"Ventura Highway, in the sunshine. Where the days are longer. The nights are stronger than moonshine! You're gonna go, I know." - Ventura Highway, America
Had the boys in America ever been on the Ventura Highway? My experience was much different. I've driven the 101, at night, in the day, in the rain, and the sunshine. It snakes up through L.A. County, into Ventura, up through the Hollywood Hills, through the woods and around the fields. Perhaps sitting in bumper to bumper traffic does make the days longer. It could be that driving 107 miles per hour makes the night stronger than moonshine. Having been, though, I do not intend on going... at least not again. And that goes for the PCH, the 1, the 5, and the 405 as well. "Nobody walks in L.A." This is true. And because of that, they're all out on the freeways, 8 lanes wide, 2 inches between cars, moving at speeds that would make Mario Andretti nervous.
The horrors of L.A. driving aside, I did get to enjoy a day of Southern California. We made it cross-country in 3 days, getting in about 11 p.m. Saturday night, and my flight home didn't leave until Monday morning, so Sunday was to be spent in and around L.A.
We started Sunday morning by sleeping in about as much as we could force ourselves, which translated to about 10 a.m. Pacific time. Back onto the 101 to Oxnard. The motel was already north of L.A., so the drive up wasn't so bad, winding west through towns from Newbury Park, through Rancho Conejo, Camarillo, Springville, and Nyland Acres. We delivered some of Tim's belongings to his station, and checked in with his co-workers, toured a couple of the boats, and headed out.
Unfortunately, we weren't met with the warmest reception at the station, but we weren't going to let a couple of off-tempered Coasties ruin our day, and programmed TomTom to plot us a route to see Beverly Hills.
The first leg of our little excursion put us on 405 into Brentwood, to Sunset Boulevard through Brentwood and the Pacific Palisades. Tree lined streets barely obscured the driveways multi-million dollar mansions, each housing at least 2 exotic cars -- Ferraris seem the favorite. Even the Student Drivers drive BWMs, and our late-model Nissan Sentra garnered far more looks than a passing Maserati.
From there we hit the Pacific Coast Highway, out to Santa Monica Pier. We had lunch on the pier, and generally poked around like a couple of tourists. The PCH took us to the 5, and from there we hit the heart of Beverly Hills. Wilshire Boulevard, Rodeo Drive, Cartier, Gucci, Lotus of Beverly Hills... we looped the palm tree lined streets of America's most expensive zip code. Then, when we we turned From San Vicente onto Fairfax, Beverly Hills abruptly ran into Little Ethiopia; opulence directly abutted with poverty. On one side of the corner was BMW of Beverly Hills, and within spitting distance, a thrift store; Cartier blocks mere blocks from Carl's Jr.
After our brief tour of L.A., we headed back to the motel. A 6:30 a.m. flight meant waking up at 3:00, and we needed to get a bit of rest, but not before grabbing some dinner. There were a couple restaurants within walking distance, and we wandered over to see our options.
I decided on this last day, after 3 days of truckstops out on the road, that our last evening should reflect our return to civilization. We chose a typically California restaurant, enjoyed a couple of cold California-brewed beers, and dined on California-Mexican. Dinner was excellent, and not served to us by a surly waitress named Flo. We sat, relaxed, sipped our beers. After dinner, we walked over to Starbucks -- mostly because we could -- sat in oversized armchairs, and sipped lattés -- the first cups of coffee all trip not brewed at a truckstop. Not to take anything away from the various roadside eateries we'd hit along the way, but it was nice to have one night of civilized fare.
3 a.m. came quickly. And that early in the morning, the trip down to LAX was as pleasant as one could expect for L.A. driving. Surprisingly, once the airline employees arrived at 5:00, the rest of the process was painful -- I even had time for a coffee and a smoke. Unfortunately, LAX was the last time travel would be smooth that day, and in the end, driving cross-country in 3 days was easier than flying home.
US Air's East Coast hub is in Philadelphia, so rather than fly non-stop to NYC for nearly triple the price, I had selected a flight with a short lay-over in Philly. The flight to Philly was smooth and quick, which was advantageous on a transcontinental flight that didn't even offer a meal -- excuse me, I could have had the cheese tray for $7 out of my own pocket. As I would have expected -- I seem to fly Murphy Air -- I was seated next to disrespectful-cell-phone-guy, directly behind woman-with-a-baby. By some stroke of luck, this child slept through the whole flight, and never made a peep -- in fact, the guy next to me slept as well, so I bought the $5 headphones and let the in-fight movie drown out his snoring.
We touched down almost an hour early, which added to my lay-over, but gave me time for a smoke, and lunch of classic airport Sbarro's. By 3:30 (East Coast time) it was time to catch my connection, so we lined up at the gate, by section number, and boarded what they dared call a plane. Buses have more seating. We were boarded in 5 sections -- patrons scolded for lining up out of sequence -- for a plane with 11 rows of seats. When I got to my seat, someone was in it, and after double-checking both tickets, we determined the seat was double-booked. Out of 44 seats, 8 were double-booked, and after the 3rd occurrence, we determined we would consider the flight "open seating".
