Solo Across America – Day 6

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Courthouse in Pontiac, Illinois on the famous Old Route 66

I pulled into Pontiac, Illinois, last night on the edge of town, as that’s where the cheaper hotels typically are located, right? Who knew I was in such a beautiful little town on the famous Old Route 66 – the Mother Road? The fog I woke to this morning was thick; you choose the saying that works for you to describe how heavy it was. After breakfast at a dingy place next to the road (not in this downtown area), I was on my way and experiencing corn in a new way: corn in the fog. Who knew that corn under these conditions would still look like corn? I was expecting marigolds. There was one point in my early morning corn delirium where, in the distance, I thought I could make out the Statue of Liberty, which had me in disbelief that it was corn and soybeans all the way between here and there.

Flowers on Highway 116 in Illinois

When I left Arizona, my criterion was to avoid larger roads; there was no intention or fixed ideas for finding amazing natural sights or historical areas, only the hope of being surprised by what I found on the small roads of America. Little did I know that I was entering a path of corn and soy. There are no regrets because I’ve gotten exactly what I bargained for: a trip across the country to see what I could see outside of expectation, come what would. Driving on freeways, I would have never left the pace of the big city, but out here, I’m witnessing the speed of the rural Midwest, which appears to be moving at about the same pace that flowers and corn grow.

Iroquois River near L'Erable, Illinois on Highway 52

I was on Highway 52 near L’Erable, Illinois, when I passed the Iroquois River.

Highway 52 in Illinois

The trees are changing the farther I go east, though much more corn would lie ahead.

Sheldon, Illinois

Passed a series of small towns: first up was Donovan, Illinois, with a population of 300. This being a presidential election season, you can rest assured that there is signage posted even in the smallest towns that love blending god and politics – we’ll leave it at that. Next up was Iroquois, the self-professed Town of Bunkum (nonsense). I’m here passing through Sheldon because in spite of my instructions to Google to avoid highways Google doesn’t realize that this includes four-lane divided highways that look a lot like freeways. So, I find country roads going in my general direction, adding 20 minutes here, 14 minutes there, and pretty soon, I’m able to add extra hours to my driving day due to some wild zig-zagging through farmland.

Indiana State Line on Highway 18

You see that road? It’s a quiet two-lane affair with soybeans growing over there; the corn is behind me. This is the Indiana State Line on State Route 18, middle of nowhere.

Corn on State Road 18 in Indiana

The promised corn.

State Road 18 in Indiana

Tree densities I’ve not seen in days; welcome to a changing landscape.

First fall colors on State Road 18 in Indiana

Oh, is that the first sign of fall colors starting to emerge or is it Homer Simpson merging into the trees?

Tippecanoe River at State Route 18 near Springboro, Indiana

I’m crossing over the shallow Tippecanoe River, still on State Route 18, near Springboro, Indiana.

Train Crossing on Country Road N 525 W near Delphi, Indiana

I passed through a beautiful small town called Delphi, which tells visitors that it played an important role in the Wabash and Erie Canal system that connected the waterways of Indiana with the Ohio River and the Great Lakes. I went looking for further information about that while writing this post, but I also came across this tidbit that most recently put Delphi, Indiana, on the map: it’s home of slain teens Abigail Williams and Liberty German whose murder case went unsolved for six years, likely a grisly affair.

Leaving town, I had no choice but to turn onto Highway 25, a divided highway. Nope, I wouldn’t have any of that, and within a mile, I turned onto State Route 218, adding 25 minutes to my drive time. I didn’t get far before I needed to turn left on County Road 525 W, but I missed it. I quickly turned around and found myself on an even smaller road. Noooo! A clever ploy by Google to get me back to Highway 25, the faster route. Damn it, Google, I’m not looking for fast, I want the opposite! While I was here, I thought this place amongst the corn was the perfect place for lunch. There I was, enjoying my lettuce-wrapped mortadella, when an approaching train whistle alerted me. I could see the crossing a little further up this remote road, so I raced over. The excitement of being out here never ends.

Wabash River near Peru, Indiana

Hardly an hour passes during waking hours that Caroline or I are not reaching out to one another. There are times when she’s busy putting out fires at work, or I don’t have phone signal, but sooner rather than later, a nudge offering a hug or expression of love is shared, keeping us connected during the day. With me now three time zones away, that might get difficult this evening, but the good news is that we are also now merely 48 hours from seeing each other again.

Amish couple in Monroe, Indiana

This Amish couple should be Caroline and me, sitting next to each other, moving at the speed a horse can pull us, my beard not gray yet, and Caroline rocking a bonnet. We’d ride our buggy into the sunset and sleep among the corn because life is an adventure, and love is grand.

Corn on State Route 124 in Indiana approaching Ohio

While I was in Monroe, Indiana, taking photos of Amish people who naturally don’t like being photographed, there was a sign nearby, the real reason I stopped, that showed the current price of soybeans and corn. I don’t know if this is a buying or selling price, but here you go: Soybeans are $9.63 per bushel. A bushel of beans weighs 60 pounds (27 kilos), and a bushel of corn weighing 35 pounds (16 kilos) goes for $3.36. Now consider that, on average, about 200 bushels of corn are produced on an acre of land. The ten states of the Great Plains and the Midwest that grow corn have about 65-80 million acres under cultivation, which include about 110,000 square miles of corn. Germany, in comparison, is about 137,000 square miles in size.

