our room at the Northern Lights Inn likely hasn’t been used since last year, considering that the toilet is bone dry, but more than that, there’s a skin of brownish rusty scum lining the bowl; it’s as gross as it sounds. Trust me, I thought about complaining, but there were no other rooms anywhere nearby, and from the attitude of the desk clerk, he wasn’t about to clean it himself and would have jumped to give us a refund, telling us the room wasn’t usable and that he had nothing else. Flushing helped a bit while trying to pressure pee it away did little. We chose to ignore it which wasn’t that difficult as we’ve ignored worse, I think. For $92.84, one might expect better, but with more than 70 miles between us and the next hotel, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

The Absolute Middle – Day 2

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

East of Santa Rosa, New Mexico

Last night, we were up for about 45 minutes, starting around 2.30, when we were woken up by the sound of heavy rains and hail pounding our motel. After about 20 intense minutes of storming, things seemed to settle down, and with that calm, we decided we could go back to sleep, but we had just put our heads back on the pillows when the door was being pelted again. In bed, I had considered moving the car under the awning at the closed motel office, but I was certain the storm had passed; oops, so much for my desire to remain dry inside our room, as vengeance was the name of part deux. During the next respite from the onslaught, I donned a shirt and shorts and drove the car under that small covered area. Too late as now the storm really was over, and as I’d later find out, we had about a dozen small dents adorning the roof and hood of our car. At least our glass is intact. By 6:30, we are back on the road, waiting for the sun to emerge from below a band of heavy clouds to the east.

East of Santa Rosa, New Mexico

At the eastern side of New Mexico, it’s becoming obvious that we are transitioning to the Great Plains, hopefully not into Great Storms. Caroline broke out Wunderground.com in order to track where the weather was and where it was going as we chickens have no need for witnessing tornados near or far. We didn’t learn until later that crossing the Pecos River in Santa Rosa, New Mexico, is considered the rough edge of the plains; now we know.

Kix on 66 Diner in Tucumcari, New Mexico

An hour down the road, we are pulling into Tucumcari, New Mexico, looking for breakfast, and we have a couple of options. The best choice was the classic Kix on 66 Diner that had all the nostalgic vibe one might want when road-tripping. I ordered the Night Owl special featuring a stuffed poblano with eggs and hashbrowns, and Caroline went for the Tucumcari Mountain Taters, hashbrowns smothered in green chili because, in New Mexico, you can’t go wrong when ordering anything bathed in green chili. Our server even filled our thermos with coffee for our continuing adventure. As for the town of Tucumcari, it’s in bad shape, though there are some efforts underway to revitalize things with a couple of trending motels making waves in the national media.

We left mid-day Thursday in order to beat the crush of holidaymakers as they begin the stampede into America’s recreation areas, and while we heard that there would be a record post-pandemic crush of travelers in the airports, those who travel by road are largely not out here. We are accustomed to seeing SUVs with stuffed back windows, motorhomes, and big trucks pulling 5th-wheel trailers as middle America heads into the countryside, but not this Memorial Day, at least not yet. Mind you, we would have dropped into Oklahoma City, Fargo, Omaha, or elsewhere had the flights not been so damned expensive. Add to the cost of flying the exorbitant rates at the chain hotels and Airbnb, and I’ll leave this lengthy road trip with the impression that a part of America is being priced out of travel. This matters because without people renting the old motels or eating at diners, those places will disappear and the prices for what remains will go up, and choices will go away until we are left with a homogenous landscape where big character is no longer found.

Oh, cool, a Google Streetview driver, no, you can’t see him in the photo. He was sitting next to the road here in Texas, considering his options after getting stuck in the mud as he attempted to record this road. We know this because he warned us not to head that way. No problem, we were only stopping to take in the view and avoid taking another photo from our moving car, which wasn’t exactly necessary as east of Amarillo, we’d left the interstate at Farm to Market Road 1912 and headed north to Route 60. There is no image of us at the Texas state sign because we were driving at over 70mph under a gray sky with no chance to pull over for selfies; that was at 8:30 New Mexico time or 9:30 Texas time (we have entered the Central Time Zone).

