You will understand in time, why it is, that there are photographs only at the beginning and the end of this blog, and none in the middle. Photography is not always appropriate!
When I have told people here what my route has been recently, they have said that it must have been boring, “all across the endless prairies”, but to first eyes, at least once, the trip across Iowa and Nebraska was impressive to say the least. The Iowa prairie is frequently farmed and there are large swathes of maize and other crops, all irrigated
by endless mobile automats on wheels crossing the fields. In parts of Nebraska too, there are fertile spots, but the further west one goes, the less frequent these become and then it finally gives way to what, from all immediate observation, one would describe as almost desert. The irrigational systems often run from a central water pipe, so that also explains, why, on a scan such as Google Earth, or from the air, the plantations all are, for the most part, circular rather than square. The sizes of the fields are mind boggling compared to British arable farming, frequently stretching as far as the eye can see.
Heading out of Winterset on the 92, the first 100 miles or so to Council Bluffs and Omaha was largely this sort of big farm country. The land was flat and the roads, although punctuated about
every forty miles or so with a slight change of direction or a couple of junction changes, were straight and just disappeared endlessly into the distance over every slight rise. Traffic, if you can call it that, was usually about two other vehicles somewhere on the visible stretch at some time or another. After about three hours of this, I rode round the ring roads of Council Bluffs and picked up the 75, north west towards Blair, just across the border into Nebraska, where I stopped for lunch.
Blair is in the Missouri valley. It is clearly an old junction town and the main street is a wide open quietish highway, but it has some heavy wagons rolling through most of the time. Looking at it and ignoring any traffic, one sees a broad, straight western township of single or double storey flat fronted wooden buildings, mostly now modern, but little changed in time
from a hundred years ago, and the street, no doubt laid out much as it was when wagon trains, stage coaches and cattle drives rolled through. It was hot, and I was pleased to find some shade for a break. Earlier in the trip, I had been so pleased to be able to abandon my helmet and ride free with the wind in my face and through my hair, but over the plains, the heat was burning on my scalp despite the wind and still having hair, but it was a least a better option that replacing a hot and heavy helmet in the heat,
There really is not a lot else to say about Blair (unless you get me on politics!) I pushed on further north west now on the 75, similar farming countryside but a little more of a scenic route, overlooking the Missouri occasionally and then passing through the eastern edges of the Omaha and Winnebago Indian Reservations. I have now passed through several, reservations and am shocked by how poor, in general, they appear. The agriculture and grazing is generally very sparse, and the scattered houses and townships are barely more than shacks and shanties with occasional old camper vans and RVs. There seems to be little in the way of jobs, certainly not in industry, or even farming going on. I wonder how they manage to survive in these conditions. There is a very definite, and visibly obvious, change when passing into such areas. Are Native Americans actually confined to living in these places or is it their choice I wondered? If they live there, are they content with that way of life, is it their way, is it just a constant commune with nature, or is it simply poverty from which they have no way of escape. Unfortunately, I had no way of beginning to find out. For a start, all the side roads are almost all dirt tracks, or soon become so, and secondly, people have said to me that it is not advisable to go off the beaten track on the reservation areas , suggesting that many of their residents are drunks, drug addicts or thieves. Surely this must be a pre-conception too? The Native American Indian was proud and honourable inside his own codes of religion and social life wasn’t he? Has he become reduced to this now, or is this all that is left in a life on a reservation. They are all, certainly, in pretty wild and out of the way places.