Ohio State Line in Willshire, Ohio on Highway 124

Welcome to Ohio on State Route 81 in the town of Willshire.

Courthouse in Van Wert, Ohio

I’ve joined the Lincoln Highway in Van Wert, Ohio; this is the Van Wert courthouse.

Miami & Erie Canal in Delphos, Ohio

In Delphos, Ohio, you can find remnants of the Miami & Erie Canal.

Bethel Church of Christ in Ada, Ohio

One is never far from the house of God when in America. This one is the Bethel Church of Christ in Ada, Ohio.

Courthouse in Upper Sandusky, Ohio

This concludes our travel day, not with another photo of corn but a spectacular bit of architecture in the Upper Sandusky, Ohio, courthouse. I learned at dinner that it was featured in the movie Shawshank Redemption. Tomorrow, I’ll pass through Mansfield, Ohio, where a prison used in that film can be found.

Solo Across America – Day 5

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Sunrise east of Osceola, Iowa

I mull things a lot, and anyone who might have read one of these posts can probably attest to the veracity of that self-aware claim. What I went to sleep with last night and what I’m carrying into this morning is what a handful of people shared with me before my road trip, either questioning my plans or stating that it’s boring out here. For me, this implies myopia on their part and that they suffer from a malady that arises from the conditioning of watching television: an exciting life only happens in far away places. Only getting away to an “amazing” place can wrench them from boredom. They don’t understand that the people living and working in their routines in amazing places find those places boring, too. Often, people won’t see how boring their vacation destination is to the locals because they typically visit with others set on breaking out of routines and are busy celebrating this new experience. The people serving them are just doing their normal boring job, looking to go on vacation somewhere fun so they can escape the drudgery of where they live.

Wetlands near Lake Morris in Chariton, Iowa

It’s not a place that’s boring; it’s the person that’s boring. When we are unable to adequately intellectually entertain and educate ourselves, we probably end up watching TV or streaming videos that persuade us that we are witnessing a truly exciting place, and “Don’t you wish you were here?” is being pressed upon the viewer. After the constant bombardment of people whose lives have drifted into deep boredom, while somewhat true if stagnation has taken over one’s routine, travel will only work to break them out of that for a few moments before thrusting them right back into boredom.

Hay on US Route 34 in Iowa

The onus of what we do daily to escape the treadmill is on us: not TV, not video games, not government, not our family, not our jobs. It’s in our head, our deeper curiosity that might be dormant or lying fallow. Passivity regarding where we are and how we travel in our imagination when we are unable to propel ourselves 1,000 miles away to that next exotic, exciting, fun-filled, alcohol-fueled romp in Vegas, Paris, New York, or Hawaii is where we need to start to combat boredom. Boredom is in your imagination, not in a place.

Welcome Home Soldier Monument in Albia, Iowa

Caroline told me that the Welcome Home Soldier Monument was ahead on my drive this morning; I was expecting nothing more than a placard. Instead, I found an incredible labor of love and met the man responsible for this Washington D.C. level of quality monument. Jim Keller, working with volunteers and donations, has built a replica of the United States Marine Corps War Memorial, also known as the Iwo Jima Memorial, planted 100 U.S. flags, built memorials to all branches of the military, and installed a statue of a Civil War soldier who plays reverie and taps in the morning and the afternoon.

I was surprisingly touched by this massive eight-acre monument offering gratitude for American soldiers. Maybe because I’m growing older, I better understand what we contribute, volunteering to serve and protect ideas and a framework guiding our country through good and bad times. No matter the alleged ulterior purposes of business and government, the soldier is there to carry out an objective they’ve been taught; their job is to safeguard freedom and the Constitution of the United States. Doing a small part so people can exercise those rights might seem minor and irrelevant at the time, but the older we get, hopefully, we will recognize that those things are not to be taken for granted. I’m reminded of one of the soldier credos I learned, “Mine is not to question why. Mine is to do and die.” My problem was always the questioning part.

The Canteen in Ottumwa, Iowa

Last night at dinner, a server in training, upon hearing about my road trip, told me that if I were passing through Ottumwa around lunchtime, I should stop at the Canteen. They’ve been there forever, and it’s a unique place. Years ago, they refused to move their location, but they are now situated in a tight corner with a parking garage surrounding their building. Aside from that, it looks much the way it must have many, many years ago.

The Canteen in Ottumwa, Iowa

This is what the place is named after, or what they call their sandwich: the canteen. A ground beef sandwich, but not a Sloppy Joe, that you can opt to have with grilled onions, mustard, and pickles (the traditional version); you can also ask for ketchup and cheese. After nearly finishing mine, I heard a customer on the other side of the counter ask for “extra moist,” which means they ladle spoons of rendered beef fat over the burger before topping it with the bun.

Train tracks on Iowa Route 16 near Ashland, Iowa

I was back on Route 34 when it turned into a four-lane highway, which smacked of something akin to a freeway after driving so many days on two-lane roads. A glance at the map and I see that Iowa Route 16 toward Denmark, the city, not the country, would allow me to detour to my encounter with the Mississippi River and my next state line. My internal speed must have slowed considerably because, after a flash of tension on the 34, I felt at ease again. I can only dread what awaits me when I visit the Buffalo, New York, airport in a few days. I mean the crowds and traffic, not the fact that I’m picking up Caroline, so don’t even go there.

