The Rhythm of the Road

There are human societies so simple and unadorned as to possess no clothing other than the loincloth, no tool other than the stick or stone, no permanent dwelling place, no carving or other plastic art. But nowhere on this planet can you find a people without music and dance.

--George Leonard, The Silent Pulse: A Search for the Perfect Rhythm That Exists in Each of Us. E.P Dutton, New York, 1978.

The Missouri State Capitol Building
(Click to enlarge, then tell me what the statue is on top the dome)
Taken 9/21/07 in Jefferson City, Missouri

I was late getting out of my motel room in Columbia, Missouri. Fortunately check out was noon. I had not done my writing the night before, so even though I awoke at my usual 6:00 a.m., it was still almost 11:30 before I handed in my key and turned the Volvo back onto the road. If you’ve been following my travels, you know that I have done my darndest to avoid the interstate highway system. According to my map, I could cross the city on Providence Avenue which fronted my motel, and meet up with US 63 on the far side of town. Driving south, I saw the Café Berlin (and yes, they used the acute accent), which promised international cuisine. Pulling into their parking lot, I grabbed a book I had purchased in one of the used bookstores in Rapid City, South Dakota, George Leonard’s The Silent Pulse. I had first come across Leonard as an undergrad when his book Education and Ecstasy grabbed my attention. Seeing his name on the shelves of a Rapid City bookstore, I jumped at the chance to renew our acquaintance.

The Café Berlin offered several different coffee and tea drinks, as all such places do these days, and the breakfast menu had a compendium of various egg dishes. I chose “Menemen Turkish Eggs” which turned out to be three eggs scrambled with cherry tomatoes, onions, green pepper, and feta cheese. Four slices of pita bread were also on the plate. It didn’t resemble anything I had eaten for breakfast in Turkey, but it was good. While waiting for my food to come out of the kitchen, I picked up Leonard’s book, and opened to page one. After a quote from Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice, chapter one began with the paragraph I quoted above. I was hooked. The final sentence in that paragraph spoke to something deep within me. “But nowhere on this planet can you find a people without music and dance.”

I have often said that there are three things important in life: eating; dancing; and some third thing that begins with “s.” At times I have felt that dance was the only thing important in life. My greatest regret is that I never pursued a dance education, but then, as my father always told me, “Men don’t dance.” Oh poppa!

My eggs were delivered to my table, and I put the book down. I then noticed a card on my table—one that was on every table in the café. The card convinced me that I was in the right place. Let me repeat it verbatim here.

Welcome to

Café Berlin

We want you to know what you are
paying for when you buy a meal here at
the Café.

Our coffee is fair-trade organic, our
milk and meats are local, the soda we
offer is free of high-fructose corn syrup
(so is our pancake syrup and our
jams!), and we use as many local fruits
and veggies as we can get!

Our food may take longer to get to your
table than some other places, but it is
prepared to order with love by our
staff (who are paid a living wage), so it
is always fresh.

You should feel good knowing that your dollars
Spent here are supporting our community.

We love you!

OK. I’m a sucker for a good line, and that was a great one. As I listened to the customers around me, it became apparent that I was in a place filled with “regulars.” These people apparently loved the Café Berlin as much as the staff of the café loved them. And the food was good.

Having finished “brunch,” I drove through downtown Columbia and off into a gated community by a large lake. Minnesota may be the land of 10,000 lakes, but Missouri certainly has an abundance of them. The homes in this area were large and well maintained, as befits the covenants undoubtedly in force here. Beyond the fancy homes, I found myself driving through a conservation area. I’ll have to come back and spend time in Columbia. Between the colleges, the green spaces and at least one very good restaurant, this is a place worth spending some time.

First United Methodist Church
Taken 9/21/07 in Jefferson City, Missouri

US 63 is not part of the interstate system, but I had four lane divided road for the entire way from Columbia to Jefferson City. Chatting on line the night before with a fellow from Jefferson City, he suggested that I be sure and get a view of the capitol building from the riverside. Missouri’s state capitol dominates the skyline, built on a hill overlooking the Missouri River. Across the street were the grounds of the Governor’s mansion. Several other architectural marvels were within walking distance. I parked the car in a free zone (amazing! free parking across from the capitol?), grabbed my camera and started walking. All that slowed me down were the steep hills all around me and the heat. It had to be close to 90 out, and the humidity was getting to me as well. Still, I walked for several blocks getting the historic First United Methodist Church, the modern First Baptist Church, and the Cole County Court House. The sidewalks had several well tended flower beds per block and what I saw of the town was neat, well cared for, and visually fascinating. I would definitely like to spend more time in Missouri’s capitol city, and if anyone would care to serve as Native Guide, I’d jump at the chance to learn more about this town.

I had reservations in central Illinois for the night, so back in the car, fill the tank, and, oh no. The key won’t turn in the ignition. This has been an intermittent problem, and the guys at Swede One know that when I return to Portland, they’re going to have to replace the ignition cylinder. This is a major operation, and involves ordering the part direct from Sweden where the cylinder has to be matched to my car’s VIN. It takes at least three weeks once the part is ordered. My only concern is that I finish the trip and make it back to Portland with no further complications.

After what seemed an eternity, and several tries at taking the key out, turning it over, reinserting it, opening the door, locking all the locks, unlocking all the locks, etc. The key finally turned and the ignition took. Breathing a sigh of relief, I pulled away from the gas pumps and headed east.

So far I hadn’t seen any flat land in Missouri, and the hills were beginning to get even steeper. Deciduous forests are a novelty to me—they don’t exist in the West—and everywhere I looked were trees in full leaf, with some just beginning to turn color. This bodes well for my chances of seeing a real fall spectacular once I get to West Virginia. I was on US 50 heading toward St. Louis, and driving along the Gasconade Ridge. Passing one sign, I wondered whatever would possess someone to offer, as the sign did, “Bland Antiques.” Well, sure, I think antiques are pretty bland, but I’d bet my friend John in Missoula wouldn’t agree with me.