I kept thinking about these things for most of the way up the road, but by late afternoon had left the reservation areas and arrived at Sioux City. Sioux City is actually quite an attractive place. It is right on the Missouri river, which, here, is about 100 yards wide. I rode in along the river
side, past old Victorian river front properties, and followed signs to the local municipal campsite, turning right over a river bridge and then back on the opposite shore to a pleasant park alongside the river itself. I was allocated a spot in the wooded area where there was only one other tent pitched. Most Americans “camp” in their houses on wheel, and are allocated into spacious separate areas from those of us who really camp. In the UK, our small camper vans, and mobile homes, tend to be self contained, although on sites we do plug in to electrical connections and tend to use the site showers and toilets unless we are “wild camping”. American RVs are somewhat different. For a start, as I have already commented, they are massive. Most of them have hydraulic partitions, that slide out from the sides, creating full 12 x 12 living areas inside, and many of them have several of these and, when set up, may have two such living areas in addition to large canopies over outdoor patios and often large barbeque attachments, which seem to pull out from various store areas. Many have electrical supplies which need 50 watt connections to run full air-conditioning, often two full voltage units, and 1500watt microwaves and ovens and all the other gadgetry and luxuries inside, and they all have large waste pipes which pull out of the sides to connect to sewage pipes at each pitch. Some are motor homes, like ours although they usually have something in excess of a six litre turbocharged engine, to drag their massive weight around. Italian marble floors and granite work tops with hardwood fittings, the size of normal kitchens with full sized freezers and fridges, don’t come light. It really is a bit like needing a removal van to take your mobile home around here. The alternative, what we would call a caravan, towed by a car, is rare although there is a trend towards a new version of this, what is called a “fifth wheel”, which is in effect almost an HGV trailer attached by a massive hitch, like our lorries use, to the platform back of a truck, which again can be anything from a six to eight and a half litre engine and are rated at between one and half and three and a half ton capacity. These are just enormous, their bonnets coming up to my shoulder height. Quite a lot of retired people have such vehicles on site for six months or so while they are in a warmer place in winter and then move back to their homes in the summer, and many of the R.Vs actually cost more than their homes. It is certainly a whole different way of life from what we understand by caravanning or camping. However, back to my little one man tent and the tent that was already on site. When I arrived, I sat at the picnic bench next to my site and started to make a coffee on my camp stove. I wandered across the park towards the river while it boiled and saw a paddle
steamer moored on the opposite bank. The river was quite fast flowing and it crossed my mind to try to catch supper, but a chap on the bank said that you had to get a town licence and the office was now closed, so I changed my mind and returned to the pitch. I sat down with my coffee and a cigarette and contemplated the park and chilled in the woods after a hot days travel.
It had been a lovely day, and I had enjoyed my 200 miles. Looking next door, I couldn’t help but notice that my neighbours looked a little odd. It was difficult to work out what was the relationship, but I assumed they were partners with a son of about 8 who was running about doing nothing much in particular, and the man was trying with little success to get a barbeque fire going in the fire pit. She was sitting on a log occasionally shouting at the boy and drinking from a can. They had the bright orange inner part of a tent pitched, with the net roof, but no outer cover, and I could not see one on the ground. Neither did they appear to have a vehicle with them. There were a few bags on the ground nearby, a saucepan and not much else. It was not long before he came over. “Man”, he started, “have you got any firewood or an axe?” This was followed very quickly afterwards by “ Can I bum a cigarette off you?” I looked up at my neighbour. How could he possibly believe that in this jammed up luggage packed on my bike, I could have an axe! He was a slightly dishevelled man of about 30 with an small unkempt chin beard. He made small ataxic movements with his hands and face and his eyes were glazed. Oh dear, I thought, what have we got here! My immediate thought was a drug problem, or possibly alcohol, but whatever, he seemed friendly enough and I gave him a cigarette. “ Can’t get this damn wood to burn” he said. “ it’s too big”. I offered to help. He had some small bits of paper which had largely gone out and a pile of campfire wood which he had bought from the campsite office. They were big logs. Here people buy their campfire wood for these fire pits, all of which have some sort of barbeque rack attached to them They are a good idea and popular but you do need kindling. The wood store was only 50 yards away anyway. I suggested that he return to the store and ask the camp host if he could swap a couple of pieces for some of the bits at the bottom of the cage. This he thought was a good idea and went, returning with his two big bits and some free small broken bits from the cage. “Right on” he said and proceeded to try to light these. I helped him. I suggested that we collected some of the pine needles from the floor and some cones and got those alight first and soon, we had an adequate fire on which to start to burn his bigger logs. The little boy was running around moaning that he was hungry and the man kept saying that he would have some real steak “soon as I get this darn fire goin’”.