Have you ever been to White Deer, Texas? Who has, and yet many people dream of going to another planet or at least think of heading into San Diego, Miami, or some resort in Mexico because nothing is in White Deer, and nobody of any importance has ever spoken of hanging out in this town of less than 880 people. People of importance, a.k.a. The Influencer, will not put U.S. Route 60, built back in 1926, on anyone’s list of “Must See” attractions across America because Route 66 already holds the baton of importance for those looking for nostalgia. Well, here we are, using it as an escape from the ugly and anonymous Interstate 40 that we were able to escape from back in Amarillo. Would I recommend visiting White Deer? I would with caveats, we were simply passing through, so we couldn’t afford the time to check out anything other than this grain silo, our first on this particular venture into the heartland, so while there may be other things to take in, we can’t know due to time constraints imposed by our hoped-for destination. On the other hand, we have been informed by a roadside sign here in White Deer that “God is real.”

We turned around to photograph the Carniceria La Unica here in Pampa, Texas, as Caroline took a particular liking to the cow and pig painted on the old building. A block away, we stopped at the sign welcoming visitors to Pampa because Caroline wanted to send friends and family in Germany a photo because of the German idiom “In der Pampa,” which translates to “Being in the middle of nowhere.” The word originates in South America and refers to a lowland grassy plains area that was just carved out of earth only 10,000 years ago by retreating glaciers and is now the home of Buenos Aires, Argentina.

The other side of the Middle of Nowhere.

Seventeen years ago, we were traveling through here, here being Miami, Texas, not to be confused with Miami, Arizona, or Miami, Florida, and we’d swear this metal longhorn wasn’t here because had it been, this photo would be redundant. While we’d like to include Miami, Oklahoma, on this trip, it’s too far to the east to be practical, but someday…

The majority of roads on this trip so far we have traveled on before creating a minor situation that feels like the adventure hasn’t really begun yet. There are many roads we’ve plied plenty of times, and this feeling doesn’t exist, but on those journeys, we are often on our way to places with which we are already familiar. For me, I’m in giant anticipation of where we start going once we hit Woodward, Oklahoma.

We’ve made it back to Canadian, Texas, home of Arrington Ranch, where part of the Tom Hanks film Castaway was filmed and where we stayed back on the 4th-of-July  weekend in 2006. While the old house is no longer rentable, the Cattle Exchange restaurant is still operating, and as luck would have it, they are open. I didn’t think I wanted a pound of ribeye for lunch, but who am I to argue with my gluttony? This old photo was taken by Julius Born from Canadian, who lived from 1879 to 1962, and is featured on one of the walls in the building where this steak house is found. Maybe we take it for granted that meat these days is refrigerated. Some things have changed here in Canadian and the Cattle Exchange, such as the Dough Girls bakery that used to make their rolls is long gone, so the bread pudding is different, and we were informed that after 134 years, the 4th of July rodeo may be skipped this year. Upon getting home and verifying things, it appears that the 135th 4th of July rodeo is, in fact, happening.

Those are the smiles of two travelers who are now under 60 miles from our turn north into the unknown absolute middle.

Would you believe it if we told you that here in Gage, Oklahoma, this brontosaurus was the most normal thing? This place is an alternative universe, and if you don’t believe that, stop in at the Sinclair gas station. More importantly, you must go into their convenience store and sit a spell; there’s something gravely wrong and part of that wrong could be that we are snobs and are unaccustomed to “real people.” As for this dinosaur made of old wheels, it is the creation of Jim Powers, whoever that is.

There it is, out there on the far horizon, the promised land of unknowns. We have turned left and are now traveling north on State Route 34 with an eye fixed on a point 991 miles (1595 km) ahead. In the middle of the road, in the middle of America, in the middle of a relationship where everything looks as perfect as can be. Let me be as clear as the sky is not; this perfection I reference is in regard to where we are on this adventure, where we are in life, and what is available to us. My observations about the larger world of the United States being mired in stupidity remain; the abhorrence I feel about dollar stores and poverty is being reinforced, witnessing the signs and hearing the words of American hate swirl around me every day. Remember, reader, I do not occupy my day with 8 hours of work. I do not watch television or distract myself with video games; I watch and listen to my fellow citizens nearly every day of the year. I observe where you shop, what you buy, and how you deride your children. To those of you who never see what I refer to, your enclaves of existence shield you from the middle of your country as you live in secure and wealthy corners, and the bottom of the class order you do have to witness is of the homeless and absolutely depraved while the middle is obscured in neighborhoods and on land you have no reason to ever see for yourself.