The side of the tractor/trailer rig next to me
They look so young. Why are we sending them off to be killed?
Taken 9/21/07 in East St Louis, Illinois

As I got closer to St. Louis I noted that there is no way to cross the Mississippi unless you’re on an interstate. Truth to tell, I was getting tired of driving through endless suburbs at 35 mph, so when US 50 merged with I-44, I gladly got on the highway and accelerated to the posted 70 mph.

No, I didn’t stop in St. Louis, and in some respects I’m sorry. The city has lots to offer and I will return. For now, however, my trip isn’t about cities. I crossed the Mississippi and the Illinois state line, and saw the Arch only from a distance.

Central Illinois as seen from Illinois Highway 161
Taken 9/21/07

Priapus Pines, the clothing optional gay male campground where I would be spending the weekend is about 60 miles east of Saint Louis off Illinois Highway 161. Driving east on this two lane road I finally was in flat land. There are the occasional hillocks, but for most of the drive I was crossing farm land that stretched on as far as could be seen. I was beginning to wonder if the only crops grown in America are corn and soybeans. Since I left the sunflower fields of South Dakota, all I have seen are corn and soybeans, corn and soybeans, and then more corn and more soybeans. This worries me as much as the monoculture vineyards that are taking over California.

Which reminds me. In Iowa, my hosts had pointed out vineyards south of Des Moines, or rather they told me that there were vineyards “over there.” In Missouri, and now in Illinois, I saw signs indicating that down this road is a vineyard, but I haven’t seen a single grape arbor since I drove through Kennewick Washington almost three weeks ago. Then again, I haven’t heard anything about tasty Iowa, Missouri or Illinois wines. They haven’t filled the shops in the stores I visit.

Driving through Centralia, Illinois, population 14,000, I looked in vain for a Wells Fargo Bank ATM, but no luck, so I paid the $2.00 fee and got my cash from some other bank. Priapus Pines is just twenty miles east of Centralia, and I arrived in time to get my tent set up before dark. The campground consists of 60 secluded acres with lots of trees (mostly oak), lots of very loud insects, lots of ants, and a great deal of privacy. I’ve been alone and naked for twenty-four hours now, and have enjoyed the hot tub this morning (Saturday) and the pool this afternoon. I’ve finished one book, and started another. I’ve had the place to myself. It’s quite a change from the week I spent at the Raccoon River Resort, and there’s nothing here that makes me feel “at home.” Still, it’s a lovely spot, and I can see how I could do something very similar with my land in Montana.

There is no cellular service here, either for my phone or for the internet, so I’ll have to wait to post this until I can get a good signal. That will be sometime tomorrow (Sunday), for unless something extraordinary happens tonight, I’ll be heading on into Indiana once I’m up in the morning.

Yes, I am camping!
Priapus Pines Campground
Taken 9/22/07 near Iuka, Illinois

By the way, it’s now officially fall and the weather is dry and warm—around 90. I miss the coolness of the coast.

Across the Wide Missouri

Oh, Shenandoah, I'm bound to leave you,
Away, you rolling river
Oh, Shenandoah, I'm bound to leave you
Away, I'm bound away, cross the wide Missouri.

--Traditional

One of the Bridges of Madison County
Not one that's in the book
Taken 9/20/07 at Margaret Guye County Park
Madison County Iowa

Thursday, September 20^th, 2007

By 9:30 the car was packed, I had said my goodbyes, and was on the road, leaving the Raccoon River Resort after a delightful six days. I almost cried. It felt like I was running away from home. The first line of the song Iowa Stubborn (which song gives us the “Join us at the picnic” line I used in my write up of the Tom Harkin’s Steak Fry) are “There’s nothing half-way about the Iowa way to greet you,” and that had certainly been my experience. Everyone I had met while staying at the Resort went out of his way to make me feel a part of the group.

My goal for the day was to visit the Court House in Carrollton, Missouri, which my Garmin Etrex Legend GPS receiver told me was less than two hundred miles away—if you’re flying with a crow. I, however, was riding with a middle-aged Volvo and my mileage would vary. After stopping in Adel to wash the car, I turned back onto US 169 and headed south to Winterset, the birthplace of cowboy actor John Wayne. Winterset is also the seat of Madison County—where all the bridges are. I would see some of the bridges of Madison County as I had programmed several geocache waypoints into my GPS unit.

Wayne’s birthplace is a rather non-descript house on a corner lot. There are brown highway signs directing you to the location, but I would have missed the place altogether were it not for the long line of fans waiting to go through. Immediately I was transported back to Efes in Turkey. Legend has it that after the Crucifixion, St. John took Mary to Ephesus where she lived out the rest of her life. Gary and I had stood in a similar line waiting to go through Mary’s house, and once inside we were herded along by a nasty little priest who kept barking out “No pictures,” and “Keep moving.” I hope the Wayne fans got more for their money. I didn’t stick around to find out for myself.

A More Traditional Bridge of Madison County
Taken 9/20/07 in Winterset Iowa's City Park

Instead, I headed for the City Park where a virtual geocache promised a spectacular view of the countryside. I should probably explain that a geocache is something that has been hidden. The person hiding the cache then notes the geographical co-ordinates for the hiding place, and uploads those to the Web. Geocachers such as myself go to www.geocaching.com and make a note of those co-ordinates. In fact, I connect my GPS unit directly to my laptop and download the co-ordinates into my GPS receiver. These co-ordinates are called “waypoints.” You can, of course, enter the information manually, but as a waypoint looks like this: N 41° 19.197 W 094° 00.249, there’s lots of room for error in the data entry. One typographical error can send you off on a wild goose chase. I speak from experience. Most caches have some sort of container which contains a log where you note that you’ve found the cache. You also go on-line and record your find there as well. The owner of the cache compares the on-site log with your on-line notation to keep people from claiming to have found caches they have never visited.