So, there we were, the 35 of us, including the pilot and flight attendant -- whose pre-flight instruction consisted of "read the card" -- tucking bags under empty seats due to impossibly small overhead compartments, and wondering what the possible delay could be on situating the handful of us for takeoff. 20 minutes passed before the "captain" informed us of a 45 minute arrival delay in New York -- 45 minutes we would spend on the tarmac, impossibly loud propeller engines rattling in our ears.
By the time we did take off, I feared we wouldn't have enough fuel left to make it to New York. I might have feared that all the people using their cell phones would disrupt the plane's electronics... if I believed the plane had any electronics. A couple times mid-flight I thought I heard one of the engines cut out, but it seemed to restart, and after about an hour, we did land safely. Now in New York, I had to figure out ground transportation home. The first issue was my miscalculation on "Air-Train" -- an MTA operated connecting train between the airport and other MTA transit points -- operates out of Kennedy and Newark, but not LaGuardia.
I scrambled. Now about an hour late of my carefully laid out plan, I had to get to Grand Central in time to catch the right train to New Haven, to connect with the last local train home. That train wouldn't leave New Haven until 9, but that meant leaving Grand Central by 7, and it was now after 6. A local bus could take me into Queens, to catch the number 7 train to Grand Central... but time was not on my side. Finally, I discovered the Grand Central Express bus, and $12 and 45 minutes later, I made it.
Of all modes of transportation I'd utilized in the past week, train was definitely the most regular and reliable, and with even time to grab one more quick cigarette in New Haven, I arrived in Branford, Connecticut, from Los Angeles, California, at 9:08 p.m. EST. I was hungry. I was exhausted. I was home.
18 March 2008
3,000 miles in 3 days - Day 3
If you haven't already, please read Day 1, here, and Day 2, here, before reading Day 3.
By the Saturday, most sense of urgency is gone. Not only have we already shaved the fourth day off the trip, but we're even ahead of schedule on the third. We've covered 2250 miles in 2 days; only 710 miles left to drive today. We check out and hit the road again.
We haven't even found a place to stop for coffee before we're in Arizona. My increasing need for caffeination leads us to stop at a Navajo Trading Post outside Lupton. The coffee is no better or worse than at any gas station or truckstop we've hit prior, but the availability of various native "artifacts" and Route 66 souvenirs defines this red-painted pueblo with the poorly spelled sign as a typical American roadside attraction of the 50's. I grew up on a healthy diet of these types of sights. US-9 from New York to Montréal is dotted with souvenir stands in the shape of teepees, amusement parks of 3 whole rides like North Pole USA, and quasi-historic attractions like Frontier Town. Having reached Route 66 -- or, at least the Interstate that was dropped on top of it in the 50's -- in New Mexico, much of the rest of the trip would be dotted with this manner of Americana.
The status of our fuel tank would dictate the next stop, and fate shined upon us in that instance. The Petrified Forest National Park sits in the now-defunct town of Adamana, between Holbrook and Chambers. We figured we could get gas and maybe lunch; stop in the gift shop. Well, that's not quite how things worked out. The gas about 20 cents above the 2.97 we'd grown accustom to paying, so we passed on that, but having already stopped, we figured we'd hit the gift shop.
"Ladies and gentlemen, our film is about to begin."
We looked at each other... what the heck. We filed into a small darkened theatre room, the kind they use at museums, and proceeded to watch the 20 minute film -- on 60" TV -- explaining the history, and prehistory, of the Petrified Forest, from its formation starting millions of years BC, to its history as a National Park and Route 66 attraction through the 1950's. We were sold. We had no shortage of time, the gate fee was only $7.00, so we decided we'd spend a bit of time in the Petrified Forest.
Following the Petrified Forest Highway -- well, that's what TomTom identified it as -- about a quarter mile North, we were overwhelmed by breathtaking views of the Painted Desert. We had to get out of the car and shoot about a dozen pictures. Every time you turn a mere 10 degrees you're faced with another view, different colors, and a greater sense of wonder. Words unfortunately cannot adequately express the beauty of these views, so what I can say is that out of the 35 exposures I had left between 2 cameras, I nearly ran out of film in the park, limiting myself to only 3 pictures that even contained any petrified wood.
After about an hour or so in the park, we decided to head back to the base camp, and see if we could get lunch at the restaurant attached to the souvenir shop. A Park Ranger's SUV followed us up the winding park road. Flashing lights. We were being pulled over by a Park Ranger.
"Do you know why I pulled you over?" The typical law enforcement question, even in a National Park.
"Actually... no."
"You were doing 42 miles an hour as you came down that rise." We glanced at the speed limit sign to our right... 40. Wow, they're serious about speeding in the Petrified Forest.
Like a skillful veteran, Tim removed his drivers licence from his wallet, making certain the Military ID below it was evident to the Ranger, without being obvious or obnoxious. The entire demeanor of the encounter changed... and the duration likely doubled. Now dealing with fellow members of the law enforcement community -- he found out my affiliation shortly after Tim's -- and having no intent to issue a ticket, it became an opportunity to swap stories and talk shop. It was obvious this was likely the most interesting conversation he'd engaged in in weeks. He even had us get out of the car, so he could check for any stolen petrified wood -- probable cause for search in the Petrified Forest is indicated by mud on one's shoes.