American Gothic House in Eldon, Iowa

This is a nice surprise: my route takes me through Eldon, Iowa, home of the house featured in the Grant Wood painting titled American Gothic.

John Wise at the American Gothic House in Eldon, Iowa

If the name of the painting didn’t refresh your memory, I’m guessing that this photo of the three of us will serve as a reminder.

Abandoned house on Iowa Route 16, Iowa

Rethinking, or is it thinking again, of yesterday’s musings on the economics of shifting fortunes of people and towns here in the Great Plains, the Amish jumped to mind. It was probably seeing a couple of Amish buggies along the way that triggered this. People who eschew modernity can harness manual tools and labor to create incredible value. No GPS-guided, fuel-driven tractors, no electricity, and none of the conveniences such as cars or trucks to help them make money, yet they spread out throughout the middle of America buying land, building massive farms with barns, animals, and the requisite tools that allow them to pay their bills and establish tightly knit communities.

Mississippi River seen from Mosquito Park in Burlington, Iowa

The Mississippi River, viewed from Mosquito Park in Burlington, Iowa. On the other side: Illinois, my next destination.

Corn in Illinois on Route 116 near Biggsville

Yeah, more corn.

Route 116 near Stronghurst, Illinois

…and a small, attractive road, detouring away from the busier highway 34 I had to reconnect with to cross the Mississippi.

Soybeans on Route 116 in Illinois

More soybeans because, of course it was going to be that, or corn.

Swing at the intersection of Route 116 and Route 41 in St. Augustine, Illinois

At the crossroads of Highway 41 and the 116 in St. Augustine, Illinois, while I was fighting drowsiness on long, straight, and incredibly smooth farm roads taking me past corn and more corn, I spotted this random swing hanging from a tree. Instantly, I was snapped out of my mindless drift of road hypnosis by the need to take a photo of something – anything – other than corn.

Near Deer Creek, Illinois

I opted to give Peoria, Illinois, a wide berth. With more than 113,000 inhabitants, I felt that all I’d find was a horror of people, angry, on drugs, and racing to get home at the end of the work day. Meanwhile, I’d try to calm down from the minor encounter with traffic of those escaping the city for the distant suburbs by heading through Pekin, a good 10 miles south of Peoria, but that wasn’t good enough. The speed of life came rushing back, and for the first time in a thousand miles, I had to listen to the throaty rumble of a tuned Camaro that IS NOT conducive to enjoying the whispy sounds of corn rustling in the breeze.

Sunset over Pontiac, Illinois

From here forward, I shouldn’t be surprised if I fall further into stress. I crossed the 100th Meridian when I went over the Mississippi. The great majority lives on this side of America, a full two-thirds of our population. Compared to the West, they are packed in like sardines over here. For five days now, I’ve been decompressing and gathering the glow of a corn tan, leaving me uncertain if I’m ready for the maelstrom that arrives with population densities.

Solo Across America – Day 4

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Sunrise near Alma, Nebraska

This was not the first sight that greeted me this morning; instead, I spotted a semi-truck driving by in front of the hotel while I was bringing my bags to the car. The trailer behind it was wide open and packed chock full of cow corpses with bloated bodies and hooves jutting to heaven. Good morning, rural Nebraska – or anywhere else with feed lots, I guess. While startling, maybe a bit weird, I wasn’t in any way disgusted. It’s the price we accept for beef raised on an industrial scale and mostly out of sight. As for the road ahead, it was bathed in golden light and welcoming me to enjoy another day on the road.

Riverton, Nebraska

I’ll spend a lot of time today on US Highway 136 and passing many towns, such as this one, which is nearly a ghost town. The name of this place is Riverton, Nebraska, and it has a functional post office and maybe a bar called Pete’s Place Bar and Grill that might be open occasionally.

Hemp growing next to the road in Nebraska

Not only are soybeans and corn in abundance, I’ve learned that hemp is growing everywhere. It only has the faintest scent of marijuana; it’s more of a fresh green plant smell than anything else.

Red Cloud, Nebraska

Here I am in Red Cloud, Nebraska, for the first time! Nope, that’s not true. When I called Caroline later in the day to ask about the Homestead National Historical Park she informed, “Yes, we’ve been there before, with Jay Patel back in 2004, and we also passed through Tecumseh, Red Cloud, and Crab Orchard.” No, is my memory really that out of whack? I planned this trip to take mostly new roads. We even have a map that shows the roads we’ve traveled before, but somehow my wires got crossed and I’m right back where I was 20 years ago. This is Red Cloud, just one of a few places I’ll revisit today.

Corn growing next to the road in Nebraska

Well, at least this corn wasn’t the same corn that would have been here in May 2004. Maybe the corn back then hadn’t even sprouted yet.

Sign pointing to the Trinity Lutheran Church in Friedensau, Nebraska

One good thing about a selective memory is that things can be new all over again. After getting to the hotel and seeing the sign for the Friedensau Trinity Lutheran Church 2.25 miles up a dirt road, I wish I’d made an effort to visit it. Hopefully, Caroline and I will pass this way again after I forget that I was here before, and she’ll remind me of this post in which I said it appears that the old church is well worth the visit.