A virtual cache has nothing hidden and no log. Its purpose is to get people to see things, visit places, or learn local history. As an example, a virtual geocache in my hometown, Missoula, Montana, is located at the Missoula City Cemetery. Its name is “Sky King’s Final Landing Site,” and it is the tomb of the actor who starred in the 1950s television show, Sky King. To prove that you have actually been to the cemetery and seen the stone, you are asked to e-mail the cache owner with the name on the tombstone just to the right of the one you’re looking for.

The cache in the Winterset City Park was a virtual cache which required driving a long, narrow, steep dirt road (there are hills in Iowa) emerging at the top by a stone tower built by early residents. If you climb the tower, you can see for miles across the rolling, wooded hills of Madison County. In another couple of weeks, the colors should be phenomenal as this is all deciduous forestland. The dirt road had many puddles from recent rains. So much for washing the car back in Adel.

The Hills of Madison County
Taken 9/20/07 in Winterset Iowa's City Park

Not too far south of Winterset is the wide spot known as Lorimor. A highway sign informs you that Lorimor is the divide between the Missouri and the Mississippi Rivers. I suppose that some place has to be.

South of Lorimor is Afton, where I saw the first of several signs warning me to watch for horse-drawn vehicles. All the farmyards I passed seemed to have large pickups in the drive, but I suppose the Amish could be hiding out somewhere in the back country. I also passed a business just east of Afton whose name gave me pause: Still Living Taxidermy. Maybe it’s just me, but I’d prefer any taxidermy to be done on critters that are already dead.

Afton is also home of the Sugar and Spice Café where I stopped for lunch. It was immediately obvious that everyone in the place knew everyone in the place, except for me. Every person turned to stare at me as I walked through the door. I began to wonder if I’d grown a second head. But the people were very friendly, and I joked with the waitress, asking for her recommendation. She admitted that she hadn’t had the day’s special, a roast pork dinner, but she’d heard it was good. Several people chimed in to tell me that it was, indeed, very tender and tasty. I ordered it, along with Iced Tea and a piece of coconut cream pie. The total, including tip, came to $11.01. Such a deal. And it was both tender and tasty. It’s just a guess, mind you, but I think the cook was also the owner, and probably a relative of my waitress. I asked them which one was Sugar and which Spice, and before the cook could say a word, the waitress told me she was “spicy.”

Forty some miles south of Afton, I crossed the Missouri State Line. (That’s what their welcome sign said, “Missouri State Line.”) No welcome, no state motto, nothing but a statement of fact. Driving south on US 169, I had noted that Minnesota was kept like a country club. Every blade of grass was cut to exact specifications. God forbid that anything be out of place. Crossing into Iowa, the landscape looked “lived in.” Now, having crossed into Missouri, things looked unkempt. Judging simply by what one sees off US 169, I’d say that Iowa is not as prosperous as Minnesota, and that Missouri is on the way to being poor. Had I stayed on that highway, I’d have driven through St. Joseph, Kansas City, and eventually ended up in Tulsa Oklahoma.

The Aliens are Landing
Wind Turbines on the Farm
Taken 9/20/07 at King City Missouri

Since I was heading east this trip, I turned off US 169 and began my acquaintance with Missouri back roads, most of which seem to be designated with letters, not numbers. I took Highway D until I turned off on Highway E, for example. Looking at my watch, I decided to skip the last three geocaches I had programmed into my GPS unit, as I wanted to get to the Carroll County Court House before it closed at 5:00 p.m. I didn’t expect to be able to do any research, but at least I should be able to find out if it would be worth my time coming back in the morning.

I arrived in Carrollton, the Carroll County seat, about 4:40 p.m. It wasn’t hard to find the Court House. The largest structure in town, it towers over the city and can be seen from miles away. It also closes at 4:30 p.m. There were a couple of women chatting on the sidewalk—women I judged to be clerks working in county government, so I asked them how far back the records go. Birth records go back to 1883, I was told.

I’ve often said that the song “Shenandoah” is the story of my great-grandfather. Born in a family who had settled in the Shenandoah Valley in the 1600s, Henry L. Stephens left that part of Virginia sometime after 1850 to move to Carroll County, Missouri. The family lost several children at birth, but the oldest of my grandfather’s surviving sisters was born in Carroll County in 1857 and was named Virginia Missouri Stephens. If the Court House birth records only go back to 1883, there would be no sense in me waiting around. The women directed me to the public library which has a good genealogical collection, but while I found plenty of mentions of folks named Stephens, I found nothing on my own family.

Great-grandpappy didn’t linger in Carroll County. By the time of the 1860 census he was back in Virginia, this time in the Ohio River Valley, on a farm near the city that would become Parkersburg, West Virginia in 1863. I didn’t linger either. If I wasn’t going to find records to add to my genealogical collection, then there was no purpose to staying—not while I had daylight and miles to travel.

Crossing the Wide Missouri
Taken 9/20/07 in Miami Missouri

I set Columbia as my next goal, and perused the map looking for ways to get across the state without taking the Interstate Highway System. As most roads leading into Columbia are interstates, this turned into an interesting venture. I crossed the Missouri first at Miami (Miami Missouri that is), then again at Glasgow (no, not Scotland). Fayette, the next town east of Glasgow, is the home of Central Methodist University and Linn United Methodist Church, which sits on the campus of the University. If not the largest UMC I’ve ever seen, Linn is certainly the most ornate, looking like it would be more at home as an Anglican Cathedral in England than a college-town church in Missouri. The homes in Fayette were also large, beautiful, and altogether in keeping with a college town atmosphere. They looked about a hundred years old, but I don’t pretend to be an architectural historian.