After our friendly Park Ranger finally turned us loose, we headed back to the gift shop, but not before we were checked again for pilfered petrified wood, this time by use of a scale. We joked that there were a grand total of two crimes in the Petrified Forest, Theft of Petrified Wood, and Speeding. We were apparently suspected of both.
The restaurant didn't really impress us, and knowing that we had to stop for gas soon anyway, we decided we'd deal with both issues at the next town. So, after a brief perusal of the gift shop, opting not to pick up the $4000 petrified coffee table, we hit the road.
The next town big enough to merit a gas station was Holbrook. We filled up, and rolled down 66 for a place to eat. A classic Americana style Route 66 Diner popped up on the left, complete with decorative licence plate paneling around the front door. The perfect lunch stop... if it wasn't closed. About a half mile later, another classic 50's trucker restaurant... also closed. We ate McDonalds.
Back on the road, we continued West. The Painted Desert trailed off, and was replaced with sparse brush. The Santa Fe Railroad popped up to replace the Union Pacific as our companion and guide, and we drove on toward Flagstaff.
Between Holbrook and Flagstaff, I-40 runs through the southern part of the Coconino National Forest. Not what any of us in the Northeast would consider calling a forest, far south of the Ponderosa Pines predominant in the northern part of the forest, we drove through a Coconino National Forest that was little more than an arid desert, dotted with small shrubs and sagebrush; barely enough fauna to obscure the railroad tracks to our right.
A small mountain range popped up in the distance. Quickly we came upon it, the only evidence of the city of Flagstaff, and no sooner were we upon it, than it was in our rearview mirror. The map open -- to confirm the identity of the aforementioned mountains -- led us to plan a stop in Kingman. Unwilling to loose to the Mojave, as many have done before us, we elected to gas up, grab drinks, and switch drivers at the last town before the vast part of the desert.
The Mojave Desert, the few hours of it we had been in to this point once we left Flagstaff, had actually already done it's best to take us down. It is a living entity, and it does claim drivers. Stories abound of people runnning out of gas, or overheating -- trips ended by the vast stretch of nothing that straddles the Arizona - California border. For us, it wasn't the car that the Mojave preyed on, it was out minds, and our spirits. Late afternoon, for three hours, we drove -- Tim drove, and I sat -- motionless, silent, mindlessly watching the unchanging landscape of nothing. Three hours passed without conversation, without radio, without movement, and nearly without sanity. The arrival predetermined stop in Kingman snapped us from our comas, and the realization of what had occurred -- perhaps better, what had not -- scared us into a better focus.
A stretch of Business Route 40 / Historic Route 66, speckled with 2 motels, 2 gas stations, and 2 liquor stores, defined the town of Kingman, Arizona. A soda machine on the side of the building -- a far cry from the truckstop shops we'd grown accustomed to -- provided us beverages to keep us going until California. Barely 2 minutes to stretch our legs, we left the desolate little town but moments after we entered it, drove West, into the toughest leg of our trip, and did our best to force conversation for a while.
In time, the tension drifted, and again two friends were on a crazy road trip, with its goal very much in sight. Soon enough after that, the sun was setting over the Sierras, we crossed the Colorado, and we were in California... at an Agricultural Inspection Stop. Puzzled, we answered the officer's quick questions about foreign fruits and vegetables, and were waved on. And on we went, into more nothing; this time, liberal California nothing.
Although tracking almost due West, I-40 winds through the bottom of the Sierra, and by the time we emerged on the other side, it was time again to eat. I-40 meets the 15 -- all roads in California bear the article "the" -- in Barstow, and it seemed as good a place as any to stretch our legs and grab a bite. On East Main Street, just before the on ramp to the 15, we found Bun Boy.
The last little piece of Route 66 Americana, a little burger joint that hasn't changed much since 1955, made the trip feel complete, even if we were still 175 miles from Oxnard. We relaxed in the booths, with the 50's cars design upholstery. We read the pocket books of witticisms written by a local author. We drank our fountain Cokes, enjoyed our 1/3 pound burgers, and silently rejoiced in the near completion of our journey. We covered over 28 hundred miles, through the Appalachians, traversing the snow-covered Midwest, across the Mississippi, down through the plains of Kansas, across the vast Southwest, crossing the Painted Desert, the Continental divide, and the Mojave Desert, bridging the Colorado and winding through the foothills of the Sierras. In just a few short hours we would be in our motel; we had driven for three straight days, from sea to shining sea, and we had made it.
By the Saturday, most sense of urgency is gone. Not only have we already shaved the fourth day off the trip, but we're even ahead of schedule on the third. We've covered 2250 miles in 2 days; only 710 miles left to drive today. We check out and hit the road again.
We haven't even found a place to stop for coffee before we're in Arizona. My increasing need for caffeination leads us to stop at a Navajo Trading Post outside Lupton. The coffee is no better or worse than at any gas station or truckstop we've hit prior, but the availability of various native "artifacts" and Route 66 souvenirs defines this red-painted pueblo with the poorly spelled sign as a typical American roadside attraction of the 50's. I grew up on a healthy diet of these types of sights. US-9 from New York to Montréal is dotted with souvenir stands in the shape of teepees, amusement parks of 3 whole rides like North Pole USA, and quasi-historic attractions like Frontier Town. Having reached Route 66 -- or, at least the Interstate that was dropped on top of it in the 50's -- in New Mexico, much of the rest of the trip would be dotted with this manner of Americana.