According to the interweb, this facility belongs to Cargill Salt and is found in Freedom, Oklahoma. We had to stop for the photo as it was one of the worst renditions of The Peanuts cartoon characters either of us had yet seen. It’s ironic that we live on such a beautiful land and extoll our freedoms while we remain collectively enslaved to outdated modalities of thinking where we voluntarily enslave ourselves and each other in nostalgia that deceives us into perceiving glorious pasts that are figments of our imaginations. We believe in nonsense that falls only slightly short of thinking that characters painted on the facades of things will somehow cover up the blemishes of our faults and weaknesses and do not miss the point that this was supposed to be a metaphor for what we adorn our bodies and faces with.

At what point in this blog does Dr. Alban’s 1990 hit Hello Afrika come to mind except you modify the lyrics with, “Hello America, tell me how yer doing.” Don’t worry if you stumble on the lyric about needing to “Unite and come together for our future,” as I, too can’t see how that will happen in our polarized country. The silver lining to this pubic outrage and obsession with shallow appearances is that Caroline and I have the entirety of so much of this land to ourselves, where we can embrace, sing, and dance our way into a celebratory life.

My desire to romanticize our potential is likely a naive weakness of mine as, for all I know, this home was a place of nightmares, just as this land is a place of nightmares for many. Why should I have these wishes for others to succeed and find happiness if I already found mine? How can it possibly matter to a 60-year-old man with options ahead of him to get what he wants if others are finding their own path or if they are crashing into a wall of disappointment and failure? Maybe empathy is a cruel joke on the animal that has softened due to lack of hardship after many a year, or is it an atrophying deep instinct to protect and project one’s tribe forward to better survive before the abandonment of life is encountered? Do we pass our home and treasures on to the next generation as things of value or do we lay waste to what has sustained us for so long?

Somewhere during the past year, and it’s being reinforced out here on the Great Plains this holiday weekend, it seems to us that communities with a strong attachment to tradition and god care more about their communities and the people that live in them. This evidence is weak and simple conjecture based on some random blips of thought that arrive out of thin air, and just as quickly as something plays to this idea, we pass through another town where god has forsaken the inhabitants and laid destitution upon their shoulders. Here in Coldwater, Kansas, the town center appears to still have some life left in it; keep praying, Coldwaterians.

Big dramatic clouds, a grain silo, and lush grasses at a crossroads, and I had everything required to stop for a photo to capture that sense of the Great Plains that draws me out here. With that, we were right back in motion, continuing to the north, except Caroline was stuck on her phone examining the map and Greensburg in particular. At the point we were about 7 miles away from the intersection, it was decided that we wouldn’t be deserving of the title of being nerds if we didn’t turn around, and so that’s just what we did based on what Caroline found. Sixteen years ago, Greensburg was taken off the face of the planet by the exhale of god who may not have been feeling the love of the people of this remote outpost. Some called it an EF5 tornado; I call it the smiting breath of our deity.

But it wasn’t the vengeful wrath of god that interested us; it was that the town’s butthole survived. Okay, enough of the blasphemous clowning around. The Big Well was the object of our curiosity. This is the world’s largest handgun well and an absolute specimen of tenacity combined with the insanity of people to risk their lives to establish a town in a place that wouldn’t ordinarily support life back in the late 19th century without water.

Clouds have been following us all day, but contrary to the weather forecast, they never rose to deliver storms upon our heads. Instead, they are acting as filters, offering us god rays that are as welcome as rainbows.

Of course, we were going to stop in a place called “Little Beauty,” which is what Schoenchen translates from German to. In the village proper was a steeple poking out of the surrounding town and trees offering the appearance that we were actually in Germany for a minute. Well, good thing we took the detour as we met this nice lady checking her mail who told us of a restaurant up in Kearney, Nebraska; we should try called Runza, sadly they’ll be closed by the time we arrive. She also told us how to pronounce Kearney, more about that in a moment.