East of Fayette, I turned onto Highway E (my second Highway E) which led me past country-club type homes into the northeastern corner of Columbia. This is the first place I’ve seen evidence of current capital in Missouri. Mind you, it’s also the second largest city I’ve been in since I left Missoula two weeks ago. Columbia claims a population of 84,000, and is the home of Columbia College, Stephens College, and the University of Missouri. It was getting dark as I approached town, and as I was feeling both hungry and very tired, I pulled into a strip mall to check the map. The question would be whether I would stay in Columbia, or press on to Jefferson City. None of the restaurants in this particular mall looked terribly appealing, but I ordered a sandwich and Iced Tea, and sat down to contemplate the immediate future. The sandwich helped with my hunger, but it did nothing to make me less tired, so I pulled into the Red Roof Inn where the desk clerk quoted me a rate ten dollars lower than what the AAA Tour Book said. I took the room.

Tomorrow it’s Jefferson City, Missouri’s capitol, doing my best to skirt St. Louis and still avoid the interstates, and crossing into Illinois. I have reservations at the Priapus Pines campground for tomorrow night, and I’ll be spending the weekend there. I have no idea whether I’ll have any internet access or not, so, be patient. I’ll be back on line at some point with further adventures from my travels.

Join Us At The Picnic

But what the heck, you're welcome,
Join us at the picnic.
You can eat your fill
Of all the food you bring yourself.
You really ought to give Iowa a try.
Provided you are contrary...

--Meredith Willson

Snaking our way through Indianola
(By this time, we had parked and were walking)
Taken 9/16/07 in Indianola Iowa

Each year, the Des Moines Register sponsors a bike ride across Iowa designed to prove that the state is not flat. Having driven a little more than half way across the state myself, north to south on US 169, I can vouch for the fact that there are definitely hills in this state. Sitting on the front porch of the Raccoon River Ranch, the horizon is quite close due to the tree covered hills across the river. Because of my work with BikeCentennial years ago, I was familiar with RAGBRAI (the Register’s Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa). In fact, RAGBRAI and all the trouble in River City was all I knew about Iowa before crossing the state line. Well, that and the importance this state has in the early stages of presidential election campaigns.

Iowa is the smallest state west of the Mississippi. With just shy of three million Iowa residents, there are twenty-nine states that have a larger population. Yet every four years, Iowa becomes the most important state in the country for those wanting to be President. As it turns out, I’m not the only person visiting the state this week. Sunday I had the chance to rub elbows with six different presidential wannabees.

For the past thirty years, Senator Tom Harkin (D, Iowa) has hosted a fund-raiser called “The Steak Fry.” In 2006, Barak Obama attended the Steak Fry and had such a positive response that he decided to run for President. The 2007 Steak Fry was held on Sunday, September 16^th, and I attended it. It was the first major political gathering I’ve attended since the 1964 Republican Convention in San Francisco. Yes, I’m that old.

Six presidential candidates attended the Steak Fry this year: Obama was back, with a reported 3,000 supporters attending with him; New Mexico Governor Bill Richardson; former North Carolina Senator and Vice-Presidential candidate John Edwards; and Senators Joe Biden (Delaware), Chris Dodd (Connecticut), and Hillary Clinton (New York). A reported fifteen thousand tickets were sold to the event at $30.00 each, and the crowd was estimated at over twelve thousand. I couldn’t say, I didn’t count either the people or the money.

A few (very few) of the political signs we saw
Taken 9/16/07 in Indianola Iowa

My host at the Raccoon River Resort, Harold Wells, is heavily involved in local Democratic Party politics and is a part of STAR*Pac dedicated to stopping the arms race. Because Harold was expecting to staff the STAR*Pac table, we left the river early in the morning, stopping briefly in Des Moines.

The event is held on a field set aside for hot air balloons just east of the town of Indianola, Iowa. Indianola has fourteen thousand residents and is located sixteen miles southeast of Des Moines. The Steak Fry was scheduled to begin at 1:30, and we hit the city limits of Indianola at 11:45, which should have given us plenty of time to get to the balloon field, set up the STAR*Pac table, and get our bearings. Instead, we hit a solid wall of traffic. Two hours later we were still crawling along Main Street, not even having reached the cross road we needed to take to reach the Steak Fry. It became a game watching the people in the cars in front and behind us, and wondering what they were doing to pass the time. We were in the left hand lane, knowing that eventually we were going to have to turn left, and we watched many, many drivers pass us in the right lane, only to sneak into the left as a light changed. “Cheaters,” we yelled out. “That’s not ethical!”

Over two hours after driving into Indianola, we turned onto Iowa highway 92 and headed east toward the balloon field. Traffic was still crawling, and we began to see cars making U-turns and heading back toward town. We also began seeing people walking up the hill. Some we saw park their cars in front of businesses closed for Sunday. We wondered if we shouldn’t do the same.

By the time we reached Indianola High School, we were tired of moving one car length at a time, and decided that it couldn’t be that much further. We parked the car in the school’s parking lot and began to walk ourselves. As we encountered people, we’d ask how much further. The answer was always “one mile.” No matter how far we walked, we always had “one mile” ahead of us.

This donkey apparently supports John Edwards
Taken 9/16/07 in Indianola Iowa

We also met people walking back downhill. “Aren’t you going the wrong way?” we’d ask. “We ran out of time,” one group answered. “We’ve already been there,” said another. One group, wearing Obama stickers, told us they’d been to the rally and didn’t feel the need to stay for the bigger event. We trod on.