Little Blue River seen from US Highway 136 in Nebraska

In the blog, the Little Blue River was disparaged 20 years ago as a muddy little affair that was not worth photographing. Well, the waters are clear today, and while not exactly abundant, I felt them worthy of a photo. I need to stop referencing our ancient history. Maybe it would have been better to write everything, and only when I was done, learn of my omissions.

Grain silo in Jansen, Nebraska

The good thing about this journey on US Highway 136 is that I’m taking my time and not racing through, which we were guilty of quite often back then. When we took that trip with Jay, it was a quick adventure across America via Yellowstone, across the Dakotas to Minnesota and Wisconsin before turning back west, all in a blindingly fast ten days. Today, I stopped in Jensen, Nebraska, when a particular sign and these grain silos caught my eye.

Golden Fried Chicken sign in Jensen, Nebraska

Here is a place certainly from a bygone era, once offering Golden Fried Chicken. There was a time when this was standard fare in every diner across America, but now it’s chicken nuggets, pizza, and fries. This is the sign I just mentioned, and I was already well down the main road when I decided to verify whether the faded sight I thought I saw was real. It was at my U-turn that I couldn’t leave the silo alone and had to capture it, too, which ultimately will help equate to too many images from this small town.

Old pay phone booth in Jensen, Nebraska

I say too many because this old, mostly intact phone booth is also from Jensen. Oh, how I wanted there to be a dial tone and a phonebook, but those things weren’t to be. I would have scrounged the change and called Caroline on a pay phone for the proverbial sake of it.

German National Bank building in Beatrice, Nebraska

What used to be a grand red brick building in Beatrice, Nebraska, that housed the German National Bank, probably at least until the late 1930s or early 1940s, is now a smoke shop selling Kratom and adult toys. Driving through Beatrice, it’s immediately obvious that this was once a very prosperous city, likely the kind of place in which MAGA talks to its residents. It was once that spot on the map that was great, so why not make it great again?

Drug store sign in Beatrice, Nebraska

These signs were symbols of prosperity when people invested in magnificent signage. Today, we hang plastic banners or paint something in the windows, as the proprietors know deep in their bones not to waste money on something when they’ll likely not even honor a full year of their lease. These things were lost when farming underwent fundamental changes involving efficiencies, consolidation, and corporatization. The distribution of wealth within the community slowly disappeared. Like the frog in a pot being brought to a boil, it doesn’t realize it’s being cooked until it’s too late. The communities watched a farm here and a farm there fall victim to load defaults, insufficient capital to update equipment and remain competitive, or the inability to attract the hard workers that made farms work back in the day. From a multinational corporation, private equity, or a wealthy individual, how is that money supposed to support these outposts in the middle of farmland? To make these places great again would mean a fundamental shift, either back to family farming on manageable pieces of land or by innovations that create localized wealth in a place reliant on these thousands of square miles of corn and soybeans growing in all directions.

Crab Orchard, Nebraska

As I saw this town creeping in on the map, you have to now understand that I thought this was the first time I’d ever seen a place called Crab Orchard. I thought the sound of it was nice and that it would be where I’d pull over for lunch. With a population of only 38 people, I was expecting a dispersed group of people spread out over more than a few acres. Taking this photo, I could see something ahead that caught my eye and curiosity. It was the remnants of a small town. There’s still a post office, but that’s about it.

Crab Orchard, Nebraska

There are many empty lots around what would have been called a town long ago. This “gravestone” stands at the site of the Methodist Church, which stood here from 1868 until 1987, when it must have burned to the ground. There was also a building that was the gas station and garage, but essentially, this is a ghost town, or will be soon. Now I have to look at signs along the highway that point to place names down dusty unpaved county roads, possibly towns similar to this almost forgotten outpost. Farming and prosperity are not synonymous across the heartland of America anymore. No wonder a vast constituency is pissed off, feeling like the wheels are coming off the machine that helped them pay their bills or maintain open schools, grocery stores, churches, or gas stations.

Mural for the Farm Bureau in Tecumseh, Nebraska

A fading Farm Bureau mural in Tecumseh points at what was once a major part of the glue that helped small farmers stay on farms. Economic power shifts, and market realities that fed the corn and soybean demands driven by fast and cheap food, silage for our cattle, and profits for conglomerates were no match for the needs of quality of life in rural America.

Auburn, Nebraska

It’s a bitter dish of economic reality turning sour on this corner of Nebraska. The good thing about focusing on nature and wide open spaces while ignoring the plight of towns and cities is that I can trick myself into witnessing an idyllic side of America that looks better. Maybe I should have been an investment banker. This beautiful town is called Auburn.

Half Breed Tract historical marker on US Highway 136 in eastern Nebraska

Ah, another of my axes I love to grind, overt racist shit. After tens, dozens, and hundreds of miles of soy and corn, even historic markers pique my interest as it’s something different, allowing me to shift my thoughts away from the predicament of these towns along the way. And, wouldn’t you know, the one I stop for is talking about “Half-Breeds.” How is this still standing here? How has it not been defaced? Oh yeah, look around you, John: lots of pasty-white people live out here and 27 Mexicans. The sign tells of Half-Breed Road; I wouldn’t have noticed if it hadn’t been pointed out. Still, I’m incredulous that these things haven’t been repaired.

Bridge over the Missouri River seen from the Nebraska side

I’m in Brownville, Nebraska, and maybe at a Lewis and Clark campsite, but the location could have been given the name to attract visitors as I’m not sure this is official. This is the Missouri River, and on the opposite shore is the state of Missouri.

