That is a really pretty part of the country. Regarding the VW, it's still the same paint that I sprayed on back in 2010. It was just some cheap Krylon but it's held up pretty well. It's getting thin spots now but the car has been outside for the last 8 years. I do put it away in a shed over winter though.
Running Away with only 40hp: Failing to Find Myself Out West in an Old VW
- Thread starter slowlane
- Start date
That is a really pretty part of the country. Regarding the VW, it's still the same paint that I sprayed on back in 2010. It was just some cheap Krylon but it's held up pretty well. It's getting thin spots now but the car has been outside for the last 8 years. I do put it away in a shed over winter though.
Nebraska is an unfairly maligned state in my opinion. I love the Sandhill region in the northern and central part of the state. Later on in my trip, I went back to western Nebraska so I have more pictures to share from out that way eventually.
pith helmet
Well-known member
Great. I have found that to be true of most places. I’ve not avoided, just missed it.
The next morning it was clear that we were making better time than I had envisioned when I made our hotel reservations in Arizona, so we had ended up with an extra travel day. I noticed that we were close to both Arches NP and Canyonlands NP so we decided to spend today visiting those and then continue on to Arizona tomorrow. We left the hotel and headed for Arches which was the closer of the two for us. There were a few neat rest areas along the road, one of which had some big rocks that I climbed around on to burn off some energy after three days of driving. At that rest area there was also a little draw bordered by a few gigantic cottonwoods with trunks that must have been about five feet across at eye-level.
There was a turnout along the highway with a parking area that had a trail up to a large arch. I think it was called Wilson's Arch if I remember correctly. I walked up the trail and climbed up under the arch. Looking out the back side of the arch was a long drop down to a barren expanse of desert that reaching as far as I could see in this clear dry air. Not being used to such landscapes, the immensity of the western desert was almost a bit unnerving to me from my vantage point. But when I turned around, I was looking back at the busy highway and down to where may dad was sitting near the parking lot, which was now rapidly filling with other tourists like us.
Continuing on our way I started paying attention to what state license plates were on the other cars we passed or were passed by. I think in just a few hours I pretty much saw half of the states in the country represented along this one stretch of Utah highway. We passed through Moab where we joined the long caravan of cars and campers on the way to Arches National Park. Neither of us had ever been to a national park before, but I had a general idea of what we were getting ourselves into going to one in mid-June. It was still about 20 minutes until the gates opened when we queued up in the already hundred-car deep line waiting to enter. Before I even left New Hampshire I had thought ahead though and bought a yearly admission pass from the local National Forest headquarters a couple of weeks ago. So at least we were able to get in a faster moving lane of already ticketed vehicles and got in reasonably quickly.
At the first turnout we stopped and got out to look around. My dad was in no shape to do any walking, save from the car to a bench to sit and look around. I asked if he minded if I walked the trail through the valley in front of us while he waited there. He was fine with that so I grabbed my camera and started off through the valley. The high vertical walls and blocky rock formations gave the impression of walking down the main street of some ancient dusty city built by giants. The hot sun glared through the gaps in the rock wall on my right as I wandered along the path. The path crossed the park road and then ended at a mammoth hunk of rock that I believe is referred to as Courthouse Rock. It had several vertical column-shaped parts along one side that gave it the appearance of a Roman ruin. I cooled off in the shade cast down from that huge rock for a little bit and then fairly quickly made my way back. I didn't want to keep my dad waiting for too long.
He had escaped the increasing heat by getting back in the car and turning in the A/C. We sat there together for a minute just looking down the valley before us. The parking lot in which we had snagged a pretty much perfect viewing spot in was getting really backed up now so we left to let someone else take our place. I was telling him about the stuff along the trail I had walked down and he expressed some regret that he couldn't do those things anymore, and hadn't taken the time to do so when he still could. His talks like that, which happened several times on the drive, further reinforced my desire to not put off what I would like to do while I'm able to, because who knows what may happen tomorrow, let alone a few decades in the future. (I could be missing half the summer and typing on a computer with a broken foot like I am now.)
We wound our way deeper into the park and stopped at the trailhead to the Delicate Arch. My dad was fine with waiting while I went back in to see the arch so I started off. Not wanting him to have to sit around too long, I walked pretty quickly, passing a never ending line of other people also going to or coming back from the arch. Pretty soon I made it to the end where the Delicate Arch stood alone against a backdrop of red rock with a snow topped mountain range at some unfathomable distance beyond. Actually it was hardly alone, as there were tons of people milling around back there in addition to myself. I sat down in an empty gap in the crowd and anxiously waited, hoping the groups wandering at the base of the arch would part, even momentarily, so I could get a picture featuring some contrived solitude of the place.
Around lunch time we drove back to Moab. We stopped and sampled the local cuisine with cheeseburgers and fries at Wendy's. Neither my dad or I are very adventurous when it comes to food on the road. After that predictable lunch, we left town in the direction of Canyonlands National Park.
Strange rock formation in Utah.
Wilson's Arch? Utah.
The valley we overlooked at Arches NP. I walked the trail that went through it.