I returned to my site and decided that, since it was a nice night and I was only passing through, I would sleep under my mozzie net in my sleeping bag rather than erect the tent. I fixed up the net to the end of the table and spread it out, and put my bag and light and knife under the bag. Then I made supper on the stove. I boiled some potatoes and green vegetables and fried some sausages, and opened a tin of fruit, and it was not long before I was well into my meal. Next door there was still some activity and some shouting and grumping between him and her and she was periodically walking about but still had her can with her. I had just made another coffee when the man called me over. “D’ya wanna a drink and a piece of steak?” He enquired. I had rather realised that they were probably not very well off, so to be offered a piece of steak was a lot. I suggested that perhaps they needed it themselves, and that I had had my supper. “Aw, come on” was the reply, “there’s plenty”, so I walked over and sat on the edge of the seat of the picnic bench. They both sat on the log and the little boy sat on the ground. The man took paper plates out of a bag and plastic knives and forks and I could see that, in a bag, he had about 8 large pieces of steak and some sausages, but almost nothing else. He threw four pieces of steak on the barbeque and handed me a beer. He took a soft drink. I was a bit surprised. His ataxic movements and starey eyes still rather unsettled me. She demanded another beer. They introduced themselves, and I started to get the picture.but what exactly the story was I shall never know. They had been partners, but she was a “reformed” alcoholic, who now just drunk “socially”, although she must have been on her fourth beer since I had arrived. He was a crystal-meth addict, and the courts had separated them and taken the child into custody, unless he moved out. When she was “dry” she had got their son back, but her ex-partner now lived in Arizona and had come up for the weekend, 17 hours on the bus, to see them. I was surprised to some extent. She was now living with somebody else, but had come out for a weekend camping because he couldn’t stay at her house as her boyfriend was there. It seems that he was not supposed to be there at all or the boy would be taken into custody again. The story got more and more complex. He was now off the “stuff” but still smoked cannabis, which he had with him but no tobacco to roll it in. But he was out of money at the moment so had no smokes, and she had finished all of hers too. Hence the invitation for a steak I suspect! I gave them a packet of cigarettes which they just simply seemed to accept. The little boy did not like steak. He wouldn’t eat it. He wanted hot-dogs, so duly some sausages were cooked and bread taken from the brown bag on the table. She was about late 20’s, also dishevelled, in an overly tight pea green jumper with no bra and large saggy breasts and a protruding stomach. She sat on the log apologising for her manners when she continually belched on her beer or leaned slightly sideways to fart. “It always gives me wind”, she explained, “I can’t help it” She was lightly slurry in her speech as he was ataxic in his movements. He was a skinny, wasted, young man, and she was a fat-waisted, wasted young woman. I felt sorry for them both, but recognised that there was nothing I could do to help. I ventured to enquire how her boyfriend would feel about her camping with her ex partner. “He don’t know” she said, “and he ain’t gonna find out is he?" She glared at the boy. I wondered how the eight year old would be kept quiet about this teddy bears picnic. It started to get dark. I told them about my experience with the racoons in Taughannock Forest. She laughed, and said, “well if ya hear screamin’ tonight it won’t be racoons!” I imagined immediately that she implied that her partner had previously been violent to her, and suggested that if there was screaming in the night I would probably call 911, which is the U.S. police emergency number. “There won’t be any need for that”, the young man said, it’s all jes fun”. I smiled, and bade them a goodnight. Some fun! It was almost 10.30 and the lad had eaten just one sausage and was still running about. I left for the privacy of my sleeping bag under my mozzie net, and soon settled down to sleep. About two o’clock I became aware of some noises, talking, occasional shouts, and several rude words! It sounded at first like an argument and I suddenly remembered my neighbours and wondered if he was indeed beating her up. I ignored it for a while, but it continued and I couldn’t easily sleep. It seemed to be coming from somewhere behind me, and I rolled over in the bag to my right side and peered through the mosquito net. Oh no! I thought, surely not! But, yes folks, I am sorry to have to report the good news and the bad news. The good news was that my neighbours were not beating each other up and had left the little boy asleep in the tent. The bad news was that they were both clearly very inebriated, stark naked, literally 25 yards