The status of our fuel tank would dictate the next stop, and fate shined upon us in that instance. The Petrified Forest National Park sits in the now-defunct town of Adamana, between Holbrook and Chambers. We figured we could get gas and maybe lunch; stop in the gift shop. Well, that's not quite how things worked out. The gas about 20 cents above the 2.97 we'd grown accustom to paying, so we passed on that, but having already stopped, we figured we'd hit the gift shop.
"Ladies and gentlemen, our film is about to begin."
We looked at each other... what the heck. We filed into a small darkened theatre room, the kind they use at museums, and proceeded to watch the 20 minute film -- on 60" TV -- explaining the history, and prehistory, of the Petrified Forest, from its formation starting millions of years BC, to its history as a National Park and Route 66 attraction through the 1950's. We were sold. We had no shortage of time, the gate fee was only $7.00, so we decided we'd spend a bit of time in the Petrified Forest.
Following the Petrified Forest Highway -- well, that's what TomTom identified it as -- about a quarter mile North, we were overwhelmed by breathtaking views of the Painted Desert. We had to get out of the car and shoot about a dozen pictures. Every time you turn a mere 10 degrees you're faced with another view, different colors, and a greater sense of wonder. Words unfortunately cannot adequately express the beauty of these views, so what I can say is that out of the 35 exposures I had left between 2 cameras, I nearly ran out of film in the park, limiting myself to only 3 pictures that even contained any petrified wood.
After about an hour or so in the park, we decided to head back to the base camp, and see if we could get lunch at the restaurant attached to the souvenir shop. A Park Ranger's SUV followed us up the winding park road. Flashing lights. We were being pulled over by a Park Ranger.
"Do you know why I pulled you over?" The typical law enforcement question, even in a National Park.
"Actually... no."
"You were doing 42 miles an hour as you came down that rise." We glanced at the speed limit sign to our right... 40. Wow, they're serious about speeding in the Petrified Forest.
Like a skillful veteran, Tim removed his drivers licence from his wallet, making certain the Military ID below it was evident to the Ranger, without being obvious or obnoxious. The entire demeanor of the encounter changed... and the duration likely doubled. Now dealing with fellow members of the law enforcement community -- he found out my affiliation shortly after Tim's -- and having no intent to issue a ticket, it became an opportunity to swap stories and talk shop. It was obvious this was likely the most interesting conversation he'd engaged in in weeks. He even had us get out of the car, so he could check for any stolen petrified wood -- probable cause for search in the Petrified Forest is indicated by mud on one's shoes.
After our friendly Park Ranger finally turned us loose, we headed back to the gift shop, but not before we were checked again for pilfered petrified wood, this time by use of a scale. We joked that there were a grand total of two crimes in the Petrified Forest, Theft of Petrified Wood, and Speeding. We were apparently suspected of both.
The restaurant didn't really impress us, and knowing that we had to stop for gas soon anyway, we decided we'd deal with both issues at the next town. So, after a brief perusal of the gift shop, opting not to pick up the $4000 petrified coffee table, we hit the road.
The next town big enough to merit a gas station was Holbrook. We filled up, and rolled down 66 for a place to eat. A classic Americana style Route 66 Diner popped up on the left, complete with decorative licence plate paneling around the front door. The perfect lunch stop... if it wasn't closed. About a half mile later, another classic 50's trucker restaurant... also closed. We ate McDonalds.
Back on the road, we continued West. The Painted Desert trailed off, and was replaced with sparse brush. The Santa Fe Railroad popped up to replace the Union Pacific as our companion and guide, and we drove on toward Flagstaff.
Between Holbrook and Flagstaff, I-40 runs through the southern part of the Coconino National Forest. Not what any of us in the Northeast would consider calling a forest, far south of the Ponderosa Pines predominant in the northern part of the forest, we drove through a Coconino National Forest that was little more than an arid desert, dotted with small shrubs and sagebrush; barely enough fauna to obscure the railroad tracks to our right.
A small mountain range popped up in the distance. Quickly we came upon it, the only evidence of the city of Flagstaff, and no sooner were we upon it, than it was in our rearview mirror. The map open -- to confirm the identity of the aforementioned mountains -- led us to plan a stop in Kingman. Unwilling to loose to the Mojave, as many have done before us, we elected to gas up, grab drinks, and switch drivers at the last town before the vast part of the desert.
The Mojave Desert, the few hours of it we had been in to this point once we left Flagstaff, had actually already done it's best to take us down. It is a living entity, and it does claim drivers. Stories abound of people runnning out of gas, or overheating -- trips ended by the vast stretch of nothing that straddles the Arizona - California border. For us, it wasn't the car that the Mojave preyed on, it was out minds, and our spirits. Late afternoon, for three hours, we drove -- Tim drove, and I sat -- motionless, silent, mindlessly watching the unchanging landscape of nothing. Three hours passed without conversation, without radio, without movement, and nearly without sanity. The arrival predetermined stop in Kingman snapped us from our comas, and the realization of what had occurred -- perhaps better, what had not -- scared us into a better focus.