The view from the trail down in the valley.
Looking back toward the trail from the shade of Courthouse Rock.
Weird.
I love how you can see the warping in the layers of this formation.
Prickly Pear on the trail to Delicate Arch.
Delicate Arch. What you can't see is the large noisy crowd of people all around me when I took this "peaceful" picture.
There was a turnout along the highway with a parking area that had a trail up to a large arch. I think it was called Wilson's Arch if I remember correctly. I walked up the trail and climbed up under the arch. Looking out the back side of the arch was a long drop down to a barren expanse of desert that reaching as far as I could see in this clear dry air. Not being used to such landscapes, the immensity of the western desert was almost a bit unnerving to me from my vantage point. But when I turned around, I was looking back at the busy highway and down to where may dad was sitting near the parking lot, which was now rapidly filling with other tourists like us.
Continuing on our way I started paying attention to what state license plates were on the other cars we passed or were passed by. I think in just a few hours I pretty much saw half of the states in the country represented along this one stretch of Utah highway. We passed through Moab where we joined the long caravan of cars and campers on the way to Arches National Park. Neither of us had ever been to a national park before, but I had a general idea of what we were getting ourselves into going to one in mid-June. It was still about 20 minutes until the gates opened when we queued up in the already hundred-car deep line waiting to enter. Before I even left New Hampshire I had thought ahead though and bought a yearly admission pass from the local National Forest headquarters a couple of weeks ago. So at least we were able to get in a faster moving lane of already ticketed vehicles and got in reasonably quickly.
At the first turnout we stopped and got out to look around. My dad was in no shape to do any walking, save from the car to a bench to sit and look around. I asked if he minded if I walked the trail through the valley in front of us while he waited there. He was fine with that so I grabbed my camera and started off through the valley. The high vertical walls and blocky rock formations gave the impression of walking down the main street of some ancient dusty city built by giants. The hot sun glared through the gaps in the rock wall on my right as I wandered along the path. The path crossed the park road and then ended at a mammoth hunk of rock that I believe is referred to as Courthouse Rock. It had several vertical column-shaped parts along one side that gave it the appearance of a Roman ruin. I cooled off in the shade cast down from that huge rock for a little bit and then fairly quickly made my way back. I didn't want to keep my dad waiting for too long.
He had escaped the increasing heat by getting back in the car and turning in the A/C. We sat there together for a minute just looking down the valley before us. The parking lot in which we had snagged a pretty much perfect viewing spot in was getting really backed up now so we left to let someone else take our place. I was telling him about the stuff along the trail I had walked down and he expressed some regret that he couldn't do those things anymore, and hadn't taken the time to do so when he still could. His talks like that, which happened several times on the drive, further reinforced my desire to not put off what I would like to do while I'm able to, because who knows what may happen tomorrow, let alone a few decades in the future. (I could be missing half the summer and typing on a computer with a broken foot like I am now.)
We wound our way deeper into the park and stopped at the trailhead to the Delicate Arch. My dad was fine with waiting while I went back in to see the arch so I started off. Not wanting him to have to sit around too long, I walked pretty quickly, passing a never ending line of other people also going to or coming back from the arch. Pretty soon I made it to the end where the Delicate Arch stood alone against a backdrop of red rock with a snow topped mountain range at some unfathomable distance beyond. Actually it was hardly alone, as there were tons of people milling around back there in addition to myself. I sat down in an empty gap in the crowd and anxiously waited, hoping the groups wandering at the base of the arch would part, even momentarily, so I could get a picture featuring some contrived solitude of the place.
Around lunch time we drove back to Moab. We stopped and sampled the local cuisine with cheeseburgers and fries at Wendy's. Neither my dad or I are very adventurous when it comes to food on the road. After that predictable lunch, we left town in the direction of Canyonlands National Park.
Strange rock formation in Utah.
Wilson's Arch? Utah.
The valley we overlooked at Arches NP. I walked the trail that went through it.
The view from the trail down in the valley.
Looking back toward the trail from the shade of Courthouse Rock.
Weird.
I love how you can see the warping in the layers of this formation.
Prickly Pear on the trail to Delicate Arch.
Delicate Arch. What you can't see is the large noisy crowd of people all around me when I took this "peaceful" picture.
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I don't remember much specifically about the drive to Canyonlands but I do remember the view from one overlook. I first walked out to it by myself and was astounded by the view below. I'm standing on the edge of one massive canyon looking down to the flat floor below. That flat expanse then gave way to a second huge canyon carved out of it. There was a dirt road around the lower canyon so dwarfed in scale that it was reduced to a pencil line scribbled across the dusty vastness. Excited, I went back to the car and told my dad that if he could only walk to see one thing today, this view should be it. Even though it would be a fair walk from our spot near the back of the lot, he got his cane and together we slowly returned to the overlook. He was amazed as well. We stood there for a while taking in the view before us. Eventually his legs got tired and we walked back.