Seems that we’ve been stopping a bit much for the photo opportunities, and that’s okay as it’s always been part of the loose itinerary that wherever it is we make it to, that will be good enough. We are currently in Stockton, Kansas, about 40 miles (64 km) from the Nebraska State Line.

The end of our day is fast approaching, which is a good thing as after more than 14 hours and 600 miles of driving, I could use a break.

If we weren’t so far north by now, it would be dark as it’s 9:00 p.m. as we pass into Nebraska.

We are staying at the Midtown Western Inn in Kearney, Nebraska, for only $70, including tax. Contrary to our perception of how to pronounce Kearney, it is actually spoken as “Karnee,” named after Colonel Stephen Watts Kearny; the extra “e” was a postal error in registering the name of the new town. Someone once claimed that Kearney was 1,733 miles to Boston and 1,733 miles to San Francisco, placing it in a kind of middle, but it looks like someone was playing fast and loose with the map, though maybe back when the routing of the roads was different, Kearney was out in the middle of nowhere.

The Absolute Middle – Day 1

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Dutch Bros in Payson, Arizona

It’s not exactly the middle of the day as we reach not the precise middle of the state here in Payson, Arizona, but it’s close enough. Ultimately we are headed into the middle of America, though not today quite yet. To be clear, we are not headed into the middle of the contiguous United States as found over in Lebanon, Kansas (we’ve already been there twice), but we are aiming for the relative middle, slicing through the heartland, over the Memorial Day weekend. Precision is part of this exercise, but getting there will require some generalizations and approximations as nothing is literally written in stone. With that, our holiday weekend has been extended with an extra day tacked on either side. Not only has Caroline taken off Friday and Tuesday, but we’ve also been able to depart from the Phoenix area today (Thursday) before lunch, bringing us here to Dutch Bros in Payson because a road trip without coffee is like a bologna sandwich without mystery meat.

Highway 260 in Arizona

With 1,865 miles (3001 km) to be covered before turning around somewhere far up north, time to take photos will be at a premium, so we are planning frequent stops to clean the windshield because we’ll be taking many a photo right through the windshield of our still nearly new and very clean 2023 Kia Niro. Photos through a window from a moving car are a gamble, but anything else, and we may not see all we intend to visit. If luck is on our side, we’ll have traveled 3,795 miles (6107 km) before getting home. There’s a reason the total miles are not twice the miles of the first leg, but that detail will have to wait for the days to unfold. Anyway, we are on State Route 260 moving east, should you be interested in following along on a map.

State Route 377 in Arizona

Time to stretch the old legs and enjoy the cooler, quieter area found along State Route 377 here in the high desert.

State Route 377 in Arizona

We are on the road to Holbrook, Arizona, and the elevation up this way is approximately 5,000 feet or 1,524 meters.

Interstate 40 entering New Mexico

Breaks are few and far between with the hundreds of miles we need to cover this afternoon. Even with taking photos from the driver’s seat (that’s right, did you think Caroline would be taking these images?), we may or may not get as far east as we’d like to, or maybe we’ll go farther. You do have to give me credit for at least getting in the slow lane here on Interstate 40 to snap this shot of the state sign as we entered New Mexico.

Sunset off Interstate 40 in New Mexico

Another stretch-your-legs moment inspired by the dramatic sky behind us while to the east in the direction of our continuing travel, lightning flashes were raging. A check of the weather ahead showed that Tucumcari, New Mexico, was getting hammered by thunderstorms, so we are considering staying the night in Santa Rosa.

La Mesa Motel in Santa Rosa, New Mexico

Sure, all the name-brand hotels were to be found in this small town of 2,600 people in Santa Rosa, New Mexico, but all of their signs suck, not a bit of neon among them, and so the La Mesa Motel was going to be our choice. Was it a bargain, you ask? Well, for only $79, we walked into a clean room with a bit of unidentifiable stench, but what should one expect for a bit of Route 66 nostalgia built back in 1954? We end the first day of driving after about 540 miles (870 km) ready for sleep.