Three hours after we first entered Indianola, we handed our tickets to the gate keeper and entered the balloon field. I noticed a few of the cars we had seen around us in the parking lot, but they were in the section most recently filled. In other words, we could have stayed in the car and arrived about the same time as we did walking—but we would have burnt a lot more gasoline.

Once on the grounds, we saw tables full of volunteers for all of the presidential candidates, several local candidates, and various progressive groups. People were wearing stickers for Hillary, for John Edwards, for Obama, and some were wearing stickers for all three. On the way through town we drove through a gauntlet of political curb signs. Hillary won that battle hands down, but John Edwards had the most (and the cutest) volunteers leading cheers on various street corners. Obama had few curb signs, but his large signs promising “HOPE” were visible throughout town.

After our hike (not to mention the two and a half hours we were captive in traffic), we were ready for food and drink. That meant getting in a new line, but we found the shortest line and in little time we had baked beans, potato salad, a roll and either steak or chicken. The drinks table had water, lemonade and, my favorite, Iced Tea. Another booth was giving out free beer, but solicited donations. They ran out of beer fairly quickly. Yet another booth was selling soft drinks. There was no reason for anyone to go away hungry or thirsty.

With that crowd, however, you could forget about getting very close to the candidates, although I did read later that at one point the candidates were flipping steaks on the grills. Apparently one of the servers told Hillary that while the beef was all from Iowa, the chicken came from Arkansas.

Listening to Hillary
(Double click to see this full screen. Hillary is talking
and the other candidates are seated on the platform in front of the flag.)
Taken 9/16/07 in Indianola Iowa

Having eaten, we felt the crush of time. Harold was supposed to introduce Obama to a crowd gathered at a church in Des Moines, and we still had to get back to our car and then back to Des Moines. Fearing that we may be caught in another traffic jam, we spoke with a few folk while heading back toward the parking lot.

Along the way, we were able to hear Hillary speak about how she was not going to wait for the inauguration (should she be elected), but would put together a group of ambassadors immediately after the election. These people she would send around the world to let it be known that “the era of cowboy diplomacy is over.” The crowd roared their appreciation.

Chris Dodd stated that as a father of two small children, he is the only candidate who gets solicitations from both AARP and diaper services. As we headed out the gate, John Edwards began his speech, but I wasn’t able to hear any of it.

Debatable.
(The shirt says "Best Ass on Campus)
Taken 9/16/07 in Indianola Iowa

We were not looking forward to the hike back to the High School and the car, but Harold wasn’t at all concerned. He knew we’d be able to hitch-hike back, and sure enough. The second couple he spoke with was not only willing to help us out, but were headed to the same meeting Harold was trying to get to. We had a good conversation with our Samaritan helpers, and were back to our car in nothing flat. Good thing too as my knees were beginning to let me know that I’m out of shape.

As we drove back into town I realized that as good an opportunity as I was offered—the chance to meet Barak Obama and shake his hand—I would probably fall asleep during the meeting. Keeping that in mind, we dropped Harold at the church and Fred took me on a driving tour of Des Moines.

All in all it was a day I wouldn’t have missed. Reading Monday’s Washington Post on-line, I saw an article about the Steak Fry and was able to crow “We’re in the Washington Post!” Well, we were at an event that made national news. That’s close enough.

An evening in the hot tub followed by bed made for an almost perfect day. It’s all about being in the right place at the right time.

Through the Land of Short Elephants

There's a bright golden haze on the meadow,
There's a bright golden haze on the meadow,
The corn is as high as an elephant's eye,
An' it looks like it's climbin' clear up to the sky.

Oh, what a beautiful mornin',
Oh, what a beautiful day.
I got a beautiful feelin'
Ev'rything's goin' my way.

--Oscar Hammerstein II

In the category of, DUH!?!
Warning sign along the Missouri River
Taken 9/13/07, Pierre SD

Leaving the campground at Oahe Dam, I started by crossing the dam itself. The structure, one of the largest earthfilled dams in the world, looks for all to see as if a gently sloping, grass-covered hill has completely crossed the river, forming Oahe Lake behind it. The downstream recreation area, where I had camped for the previous two nights has 3 campgrounds, a marina resort and restaurant, an amphitheatre, and miles of biking and hiking trails. By crossing the dam I was able to get a better view of what had been my most recent home. This also allowed me to enter Pierre from the North, instead of from the West, which, in turn, allowed me to find Pierre’s historic residential district. For more of my impressions of Pierre, read my travel site: www.travelforaday.com/pierresd.php

One thing I had counted on before leaving town was finding a good place for lunch. Unfortunately, other than the bagel place where I had eaten lunch on Wednesday, I saw only fast food chains. I wasn’t hungry enough to subject myself to them, and hoped that something would turn up further east.

The landscape changes as you head east. The hills become lower, the slopes gentler, and eventually you find yourself in prairie farm land. South Dakota Highway 34 crosses through miles of corn fields, interspersed with sunflower and soy bean fields. But mostly corn. Now I’m not sure just how high an elephant’s eye is, but when I got out of the car to stand by the corn stalks, they were just barely over my head, which would put them about seven feet. Surely an elephant’s eye is higher than that—either that or these were very short elephants.

About an hour out of Pierre, I reached Fort Thompson on the Cow Creek Reservation, where an Indian Casino had a restaurant. I ordered a burger, fries, and salad for lunch with iced tea, and enjoyed watching the crew try to move a large coke machine in order to reach the wires for the non-working electric cash register. I must say they made for quite a floor show, but before I was ready to pay, the cooler had been moved, the wires reconnected, and the till made operational.

Back in Pierre, my friend Daniel had told me that all South Dakota highway patrolmen were enjoying a conference in the state’s capitol. That explained why I hadn’t seen any in the western part of the state. Apparently the conference ended Thursday morning, for in the sixty miles beyond Fort Thompson four separate patrol cars passed me on the two lane road. I was carefully driving the posted speed limit, and no red lights came on to slow my progress.