A stretch of Business Route 40 / Historic Route 66, speckled with 2 motels, 2 gas stations, and 2 liquor stores, defined the town of Kingman, Arizona. A soda machine on the side of the building -- a far cry from the truckstop shops we'd grown accustomed to -- provided us beverages to keep us going until California. Barely 2 minutes to stretch our legs, we left the desolate little town but moments after we entered it, drove West, into the toughest leg of our trip, and did our best to force conversation for a while.
In time, the tension drifted, and again two friends were on a crazy road trip, with its goal very much in sight. Soon enough after that, the sun was setting over the Sierras, we crossed the Colorado, and we were in California... at an Agricultural Inspection Stop. Puzzled, we answered the officer's quick questions about foreign fruits and vegetables, and were waved on. And on we went, into more nothing; this time, liberal California nothing.
Although tracking almost due West, I-40 winds through the bottom of the Sierra, and by the time we emerged on the other side, it was time again to eat. I-40 meets the 15 -- all roads in California bear the article "the" -- in Barstow, and it seemed as good a place as any to stretch our legs and grab a bite. On East Main Street, just before the on ramp to the 15, we found Bun Boy.
The last little piece of Route 66 Americana, a little burger joint that hasn't changed much since 1955, made the trip feel complete, even if we were still 175 miles from Oxnard. We relaxed in the booths, with the 50's cars design upholstery. We read the pocket books of witticisms written by a local author. We drank our fountain Cokes, enjoyed our 1/3 pound burgers, and silently rejoiced in the near completion of our journey. We covered over 28 hundred miles, through the Appalachians, traversing the snow-covered Midwest, across the Mississippi, down through the plains of Kansas, across the vast Southwest, crossing the Painted Desert, the Continental divide, and the Mojave Desert, bridging the Colorado and winding through the foothills of the Sierras. In just a few short hours we would be in our motel; we had driven for three straight days, from sea to shining sea, and we had made it.
05 March 2008
3,000 miles in 3 days - Day 2
If you haven't already, read Day 1, here, before reading Day 2.
10:00 a.m., we got up. It'd only been 5 hours sleep -- well, in addition to the naps we'd gotten in while driving -- but we were refreshed and anxious to hit the road again. A phone call from back home reported to us that the snowstorm we drove through in the Midwest buried Connecticut. That was worth a small laugh.
10:00 a.m., we got up. It'd only been 5 hours sleep -- well, in addition to the naps we'd gotten in while driving -- but we were refreshed and anxious to hit the road again. A phone call from back home reported to us that the snowstorm we drove through in the Midwest buried Connecticut. That was worth a small laugh.
22 hours of driving the day before, over 1300 miles and through 10 states, had put us more than a third of the way through what was planned as a four day trip. Even cutting it to three days still gave us the luxury of a cushion of time; a cushion we decided to dip into to see either Tombstone or Dodge City. The pamphlet I snagged at check-in, along with a brief glimpse at the map, helped us plot a 30 mile detour to bring us into Dodge City around mid-afternoon. We'd later discover that the Tombstone detour would have been closer to 250 miles.
Driving was simply determined on a turns based system, so I got behind the wheel. South to Wichita. Northern Kansas -- ahh, who am I kidding? All of Kansas looks the same. Nonetheless, it really is beautiful country; fields, dotted with silos and windmills, maybe a cross-street every 50 miles. North of Wichita, there are still some rolling hills; something the break up the amazing flat plains. Plains, which along with daylight and clear weather, grant us an amazing 6 Million mile visibility. OK, it was probably 10 miles or something -- heck, I have no frame of reference -- but compared to the crowded and occasionally wooded Northeast, it was amazing.
By lunch time, we'd made it through Wichita, and to a new experience along the trip, the end of the interstate. Something odd happened in the route planning, when, as I'd stated earlier, Mapquest adjusted for the entirety of Interstate 64 being closed. The adjusted route came down diagonally through Kansas, instead of the straight shot to Oklahoma City; 410 miles of nothing but Kansas.
There are only 2 interstate highways in Kansas, I-35 and I-70, and since I-70 would have taken us right through Colorado, the planned route went I-35 South to US 54 West. I have to say I was worried; I expected US 54 to resemble US 1 in the Northeast, but I would soon discover that nothing in the middle of the country is like the Northeast. US 54 meandered west then southwest, 200+ miles across lower Kansas. But, unlike the familiar Post Road, this 2 lane country highway ran almost 50 miles at a time at a 75 MPH speed limit, slowing to 35 as it passed through town, then picking back up and rolling. Straight as an arrow, 10+ miles visibility, we shot across Kansas, at times the only car in sight. At was at this time, we picked up our third traveling companion.
The Union Pacific Railroad run parallel to US 54 -- actually, it might be better to say US 54 was built parallel to the Union Pacific -- for the entire 420 miles from Wichita to New Mexico. And as we traveled the countless flat, straight, identical miles, the Union Pacific became our guide and friend, the unofficial 3rd man. When there was nothing left to see, no more windmills to count, no more tracks left on the Best of Johnny Cash, there would be the Union Pacific, there to remind us we hadn't drifted off the road or fallen asleep. Personified, the Union Pacific became our companion, popping up here and there to add its own bit of conversation along the long, unchanging road.
