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.
2 comments:
sO-
you had never been to a Sonic.
that is so odd to ME, it being a southern staple here. I am curious as to what piece of Americana piqued yer appetite interest. was it the chili cheese coney, perhaps? did you partake of some tots?;)
don't mess with texas....indeed.
it's my new state. therefore, I must say that with an attempt at a straight face.
and i will be in new mexico at some point. chuck loves it there, and says it's a good drive to take.
*hugs*
can't wait to read some more.
~jill~
Tim had the Chili Cheese Coney. I believe I just had a cheeseburger of some sort... but with a Cherry Limeade.
At this point, I'm halfway through part 3... and there might be an Epilogue.
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