The oddest phenomena I saw in South Dakota were the gas station price signs. I had noticed in Rapid City that several signs seemed to have been mis-marked. The super unleaded was at least ten cents less per gallon than regular unleaded. At first I thought this was due to folks getting the numbers confused, but as I continued across the state, all the signs showed a higher price for regular than for super. When I finally had to fill up in Madison, I asked the attendant why this anomaly. He had no idea, but suggested that ethanol cost less, and indeed, the super unleaded was 10% ethanol. All I can say is that the car is running fine and getting good mileage. If the super is less than the regular, I’ll buy it.

In the prairie, trees generally mean one of two things. You’re seeing either a farmstead with the trees forming a windbreak around the house and barns, or you’re coming to a town. In either case, there are historically three structures that you see rising above the trees. In the case of a farm, the silos will most often be the tallest thing around. Their counterpart in town is the grain elevator, which is almost always the tallest structure in any farm town. Next you’ll see the town’s water tower, and quite often a church spire.

St. Wilfred's Roman Catholic Church
Taken 9/13/07, in Woonsocket South Dakota

One of the first (and certainly not the last) of the church spires to catch my eye was in Woonsocket. No, I hadn’t already crossed the continent. This Woonsocket is a town of 700 or so South Dakotans. The largest structure by far is St. Wilfred’s Roman Catholic Church. Again and again as I continued across South Dakota and Minnesota I’d be struck by the size of the Catholic church. Usually there was an equally large parochial school right next door. Judging by the size of the church, the sanctuary should easily seat over a thousand people. Remember that the population of the town is less than eight hundred. Also note that there were three other churches in town, a Lutheran, a United Methodist, and a Baptist. The latter three were all white clapboard structures looking like your archtypical rural church. Where the congregation and money came from to support St. Wilfrid’s, I have no idea.

Lately a new structure rises above the plains. All across eastern South Dakota and well into Minnesota wind turbines cover every ridge line. I’m of two minds here. On the one hand, I’m thrilled for anything that can take us away from non-renewable energy sources. On the other hand, the turbines really do make a visual statement, and not necessarily a good one. While I was watching the proliferation of these tall, white poles, a program came on NPR talking about the civic reaction to various ways of saving energy. Poughkeepsie, New York, for instance, has just passed an ordinance against hanging clothes on a line in certain circumstances. Other towns have outlawed compost piles. One caller complained about the wind turbines. There are no coincidences. I was supposed to be listening to this show. The question in my mind, and I’m sure in the minds of many others, is how do we cut our energy consumption if we’re not willing to have alternatives in our own location? The NIMBY (Not in my back yard) phenomenon still arises to thwart our conservation efforts.

South Dakota Farm with Silos
Taken 9/13/07 in Moody County, South Dakota

I crossed the Minnesota state line and camped at a private campground—actually what was probably a former KOA campground judging by the buildings—in Pipestone, Minnesota. I had wonderful internet connections there, but no electricity near my tent, so I caught up on e-mail, but ran out of battery power before I could do any writing. Thursday night was even colder than the previous night had been, and I wore sweats, socks, a cap inside my mummy bag, and pulled two blankets over the bag. I was still cold. The next morning, I hurriedly ate breakfast, packed up the car, and headed over to Pipestone National Monument.

The Monument has set aside one of the main quarries used by the Sioux nation to cut red stone used in the making of ceremonial pipes. Inside the Visitor’s Center, three traditional craftsmen work at cutting, polishing and shaping the stone. When I asked one about the hacksaw and rasp she was using, she replied that, hard as it is to work the stone, it’s still much easier than it used to be when flint and other hard rocks were used. The Visitor’s Center also has a small gallery, a theater where you can view an eight-minute film on the history of the area, and a gift shop where you can buy pipes made from the stone. Just outside the Center is the original quarry where respectful visitors can see how the stone appears in nature.

At the entrance to the Monument grounds you’ll see a sign telling you about the Hiawatha pageant, held annually in Pipestone. Immediately my mind went to the dactylic hexameter “This is the forest primeval, the murmuring pines and the hemlock…” A mind is a terrible thing to waste, and I’m sure some English teacher from years ago will be resting happy in the knowledge that at least one lesson was learned in her class.

Having studied the map looking for a route south, I noticed Lake Benton, the Hole-in-the-Mountain, and a ski resort all shown about fifteen miles north of Pipestone. Why not take a clue from Columbus, I asked myself, and travel south by going north? While the southwestern corner of Minnesota was certainly not flat, there was nothing I could see that I’d consider skiing country. This could be an interesting educational field trip—and isn’t that what the 6,000 Mile Sunday Drive is all about?

Well, Hole-in-the-Mountain turned out to be a tract of land where the prairie was cut deeply by erosion. Lake Benton turned out to be a pretty little town on US Highway 14, with the lake for which the town was named just on the north edge of the highway. My first of Minnesota’s ten-thousand lakes. I never did find the ski resort, or anything that remotely resembled what I know as a ski resort, but I did notice that I was now headed east on 14, “The Laura Ingalls Wilder Memorial Highway.” I’ll bet that somewhere along this road is a little house, out on the prairie.

The welcome signs as you enter Minnesota towns seem to carry a slogan or motto in addition to the town name. Tyler, which sported a Danish flag, was the Danebod. Another sign advertised the Apfelskiver Festival, and a third noted the seven churches in town—every one of them some variety of Lutheran or other. Balaton claimed to be “The One and Only,” but I’m sure folk in Hungary would disagree as Lake Balaton is the largest body of water in that land-locked country. The lake at Balaton, Minnesota is Yankton Lake. Oh well. Tracy, Minnesota is where the Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum is, but I didn’t check it out. Once Little Joe grew up and left the Ponderosa, I lost interest.