I had been noticing all day, both here and at Arches NP, that despite the crowds and nearly full parking lots, there were always plenty of empty handicapped spots available at the overlooks. Even though he definitely qualified for a handicapped license plate, my dad had never brought himself to get one. I can understand that, since it is hard to acknowledge that you aren't what you once were, and I'm sure he felt getting one was admitting to himself that his health was slipping. I cautiously brought up the subject after showing him all the empty spots right next to the overlook that we could have been using. He did agree with me and one of the first things he did upon returning to Wisconsin was ordering a himself handicapped plate.
The view from the overlook at Canyonlands NP. Is the road down there the White Rim Trail?
Shafer Switchbacks.
Blooming Yucca at the edge of the canyon.
I had been noticing all day, both here and at Arches NP, that despite the crowds and nearly full parking lots, there were always plenty of empty handicapped spots available at the overlooks. Even though he definitely qualified for a handicapped license plate, my dad had never brought himself to get one. I can understand that, since it is hard to acknowledge that you aren't what you once were, and I'm sure he felt getting one was admitting to himself that his health was slipping. I cautiously brought up the subject after showing him all the empty spots right next to the overlook that we could have been using. He did agree with me and one of the first things he did upon returning to Wisconsin was ordering a himself handicapped plate.
The view from the overlook at Canyonlands NP. Is the road down there the White Rim Trail?
Shafer Switchbacks.
Blooming Yucca at the edge of the canyon.
pith helmet
Well-known member
great description!
We stayed in Utah overnight and in the morning we got back in the car for our last day of travel before reaching the Grand Canyon. It had rained overnight and was still a little drizzly when we left the hotel that morning. I was excited because today our route would take us on UT-261 and down the Moki Dugway. I had seen pictures of the dugway a few years before and had been looking forward to someday being able to drive it myself. Remembering my dad's reaction to US-550 back in Colorado, I asked him if he would be willing to drive one last road with steep drop-offs down the side. He agreed to it and off we went toward the Moki Dugway. It was every bit as neat as I hoped it would be. I was able to pull way off to the side on one of the switchbacks, leaving my dad's side of the car facing toward the hill above versus the drop below, and walk over to a good spot from which to see the whole road.
We slowly continued our way down and out across the valley. The rains had turned all the sagebrush and other plants in the valley a vibrant green. In all the pictures I had seen of the Moki Dugway, I've never seen it so green as it was when we came through. The clouds were building again and rain seemed imminent. In fact rain seemed to be the general theme for most of that summer.
I saw the junction with the road that winds through the Valley of the Gods, an amazing place from pictures I had seen a few months before. I started down the dirt road for about half a mile before it went down through a little wash. We crossed that, but the threatening skies dampened my enthusiasm for continuing on. I didn't want us to end up as the idiot tourists stuck in the mud because they were stupid enough to drive a Ford Taurus back into the desert in a rainstorm.
It proved a smart decision because about fifteen minutes later the skies unleashed in a torrent. It rained so hard while we drove the highway through Monument Valley that you could barely see the shoulder of the road, let alone the striking rock formations in the distance. I was a bummed about that. It was still raining when we reached Tuba City, where we would be staying the next two nights, by around lunchtime. It was still too early to check in to the hotel and both of us would rather see the area anyway then watch TV in a hotel room anyway so we continued on through for now.
We went north on US-89 toward the Vermilion Cliffs. Eventually the rains stopped and the sun came out about the time we crossed the Marble Canyon bridge over the Colorado River. The sun shone brightly while we drove the road along the Vermilion Cliffs. We stopped at several points and got out to just look around a bit and take some pictures. It's hard to believe this intimidating land of jagged red rock and dust is still even the same country as the mild rolling farmland we had left back in Wisconsin. I am awed by the desert, but never really feel at ease traveling in it. The land seems too big and hostile to really relax in.
After a couple of hours we turned around and retraced our path back to Tuba City. What started as a light breeze in the afternoon had grown into a vicious gale as we neared our destination. Clouds of sand were whipping up all around us and soon the Taurus was engulfed in a barrage of powdery red dust and sand. We braved the stinging sand as we checked into the hotel and brought our luggage into the room. The wind was still raging as we went to sleep that night.
Little pools of water along a short hiking trail. Utah.
Cliff dwellings at the end of the trail. I can't imagine what life would have been like there.
The Moki Dugway on UT-261. I've never seen pictures with the valley below so green.
Looking back toward the cliffs the dugway goes down from the valley below.
The end of the torrential storm we drove through in Arizona.
The Colorado River from the Bridge at Marble Canyon.
The Vermilion Cliffs. Arizona.
The desert. Arizona.
Arizona.
Balanced rocks at the Vermilion Cliffs.
Vermilion Cliffs, Arizona.
We slowly continued our way down and out across the valley. The rains had turned all the sagebrush and other plants in the valley a vibrant green. In all the pictures I had seen of the Moki Dugway, I've never seen it so green as it was when we came through. The clouds were building again and rain seemed imminent. In fact rain seemed to be the general theme for most of that summer.