But smack in the middle of US 54, we took our first real breaks from the road. In Greensburg we stopped for gas, and witnessed a sight that took us a bit to process. It looked like they were tearing the town down -- maybe to move it farther down the road or something. The trees looked weird, too. We just couldn't put our finger on it. It wasn't until we were leaving town, and saw the rows of temporary trailer homes, that we realized what we had witnessed. The entire town of Greensburg, Kansas, had recently been devastated by a tornado. Yet, to our amazement, the town went on. People filled up at a gas station with no cashier's building, simply paying at the pump; a sign outside another gas station convenience store advertised that they were now selling a particular grocery store's products out of their cooler, at the original prices. Buildings were reduced to rubble, but Greensburg marched on.
By lunch time, we'd made it through Wichita, and to a new experience along the trip, the end of the interstate. Something odd happened in the route planning, when, as I'd stated earlier, Mapquest adjusted for the entirety of Interstate 64 being closed. The adjusted route came down diagonally through Kansas, instead of the straight shot to Oklahoma City; 410 miles of nothing but Kansas.
There are only 2 interstate highways in Kansas, I-35 and I-70, and since I-70 would have taken us right through Colorado, the planned route went I-35 South to US 54 West. I have to say I was worried; I expected US 54 to resemble US 1 in the Northeast, but I would soon discover that nothing in the middle of the country is like the Northeast. US 54 meandered west then southwest, 200+ miles across lower Kansas. But, unlike the familiar Post Road, this 2 lane country highway ran almost 50 miles at a time at a 75 MPH speed limit, slowing to 35 as it passed through town, then picking back up and rolling. Straight as an arrow, 10+ miles visibility, we shot across Kansas, at times the only car in sight. At was at this time, we picked up our third traveling companion.
The Union Pacific Railroad run parallel to US 54 -- actually, it might be better to say US 54 was built parallel to the Union Pacific -- for the entire 420 miles from Wichita to New Mexico. And as we traveled the countless flat, straight, identical miles, the Union Pacific became our guide and friend, the unofficial 3rd man. When there was nothing left to see, no more windmills to count, no more tracks left on the Best of Johnny Cash, there would be the Union Pacific, there to remind us we hadn't drifted off the road or fallen asleep. Personified, the Union Pacific became our companion, popping up here and there to add its own bit of conversation along the long, unchanging road.
But smack in the middle of US 54, we took our first real breaks from the road. In Greensburg we stopped for gas, and witnessed a sight that took us a bit to process. It looked like they were tearing the town down -- maybe to move it farther down the road or something. The trees looked weird, too. We just couldn't put our finger on it. It wasn't until we were leaving town, and saw the rows of temporary trailer homes, that we realized what we had witnessed. The entire town of Greensburg, Kansas, had recently been devastated by a tornado. Yet, to our amazement, the town went on. People filled up at a gas station with no cashier's building, simply paying at the pump; a sign outside another gas station convenience store advertised that they were now selling a particular grocery store's products out of their cooler, at the original prices. Buildings were reduced to rubble, but Greensburg marched on.
And we marched -- err, drove -- on. On, to Joy, Kansas, where we ate. I made an executive decision to stop at a Sonic. We'd been avoiding fast food, but this exception seemed warranted. For years I've been seeing ads for "Sonic: America's Drive-in", and wondered if perhaps then I didn't live in America. So when I saw one, I had to stop, and place my order are the individual drive-up stall, and watch the waitress try to hand my food in the window over the front bumper -- I guess I pulled to close on the left.
Stomachs full, and sipping the rest of my Cherry Limeade, we began our detour. Within an hour we were in Dodge City, Kansas. Dodge City, it seemed, has grown up a bit from the days of Wyatt Earp, but in some ways never changed. They called it a "cow-town" then, and now it's has a major facility for National Beef Company, and another for Purina's industrial feeds division. The Santa Fe railroad still rolls through the middle of town, and stops at a depot renovated to resemble it's 1880's self. A period steam engine sits outside the visitors' center, just diagonally across the street from the depot, on historic Front Street. Except Front Street has been renamed Wyatt Earp Boulevard, and along the 3 downtown blocks of Wyatt Earp Boulevard, and winding up on Central and into town, is the Dodge City Trail of Fame. 24" medallions dot the sidewalk every 10 feet or so, with the images and names of famous -- or infamous -- residents of Dodge City, and the stars of Western TV and movies who portrayed them. A rustic overhang, with rough-hewn posts, below western murals on the second story, disguises the storefronts of the nail salon, pet shop, insurance agency, and other perfectly 21st century businesses.
On the westernmost block of the Trail of Fame sits the Boot Hill Museum. Along a recreated 19th century block of Front Street, actors in 19th century western garb... well they do something. We didn't actually pay for the Boot Hill Museum experience... but it has an awesome gift shop. And there we bought our fill -- limited by the space in my carry-on bag for the flight back -- of western curios and Wyatt Earp bric-a-brac. So, after being accidentally assaulted with a tube of lip balm, and paying for our souvenirs, we strolled back to the car and -- sorry, have to say it -- got the fuck out of Dodge.
