Goth Bowling

Jay Patel, Raenu, Rinku Shah, and Caroline Wise bowling in Phoenix, Arizona

It’s Saturday night in Phoenix, Arizona; what you gonna do? How about coloring our hair and putting on some dark lipstick and eyeliner for a night of Goth Bowling? That sounds like a great idea; get out your blackest clothes, and let’s go freak out the locals on a summer night.

Rinku Shah bowling in Phoenix, Arizona

Okay, did anyone give Rinku any lessons on how to throw the ball down the lane?

Jay Patel, Raenu, Rinku Shah, and Caroline Wise bowling in Phoenix, Arizona

The sad looks reflect their sad scores, but don’t let the tears fool you; we all had great fun.

Las Vegas

Caroline, Rinku, Raenu, John Wise and Jay Patel on the road in Arizona

A plot to take Jay to Las Vegas without his prior knowledge was hatched just days before. Anju helped us out by filling in at the store while Jay joined me to pick up some packages delivered by UPS. On the way, we see three women hitchhiking. I stopped to pick them up; they identified themselves as Sandy, Mandy, and Candy, and so began our foolery to bring Jay on a surprise visit to Vegas.

Caroline, Rinku, Raenu, and Jay in Las Vegas, Nevada

We left Phoenix at 3:15 and arrived in Vegas at 7:45.

 Jay Patel in Las Vegas, Nevada

Jay hadn’t been to Vegas before, and as he was leaving America in a few weeks, he just had to go.

Rinku, Raenu, and Jay in Las Vegas, Nevada

We went up the Stratosphere to ride the Bigshot and X-Scream at midnight,

 Jay Patel and Caroline Wise in Las Vegas, Nevada

Walked all over the place, goofing off until 4:30 a.m.

 Jay Patel in Las Vegas, Nevada

Goofing off until Jay passed out. Just kidding, we headed to our hotel to get all of 3 hours of sleep, figuring it was better than nothing.

Caroline, Rinku, Raenu, and Jay at Hoover Dam in Arizona

We awake early and are back on the road at 7:45 a.m. to Phoenix so Jay can get to work by noon. Here we are at Hoover Dam on the Arizona side. That’s Caroline Wise, Jay Patel, Rinku Shah, and Raenu.

In America with Jay Patel – Day 10

Jay Patel with Caroline and John Wise entering New Mexico

Ring…Ring….The alarm should have shaken us awake on the final day of this 13-state road trip. But Caroline, sometime during the night, turned it off, and we overslept by half an hour. Maybe she was about to take another midnight shower before she rechecked the clock, seeing it was too early to arise, and went back to sleep forgetting to reset the clock. It’s another hour before we checkout. We drop the key at the front desk and take advantage of the offer for coffee and donuts. Exhaustion is catching up with us.

Snow on the mountains with blue skies and wildflowers was a welcome sight as we got back out on the road.

Fort Union National Monument in New Mexico

Just as we start enjoying the mountains, they give way to the continuation of the Great Plains. Our next turnoff is towards the Fort Union National Monument and the Santa Fe National Historic Trail. The park doesn’t open till 8:00, but it’s 8:05, so we are ear-to-ear grins as this is one of the rare moments we are not too early.

We enter the grounds of the monument through the visitor’s center. This is the last National Park or Monument that we will enter on this particular National Park Pass that is expiring this month. A year before, we paid $50 for the annual pass and since that time it has taken us to the following National Parks: Everglades, Great Smoky Mountains, Hot Springs, the Grand Canyon twice, Glacier, Yellowstone twice, Grand Tetons twice, Canyonlands, Black Canyon of the Gunnison, Arches, Mesa Verde, Bryce, Great Basin, Redwoods, Channel Islands, Saguaro, Voyageurs, Theodore Roosevelt. We have also visited the following National Monuments on the same pass: White Sands, Hohokam Pima, Walnut Canyon, Dinosaur, Organ Pipe, Coronado, Chiricahua, Salinas Pueblo Mission, Bandelier, Petroglyph, Tuzigoot, Montezuma’s Castle, Wupatki twice, Sunset Crater, Great Sand Dunes, El Malpais, Gila Cliff Dwellings, Pinnacles, Tonto, Homestead, Fort Union, Effigy Mounds, and the Little Bighorn Battlefield. Finally, into these sites too: Fort Bowie National Historic Site, Tumacacori National Historic Park, Chaco Culture National Historic Park, Fort Clatsop National Memorial, Nicodemus National Historic Site, Fort Union Trading Post National Historic Site, onto the Blue Ridge Parkway.