away, completely oblivious to the fact that I was lying under my net close by. She was sprawled on her back over the edge of the picnic table, and he was stood in what can only reasonably be described as "very close and active contact” from the end. I really couldn’t bear to watch! It was all a bit to grose and a bit too close. I mean, it was not like some beautiful porn star and her hunky stud, or anything sexy or stimulating in any way. That might have made me envious. This was just a heaving humping grunting mess with occasional vulgarities of encouragement thrown in for good measure. I tried to close my eyes and shut out image and the sound. I rolled over to my left side again and tried to sleep, but the sound kept on breaking through. I wondered what her boyfriend would have said, or indeed done! I looked at my watch. Two twenty. There was no sign of life from any of the air-conditioned double glazed mobile hotels nearby. All was quiet, except these two. For heavens sake hurry up I thought, but it went on and on. Finally at about five to three, there were the screams. About bloody time too, I thought! I decided not to call 911! A light or two went on in the R.V. area, but nobody looked out. The couple were laughing and rushed on back to the shelter of their tent. Soon afterwards I went back to sleep and did not wake ‘til almost 7.30. I cautiously peered through the net. My neighbours were gone. Almost 50 minutes it went on for, and drunk too; some stamina, that’s all I can say about it, other than poor kid! What a life!
Now, if I had thought that I had seen prairies, I had no idea of what was coming. I knew little of Nebraska, other than I could choose whether to continue directly west here or cross the Missouri northwards and follow a similar road in South Dakota which runs parallel, but I wanted to end up at south entrance to The Custer National Park in South Dakota and either route would have ended there, but I could not be bothered to sort out a new route and so just continued out west on the 20 in northern Nebraska. The first 120 miles was through very similar country to that of Iowa, rolling country, with many farms and lush watered greenery all around, but as I got west of O’Neill, this changed dramatically and the farmsteads became less and less until I was in an area of what appeared to be immense sand dunes, but covered with sparse brown and slightly greenish grass. The road was hot, the air was hot and dry and the hill spread on and on and on with no end in sight ahead, or to left or right. Periodically I passed the typical roadside gate of an entrance road to a ranch, with the log pine gate and head posts and a sign on it swinging in a constant hot breeze. Generally that road too wound away into the distance with no sign of habitation. Most of the roadside was fenced with mile upon mile of posts and wire and
periodically I would spot herds of cattle, usually Black Angus, but still a few longhorns amongst them on occasions, grazing the area, which looked unable to support one cow, let alone a herd. Sometimes in the dips between the dunes there were diamond shaped ponds of dew water, or possibly natural oases with springs, but oddly, I seldom saw any animals there. I imagined what it would have been like to cross this territory in a
wagon or ox cart. It would have taken days, and finding water would have often been sheer luck or the skills of trackers. Wagon would have got held up in the light sandy soil. Indians could have surrounded any wagon train or followed them from behind adjacent dunes for days without being spotted. This truly was prairie, wide open range country with little shelter and little water, and little in the way of any sort of townships, or petrol stations I might add. Quite a scary place to be with only a range of 180 miles in the tank. I passed a historical marker at the side of the road, which told me about Nebraskan prairies like this. ( Americans love their “Historical
Markers” which usually tells you something that happened somewhere around this spot, somewhere around 1890 to 1910, and probably has now been burned down, or they are not quite exactly certain where it was in the beginning, but this time it was actually useful) When the first ranchers and farmsteaders came to Nebraska, they regarded these dunes as desert and no good for anything, so the vast acres of grazing here were ignored and they settled at the edges. However, at round up time, in 1879, a guy called Mr.E.S.Newman, a local rancher, found that some of his herd had crossed over into this area and they went to try to find them and bring them in, thinking they would probably be dead or very weak. What they actually found was that the animals were vibrantly healthy, roaming on this rough grazing and finding water holes for themselves. This lead to them putting more animals on the dunes and with the the consequent added fertilisation, the grass got better ( if this is better I dread to think what it was like originally) and now the prairies of Nebraska are one of the largest areas of beef production in the world.