I saw the junction with the road that winds through the Valley of the Gods, an amazing place from pictures I had seen a few months before. I started down the dirt road for about half a mile before it went down through a little wash. We crossed that, but the threatening skies dampened my enthusiasm for continuing on. I didn't want us to end up as the idiot tourists stuck in the mud because they were stupid enough to drive a Ford Taurus back into the desert in a rainstorm.
It proved a smart decision because about fifteen minutes later the skies unleashed in a torrent. It rained so hard while we drove the highway through Monument Valley that you could barely see the shoulder of the road, let alone the striking rock formations in the distance. I was a bummed about that. It was still raining when we reached Tuba City, where we would be staying the next two nights, by around lunchtime. It was still too early to check in to the hotel and both of us would rather see the area anyway then watch TV in a hotel room anyway so we continued on through for now.
We went north on US-89 toward the Vermilion Cliffs. Eventually the rains stopped and the sun came out about the time we crossed the Marble Canyon bridge over the Colorado River. The sun shone brightly while we drove the road along the Vermilion Cliffs. We stopped at several points and got out to just look around a bit and take some pictures. It's hard to believe this intimidating land of jagged red rock and dust is still even the same country as the mild rolling farmland we had left back in Wisconsin. I am awed by the desert, but never really feel at ease traveling in it. The land seems too big and hostile to really relax in.
After a couple of hours we turned around and retraced our path back to Tuba City. What started as a light breeze in the afternoon had grown into a vicious gale as we neared our destination. Clouds of sand were whipping up all around us and soon the Taurus was engulfed in a barrage of powdery red dust and sand. We braved the stinging sand as we checked into the hotel and brought our luggage into the room. The wind was still raging as we went to sleep that night.
Little pools of water along a short hiking trail. Utah.
Cliff dwellings at the end of the trail. I can't imagine what life would have been like there.
The Moki Dugway on UT-261. I've never seen pictures with the valley below so green.
Looking back toward the cliffs the dugway goes down from the valley below.
The end of the torrential storm we drove through in Arizona.
The Colorado River from the Bridge at Marble Canyon.
The Vermilion Cliffs. Arizona.
The desert. Arizona.
Arizona.
Balanced rocks at the Vermilion Cliffs.
Vermilion Cliffs, Arizona.
Sometime overnight the windstorm had subsided and we were greeted by clear skies as we left Tuba City for the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. We entered the park from the east on highway 64. I was amazed as we pulled up to the entrance booth there wasn't a single car in front of us. Turns out we unknowingly were smart in entering the park from the Navajo Reservation side versus through the main entrance on the other end. As we neared the first overlook parking lot though, we were enveloped in a thick fog. We couldn't see anything at all, barely even 50 feet in front of us.
There was a bench up behind the guardrail for the overlook so we sat down and just waited, hoping that we hadn't come all this way to see fog. For a good 20 minutes or so there was nothing. Eventually you could begin to see some lighter patches in the dense wall of grey. Suddenly a small break appeared and we caught a glimpse of the awesomeness below. Just as quick as we caught that peek, the fog rolled back in and there was nothing once again. Gradually the fog continued to lift and burn off and the canyon revealed itself in stages. Though we were initially frustrated with our foggy misfortune, the slow unveiling turned out to be an absolutely amazing way to experience the place.
After about an hour or so the fog had totally cleared from the canyon and we were left with an astounding view as far as we could see. It was partly cloudy now with a light breeze and I became enthralled with watching the cloud shadows slowly trace their way across the jagged land forms. I walked out to the edge and sat there in awe for a while. Gazing down to the bottom, the landscape was so overwhelming that it almost seemed fake when I stared at it long enough. The Colorado River was a tiny green line down there in the bottom, so far away that I could barely discern it was flowing. Everyone has seen pictures of the Grand Canyon and they are quite beautiful, but I really can't totally capture the feeling of being there sitting at the edge.
I went back to the bench where my dad was taking it all in. He was enjoying it as much as I was. There was still no one else around, only the two of us and the immensity beyond. After a while my dad told me how happy he was to finally be here, that for most of his life he never thought he would ever make it to the canyon, but we did. We finally started making our way onward through the smattering of other overlooks along the park road, every one presenting a phenomenal view, and each more crowded than the last. Thunderstorms rolled slowly across the far side of the canyon as morning faded into afternoon. We turned around at the main entrance gate and wound back through while stopping again at a few spots. None of them quite compared to the first though where just the two of us watched the canyon emerge from blankness.
In the late afternoon, worn out from a day of sensory overload, we left the park and drove back to Tuba City. The wind had begun to howl and blow clouds of sand just like the evening before. And just like the night before, the gale once again subsided while we slept. The next morning we started our way back to Wisconsin. Thinking of my dad, I avoided the narrow mountain roads through Utah and Colorado. The last day we left eastern Colorado and I hopped onto I-80 across Nebraska and Iowa as we were both ready to get back. Late that evening we arrived back home in Wisconsin.