Fort Union National Monument in New Mexico

The value of our National Parks is not wasted on Caroline and me; we love each and every park in the system we have visited. The $50 we pay each June for our annual park pass is some of the best money we spend all year. When we consider that the fees just to enter Glacier, the Grand Canyon, and Yellowstone would have been $100 for the past year, you can see how we appreciate this little plastic credit card-sized treasure.

Back to Fort Union, the day couldn’t be better; a deep blue sky and high clouds with snow-capped mountains far on the horizon is our backdrop. The fort was established in 1851 and served as a guardian to the Santa Fe Trail for forty years. Over those years, three different forts had been constructed with the last two’s remains still visible.

Fort Union National Monument in New Mexico

The ruins are not better preserved as the land the fort had been built on was never properly acquired and was actually squatting on private land. As the fort’s land was given back to its owner and people at the time not being able to see the future importance of such a place, the owner allowed all takers to come in to remove bricks, fixtures, wood beams, and other miscellaneous building materials that were subsequently used on their own homes and farms.

For 65 years, the fort sat exposed to the elements before President Eisenhower signed into law the bill that established national monument status for the biggest military fort of its day west of the Mississippi.

Visiting the ruins today, you walk down the original sidewalk, now cracked and buckling, past the remaining walls and chimneys. Some of the adobe walls still have original plaster holding tight to the walls that once gave refuge to soldiers protecting travelers of the Santa Fe Trail. A sundial still tells time much as it has for more than 100 years.

Some walls still stand over 12 feet tall and are the best preserved within the monument. Most of the structures were made of adobe, but a few remain made of stone. Amidst the walls, a number of old wagons, wheels, and farming implements still lay about. Thorny thistles poke out of the earth near the old stone jail. The cells were small and dark but quite cool, too; the cells probably offered the coolest location in the fort during the hot summers.

At the visitor’s center, we take a walk through a well-equipped museum that displays artifacts found during excavations over the years. On the western frontier, this is the most extensive and one of the most popular forts in the care of the park.

Rural New Mexico

On Interstate 25 for a short while, then we turn off on Route 84 which is a surviving segment of old Route 66. Typical with many of the towns that were on the now-famous route, they fall into decline, and in some cases, they disappear altogether. Anton Chico is one of the towns that are having a difficult time hanging on. Many of the buildings are collapsing or abandoned and awaiting their ultimate demise.

Snake in New Mexico

The old Route 66 must have been a scenic highway; the short segments we’ve traveled have always shown us the more beautiful parts of the country. We now dread the I-40, which replaced it; the interstate moves fast, with many a trucker pulling another load across the country on this congested superhighway. Only 26 miles down the I-40, and I’ve had enough. We turn off exit 230 south to Encino. Along the way, we pass a small lake and a snake trying to cross the blistering highway.

Rural New Mexico

Further along, a small flock of sheep scurries across the desert, kicking up dust as they run off. Not far after Encino a small abandoned house with its electricity meter still running has been taken over by birds that are nesting throughout the home. The former ranch, its trailer home, and fencing are all in need of serious repair. No for sale sign sits outside not that I’m in a buying mood for this dilapidated old place anyway.

Jay Patel in New Mexico

Jay jumped up on a train to get the feeling for what riding the rails across America might be like, more like surfing a train, I suppose. We pass a man walking across the desert who obviously doesn’t fit in the picture. I pull over to offer him some cold water, which he seems to appreciate, and we learn that he is Bob Brandkamp, who is on a ‘Road to Awareness” to help bring awareness to mental health. Bob is strolling across America. He is also mighty alone out here with some wide swaths of land to cover before coming upon another town that may or may not be inhabited. We wish him luck and then after leaving, wish we had given him one of our nice cold peach cups. Well, he is walking across America; I suppose he should be well prepared.

The land is austere, with short grasses and even smaller clusters of shrubs abounding. A dry salt lake stretches along the road for a while before our gaze returns to an empty land. At 12:30 we enter Mountainair and one minute later leave Mountainair. A half-hour after that we cross the Rio Grande and are now close to Socorro.

