Riding out before dawn to beat the Denver traffic and the heat east of the Rockies, we faced the rising sun on route 70. We have jumped on and off this highway for the last two weeks and it is an amazing lifeline from the West, through middle America, to the East.
After negotiating Denver, we rode with the big boys. We passed tractor trailers from every state, riding small in their shadow, and I was fascinated by their wheels, their logos, their cabs and their cargo. From the mountains on, there is little else to keep your interest.
Colorado bleeds into the prairie and any vestige of mountain majesty disappears in barren flat land, dotted with cattle. A two-faced state, it is difficult to comprehend the disparity between the west and the east.
Following route 40 when it split from the highway was an education in The Plains. Straight onto never, the road occasionally treated us with a small town that had no gas, 2 visible homes and a state champion basketball team. With a graduating class of 12, seven must have played and played well. We passed into Kansas and nothing in the terrain gave us a clue, except a small roadside sign.
Corn. Corn. Corn. The poor quality of the un-irrigated fields told a story of drought. Mile after mile of crops that failed will leave silos empty and farmers struggling to survive. Dust blew up in clouds where tractors attempted to work. Depressing in that it mirrors scenes from eighty years past.
The Fort Wallace Museum was our picnic spot. Absolutely in the middle of nowhere, picnic tables appeared. This fort was one of many in Kansas, built to protect the trails from attack as the country moved West. After lunch we actually toured the museum (what else is there to do in Kansas). The artifacts in this lonely, isolated attempt to maintain history were worthy of the Guggenheim. Newspapers from the assassination of Lincoln; artifacts and letters from the Buffalo Soldiers; insignias and guns from Custer and other generals; life stories of families massacred and children taken by Indians only to escape and tell their tales. It was fascinating, with a slant that gave credence to the Westward Movement and, for a short time, took the onus off us, the interlopers.
Back on the highway, a wicked wind from the west challenged Jules and Magic to the max. Following the yellow dotted road, we skipped toward our goal. Working all day, we still have half of Kansas and half of the country left. "Livin' on a Prayer" played on the radio and with tears, we screamed "Halfway there" to the wind.
Another lesson in America, this state adds a new level of respect to those pioneers who dared to take the trip west. Unpolitical, they were seeking a better life. Unknowingly, they got caught in wars between soldiers and Natives. In sheer bravery and numbers, they travelled through hundreds of miles of wasteland and landed where their hearts lead them.
We too travel through these same paths. Our luxuries are taken for granted. We fly over ground in hours that took days for the pioneers. Dangers are few. We always land where our hearts lead us. Jules and I are forever grateful for the sacrifices made by these unnamed American heroes and heroines. Because of them, we can travel across any part of this country freely. Tonight we sleep where wagons once circled and campfires warded off the night.
Lovely! That was quite a steak, too!
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