Taking my dad to the Grand Canyon was unquestionably the high point of that 2015 trip. Looking back, I am so glad we went when we did, because over the years from then until now my dad's health has continued to deteriorate. There is no way a trip like that will likely happen again. After several days of rest in Wisconsin, I reloaded up my VW and set out west again on what was supposed to be a life-changing adventure. It was enlightening, but not in the ways I had imagined.
There's still more to come.
The Grand Canyon after the fog lifted.
Storms starting to build on the far side of the canyon.
Rock formation in Arizona on the trip back.
Colorado.
A lone burned tree still clinging to life on the Great Plains in eastern Colorado.
View through the window of abandoned house in eastern Colorado.
The Great Plains.
I love this picture but can't remember what eastern Colorado town this was.
There was a bench up behind the guardrail for the overlook so we sat down and just waited, hoping that we hadn't come all this way to see fog. For a good 20 minutes or so there was nothing. Eventually you could begin to see some lighter patches in the dense wall of grey. Suddenly a small break appeared and we caught a glimpse of the awesomeness below. Just as quick as we caught that peek, the fog rolled back in and there was nothing once again. Gradually the fog continued to lift and burn off and the canyon revealed itself in stages. Though we were initially frustrated with our foggy misfortune, the slow unveiling turned out to be an absolutely amazing way to experience the place.
After about an hour or so the fog had totally cleared from the canyon and we were left with an astounding view as far as we could see. It was partly cloudy now with a light breeze and I became enthralled with watching the cloud shadows slowly trace their way across the jagged land forms. I walked out to the edge and sat there in awe for a while. Gazing down to the bottom, the landscape was so overwhelming that it almost seemed fake when I stared at it long enough. The Colorado River was a tiny green line down there in the bottom, so far away that I could barely discern it was flowing. Everyone has seen pictures of the Grand Canyon and they are quite beautiful, but I really can't totally capture the feeling of being there sitting at the edge.
I went back to the bench where my dad was taking it all in. He was enjoying it as much as I was. There was still no one else around, only the two of us and the immensity beyond. After a while my dad told me how happy he was to finally be here, that for most of his life he never thought he would ever make it to the canyon, but we did. We finally started making our way onward through the smattering of other overlooks along the park road, every one presenting a phenomenal view, and each more crowded than the last. Thunderstorms rolled slowly across the far side of the canyon as morning faded into afternoon. We turned around at the main entrance gate and wound back through while stopping again at a few spots. None of them quite compared to the first though where just the two of us watched the canyon emerge from blankness.
In the late afternoon, worn out from a day of sensory overload, we left the park and drove back to Tuba City. The wind had begun to howl and blow clouds of sand just like the evening before. And just like the night before, the gale once again subsided while we slept. The next morning we started our way back to Wisconsin. Thinking of my dad, I avoided the narrow mountain roads through Utah and Colorado. The last day we left eastern Colorado and I hopped onto I-80 across Nebraska and Iowa as we were both ready to get back. Late that evening we arrived back home in Wisconsin.
Taking my dad to the Grand Canyon was unquestionably the high point of that 2015 trip. Looking back, I am so glad we went when we did, because over the years from then until now my dad's health has continued to deteriorate. There is no way a trip like that will likely happen again. After several days of rest in Wisconsin, I reloaded up my VW and set out west again on what was supposed to be a life-changing adventure. It was enlightening, but not in the ways I had imagined.
There's still more to come.
The Grand Canyon after the fog lifted.
Storms starting to build on the far side of the canyon.
Rock formation in Arizona on the trip back.
Colorado.
A lone burned tree still clinging to life on the Great Plains in eastern Colorado.
View through the window of abandoned house in eastern Colorado.
The Great Plains.
I love this picture but can't remember what eastern Colorado town this was.
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I am so glad we did that too. We still talk about the trip from time to time to this day.
So what did I expect to find out there? Answers? Inspiration? Freedom? Direction? Maybe all those things. It seems silly looking back at the impossibly high expectations I had for that open ended ramble around the country. I was fueled by the romance of the road after having recently read such classics as John Steinbeck's Travels with Charlie and Blue Highways by William Least Heatmoon. I felt that a lost person such as myself only needed to get out on the open road and life would magically rearrange itself in a satisfying manor. I could follow in their footsteps and find myself.
I was enthusiastic and excited when the VW and I sauntered off into a rainy June morning, confident that I couldn't fail. I traveled much the same route through southern Wisconsin that my dad and I took a few weeks before. The rhythmic whirring of the wiper motor from in front of the dashboard melded with the drone of the engine behind me as the miles to the Mississippi River ticked down. Out the water-speckled side windows, the bright green of the growing corn popped against the dark dirt from which it grew in the fields along the road. Wet cows huddled around barns or under trees in a futile attempt to avoid the rain as the VW buzzed on by. Puddled main streets of various small towns came and went while mileage signs for Debuque displayed smaller and smaller numbers. Eventually the highway started its decent down the bluffs bordering the Mississippi River. I crossed the bridge and was in Iowa.