Jay Patel with Caroline and John Wise at Bosque Del Apache in New Mexico

Socorro a favorite New Mexican town of ours. It is here that we stay when we go to the Bosque Del Apache Wildlife Refuge for bird watching in winter. The first inevitable stop is the El Camino Family Restaurant, the only restaurant we eat at here in Socorro. The El Camino is a New Mexican version of Denny’s. 24-7 breakfast is standard, but the New Mexican touch is that they will smother anything you order with green chili if that’s your wish. The food has a bite, is considerably better than Denny’s, and is inexpensive. If someone were to ask Caroline and me what our favorite top 10 restaurants in America are, I’m sure the El Camino would be on it.

We are in the area, so we make our way down the road for a short detour to the Bosque, the winter home to 10s of thousands of migratory birds. We spent a New Year’s Day here a couple of years ago and were rewarded with seeing more than 20,000 snow geese simultaneously lift off an iced-over lake as two eagles spooked them into action. The flapping and commotion of so many birds overhead brought tears to nearly every one of the 35 people who braved the 18-degree (-8 Celsius) morning to watch the large birds disperse. On another early spring visit, we listened to thousands of songbirds bring the refuge to a symphonic ecstasy.

Today, the refuge is nearly silent save for the wind rustling the grass. Some stragglers are in the few ponds that still have water. The grasses, though, are lushly green and taller than we’ve seen them at other times of the year. The wind blows just enough to make small waves on the water, and we, in turn, wave goodbye to the refuge.

Jay Patel in New Mexico

By the Rio Grande River again, we look for a place, any place to get down into the water but give up quickly with the need to return to Phoenix before midnight. North on the I-25 for a short time until Interstate 60 takes us west. The I-40 would be faster but is also so anticlimactic after such a rewarding long drive across so much beautiful land. Besides, just off the 60 is the VLA, also known as the Very Large Array.

The VLA gained fame after Jodie Foster, in her role in the film Contact, made the radio telescopes world-famous. Short on time, but with such dramatic skies, we take the turnoff to visit the VLA. Under these giant radio telescopes, the wind howls through their massive structures. Today, the ears listening to space are configured in such a way that all of the dishes are stacked close to the visitor center. On other visits, the array is spread across many a mile.

Pie Town, that famous locale for pies: we’ve been through here so many times we can no longer count them. Pie Town must surely be open to serving us some pie today because it is just not possible that this place can be closed every single time we come through. Wrong. It is closed, and we will have no pie. I’d tell you more about Pie Town, but then you might have the same curiosity we have only to never be able to satisfy that curiosity because Pie Town is never actually serving pie, or so it seems.

Jay Patel and Caroline Wise standing in the Little Colorado River in Arizona

The road is quickly approaching Arizona just as fast as the sun drops in the sky. As if coordinating with the Arizona state welcome sign, the sun is nearly aligned behind the sun of our state’s flag.

One more chance to step into a river has presented itself. Appropriately, it is the Little Colorado River. When the trip began, the first river that Caroline and Jay stepped into was the Colorado River; today, with only a few more hours before we got home, they stepped into the Little Colorado River.

Caroline, who has come down with a cold late on the trip closes her eyes and tries to get a little rest. The sun sets in the Tonto National Forest while we snake our way down and through the Salt River Canyon. At 10:48 p.m. after 6,132 miles, we are home.

In America with Jay Patel – Day 9

Saturday at 6:30 in the morning, with a light rain breaking up in the face of the approaching sun. We’ll only be in this small corner of Missouri briefly today. Five years ago, Caroline and I were just 63 miles south of here in St. Joseph, Missouri, after having visited the hometown of Amelia Earhart in Atchison across the Missouri River in Kansas. It was that beautiful stretch of river that had me penciling in this corner of Missouri in the hope of reliving a moment from that earlier cross-country road trip.

Jay Patel with Caroline and John Wise entering Missouri

Crossing into Missouri last night, we never had the chance to stop for our photo in front of the “Welcome to Missouri” sign, so we took this opportunity to snap a photo of us leaving.

Jay Patel with Caroline and John Wise entering Nebraska

Turn around and blam, Nebraska. Barns offer the best clues to the fact that we are still in farmland. The small, still-sleeping town of Auburn strikes me with similar feelings that I experienced in Vinton, Iowa: I think I could live here. A wish is said that this great slice of Americana doesn’t disappear in the economic reality that drags life and business to the two coasts, laying waste to so much of Middle America.