Captain Meriwether Lewis Dredge in Brownville, Nebraska

This is the Captain Meriwether Lewis Dredge, a historic vessel, which can be visited by booking a tour after calling the phone number on the locked gate of the ramp. I failed to note the number for a future visit, though I’m almost certain I can figure it out should we ever stroll through again.

Entering Missouri

Up there on one of the beams is the sign demarking the Missouri State Line.

Corn in Missouri

Aside from sweltering humidity, more corn, and soybeans, the first big differences between the state I left behind and Missouri are fireworks and weed, as in the recreational form of cannabis. That was Missouri, at least the small corner I passed through.

Iowa State Line

Welcome to Iowa, home to more corn and soy.

Harvey's Chicken Inn in Creston, Iowa

This second reference to fried chicken today, found here in Creston, Iowa, at Harvey’s Chicken Inn, suggests a mid-west/Great Plains tradition of fried chicken dinners. Now I want some.

Osceola, Iowa

This is not a fried chicken restaurant in Osceola, Iowa, where I’ll be spending the night, nor is it my hotel, that’s across the street.

Evergreen Inn in Osceola, Iowa

I’m at the Evergreen Inn in a small but cute enough room with everything I need, including the bargain price of about $60 for the night. I wonder if I’ll dream of corn and soybeans.

Solo Across America – Day 3

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Sunrise from Lamar, Colorado

Showered, packed, and ready to go, I delivered bags to the car before sunrise, which allowed me to enjoy a glorious dawn on the Great Plains. But I wasn’t ready to leave as I had yesterday’s blog post to complete. Without a coffee shop or open diner, I had no choice but to deal with my narrative from the hotel room, missing whatever the sky had in store for the rest of the early morning.

Colorado Route 196 direction Bristol, Colorado

Forty-five minutes later, I was on the road toward Bristol, Colorado, and realized how enchanted I was by these flat lands. Up ahead at the intersections of Colorado 196 and US Route 385, 18 miles east of Lamar, I pulled over to step out of the car and take a moment. It’s certainly flat and a bit noisy with the insects abuzz, a bunch of barn swallows, and a lot of trucks. While it was early to desire nothing more than to pull up a chair and linger a while; that’s just what I felt would make the day so much better. It’s a good thing I didn’t pack a folding chair. Before leaving, I was able to listen to a few brief moments of the western meadowlark.

US-385 north toward Sheridan Lake, Colorado

The few trees there are out here are associated with somebody’s property; I don’t believe there is one wild tree out here.

US-385 north toward Sheridan Lake, Colorado

Nope, no bison here; you’d have to have wild grasslands and not the mono-culture farming that’s going on here on the Great Plains.

Sign pointing to the Sand Creek Massacre National Historic Site near Eads, Colorado

This sign reads, “Sand Creek Massacre National Historic Site.” With a designation like that, you know that whatever this was, it was bad. Because it was classified as such, you also should know that it involved the Indigenous people of these lands. If you spent time on the Great Plains, you’d understand the vast area this encompasses; it stretches in all directions, and then think that back in the day, it was grasslands as far as the eye could see. There were no roads, railroads, trees, or mountains, nothing on the horizon for many miles. When the massacre of Cheyenne and Arapaho people happened, it was 1864, three years before the first train would roll through, and the nomadic people who called these lands home knew quite well how to live and coexist in such a wide open space, but white Christian people did not. I have to wonder just how hateful were those god-fearing Christian settlers when it came to people with skin color and customs different from their own. This sign makes me feel that the land of the Great Plains is soaked in the blood and death of countless people, nearly all the bison, the habitats, and traditions that were being erased.

Grain silo in Sheridan Lake, Colorado

I love these old-grain silos, but finding information about them is not very easy. The design appears to be from the early 20th century, maybe around 1910. I’m going with this date due to several factors: the first important one is the design, which was popular between 1910 and 1940.

Railroad tracks in Towner, Colorado

The next clues to the puzzle of how old the Sheridan Lake grain silo is came from this section of railroad track up the road in Towner, Colorado. I’d pulled over thinking I would snag an old insulator from the telegraph poles that still line the track, but no luck there. However, walking along the overgrown, long-retired track, I saw that a steel rail was stamped with a date of 1945. This would have had to have been post-World War II because all steel supported the war effort before that. The steel in train tracks is good for about 30 years before needing replacement, but I could see that being postponed due to World War II. Shortly after that, the highway system and modern trucking made the trains irrelevant, and now they are too expensive to remove.

Kansas State Line on Highway 96

Welcome to Kansas.

Sorghum on Kansas Route 27

Animal feed or ethanol production? What else might the thousands of acres of sorghum be used for? It’s probably the same thing as with all the corn.

Wallace County Courthouse in Sharon Springs, Kansas

I’m not focusing on towns and cities because I’m too quickly passing through. Besides, many of them are tragic hulks of what they’d once been, but this Wallace County Court House in Sharon Springs, Kansas, has held up perfectly, just as much of the town. Tribune, Kansas, is holding on south of here; I passed through that town 30 minutes earlier. I was struck by the fact that I’d driven more than 50 miles without passing a gas station or convenience store, which had me thinking how nothing is conveniently had out here when medium and large cities are often more than 100 miles away.