I guessed my way north through downtown Debuque and ended up on a road winding back up the riverside bluffs. Driving on this narrow, curvy strip of beat-up asphalt through the thick forest covering the bluffs almost took me back to New Hampshire. The upper Mississippi River corridor is a truly beautiful place. Soon though I reached the top, and dense oaks abruptly gave way to gently rolling cornfields, reminding me that this is indeed, Iowa. The steady rain had begun to subside to a gentle mist by late morning. I stopped and took some pictures of a hilly field planted in alternating strips of corn and some other crop which created an undulating light and dark pattern across the land.
I followed a few random muddy farm roads which ended at and intersection with a county highway. The road headed due west. Cresting a hill, in the distance I could just make out three tall spires sticking up on the horizon dead ahead of me. As I closed in on them I could see it was a huge structure, looking like a Gothic castle floating above a sea of corn. That castle turned out to be a massive Catholic church from the early 1900's in the tiny town of Petersburg, Iowa. Why this little town of probably 300, not near any even minor city, was chosen as the site for such an extravagant church, I do not know. If the builders were going for imposing, they definitely succeeded as it dwarfed the few other buildings that comprised Petersburg.
In the early afternoon I drove out from under the clouds into the bright sun and blue sky. I passed a little brown sign with a picnic table and the word AHEAD written below it. Must be a rest stop. Perfect because I needed a break and was getting hungry too. The rest stop turned out to be an interesting place. It was the usual covered area with a few picnic benches but was on the grounds of an old rural one-room schoolhouse constructed of dark red brick. The school building itself was still in pretty nice shape and even the old playground was still intact as well, complete with marry-go-round and teeter-totters, play equipment banned years ago where I grew up. I cooked and ate my rice with beans and added in an onion I had nabbed from my parents house before I left. The mosquitoes there were really hungry too; for me. I wish I could remember where exactly that rest stop was now.
The only real destination I had for the day was Kalsow Prairie, a 140 acre quarter section of never plowed Iowa prairie. That is very rare. I learned about this little anomaly in the heart of the Corn Belt in Where the Sky Began, the book I was currently reading which had kindled my interest in prairies. The author, John Madson, frequented this spot and referenced it several times in the book. I was interested to see the place that helped inspire his writing. Kalsow Prairie is right in the middle of a vast expanse of cornfields along a dusty gravel road. If you weren't looking for it you would likely drive right on by as the only markers are an old rusty gate and a hanging wooden sign proclaiming "Kalsow Prairie" inside an outline the shape of Iowa. I pulled the VW off the road into the high grass of the shoulder and walked out into the prairie. I was in the infancy of my prairie fascination at the time, so I really couldn't identify any of the plants blooming there, but I was enthralled to be walking through the place I had been reading about.
After spending some time at the prairie I fired up the VW and continued west, ending my day with a beautiful sunset at Blackhawk Lake State Park. Before leaving Wisconsin I had removed the passenger and rear seats from the VW and built a platform to sleep on, creating a pitiful excuse for a camper out of the little car. This was the first night I had slept in it. I'm 6'2", so with my head on the pillow almost against the rear bulkhead and my feet under the dashboard, I just fit lengthwise in the car. As long as I didn't squirm around while I slept, it worked out pretty well. With the windows cracked and my little battery powered fan running it was relatively comfortable inside. My flashlight resting on my stomach, I continued reading Where the Sky Began before falling asleep.
The rolling patterns of this Iowa field interested me.
Catholic church in Petersburg, Iowa.
The VW at Kalsow Prairie. Iowa.
Downy Phlox at Kalsow Prairie.
Wild roses at Kalsow Prairie.
Sunset at Blackhawk Lake State Park, Iowa.
I was enthusiastic and excited when the VW and I sauntered off into a rainy June morning, confident that I couldn't fail. I traveled much the same route through southern Wisconsin that my dad and I took a few weeks before. The rhythmic whirring of the wiper motor from in front of the dashboard melded with the drone of the engine behind me as the miles to the Mississippi River ticked down. Out the water-speckled side windows, the bright green of the growing corn popped against the dark dirt from which it grew in the fields along the road. Wet cows huddled around barns or under trees in a futile attempt to avoid the rain as the VW buzzed on by. Puddled main streets of various small towns came and went while mileage signs for Debuque displayed smaller and smaller numbers. Eventually the highway started its decent down the bluffs bordering the Mississippi River. I crossed the bridge and was in Iowa.
I guessed my way north through downtown Debuque and ended up on a road winding back up the riverside bluffs. Driving on this narrow, curvy strip of beat-up asphalt through the thick forest covering the bluffs almost took me back to New Hampshire. The upper Mississippi River corridor is a truly beautiful place. Soon though I reached the top, and dense oaks abruptly gave way to gently rolling cornfields, reminding me that this is indeed, Iowa. The steady rain had begun to subside to a gentle mist by late morning. I stopped and took some pictures of a hilly field planted in alternating strips of corn and some other crop which created an undulating light and dark pattern across the land.