In Tracy I did stop at the Red Rooster Café where I ordered a bowl of chili, a green salad, and, you guessed it, Iced Tea. The salad came first and was a bowl of iceberg lettuce, some shredded red cabbage, wearing a solid hat of blue cheese dressing and croutons. When the chili came I was amazed to find I had ordered something completely tasteless. Who’d a thunk that chili might have no flavor. To reward myself for getting this gustatory delight down my gullet, I ordered a piece of yummy looking coconut cream pie. Suffice it to say that the pie I had in Port Orford, Oregon, is not in any danger of losing its crown as the best yet. By the way, one other thing that amazed me was the smoke. Every table I could see had at least one ashtray, and the smoke in the air was quite noticeable. I can honestly say this is the first restaurant I’ve visited in probably ten years that wasn’t smoke free. And I thought Minnesotans were supposed to be healthy.

St. Mary's Roman Catholic Church
Taken 9/14/07 in Sleepy Eye, Minnesota

The captivating church spire over New Ulm turned out to be the Cathedral of the Trinity, and yes, there was a parochial school just across the street—with a New Ulm Schools bus parked at the curb. Hmm. The sign welcoming travelers to New Ulm was in English, but the sign as I left town said “Auf Wiedersehen.”

East of New Ulm I drove into Mankato. The largest town by far since I had left Missoula, Mankato is the home of one of Minnesota’s state universities. Apparently they have a gun control problem here, as the buildings I saw in town all had signs saying that guns were not welcome in the building. I’ve never seen signs like that anywhere else.

Turning at Mankato, I drove south on US 169, crossing the Iowa state line at Elmore. I had called ahead and reserved a bed at the Raccoon River Resort just outside Des Moines, and with only a hundred or so miles to go, I figured there wouldn’t be any problem. What I hadn’t counted on was that speed limits in Minnesota and Iowa were ten miles an hour lower than in South Dakota (which were, remember, five miles an hour lower than Montana’s). Now fifty-five is a fine speed for driving the Oregon coast. When all you see are corn fields and soybean acres, fifty-five is a lot slower. And that’s all I saw as I crossed Iowa.

An Iowa Corn Field
Or, Just How Tall Are Elephants Anyway?
Taken 9/14/07 in Winnebago County, Iowa

Fort Dodge is the only town of any size on Iowa’s stretch of US 169, and I just drove through. I was hoping to get to my next bedroom by seven or so, but at eight I stopped in Ogden, Iowa and had a pizza. The restaurant’s slogan? Be Happy, Eat at Chappy’s. Having finished half my 12” pizza, a Solheim Special by the way, and having drunk most of my glass of Iced Tea, I called the resort to tell my host I was going to be late, but wasn’t lost, and continued on.

I arrived at the resort around 9:30, to find two wonderful gentlemen who immediately invited me to unwind with them in the hot tub. I’ll be writing all about Harold, Fred, and the Raccoon River Resort in my next posting, this time at www.travelforaday.com/raccoonia. As of two p.m., Monday, September 17^th, 2007, that piece has not been written, let alone posted, but it will be before Tuesday.

At this point I’ve driven almost 3,000 miles, and I’m not even half-way done. The Six Thousand Mile Sunday Drive is going to be a lot longer than six thousand miles. Stay tuned.

WARNING! DANGER WILL ROBINSON! POLITICAL RANT FOLLOWS. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

There was one topic that dominated my mind as I drove across eastern South Dakota and southern Minnesota. Starting just east of Pierre were the “Vote Pro-Life” signs. These signs became more strident the further east I drove. In front of one Catholic church I even saw a tombstone for the “Unborn Victims of Abortion.” Please understand, I believe that abortion is an awful choice. I wish there were viable alternatives. I do realize, however, that as a gay man, this is a decision I am never going to be forced to make. That said, what bothered me most was that the people claiming to vote “pro-life” are liars. Pretty much all of them as near as I can tell, because they seem to form the base of today’s Republican Party. Now understand, I was raised Republican, and in my heart of hearts I still consider myself conservative. I do not, however, consider the present-day Republican Party to be at all conservative, and it is certainly not “pro-life.” You cannot be pro-life and support the death penalty. That is a contradiction in terms. You cannot be pro-life and support war. That is a contradiction in terms (and no, I’m not talking about situations such as World War II). You cannot be pro-life and veto health care for children, or restrict programs like WIC, or keep adoptable children from getting loving homes because the prospective parents are a gay or lesbian couple. Those actions are not pro-life. The people who vote this way are definitely NOT pro-life. They may be pro-fetus, but they are not pro-life. So grow up America, and let’s stop lying to ourselves. We are either in favor of life, or we’re in favor of restrictions. But please, stop framing the debate in indefensible terminology.

END OF RANT

From the Mountains to the Prairies....

God Bless America.

Land that I love

Stand beside her, and guide her

Thru the night with a light from above.

From the mountains, to the prairies ,

To the oceans, white with foam

God bless America

My home sweet home.

--Irving Berlin

Canyon Lake, Rapid City South Dakota
The View from my motel room
Did I mention there were geese?
Taken 9/11/07

I awoke to the sound of geese. Geese honking, geese landing on the lake, geese rising from the lake, lots and lots of geese. Having chosen to stay in a motel rather than pitch my tent, I had a bit of free time that otherwise would have been spent striking camp. I chose to try and catch up with e-mail. I get way too much of the stuff. That coupled with the extremely slow burner on the kitchenette stove in my room, and I was fifteen minutes late checking out. Who ever heard of a 10:00 a.m. checkout time anyway?