Jay Patel with Caroline and John Wise at Homestead National Monument in Nebraska

The road between Auburn and Beatrice is 52 miles long, 52 miles of farms. The map shows that we pass through Tecumseh, Crab Orchard, and Filley, but we can find no distinguishing characteristics because the homes belonging to the barns are spread out to such an extent that the borders of these small towns are lost as we pass through. The other side of Beatrice is the reason this road became part of the path on our journey home.

The Homestead National Monument of America is one of only three national monuments in this state without a single National Park. [Note from the future: Since 2021 this place is known as Homestead National Historical Park – Caroline] That’s not to say Nebraska is devoid of a rich history or beauty, as it can claim one national historic site, five national historic trails, and one national scenic river. So, if a potential visitor to Nebraska is wondering what to do and the trails of Lewis & Clark, the California Trail or the Mormon Pioneer Trail, Oregon Trail, and the Pony Express trail captivate your curiosity, this is a state you might want to consider visiting.

Homestead National Monument in Nebraska

The Homestead Monument’s visitor center was still closed as we arrived, a common occurrence during this outing. The trail to the grounds of the monument was wide open, though, and without another soul in the park, we were able to wander the area undisturbed. Homestead was established to commemorate the Homestead Act of 1862, where nearly any man or woman could make claim to 160 acres of land granted by the U.S. Government to live the American dream. This site is one of the first homesteads claimed and demonstrates what the lands were like to the earlier settlers on the Great Plains. Of course, this doesn’t take into consideration that the lands were stolen from Native Americans to give to whites so our ancestors could establish supremacy while practically enslaving Indians or simply exterminating them. That ugly part of history doesn’t seem to make an appearance here, so we’ll just try to imagine that the indigenous inhabitants got bored hanging out with nothing to do and left for the Arctic or maybe a different planet.

Homestead National Monument in Nebraska

We entered the homestead through a woodland path next to a small creek. The forest is comprised of white oaks, green ash, osage orange, and cottonwoods which are surprising to us visitors who have imagined the Great Plains as desolate grasslands. The trail leaves the forest for a moment, taking us to the edge of the prairie before looping back into the thicket of plants, grasses, flowers, mushrooms, and the occasional frog.

The grasslands known as the tallgrass prairie that existed prior to their destruction for cattle ranching have been restored here. A 2.5-mile trail leads us around the extent of the prairie past grasses with names such as big bluestem, switchgrass, cordgrass, Indiangrass, and little bluestem. During our leisurely stroll, we hear creatures scurrying through the grasses, but they remain well hidden.

Every visitor should be so lucky to experience the quiet we did here at Homestead National Monument. We could listen to the faint breezes passing through the grasses while birds, frogs, and other small animals lend their voices and steps to embellish the perspective of history.

For a short stretch, the land is flat, as flat as a board. Only the recurring grain elevators stand off the horizon to give reference to anything being further ahead.

Little Blue River is anything but: it is brown, mud brown. Somewhere between Fairbury and Gilead, a little water tower stands over the landscape, almost in the middle of nowhere. As prolific as the grain elevators, community churches dot the landscape giving elegance to the barns, silos, elevators, tractors, and open space. Somewhere in all this openness along our current stretch of road, we stop at a deserted home.

The windows are gone, the sink is on the rear patio, and the barn has lost its purpose. Cows from a nearby farm stand by a salt lick checking us checking them out. Amongst the weeds, weed! A pot farm right here in Middle America. Well, that’s an exaggeration; it’s a few plants that, like the weeds they are, have taken hold next to the other weeds. They are scattered too randomly to have been planted with intent and soon will be large enough for someone to spot them here in the open, and he will probably remove them unless some unscrupulous teenagers find them first.

These abandoned homes convey many feelings to me as I pass them and occasionally explore one here and there. The paint inside is flaking, and the wallpaper is peeling; outside, the paint has usually been weathered away. These are reminders of other people’s lives who may have met with such hardship as to drive them away. Still, they hold fragments of memories and offer clues about histories that have joined the blowing dust.

