Following up on Part I, this GRACK! episode from 2004 — another Digital Potlatch-inspired re-publication — deals with a solo trip from Taos to Dubuque, Iowa to visit my wife. We’d been living apart for over a year at that point, and I’d never seen her place in the funky old city on the Mississippi River. I’d also never driven there on the back roads in an ’87 Ford pickup!
Along the way I have all kinds of significant adventures, especially discovering the Lewis & Clark keelboat replica near Onawa, Iowa and learning of an astounding “coincidence.” This column takes us from there right up to the little house on Harvard Street. If you make it that far, you might need a hanky.
There are two more episodes in the “Run to Ground” series. Click to listen to the raven, it’s important.
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Run to Ground, Part II
Iwas almost lost but loving it, in the hills of east Nebraska.
The sign on the barrier said a railroad crossing was washed out 20 miles ahead. I grabbed my dog-eared Rand McNally and scanned the counties I had yet to cross to reach the Missouri. Traveling in this part of the world means going north, south, east, or west, no in-between, so I figured out the simplest left, right, left that would take me to the river, and off I went. As I got closer to Iowa, the terrain began to change: immense billowing hills turned into smaller, steeper valleys, and here and there were patches of woods. The exposed countryside of open cornfields had made me just a little uneasy, so this was welcome. Each dip in the highway now led lower and lower, and soon I pulled into the awesomely still village of Decatur.
How strange: there was something familiar in the air that gave me pause. A sensation, a subliminal impression, a — INDIANS, that was it! The two boys walking down the sidewalk couldn’t be anything but. My atlas confirmed that the Omaha reservation was nearby, and I was grateful for the Native presence. Simply put, it felt right somehow, along the ancient prairie river.
The bridge was oddly out of place, however, like something from another time. I rolled up to the toll booth window (not another car or truck in sight), dropped three quarters into an old man’s outstretched palm, and slowly drove across. The roadway was open steel grating that made the tires sing, and I could see water through the holes. On the other side, I found a wildlife area and pulled in to have my lunch. There was not a soul around. I walked down to a landing leading at the river’s edge: if I’d had a boat with me, I could have launched it then and there. The sun was warm, the air was still. I stood there looking at the bridge, and finally another vehicle crossed, its tires also humming on the grates. The Missouri, by God, a real river flowing by my feet as I stood there on the sandy bank, listening to birdsongs in the trees — what a contrast to the maddened hordes screaming across the freeway bridge at Omaha, I realized, and what a testament to taking the back roads.
Slowly and somewhat regretfully, taking all the time I thought I could, I walked back to the truck and drove back to the highway. Here on the Iowa side, the hills had temporarily disappeared. A few miles down a still almost-empty road, I passed a sign that read: “Lewis & Clark State Park — Keelboat Exhibit.” I’d always felt a special kinship with Meriwether Lewis, and when would I be back this way again?
One country road U-turn later, I was heading down a quiet winding road, where amazing beauty met my eyes: a broadly curving ox-bow lake, tall cottonwoods along the banks, and then the replica keelboats at a dock, gleaming in the sun. No one else was there, except a caretaker. “Climb aboard!” he yelled, so I did. Standing on the deck of the “Discovery” felt inexplicably sublime. I still had 350 miles to go that day but wanted to stop time in its tracks and stay, having no idea why. “Where ya from?” he asked, walking closer. “The expedition camped here on this very spot, you know, on August 9, 1804.” I literally reeled, blinded by the light, and couldn’t speak: 200 years ago, on my birthday…
Afterwards, I walked around the grounds like I was in a holy place and lingered longer than anybody on the road had any right to do. I found a tiny visitor center and signed the guestbook, writing out my birth date in large black print, so no one would miss. The woman on duty yawned and scratched at her faded sweats, complaining that she shouldn’t have to to work all day when there was nothing going on. I’d been just about to tell her of the thunder in my soul, but wisely only bought a postcard. Be careful where you leave your magic, I told myself, stunned at how smart I had become in just a heartbeat.
Beyond Onawa were six or seven more miles of flat Missouri River bottomland before the landscape rose again. Topography was revelation in my elevated state, and I realized the river must have been much larger in the prehistoric past: impossibly, magnificently so. Why were there no giant billboards proclaiming the wonder of it all? I gulped a swallow of tequila from my flask and toasted the Creator. Nearby were the Loess Hills, a range of sandy debris mounds left by glaciers after the last ice age. I wondered if the melting ice had filled the giant river, and if the herds of wooly mammoths had had to detour for a thousand miles to get across.
I’d picked a route to take me up the Maple River, a depressing shock at first, because the southern end was channelized. Down the middle of what should have been a stunning wooded valley ran a wide straight ditch behind a barren levee. I had to wonder why they’d bothered, whoever “they” were, and saw few homes and no towns in harm’s way, in any case. Just fields of corn, and here and there a squad of dairy cows. Fortunately a little farther on, the valley narrowed and the channel vanished. Here the winding banks were natural and lined with trees, and I saw a heron and some ducks.
State Road 175 was mostly clear the entire way. In five more hours, I’d crossed the length of Iowa and never saw a cop — a good thing, since I wasn’t going slow. It was almost dark by the time I got to La Porte City south of Waterloo, about 90 miles from where I had to go. In the deepening gloom, I missed the sign for whatever odd county road I’d chosen to go north and took three different streets that petered out in dead-end gravel ruts, where silence rattled in the corn. (My kind of places, actually, but not this time.) Eventually I found a highway going roughly in the right direction and soon was barreling through the night toward old Dubuque.
From the Missouri to the Mississippi in half a day, with miracles along the way and not a trace of highway shakes. How much of my life I’d spent like this, I thought, everywhere from Maine to Mexico, blown away with both hands on the wheel. It was something to remember, someday, when I no longer had a choice. Not yet though, thankfully, and so I did a special thing just at the end.
I’d never seen my honey’s house, but soon found myself nearby. The neighborhood was old and modest, with trees and mostly smallish houses tucked close together on a hill. I could have driven right up to the driveway, honked or gunned the engine in announcement, but I wanted to give complete attention to the moment. Accordingly, I parked about a block away, at the bottom of the street. When I got out, I stood and breathed a bit, taking in the smells and sounds. I wanted this to be as normal and focused as could be, so I walked slowly up the sidewalk until I saw the place, crossed the empty street, and climbed the last few steps to ring the doorbell of the little house on Harvard Street. Just like anyone would do when they were coming home, I thought.
And at that moment, that’s exactly where I was.
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