Prairie Weasels Ripped My Flesh, Part II

There was always something special about this trip.

A few weeks before, my wife found a small reproduction of a George Catlin painting of “‘White Cloud,’ Head Chief of the Iowas, 1844-1845″ that we had once given to her father. I mounted it over the bathroom sink, just below the big tall mirror. When you go to brush your teeth, you bend right down and look at White Cloud. It’s an interesting jolt.

There were also two trip imperatives: one was to take an extra day on the road so we could visit my wife’s early childhood home in Ottumwa and see her mother’s growing-up country on the way, the other was to bring home sand from the Sand Hills of Nebraska. Think of the latter as a private nature ritual or strange pilgrimage of some sort — and if you’ve ever visited the Sand Hills, you have some inkling of what I mean by “strange,” as going there twice except for following the beautiful Loup River is a raging odd condition! But more on the Sand Hills later. The point is that this road trip, like all the others, was always going to be more than wheels on pavement and exits flashing by.

I like that long road trips can be oriented to nature or spirit. We used to do that back East, too, and in this part of the world, you damn sure can! On the way north from Taos, there was snow on all the mountain peaks. Colorado was wet and ridiculously green, even on the empty road from Walsenberg to Rocky Ford and later on 71 north through Limon. We saw many antelope (pronghorns) very close to the road, where the grass was the thickest. I passed by three or four photographs of a lifetime in the process: the one of a tall pronghorn five feet from the fence, munching on a yucca blossom, comes first to mind.

This plugs a person right in, you know. Even though you’re heading somewhere, the goal is in the going. We see these things because I usually opt for “Rand McNally whitespace” routes. Interstates are okay where they work, but in many areas they’re just dysfunctional: noisy, harrowing, slow, and dangerous. We were so unnerved by riding behind two trucks going side by side for over 10 miles in Nebraska that when we got off the big road to change drivers and momentarily lost our bearings, we decided to skirt Lincoln and Omaha on the little two-lane roads we love so much. With that one action, we at least tripled our blessings.

For example, after a magnificent crossing of the Platte River just south of North Bend, Nebraska, we rolled into the little town at about half-past noon and spied a place called the “Corner Cafe.” It was obvious that we should stop there for lunch, partly to honor my late father-in-law’s many family trips in that part of the world — my wife was sure they’d driven by this very spot — but mainly, I think, because it was there… The streets were relatively quiet, except for the occasional clanking roar of a passing grain truck. I figured the joint would be mostly empty and non-threatening, of course, so imagine my surprise when we opened the door and found that every table was full! A sea of gimme caps and T-shirts stretched from wall to wall, and the din of conversation and shouted orders was almost deafening. No one seemed to pay us any mind as we made our way to seats at the counter, but I felt like I was intruding on a loud religious assembly of true believers — adherents to the Order of the Weekly Fried Chicken Special, as it turned out. We ate a fabulous meal, of course (I had the chicken), and everyone was wonderful. We had such a good time that my wife even agreed to drive back over the Platte and turn around again, just so I could shoot more bouncy, unwatchable videos.

This where the high of travel takes you. The spontaneity makes for a very fine state of consciousness you never want to end.

When I can manage this in everyday life (whatever that is), I’ll have it knocked, I tell ya.

[To be continued...]

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1. Prairie Weasels Ripped My Flesh, Part I