Walking through the fading shells, I hope to see an old photo of the family or a fork or spoon once used during better times. Usually, the remnants of the inhabitants are long gone, replaced with the trash or graffiti of later visitors. The floors creak as I pass over them, and doors, when still attached, squeak when opened. Most always I find evidence of birds or animals that have taken refuge or made their own homes within these old homes. It will be a sad day when these relics are gone and replaced by our more modern homes made of plastics, wire, stucco, and cement.

Jay Patel with Caroline and John Wise entering Kansas

Our time in Nebraska has been short. Red Cloud is the last town we will pass through before turning south to make our way across Kansas. The Republican River crosses our path while we are southbound, but we can find no place to step into its muddy, shallow waters. Kansas greets us with its bright sunflowery “Welcome to Kansas” sign. We have now driven more than 4,600 miles, with more than 1,500 in front of us to finish between today and tomorrow.

Lebanon, Kansas

Entering Kansas the birds are singing, insects are buzzing, and the sweet smell of grass blows into the car as the wind works the fields into an ocean of waves. This is a fitting place for the geographic center of the 48 contiguous US states. A small monument stands in recognition of this claim to fame here, one mile west of Highway 281 and two miles north of Lebanon.

Out here in this flatness, we missed our turn. Not only did we miss our turn, but we missed it by 23 miles. The next opportunity to correct our mistake takes us through the nearly deserted town of Waldo, where most of the buildings appear empty. We stop at the outskirts of Plainville for gas and stop again at the corner of Main St. and Plainville after spotting a mailbox that lets us get rid of more of the postcards on their way to India, Germany, Arizona, and California.

Jay Patel with Caroline and John Wise at Nicodemus National Historic Site in Kansas

Nicodemus was where we were heading before our missed turn, and now we have arrived. Out west, this is the only remaining town established by African Americans following the Civil War. In September 1877, during the Reconstruction Period, Nicodemus was founded with people originally living in dugouts, like prairie dogs. By the spring of 1878, about 300 people were living here, and the town began to transform. By the mid-1880s, the town had grown to include two newspapers, three general stores, three churches, a school, an ice cream parlor, a bank, homes, and a few hotels.

A hoped-for rail line was laid south of the Solomon River but too far to be of benefit, and Nicodemus began its long slow decline. African-American cowboys, soldiers, miners, farmers, and business owners who had gotten their start in Nicodemus long maintained a bond with the community and for years celebrated the last weekend in July in Nicodemus with “Homecoming.” Homecoming originated as Emancipation Day, observing the freeing of the slaves from the West Indies; the celebration became Homecoming and has endured for over 100 years.

The town continues to exist today, with a small handful of residents holding fast to ensure the town doesn’t die. The National Park Service in 1996 established Nicodemus as a National Historic Site. The five remaining historical buildings can be viewed on a nice walking tour of the community. The visitors center is now located in the Township Hall with the four other buildings awaiting restoration work.

Our tour of the town starts at the old St. Francis Hotel and leads past an old playground at a corner park. The next stop is the boarded-up African Methodist Episcopal Church. An old barn is the home of some friendly enough pigs that have taken up residence under the floorboards. A dozen of them come out to greet us, looking hungry; without a food offering, they soon lose interest and head back under the shady building.

The First District School is the last building at the edge of town. Some minor restoration work has already begun on the school to stop its collapse until further funding can be found. A rusty swing set, slide, and jungle gym look unused for more than a generation. The skies are beautiful today over Nicodemus; it is easy to see why, after the town had some roots, people would want to call this home.

Nicodemus National Historic Site in Kansas

The streets of Nicodemus are growing grass, and the signs are close to falling down. The walk down these historic roads is a solemn one, and my thoughts turn to wonder at how life had once tried to flourish here. The last historic building on the west side of town is the First Baptist Church.

Back through the playground for a final stop at the Township Hall and we strike out once again on this extraordinarily flat land. From here to the border of Colorado, we pass through the flattest of land driven during this trip. Windmills, the occasional tree, fluffy clouds, and some blowing dust crossing the highway keep us company. Another grain elevator, some horses, green grasses against a blue sky, the sun lowering over the flat horizon, and we are now close to Colorado.

Jay Patel with Caroline and John Wise entering Colorado

Before crossing the state line, we re-enter Mountain Time and gain an hour. It’s 7:00 p.m. as we drive into Colorado, and a plaque next to the road commemorates that we are on the Santa Fe Trail that ran through this very spot from 1822 to 1872. This road that took various peoples to a new life out west is a road typifying the pioneer spirit and America’s love of the freedom to go.