I followed a few random muddy farm roads which ended at and intersection with a county highway. The road headed due west. Cresting a hill, in the distance I could just make out three tall spires sticking up on the horizon dead ahead of me. As I closed in on them I could see it was a huge structure, looking like a Gothic castle floating above a sea of corn. That castle turned out to be a massive Catholic church from the early 1900's in the tiny town of Petersburg, Iowa. Why this little town of probably 300, not near any even minor city, was chosen as the site for such an extravagant church, I do not know. If the builders were going for imposing, they definitely succeeded as it dwarfed the few other buildings that comprised Petersburg.
In the early afternoon I drove out from under the clouds into the bright sun and blue sky. I passed a little brown sign with a picnic table and the word AHEAD written below it. Must be a rest stop. Perfect because I needed a break and was getting hungry too. The rest stop turned out to be an interesting place. It was the usual covered area with a few picnic benches but was on the grounds of an old rural one-room schoolhouse constructed of dark red brick. The school building itself was still in pretty nice shape and even the old playground was still intact as well, complete with marry-go-round and teeter-totters, play equipment banned years ago where I grew up. I cooked and ate my rice with beans and added in an onion I had nabbed from my parents house before I left. The mosquitoes there were really hungry too; for me. I wish I could remember where exactly that rest stop was now.
The only real destination I had for the day was Kalsow Prairie, a 140 acre quarter section of never plowed Iowa prairie. That is very rare. I learned about this little anomaly in the heart of the Corn Belt in Where the Sky Began, the book I was currently reading which had kindled my interest in prairies. The author, John Madson, frequented this spot and referenced it several times in the book. I was interested to see the place that helped inspire his writing. Kalsow Prairie is right in the middle of a vast expanse of cornfields along a dusty gravel road. If you weren't looking for it you would likely drive right on by as the only markers are an old rusty gate and a hanging wooden sign proclaiming "Kalsow Prairie" inside an outline the shape of Iowa. I pulled the VW off the road into the high grass of the shoulder and walked out into the prairie. I was in the infancy of my prairie fascination at the time, so I really couldn't identify any of the plants blooming there, but I was enthralled to be walking through the place I had been reading about.
After spending some time at the prairie I fired up the VW and continued west, ending my day with a beautiful sunset at Blackhawk Lake State Park. Before leaving Wisconsin I had removed the passenger and rear seats from the VW and built a platform to sleep on, creating a pitiful excuse for a camper out of the little car. This was the first night I had slept in it. I'm 6'2", so with my head on the pillow almost against the rear bulkhead and my feet under the dashboard, I just fit lengthwise in the car. As long as I didn't squirm around while I slept, it worked out pretty well. With the windows cracked and my little battery powered fan running it was relatively comfortable inside. My flashlight resting on my stomach, I continued reading Where the Sky Began before falling asleep.
The rolling patterns of this Iowa field interested me.
Catholic church in Petersburg, Iowa.
The VW at Kalsow Prairie. Iowa.
Downy Phlox at Kalsow Prairie.
Wild roses at Kalsow Prairie.
Sunset at Blackhawk Lake State Park, Iowa.
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The next morning I cooked up a bowl of oatmeal on the Colemann stove and ate on the shore of Blackhawk lake as the sun rose over the horizon. Leaving the windows cracked open the night before had resulted in a damp blanket of condensation throughout the interior of the VW. I rolled the windows down and went for a walk along the main park road while it dried out for a while. Tall trees lined the road while within the park but as soon as I walked beyond the boundary I was engulfed in sun and corn. I strolled along the shoulder of the road for a while captivated by the lush greens of the land on this muggy June morning.
There is something soothing to me about the upper Midwest. I know nothing about farming. I didn't grow up here, or even in a rural area for that matter, having been raised in the endless sprawl of suburbs north of Dallas, Texas. However, from the first time I came, it has just felt right. That probably sounds a bit ridiculous, it even did to me at first, because for several years I had been researching and fantasizing about traveling the real American West. Heck, I already lived in one of the most scenic places of New England, at the doorstep of New Hampshire's White Mountains, which to me seemed like just a less intense version of what was waiting for me out there. You know, towering mountain ranges, barely penetrable desert canyons, unspoiled wilderness, the stuff of adventure. And here I was beginning to feel at ease in the Corn Belt. There was no way. I had to get moving again and put Iowa, the corn, the soy, the barns, and the rest of the Midwest behind me.
I walked back to the campground, repacked my things, fired up the VW's engine, and resumed my westward trajectory. I followed the well-marked old alignments of the Lincoln Highway as they roughly paralleled US-30. While traveling on the unpaved gravel sections of this historic route, it was easy to imagine slowly rattling toward the horizon for days along this same road in a worn Ford Model T. I followed the old route into Marshalltown, Iowa and quickly wished I hadn't, since I missed a turn and became temporarily lost in the middle of the city. Though not a big city by any means, after all the tiny towns I had been accustomed to passing through thus far, it felt downright chaotic. I knew that US-30 ran south of town so I followed the streets in that general direction and after some backtracking from dead ends, I was on Highway 30 making my way toward Nebraska.