The rest of Kansas seemed to go by in a blink. A little bit of time outside the car and in the fresh air was just what we needed; we were refreshed and quickly approaching Oklahoma. Our old friend the Union Pacific was to our right, TomTom's compass pointed 235 -- due Southwest -- and US 54's unwavering track through the plains got shorter and shorter. And just before we'd reach Oklahoma, just a few minutes before sunset, we reached the last significant town we'd cross on my driving shift, Liberal Kansas.
Now Kansas has had some interesting town names -- we'd already passed through Coffee County, and eaten lunch in Joy -- and we figure in a state as big as Kansas
, it might have been difficult to come up with the best names as they went along, but the irony of Liberal, Kansas, was not lost. So now we're driving down Pancake Boulevard -- no I'm dead serious -- which is the street name of US 54 through Liberal, and driving past the last vestiges of what passes for civilization in Kansas -- 2 gas stations, a gun shop, a Burger Barn, and a Waffle House -- and we can see the Oklahoma border ahead, when, on the left, the last building on Pancake Boulevard, the last building in Liberal, Kansas, is Halliburton. I can't help but question Dick Cheney having a main office and facility in Liberal, Kansas... on Pancake Boulevard no less. I wonder how he feels about that.
Aside from a beautiful sunset over the plains, and a 2 minute glitch where TomTom thought we were driving off-road, we weren't in Oklahoma long enough to have have seen anything. We didn't even so much as cross a town big enough to appear on our map. I can tell you Oklahoma had two silos, as many auto graveyards, and the worst paved roads we'd been on since Indiana. Or so we'd have hoped. But just when paving technology had dipped to a low not seen since the Industrial Revolution, "Welcome to Texas, Home of George W. Bush".
Back home, as you enter Connecticut, we have a similar sign stating "Welcome to Connecticut, Birthplace of George W. Bush". A popular photoshop edit places "We're Sorry" on the line below it. No such apologies from Texas. But more signs. "Don't Mess With Texas". Not only a slogan of pride, but apparently also the state's anti-littering campaign.
The northern part of Texas was very dark. After a day's drive across the plains, the sudden introduction of trees and hill, coupled with a refusal to put any source of light on the highway, created a lack of visibility in stark contract to the last 8 hours of driving. Taillights, headlights, the occasional Don't Mess with Texas sign, and the smell of cow manure; TomTom indicated the Union Pacific 100 yards to our right, but it too was no longer visible. An hour of manure-smelling darkness, and we finally reached a town.
Dalhart, Texas, had both a court and a police station -- or so indicated the sign. One Chevron station -- where we gassed up and stopped to get a drink before switching drivers and rolling on -- one sketchy looking Mexican restaurant, and a burger joint that looked like it'd been closed for the last 20 years, that's all we saw of Dalhart. Before we could even find a place to eat, we were in New Mexico, a brightly painted, well landscaped little piece of civilization at the left edge of Texas. And as I said in day one, there had become one sight that defined civilization, the Flying J.
So after a down-home-style dinner of truckstop Shepard's Pie, we headed back to the road; this time Interstate 40. New Mexico was a blur. I was asleep for most of it, actually. Bit between sleep, and the dark of night, what I did see of New Mexico I liked. There's an odd sense of completion, like New Mexico was designed laid out, built, and finished; every once and a while somebody comes by with some Endust and gives it a nice polish. Every town has some large decorative item visible from the Interstate -- in Albuquerque it was a giant neon cactus -- every off-ramp has a "Welcome to" sign in a well landscaped traffic island, and just everything looks to be in its place. It's a hard thing to describe, but it's a stark contrast to the ever-present construction of the Northeast.
By the time I woke up we were gassing up at yet another Flying J, two thirds of the way through the state, and if it weren't for the Continental Divide, I'm sure Tim would have driven straight through into Arizona. Alas, nature would have different plans for us. Crossing the bottom of the Rockies, the elevation climbed sharply, until were at 7,000 feet, and with it came snow. Blinding snow slowed our pace to 35 miles per hour. Safe passage was reduced to the one lane the trucks ahead had cleared. Eventually, well past midnight, traffic thinned out, and even the tracks of the trucks ahead began to disappear. Before long the road disappeared. In a complete white out, crawling along at 20 miles an hour, each of us squinting to see the road edge on our own side of the car, trying to navigate by GPS alone like snowbound submariners, we clocked 40 more miles before we finally came upon lodging in Gallup, New Mexico. We were but 21 miles from Arizona, but the weather did us in. And so we checked into the Budget Inn -- across the street from the Econolodge -- a fabulous accommodation featuring a shower with a whole in the wall, a cafeteria lunch tray screwed down to the side of the sink, mustard yellow wallpaper, and two paintings that may have been salvaged from a Denny's that burned to the ground. We laid down on the 2 slabs that passed for beds, and no sooner did our heads hit the lumpy excuses for pillows, we slept.