Twenty miles further down the road, that ideal came to an abrupt halt for 6,285 Americans of Japanese descent and 1,033 Japanese immigrants who were interred at the Amache Relocation Camp, also known as a concentration camp. Starting on August 27, 1942, American authorities, who had begun the roundup of all people with Japanese features, began filling this camp in Colorado as they were also doing in California, Arizona, Utah, Idaho, Wyoming, and Arkansas.

This 10,500-acre camp, with the smallest population of “Japs” of the camps, was ultimately closed on October 15, 1945. At its height, the camp had its own newspaper, school, medical facility, and general store. The barracks were 120 by 20 ft., with a family of seven or less assigned a room of 20 by 20 ft., allowing for six apartments per barrack. With the end of the war and the publicizing of the Nazi concentration camps, America moved with haste to eliminate all remnants of its own concentration camps. Bulldozers came in and stripped the lands bare, removing streets, buildings, gardens, schools, guard towers, and camp fencing.

Today, only a few foundations still exist. The old roads are now graded so visitors can gain some understanding of the layout of the camp. Trees that were not knocked down grow in such a pattern as to show the deliberation they were planted with next to a structure that no longer exists. While the foundations are cracked with weeds making their way through the former floors, it doesn’t take a lot of imagination to see what had been here.

As time goes by, remnants of the land’s previous occupants are making their way out from under the plowed land. Rusty cans, a forgotten sign, part of a ceramic pipe, another can with still legible type pokes its way out of the earth. Some of this may be trash blown in or dumped here as the years have gone by; some might be the artifacts of a blemish to America’s sense of dignity and fairness.

The sign to Amache is small and easy to miss; the road number is not to be found on two maps of Colorado we own. Finding information on the Internet as to the precise locations of the camps across the western U.S. is difficult to ferret out, suggesting a lingering embarrassment regarding their existence. The street signs in Amache identifying the blocks have mostly been stolen; a couple lay in the grass, hiding from casual visitors.

For sure, these were not death camps; medical experimentation did not occur at these sites. But the involuntary confinement and denial of the rights owed to each and every American were callously trampled by our country’s long history of xenophobia and the general hysteria that accompanied the bombing at Pearl Harbor that put into action the establishment of these camps.

The sun sets on Amache in this lonely corner of Colorado on a forgotten piece of land whose tragedy demands we do more to honor those who pay with their very freedom for the rights the rest of us enjoy. Some of us may fight for our country, but what is the sacrifice of those imprisoned without the chance to fight, who are isolated and robbed of their dignity, and whose children grow up knowing the hatred of the majority surrounding them? What is their contribution to the fight to make a more just and humane society from the cruelty that has so often been put upon those in these lands whose only offense is that they are different? Visiting a Concentration Camp can either make you stop and think or, as is demonstrated from the damage here at Amache, make you reach out and try to wipe this out of history.

Jay Patel at Delhi, Texas

Most of the driving in Colorado is at night; tomorrow, we have to be back in Phoenix, and with nearly a thousand miles to go, any miles we can finish today will make tomorrow’s trip all the better. Jay has some nostalgic feelings along this road south as we pass Delhi. We try to grab a photo, but it is as dark as dark gets, and the city sign reflects too much light to be able to effectively take a good photo. Compared to its namesake on the other side of the planet, this Delhi here in Colorado might have 50 people living here.

We end the night in Trinidad, Colorado. Tomorrow, we will gain another hour crossing back into Arizona and will finish the final 715 miles of driving before climbing into our own beds again.

In America with Jay Patel – Day 8

It was bound to happen: bad weather is collecting overhead. Thunder, lightning, and rain, with the TV news issuing flood warnings north of us. Some mild disappointment makes an appearance with the realization that the Apple Blossom Scenic Drive won’t be quite as scenic under these conditions. But we are heading generally southeast away from the storms so our hopes are that we might drive out of the foul weather and back into blue skies.

An hour down the road and a break in the clouds offer hope for a brighter future on the horizon. At Prairie du Chien we stop for a hot breakfast, the first since the Teton’s nearly a week ago. Our restaurant of choice is McDonald’s, hot and greasy. We ordered a bunch of Egg McMuffins, hash browns, coffee, and orange juice. After so many days of eating cold food from our ice chest, McDonald’s has extraordinary appeal.