We were rattled awake around 2:30 in the morning by the peculiar sound of hundreds of small pellets being thrown at our door. No, this wasn’t a dream, and no, they weren’t pellets. We were being pounded by a thunderstorm that not only was driving the rain sideways, but hail was also along for the ride. Big fat, chunky bullets of hail were bouncing off our front door, the roof of the motel, the ground, and, to our horror, our nearly brand-new car. After ten or so minutes, things were slowing down, and we headed back to bed, but almost immediately, the pace of the hail picked up again. With an audible sigh, I put on shorts and shoes and braved the wet and windy outdoors to move the car under an awning, then went back to sleep.

It’s Been A While

JWise Photo of the Day

Map of where we're going

Tomorrow, Caroline and I leave for a trip to the Great Plains. This will be the first time in 8 years that we’ve been out there and nearly 20 years since the two of us were as far north as we hope to get this long weekend. Our destination is supposed to be somewhere in North Dakota. I have to say “I hope to get there” because I finally checked the weather forecast, and wouldn’t you know it, it’s calling for wind, rain, and thunderstorms. It’s almost comical because it was on our last big road trip back in 2015 nearly to the day when we detoured from our itinerary due to flooding as we passed between Texas and Oklahoma. Certainly, a more favorable outcome is on the horizon this time around. The traces on this portion of our U.S. map are roads we’ve driven, the empty area is a mystery.

Should anyone wonder, where exactly out on those wind-swept plains are you two going? It doesn’t matter as all that’s important is we are going to where the rest of America is not going over Memorial Day. This journey will be a meander and has the flexibility to change course should we need to or simply want to. To those we told we’d be in Europe at this time: that was delayed while we wait for the economy to fall into an actual recession so the cost of travel can come down. We could have chosen the Oregon Coast for this getaway but flights and the crappiest of motels would have been more expensive than spending time in Germany. Driving to Oregon wasn’t an option, not due to the price of gas but the fact that we need 4 days of driving for the roundtrip, and that would then only offer us 2 days on the coast, and that’s no bueno.

Map of the Great Plains

There are aspects of this drive that have different meanings such as the fact that I simply enjoy the drive where my eyes fall upon different scenery and just might inspire something or other. For days, Caroline and I will be next to one another nearly 24 hours a day and will likely enjoy every minute of it. There’s also our trophy map of the United States on which we track the roads we’ve driven. The path we’re taking will take previously untraveled roads as much as possible. This feat will allow us to add two fat lines going out and coming back. And then there are the unknowns where little delights and unexpected surprises will help make the entire experience memorable. Even if it were truly boring, rest assured that I’ll get at least a few photos that show otherwise and I’ll write a simple narrative that will demonstrate that love and beauty greeted us at every turn, that is if there are any turns on this bolt north.

Yep, Monsoon in May!

JWise Photo of the Day

Clearing clouds over Phoenix, Arizona

Wind, rain, thunder, and lightning were the overnight elements that let us know with some certainty that a monsoon has passed over us. Signs of it were on display here and there this morning, but the majority of it occurred while we were fast asleep. A great side effect of the storm is that it’s noticeably cooler out here, the cloud cover also helps.

In other news, it appears we might drag ourselves to North Dakota or thereabouts in the near future but things are fluid as we’re not making fixed plans.

Angry Bro

JWise Photo of the Day

Stickers of hate on a truck

If the douchebags driving ridiculously loud motorcycles and cars that put out between 110 and 120 decibels of annoyance (about the same sound level as a jet taking off or gunshots) weren’t enough, we have to contend with these angry douchebags who use their vehicles to announce that they are likely half-crazy whackjobs. What kind of anger is behind the wheel of this truck telling me to “Fuck my hybrid” or somehow virtue signaling me that his ‘Mericun truck was built with wrenches, not chopsticks? The boob message to the left hints at a tendency to accept his incel situation while on the far right he’s threatening all that approach him or give him any side-eye that he’s willing to pull a gun on the transgressor.

As we passed him with my man-boobs heaving and our hybrid flipping him a middle chopstick, I tried to spy what size his impressive tool might be, but his blacked-out windows prevented me from witnessing firsthand him beating off to how powerful, strong, and hard his angry bro-ness has grown to be. I trembled next to this prime example of manhood, I mean douchebaggery.