On the westernmost block of the Trail of Fame sits the Boot Hill Museum. Along a recreated 19th century block of Front Street, actors in 19th century western garb... well they do something. We didn't actually pay for the Boot Hill Museum experience... but it has an awesome gift shop. And there we bought our fill -- limited by the space in my carry-on bag for the flight back -- of western curios and Wyatt Earp bric-a-brac. So, after being accidentally assaulted with a tube of lip balm, and paying for our souvenirs, we strolled back to the car and -- sorry, have to say it -- got the fuck out of Dodge.
The rest of Kansas seemed to go by in a blink. A little bit of time outside the car and in the fresh air was just what we needed; we were refreshed and quickly approaching Oklahoma. Our old friend the Union Pacific was to our right, TomTom's compass pointed 235 -- due Southwest -- and US 54's unwavering track through the plains got shorter and shorter. And just before we'd reach Oklahoma, just a few minutes before sunset, we reached the last significant town we'd cross on my driving shift, Liberal Kansas.
Now Kansas has had some interesting town names -- we'd already passed through Coffee County, and eaten lunch in Joy -- and we figure in a state as big as Kansas
, it might have been difficult to come up with the best names as they went along, but the irony of Liberal, Kansas, was not lost. So now we're driving down Pancake Boulevard -- no I'm dead serious -- which is the street name of US 54 through Liberal, and driving past the last vestiges of what passes for civilization in Kansas -- 2 gas stations, a gun shop, a Burger Barn, and a Waffle House -- and we can see the Oklahoma border ahead, when, on the left, the last building on Pancake Boulevard, the last building in Liberal, Kansas, is Halliburton. I can't help but question Dick Cheney having a main office and facility in Liberal, Kansas... on Pancake Boulevard no less. I wonder how he feels about that.
Aside from a beautiful sunset over the plains, and a 2 minute glitch where TomTom thought we were driving off-road, we weren't in Oklahoma long enough to have have seen anything. We didn't even so much as cross a town big enough to appear on our map. I can tell you Oklahoma had two silos, as many auto graveyards, and the worst paved roads we'd been on since Indiana. Or so we'd have hoped. But just when paving technology had dipped to a low not seen since the Industrial Revolution, "Welcome to Texas, Home of George W. Bush".
Back home, as you enter Connecticut, we have a similar sign stating "Welcome to Connecticut, Birthplace of George W. Bush". A popular photoshop edit places "We're Sorry" on the line below it. No such apologies from Texas. But more signs. "Don't Mess With Texas". Not only a slogan of pride, but apparently also the state's anti-littering campaign.
The northern part of Texas was very dark. After a day's drive across the plains, the sudden introduction of trees and hill, coupled with a refusal to put any source of light on the highway, created a lack of visibility in stark contract to the last 8 hours of driving. Taillights, headlights, the occasional Don't Mess with Texas sign, and the smell of cow manure; TomTom indicated the Union Pacific 100 yards to our right, but it too was no longer visible. An hour of manure-smelling darkness, and we finally reached a town.
Dalhart, Texas, had both a court and a police station -- or so indicated the sign. One Chevron station -- where we gassed up and stopped to get a drink before switching drivers and rolling on -- one sketchy looking Mexican restaurant, and a burger joint that looked like it'd been closed for the last 20 years, that's all we saw of Dalhart. Before we could even find a place to eat, we were in New Mexico, a brightly painted, well landscaped little piece of civilization at the left edge of Texas. And as I said in day one, there had become one sight that defined civilization, the Flying J.
So after a down-home-style dinner of truckstop Shepard's Pie, we headed back to the road; this time Interstate 40. New Mexico was a blur. I was asleep for most of it, actually. Bit between sleep, and the dark of night, what I did see of New Mexico I liked. There's an odd sense of completion, like New Mexico was designed laid out, built, and finished; every once and a while somebody comes by with some Endust and gives it a nice polish. Every town has some large decorative item visible from the Interstate -- in Albuquerque it was a giant neon cactus -- every off-ramp has a "Welcome to" sign in a well landscaped traffic island, and just everything looks to be in its place. It's a hard thing to describe, but it's a stark contrast to the ever-present construction of the Northeast.
By the time I woke up we were gassing up at yet another Flying J, two thirds of the way through the state, and if it weren't for the Continental Divide, I'm sure Tim would have driven straight through into Arizona. Alas, nature would have different plans for us. Crossing the bottom of the Rockies, the elevation climbed sharply, until were at 7,000 feet, and with it came snow. Blinding snow slowed our pace to 35 miles per hour. Safe passage was reduced to the one lane the trucks ahead had cleared. Eventually, well past midnight, traffic thinned out, and even the tracks of the trucks ahead began to disappear. Before long the road disappeared. In a complete white out, crawling along at 20 miles an hour, each of us squinting to see the road edge on our own side of the car, trying to navigate by GPS alone like snowbound submariners, we clocked 40 more miles before we finally came upon lodging in Gallup, New Mexico. We were but 21 miles from Arizona, but the weather did us in. And so we checked into the Budget Inn -- across the street from the Econolodge -- a fabulous accommodation featuring a shower with a whole in the wall, a cafeteria lunch tray screwed down to the side of the sink, mustard yellow wallpaper, and two paintings that may have been salvaged from a Denny's that burned to the ground. We laid down on the 2 slabs that passed for beds, and no sooner did our heads hit the lumpy excuses for pillows, we slept.
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