Jay Patel with Caroline and John Wise entering Iowa

Wisconsin begins to fade away as Iowa comes into view after crossing the Mississippi for the last time during this vacation. From Marquette, the road north along the western shore of the Mississippi will take us to Effigy Mounds National Monument.

Jay Patel with Caroline and John Wise at Effigy Mounds National Monument in Iowa

Amazing, it is as though someone switched on super green. We entered the park near the visitor’s center after one of the park personnel familiarized us with the lay of the land. The trail begins easily enough on a boardwalk leading us to the base of the mountain we are about to climb, not a giant Western-style mountain, mind you. The dirt trail that’s up next isn’t all that steep initially, but after the first bend, we start making a fairly steep ascent. Steep enough to require a number of switchbacks, but any difficulty the trail gives is more than made up for with the lush flora surrounding our every step.

Effigy Mounds National Monument in Iowa

Flowers abound, tiny and delicate, a kind of whisper of beauty in the woods. Ferns, mosses, mushrooms, snails, and new plant growth of all types are found in every direction.

Effigy Mounds National Monument in Iowa

We are tiptoeing through an enchanted forest with a quiet typically reserved for libraries. The beauty is so great we don’t want the slightest noise from our plodding steps to disturb the scenery. In hushed tones, Jay draws my attention to another strange-looking fungus, and then we see our first effigy. It’s a bear. Next to the bear is a string of mounds our guidebook suggests are likely burial mounds and are not effigies themselves.

Effigy Mounds National Monument in Iowa

I almost overdosed on this encounter with Green. There should be warnings here for people coming out of the Southwest that saturation could have deleterious effects on people more accustomed to a brown palette with hints of tan.

Effigy Mounds National Monument in Iowa

Along the emerald green path, I’m still picking out small mushrooms, little flowers, and a field of plants, creating a floor sitting a foot and a half off the ground. The Great Bear Mound is the largest effigy remaining in the park system; it is so large I can find no way to photograph it to demonstrate its bear likeness.

Effigy Mounds National Monument in Iowa

Fungi of assorted types are scattered about here in greater frequency than we’ve seen elsewhere in America. A wide variety and odd shapes peak out or grow on various surfaces almost everywhere we look. Bulbous knoblike mushrooms and white giant ones with spiders making homes within semi-transparent louvered cozy-looking fins found underneath. Then, right next door are blobs of melted wax-looking fungi that are scattered about.

At the top of our short hike is Fire Point, a lookout over the Mississippi River. Hey, was that the sun? Get real.

Back on the other side of the small town of Marquette is a boat launch, another one of “those” photos, you know, standing in the water. Without speed boats, crowds, police helicopters, and other distractions, the river looks to us the way it must have looked to the Native Americans and early white settlers a couple of centuries ago. We are sad to leave the great Mississippi River.

Before we’d ever visited the Great Plains, I’d heard about the vast wheat and cornfields that stretch across the expanse of flat land called the heartland of America. Images of verdant rolling hills with an abundance of rivers, sporadic trees, wildflowers, prairies, and meadows were never a part of that equation. Today’s trip to Iowa is an eye-opener. The only time we hear of Iowa in the western United States is when the annual tornado tears out another trailer park. During our brief time in Iowa, we never see even one mobile home park but we see a ton of lush beauty.

The homes we do see are immaculate. We had noticed a phenomenon while in Wisconsin that has roots in Iowa, too; maybe it’s a Midwest characteristic. Their yards have the cleanest, most well-groomed lawns the three of us have ever laid eyes on. The nation’s golf course manicurists must all hail from the Midwest. In the middle of the afternoon, you can see maybe one in four homeowners out behind the lawnmower but more probably riding the lawnmower.

Entering the small village of Vinton, we drive into classic Americana. This is the place I would like to call home. Main Street is wide, with broad sidewalks and storefronts sitting below the two-story buildings that line the street. Garish neon signs are not seen, and the street lamps are old-fashioned globes that leave a nicer impression than a glowing Budweiser sign. The town is clean and quiet, seemingly in better financial shape than larger cities like Superior in Wisconsin. I wish the town officials luck in maintaining the character of such a fine little place.