Wind turbines north of Interstate 70 and Oakley, Kansas

Out of Oakley, Kansas, I started driving up US-83, which I’ve driven on before, most recently last May when Caroline left the Canadian border on this road, taking it as far as Texas. Before that, my daughter Jessica and I took refuge at a gas station at the Interstate 70 and US-83 intersection during a ferocious hail storm. Today, I’m only an 18-mile stretch of this iconic US-83 highway.

Intersections of US-83 and US-24 east of Colby, Kansas

Right here, where US-83 crosses US-24, I turned left to venture down new roads. It’s still flat as a board.

Corn growing on State Route 23 north of Hoxie, Kansas

There’s not a lot of crop diversity on this 200-mile section of Kansas I’m crossing today: sorghum and corn, followed by more sorghum, more corn, and more corn.

Grain silo in Dresden, Kansas

I’m still intrigued after all these years of stumbling across towns showing their heritage with names such as Dresden.

Long Island, Kansas

Welcome to Long Island, the one in Kansas, not New York. The landscape has been changing with more trees and hills; this can only mean one thing: we are approaching another state.

Gas station in Long Island, Kansas

Nothing more than a simple and functional gas station. No vending machines, no lottery tickets, no fried chicken, and only two pumps. Sometimes, narrow choices and getting directly to the matter at hand is a great option.

Field of soy beans in Nebraska

What’s this? A crop change? Could that be soybeans? Why, yes, it is. That must mean we’re in Nebraska!

Cornhusker Road to the marina at Harlan County Lake in Alma, Nebraska

The map app tells me that about nine miles down Cornhusker Road, which, as you can see, is unpaved dirt, is a marina on a lake in a town called Republican City, where I’ll find a restaurant on the water’s edge and some dinner. [Before anyone gets any ideas, Republican City is named after the Republican River – Caroline] In Alma, where I’m staying, there’s a pizza place open; that’s it. The guy at the front desk of the Super 8 ($80, including tax) told me that nothing is open because today is Monday. Please, someone, give me a memo next time I want to travel on Monday that it’s a bad idea should I want something other than diabetes fuel. So, what did I have at the marina restaurant? Yep, diabetes fuel with a burger and fries. Fresh pan-fried lake fish and steamed veg were not on the menu, though they did have an extensive selection of pizza.

View of Harlan County Lake from Republican City, Nebraska

For everything else I prepped for before leaving Phoenix, fishing and grilling gear wasn’t part of that setup. Just behind me, while I was taking this photo from the top of the dam holding back the waters of the Harlan County Lake, I spotted fishermen in waders working the outlet waters of the reservoir about fifty feet below my vantage point. I have Caroline’s kite in the car, but what good does that do anyone?

Solo Across America – Day 2

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

San Juan River in Blanco, New Mexico

It’s late in the day as I sit in my hotel room in Lamar, Colorado, at 9:30 p.m. and try to find where my mind was fourteen hours earlier. I know that my physical being was leaving Farmington, New Mexico, after coffee at a local Starbucks, and I know that I crossed the San Juan River in Blanco (seen here). From there, I merged into a 389-mile (626km) blur of sights, sounds, and thoughts, but this isn’t how a blog post chronicling the experiences of a day is supposed to unfold. Nope, grand insights and spectacular vistas are to be shared, and certain enough, those are ahead, but I’m contending with a state of tiredness while simultaneously being aware that I can’t fall behind in writing duties because there is no time to catch up during this trip. What isn’t finished tonight will only eat into the next morning and the opportunity to capture the greatest sunrise image I’ve taken yet. So, without further ado, I need to move away from sad excuses and put my fingers to work telling of this day to the best of my ability.

North of La Jara Arroyo in New Mexico on US Route 64

I’d stopped near Pueblita Canyon to take a photo from a bridge crossing La Jara Arroyo. I thought it would be a nice image with all of the green plants, curvy hills, and a sandy dry wash bed, but it turned into a washed-out bunch of stuff that lacked detail, while the trees of the forest on the side of a mountain in this photo I felt looked pretty nice in contrast.

North of La Jara Arroyo in New Mexico on US Route 64

There are very few cars out here this morning, and maybe that makes sense, seeing it’s Sunday. Not only that, kids have gone back to school in many parts of the West, so vacation season is largely over. Maybe Labor Day the following weekend will be the last hurrah. There are plenty of gas and oil service vehicles out here tending to wells and tanks, along with some quiet space, temperatures in the low 60s, and some birds such as the Woodhouse’s scrub-jay and Cassin’s kingbird. Stopping for this stuff is peculiar; no one else is with me, and no real plan is being played out other than the need to drive the remaining 1,843 miles to reach Buffalo, New York, in time to pick up Caroline next Saturday. So, it’s just me, my thoughts, the camera, and moments of near silence.

Somewhere between Dulce and Chama in New Mexico on US Route 64

I have an overwhelming familiarity with the topology of the United States, which lends a sense of melancholy due to the knowledge that I’m driving out of the Southwest today. While I’m generally excited by the prospect of new roads and sights starting much later today, I’m keenly aware of how much I love this corner of our country. Bare rocks, canyons, and jutting cliffs are uncommon in the Great Plains and Eastern Seaboard. At this point on my road trip, I’m on U.S. Highway 64, east of Dulce, New Mexico.