I asked the desk clerk what her favorite Rapid City restaurant was and she had to think for quite a while. Eventually she decided Ruby Tuesday’s fit her needs. But, she said, if you’re asking about a local place, I have a soft spot for the Fire House downtown. I decided I had to check out the Fire House. Ruby Tuesday’s I know from years ago in Birmingham, Alabama.

Pulling out of the parking lot, I decided to drive through the tenting area, just in case. It was actually very nice, with lots of trees, and pads like square sandboxes for setting up your tent. There was also a woman with three children playing in the middle of the road, and only very grudgingly did she herd the kids out of my way.

I spent the morning driving around the city, visiting bookstores, walking through downtown, and having lunch at BJs Grinders (not the Fire House). Rapid City is the first place I’ve seen men in suits for a long, long time. I had parked in front of the Fire House, and their outdoor patio had several tables with groups of men in dark colored suits. I’ve lived in the West too long. I didn’t realize men still wore such contraptions. Later on, as I was getting back in the car after my downtown walk, the patio had a new group of men in black—leather-clad, motorcycle riding firemen. OK, maybe I would have fit in here.

Rapid City is called the City of Presidents, and stupid me, I had to ask why. Well, don’t cha know, it’s the town closest to Mount Rushmore. In keeping with the presidential theme, the downtown sidewalks are lined with statues of Presidents. I saw George Washington, Andrew Jackson, James Monroe, Lyndon Johnson, Jimmy Carter, and one statue that wasn’t labeled that I think must be Martin Van Buren, surely one of the more popular presidents. The statue of JFK has the President holding the hand of a little boy, John-John, and the plaque identifying the figures gives birth and death dates for both men.

What the Apatosaurus Sees
Rapid City from Dinosaur Park
Taken 9/11/07

One of my earliest memories is of visiting the Dinosaur Park in Rapid City back when I was three years old. In all honesty I don’t know if my memories are of the actual visit, or of the slides taken by Poppa when we came through town in 1953. My next visit to Rapid City was in 1990, and included a visit to Dinosaur Park. This trip would be no exception. Ya gotta relive those childhood memories, right? While crossing from the parking lot to the stairs leading to the Apatosaurus (that’s Brontosaurus to you), I saw a lovely red MinPin riding on the dashboard of a pickup. Later as I was coming down the stairs, I met the couple and their MinPin, and asked if I could add April’s portrait to my collection of Men With Dogs. Stan agreed, although he let me know that April belonged to his companion, not to him.

Choosing to head on east, rather than spend more time in the Black Hills, I left Rapid City on South Dakota 44, a road that parallels I-90, but runs between ten and twenty miles south of the interstate. Highway 44 crosses the Buffalo Gap National Grassland, and Badlands National Park. At the entrance to the Park, I stopped to take some pictures of the prairie dogs who would chirp loudly at my approach and then disappear into their holes as I raised my camera. I did get a few fuzzy pictures of small rodents and clear pictures of holes in the ground. What fun.

There was a group of motorcylists on SD 44, and we kept playing leapfrog. They would stop for a picture break and I would pass them, then I would stop and they would pass me. Eventually we started waving to each other, recognizing our commonality on the road. I even grabbed some shots of them as they passed. At this point, I wish I had pulled up and asked if I could get some portraits up close and personal, but, alas, I didn’t. I left them behind in Interior, South Dakota, where they stopped at a saloon, and I continued on into Badlands National Park.

One view of Badlands National Park
Taken 9/11/07

The topography of South Dakota changes rapidly and drastically. North of Belle Fourche, the land was rolling with occasional buttes on the horizon. South of Belle Fouche you enter the Black Hills which are an impressive mountain range, even if they’re called “hills.” East of Rapid City, you leave the Black Hills behind and go back into a rolling landscape that reminded me of a poorly folded blanket—very soft, nothing jagged, but definitely not flat. Then you reach the Badlands. There is no way I can describe the geographical features of this part of the state. The power of volcanoes, earthquakes, and erosion all come together to form a forbidding vista.

Climbing out of the Park, I crossed I-90 and headed north on what my map called South Dakota Highway 9. There were no signs identifying this dirt road as a state highway, and about midway across the nine-mile stretch, I met a semi with a load of hay rolls. The load was about as wide as the roadbed, so I carefully eased the Volvo off the road, hoping that the shoulder wouldn’t be too soft. I waved to the semi driver as he passed me, and, in true country fashion, he waved back.

Shouldn't there be mountains somewhere?
Taken 9/11/07 in Haakon County, South Dakota

I turned east on US 14 which led me the rest of the way to Pierre. The countryside gradually flattened out and the horizon began to feel very far away. I’m not used to having such a wide expanse of land. Shouldn’t there be mountains to form the horizon line?

The campground I had chosen sits on the western (southern) bank of the Missouri at Oahe Dam. Turning off US 14 just before crossing the river, I found my way to the campground, got the tent up and my dinner made all before it got dark. What a treat. Driving toward the campground, I passed what looks to be a work in progress—a very modern looking building with a collection of large tipis in front. I have no idea what I was looking at, but I’ll share it with you. If nothing else, it’s a reminder of South Dakota’s native history.

Taken 9/11/07, Fort Pierre Chouteau, South Dakota

South Dakota is one of the poorest states, if not the poorest, in the country. Vast tracts of land are set aside as reservations, Pine Ridge, Rosebud, Standing Rock, among others. This is the land of Wounded Knee. The poverty rate on the reservations is a national disgrace. The native people whites call the Sioux, call themselves the Dakota. White trappers learned the name “Sioux” from tribes further east, to whom the Sioux were the enemy. Dakota, on the other hand, means “friends.”

And with that, my friends, I’ll close for the day. Tomorrow: Pierre, South Dakota’s capitol city.