South of Vinton, we are entering the Amana Colonies and right away wish we had more time to stroll the streets and historic buildings on this gorgeous spring day. We pass through West Amana for the main Amana Colony. You step out of the car and into a view of America not seen for one hundred years. The village is superbly maintained, its German heritage fully intact.

If for no other reason than the historic appeal of each and every building, even non-shoppers such as myself must be drawn into the stores. Stepping out of the bakery, we notice that the humidity is rising rapidly, quite high, really. To the north from where we have come from, dark clouds are amassing. A shop owner tells us what radio station to tune into when we return to the car so we can hear any weather alerts if they are issued.

We continue our walk amongst the historic buildings stopping occasionally on the lookout for gifts for friends and family back in Phoenix. Caroline and Jay both find candles for themselves, and I pick up two pounds of caramels to split between three or four friends. The old German architecture is complemented by well-tended gardens. Houses are made of stone, brick, and bare wood planks. Gardens are a combination of a wide variety of shrubs and a terrific assortment of the most colorful flowers.

The humidity is bearing down, and thunder is heard in the distance. With a bit of rain starting to fall, we leave the Amana Colonies and look back once we are on the road to see a blackening sky and remember the radio station. 105.7 KOKZ comes in with the announcer telling of tornado warnings in effect for three counties northeast of Amana or the area we just drove through.

In order to put distance between us and any tornado, we turn onto Interstate 80 heading west. For more than 100 miles, we cruise along at 80 mph, looking at blue skies, happy to miss a tornado but unhappy to have missed the intimacy of the countryside drive. Exit 93 at Stuart will take us back to the smaller road we should have stayed on had it not been for the storms.

Just 10 minutes after leaving the Interstate with the hope of making a solid disconnect with the speed of the highway, I turn off at Nations Bridge Park, following a small dirt road to a hilltop. On said hilltop sits a two-story viewing platform that only looks in one direction and that is through a heavy mesh fence that stops people from crawling out on the roof of the building. Not exactly memorable, but nice.

Another river, another house, more rolling hills, a windblown field of grass, the sun drawing lower in the sky. A large farm, a solitary tree, two barns on the side of a hill, the sun now hiding behind a cloud. The pace is slow and the road long; not a lot to distract the senses of someone needing constant stimulation, but this is just fine for me today.

Entering Kimballton an odd sight of Hans Christian Andersen’s Little Mermaid perched on a dry fountain. At 6:15 p.m., the town is closed for the evening, and short of rolling up the sidewalks, this place is empty. The same goes for Elk Horn, where we’ve come to see a famous Danish windmill, everything is closed.

The windmill came to America in early 1976 to help us celebrate our Bicentennial and possibly help maintain a small town, a town with one of the largest populations of Danes, too. Built-in 1848 in Norre Snede, Denmark, the windmill was disassembled and shipped to America. With the help of 300 volunteers, the iconic attraction was reassembled to become the only authentic Danish-built windmill in America.

Heading west as our destination is still way out in the distance.

Jay Patel with Caroline and John Wise entering Nebraska

It’s toward the end of sunset when we reach the Nebraska State Line and then speed over the bridge to dip feet into the Missouri River.

Now in Nebraska, Caroline and Jay are knee-deep in the Missouri River. This has been a great day for stepping into iconic waterways. After only 15 minutes in Nebraska, we are back in Iowa as that’s just the way the road works out this way.

With daylight fading and night fast approaching, we enter the De Soto National Wildlife Refuge to watch the rest of the sun slip under the horizon. The darkening blue sky hanging over this channel of the Missouri River flows past the border of tall grass meadows framed by forest. A small lake is half encircled with cattails, and a pond reflects some of the last light in front of silhouetted trees. At the shore of the Missouri is a high cloud, grabbing hold of the remaining light; the sun will scatter over the river, reflecting golden light in the waters before us. Our day becomes complete with this grand show between water, sky, and sun.

At 9:00 p.m., we finally leave the refuge and head into Council Bluffs, Iowa to hunt for pizza. The best and only thing we can find is Godfathers. Forty-five minutes later, we are on Interstate 29, south of Rockport, Missouri. With some minor difficulty in such a small town, we finally found our hotel. The hotel isn’t really in Rockport; it is the next exit after the turn-off for Rockport. It’s 11:30 p.m. as we lay down.