Cumbres Toltec Train Depot in Chama, New Mexico

I’m still traveling familiar roads, and while we’ve not been to this particular train station in 15 years, it’s not for lack of trying, as we were supposed to attend engineering school here at the Cumbres & Toltec Train Station to learn to pilot one of their 100-year-old steam trains that run these lines a couple of years ago, but Covid and then the big uptick in tourism put that on hold. There’s a rumor that the 4-day classes will possibly return in 2025.

Route 17 in Northern New Mexico

The landscape is changing, most likely because I’m approaching another state.

Route 17 at the Colorado State Line

Like refrigerator magnets of yore, Caroline and I used to collect images of all the state signs with us standing next to them for proof that we’d been where we claimed we’d been. Notice how you can’t really know if I took this photo or stole someone else’s. Then again, I could just as easily Photoshop myself into it or maybe generate one with AI.

Route 17 in Colorado

I can see the writing on the wall that the relatively straight line drive across America will not have been enough, that a circuitous zig-zagging 90-day meander will be needed in order to best feel that we are seeing all the nooks and crannies. I’m fairly certain this road has been driven before; this old blog post from the July 4th weekend, 2009, seems to attest to that.

Cumbres Pass Railroad Station in Colorado

What a nice stroke of luck! I arrived at Cumbres Pass (elevation 10,022 feet or 3,055 meters) while this old coal-burning steam train of the Cumbres & Toltec line was in the mountain station. I wish I could have made a video of it pulling out of the station with the chug-chug sound, blowing steam, and the beautiful sound of the whistle, but it was photos or video, and as I don’t tell stories with moving pictures, I had to hope I’d get a half-decent image to share here, I think this one worked best.

Elk Creek Meadow and Canejos River off Route 17 in Colorado

Fifteen years ago, I took this photo from the exact same pullout, but the contrast between the images couldn’t be stronger. This time, I’m able to identify the location: that’s Elk Creek Meadow and the Canejos River down there, with my viewpoint being on Route 17.

Las Mesitas Church near Mogote, Colorado

Photographed this ruin of the San Isadore Church in Las Mesitas, Colorado, west of Antonito, Colorado, back in 2009, looks the same.

Blanca Peak near the Great Sand Dunes National Park from US Route 160 in Colorado

Somewhere in that general direction to the left behind Blanca Peak lies the Great Sand Dunes National Park. Believe it or not, the tallest of those peaks is 14,350 feet or 4,374 meters high. I had to go digging in our past, where I found that we last visited the dunes back on August 31st, 2003; yep, there’s a blog post for that day.

Somewhere on US Route 160 in Colorado

Goodbye mountains; from here forward, it gets flat and flatter.

Defunct gas station on Route 10 near Walsenberg, Colorado

This defunct gas station, which last sold fuel at the bargain price of $1.14 a gallon, marks the point on the map that I can be certain I’m traversing new roads. I’ve passed through the town of Walsenburg and under Interstate 25 to get here 679 miles from Phoenix, Arizona. I’m on State Route 10 driving east, and as you can see to the south, bad weather is rolling in.

Valdez Cemetery in Walsenburg, Colorado off Route 10

Two small gravestones not far from this one noted the passing of two children, born a year apart, with neither of them reaching their second birthday. We can never know a thing about their brief lives other than their untimely passings. We might find descendants of family members, but the likelihood that anyone knows the fate of those children is next to zero, and that’s the reality for most of us. Like thunder in the distance, we’ll have made a noise and just as quickly fade away. During these days of our own awareness, we can feel that we are at the center of a universe, yet a plurality of people, from my perspective, self-relegate themselves to living in a sterile box and will make little noise in their lifetimes.

Somewhere on Route 10 in Colorado west of La Junta

We need to be the bright spot, the flash of lightning in each other’s lives. Make a splash with the deafening crack of thunder, so others know of our existence. This is done when we attempt the difficult things in life and strive to challenge one another, find inspiration in our lives, and seek the world anew. Routine is not a way forward; we must break free of those shackles that leave us in fear.

Rainbow over La Junta, Colorado

Some might say that there’s nothing out here on Colorado State Route 10, but maybe the same could be said about the universe. The more important thought is, what meaning do we give things when little else can be found?

Lamar, Colorado

I’ve reached Lamar, Colorado, out in the middle of nowhere. This is the last photo for this day of intense traveling where I didn’t drive all that far, a mere 398 miles (640km), but averaging only about 38 miles per hour and jumping from the car some 50 times or so, that’s right, you only see a fraction of the photos I took today, I’m tired and would love to go to sleep early. As I said at the top, I need to keep up with these blogging chores and knock them out before the thoughts and impressions of these days of driving solo across the United States start to fade after I meet up with Caroline again.

Solo Across America – Day 1

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Caroline Wise and John Wise in Phoenix, Arizona

Actors, that’s what I’m calling us because looking at us, you wouldn’t believe our emotional turmoil when this photo was taken moments before saying bye until next Saturday. For months, we knew this day was coming; it’s not the first time we’ve been separated by travels that took one or the other of us somewhere away, but still, when the day arrives, when the hour creeps closer when the minutes wind down, there is no good way to hug and express our love adequately enough to allay the flood of emotions. Our tethers to one another grow shorter the older we become; romance is still our middle name.