Nebraska was an unexpected surprise. I never thought about meandering around Nebraska. For most, it's one of those places you go through, quickly. Maybe make a hurried stop along I-80 at a travel plaza or a McDonalds, but definitely get across as soon as possible to get to the good stuff beyond. I had zero expectations of the state but maybe that's why I found it so fascinating.
The first night in Nebraska I camped at Victoria Springs near Anselmo. I went for a walk down the road after dinner. At a rise in the road I turned around to head back to the campground. As the sun was getting low, a bank of dark clouds was forming on the western horizon. The clouds were getting larger and darker as I neared the campground. Back at the VW, I looked overhead and there was a distinct dark arc rolling across the whole sky above, beyond which was pitch black. This was going to get interesting.
All of a sudden the breeze stopped dead still. Not a leaf moved. Then I could almost feel the storm breathing in a huge gulp in preparation for what it was about to unleash. Having been though tons of severe weather back in Texas I knew that updraft meant the fury was immanent. I quick got in the car as huge drops began pelting the earth. Shortly after the wind picked up strong and the temperature plummeted what felt like 25 degrees in an instant. I got into my sleeping bag and looked up through the back window at the trees above tossing in the wind. The driving rain transitioned into hail as lightning bolts momentarily illuminated the campground like daylight. The hail covered the grass in a matter of minutes and from inside the VW it was about like being stuck in a metal drum while it was pounded by a thousand hammers. The hail soon subsided, the rain gradually tapered down, and I drifted off to sleep
What remains of a 1941 Ford at the edge of a cornfield in Iowa.
The VW on an original stretch of the Lincoln Highway. Iowa.
Entering the Nebraska Sandhills on some random ranch road.
Getting lost following random roads in the Sandhill Region.
Huge cottonwoods at the Victoria Springs campground. That little cabin was built by the first settler in the area I believe.
There is something soothing to me about the upper Midwest. I know nothing about farming. I didn't grow up here, or even in a rural area for that matter, having been raised in the endless sprawl of suburbs north of Dallas, Texas. However, from the first time I came, it has just felt right. That probably sounds a bit ridiculous, it even did to me at first, because for several years I had been researching and fantasizing about traveling the real American West. Heck, I already lived in one of the most scenic places of New England, at the doorstep of New Hampshire's White Mountains, which to me seemed like just a less intense version of what was waiting for me out there. You know, towering mountain ranges, barely penetrable desert canyons, unspoiled wilderness, the stuff of adventure. And here I was beginning to feel at ease in the Corn Belt. There was no way. I had to get moving again and put Iowa, the corn, the soy, the barns, and the rest of the Midwest behind me.
I walked back to the campground, repacked my things, fired up the VW's engine, and resumed my westward trajectory. I followed the well-marked old alignments of the Lincoln Highway as they roughly paralleled US-30. While traveling on the unpaved gravel sections of this historic route, it was easy to imagine slowly rattling toward the horizon for days along this same road in a worn Ford Model T. I followed the old route into Marshalltown, Iowa and quickly wished I hadn't, since I missed a turn and became temporarily lost in the middle of the city. Though not a big city by any means, after all the tiny towns I had been accustomed to passing through thus far, it felt downright chaotic. I knew that US-30 ran south of town so I followed the streets in that general direction and after some backtracking from dead ends, I was on Highway 30 making my way toward Nebraska.
Nebraska was an unexpected surprise. I never thought about meandering around Nebraska. For most, it's one of those places you go through, quickly. Maybe make a hurried stop along I-80 at a travel plaza or a McDonalds, but definitely get across as soon as possible to get to the good stuff beyond. I had zero expectations of the state but maybe that's why I found it so fascinating.
The first night in Nebraska I camped at Victoria Springs near Anselmo. I went for a walk down the road after dinner. At a rise in the road I turned around to head back to the campground. As the sun was getting low, a bank of dark clouds was forming on the western horizon. The clouds were getting larger and darker as I neared the campground. Back at the VW, I looked overhead and there was a distinct dark arc rolling across the whole sky above, beyond which was pitch black. This was going to get interesting.
All of a sudden the breeze stopped dead still. Not a leaf moved. Then I could almost feel the storm breathing in a huge gulp in preparation for what it was about to unleash. Having been though tons of severe weather back in Texas I knew that updraft meant the fury was immanent. I quick got in the car as huge drops began pelting the earth. Shortly after the wind picked up strong and the temperature plummeted what felt like 25 degrees in an instant. I got into my sleeping bag and looked up through the back window at the trees above tossing in the wind. The driving rain transitioned into hail as lightning bolts momentarily illuminated the campground like daylight. The hail covered the grass in a matter of minutes and from inside the VW it was about like being stuck in a metal drum while it was pounded by a thousand hammers. The hail soon subsided, the rain gradually tapered down, and I drifted off to sleep
What remains of a 1941 Ford at the edge of a cornfield in Iowa.
The VW on an original stretch of the Lincoln Highway. Iowa.
Entering the Nebraska Sandhills on some random ranch road.
Getting lost following random roads in the Sandhill Region.
Huge cottonwoods at the Victoria Springs campground. That little cabin was built by the first settler in the area I believe.
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