Verde River in Fort McDowell Indian Reservation, Arizona

And here I am, a little later, behind the camera, with New York on the horizon. Actually, this is the Verde River on the Fort McDowell Yavapai Nation. I’ve wanted to grab a photo of this sight for years, but traffic on this bridge can move fast, making this stop precarious. Today, I took the opportunity to pull over as traffic wasn’t too bad. After I snapped this image, I was looking for a photo of the desert and some saguaro cacti that would encapsulate the environment I’m leaving, but this being summer, the landscape never offered up a scene I felt worthy of stopping for, especially when considering I have four hundred miles of driving ahead of me.

SR87 north of Strawberry, Arizona

The distance I’m driving today wouldn’t typically be an issue, but my commitment to avoiding all freeways means that not only will I have more opportunities to see the intimate side of America, but my pace will be slowed by the size of roads and more importantly, I get to stop for photos. That, though, is where problems arise. You see, taking photos in my mind only takes a few seconds, but in reality I can lose myself in the process, and I end up seriously delaying everything.

SR87 on the way to Winslow, Arizona

That is why I allocated eight days to drive out there, out across America. These very roads away from everything else draw me in, places where I can stand in the middle of the street on a busy Saturday, and people are polite enough to wait miles away for me to take a photo of a wide open space.

Little Colorado River in Winslow, Arizona

I emerged on the high desert approaching Winslow, Arizona, after passing through the cool forests of Payson, Pine, and Strawberry. I have no time for standing on the corner since I’ve been there and done that, as the saying goes. I’m feeling a bit anxious that I might be moving too slowly. It probably had something to do with leaving Phoenix later than planned, stopping at Starbucks and talking for a few minutes with regulars who wanted to hear about this trip, and then that u-turn I made to fetch some In & Out Burger that would be the last one I’d see for the next 8,000 miles (about 13,000km) I’ll be driving. Anyway, that’s the freeway out there crossing the Little Colorado River, and no, I’m not going to get on it to make up time. My commitment to this adventure of a backroads meander is holding fast.

SR87 on the Navajo Reservation in Arizona

I passed a Native American hitchhiker as I drove into the Navajo and Hopi Nations. While I have the space, I don’t have the headspace to want to talk with a passenger. I feel guilty for leaving that man at the side of the road, but I’m looking for my voice out here and to have the intrusion of someone else’s, well, that risks crowding out my own. Part of me thinks he might have lent me inspiration, but then I’d be writing his story, not mine.

Horses near Dilkon, Arizona

It’s not that State Route 87 is too big a road; it is only two lanes, but this Indian Route 60 gets that much further out. There are no fences out here near Dilkon, and something about that makes the land feel infinitely more open.

Navajo Reservation on the US 191 near Nazlini

After turning right on Indian Route 15, I was greeted by a torrential downpour that would have been great had it not been for all the signs warning that I was in a flashflood area. Getting photos of the deluge proved impossible, not that shooting through a windshield ever produces great results, and there was no stopping under that storm as all I wanted to do was get out of the flashflood zone and hope it wouldn’t start hailing. This is the otherside of Greasewood looking back at what I drove through.

Near Lukachukai on the Navajo Reservation, Arizona

Dreams of better weather to the west while directly overhead are reminders that rain isn’t far away.

Near Lukachukai on the Navajo Reservation, Arizona

The dark clouds of monsoon season stayed behind me or to the right, leaving me with the sense they were pushing me along. I’d stopped in Chinle to talk with Caroline on the phone, though we’d been chatting the entire morning into the afternoon as I worked my way northeast. A friendly rez dog approached and shared in my quick roadside dinner of a boiled egg and a lettuce roast beef wrap. This reminds me that we don’t have dog food in the car for these moments. I encountered this red rock on the road out of Lukachukai, which took me on a steep, twisty road up over some mountains and brought me closer to New Mexico.

Approaching Red Valley, Arizona

Off in the distance is Shiprock, which calls New Mexico home.

Rainbow in front of the Red Valley Trading Post, Arizona

I stopped at the Red Valley Trading Post as Caroline voiced a wish for a trinket of some sort, but sadly, this trading post doesn’t offer such things. They did have an incredibly friendly rez dog out front and this rainbow, so I didn’t leave empty-handed.

At the Arizona and New Mexico State Lines near Red Valley and Shiprock

It’s growing late in the day, and while I should be reluctant to stop for even more photos, I can’t help myself. Plus, I need to remember that I planned this so I could go slow, stop frequently to see the world, consider things, maybe write a bit, and have the flexibility to take my time. Sometimes, it isn’t easy to let go of urgencies and the sense that we need to be somewhere.

Indian Service Route 13 in New Mexico near Shiprock

While it never rained on me again after leaving the Greasewood area, the threat of wet weather was ever present and mostly acted as beautiful reminders of what monsoon season in the desert looks like.

Shiprock, New Mexico

I had been disappointed that Shiprock was in shadow as I approached from the southwest, but here I am on its eastern flank, and a dramatic sky frames it ever so nicely. It was well after 9:00 p.m. when I pulled into Farmington, New Mexico, and found a motel. I set the alarm for 5:30 to get out early before sunrise to set up in a Starbucks to write this post, as the photos were prepped before I went to sleep. It’s 7:15 in the morning when I finish this. The sun is up, and I’m ready to continue this meander east, hopefully without buckets of rain along the way.