Enough history then, and back to the road trip. All was going well until about Cody, some 300 miles out. On the horizon it was getting very cloudy and dark. The sky was almost navy blue and I could see that touching earth in massive rainfall from miles ahead. There was nowhere I could shelter, and it was some way off, so I continued without stopping to cover up, apart from which, in temperatures of 105, one hardly feels like putting on the wet weather kit.
A short way down the road, I saw some wonderful ,almost wild, Mustangs near the fence and
stopped to look at them. They were clearly not as wild as I had
thought as they started to approach and I got a wonderful look at these fabulous horses. I wished Wife and Daughter, who are really into horses, had been able to see them too. I really must have a ride on a western horse before I leave the West.
Ahead of me I now noticed, that although the navy blue cloud was all across the sky, there was a
clear area, where it did not come to ground and it was obviously not raining. It was absolutely directly ahead of me and the road was headed straight for it, although I took the photo a few minutes later! I thought that if I put my foot down a bit ( actually twist the throttle, but never mind), I would get through that bit without touching the storm. I rode on hard for about twenty minutes on a dead straight road, though undulating , up the crests and down the hills. The storm was within a mile of me and I was still on track with a patch of clear sky right in front. I passed the Bowring Ranch State historic park on my right and would have liked to stop in other circumstances, but had to head for the clear weather now while I had the chance. Then, “Sod’s Law” clicked in. Where I had travelled 300 miles virtually straight all the way, I went over the rise in front of the sky gap and the road took a sharp bend to the left. I had hardly negotiated the bend when I hit the rain like a wall. I had to slow down to see through it at all. It came down in sheets, as heavy as any power shower. My head and shirt were soaked immediately, my knees and thighs wet through, as if I had been thrown into a bath, and gradually, that horrid feeling as your trousers fill up with water, draining down your shirt and round your waist band. I swear that gradually, all inside them started to float, and because of the way one sits on a saddle, there was nowhere for the water to drain out! There was no point in stopping. It was too late to cover up and the rain was too heavy to stay put. I pressed on at about 10 miles an hour, spitting water out of my mouth and wiping my face to keep the water clear of my eyes. I did rather wish that I had stopped and covered up and waited but, the rain was warm, and the air was still hot, and I reckoned now that I should just outride it and then consider the options. I could not see the mileometer, but must have travelled for about 25 minutes in this torrent, and suddenly, just as rapidly as I had ridden into it, I was out and clear of the deluge, and the sky was as clear and as blue as it had been before it. I glanced back at the navy blue curtain behind me. There was till plenty to come, but it was just local to an area of about 5 square miles. I felt a fool. It was funny
really and I did take a picture of the sorry mess. My clothes were so wet they were stuck to my body. Fortunately, the water had not gone in my boots because the jeans were outside them. I squelched off the saddle. My underpants were full of water and none of it was draining because the material was all stuck to my legs. It felt like I had a couple of pickled onions and a gherkin floating round in there, as if I was in a polythene bag of water. I undid the buttons of my jeans and eased the legs of the pants. Bad move! I should have taken the boots off first as the legs of the jeans acted like downpipes. I stood at the road side, in the blazing sunshine again wondering whether I should change, but decided that, since I only had another 120 miles or so, and the sky ahead was stable I would wait ‘til I arrived, which proved a good move, because, by the time I had arrived at Hot Springs, South Dakota, I was totally dried out. I opted not to visit the hot springs though.
It was not far from here to the entrance to The Wind Cave National Park, the park that lies immediate south and adjacent to The Custer National Park, and The Black Hills National Forest. I arrived at the entrance to the Visitor Centre and the campsite and booked in for the night. I was in time for an open air lecture by a young ranger, on "Bats", would I like to come? She smiled at me from beneath her broad brimmed straw ranger hat, handing me an information leaflet. She could only have been about 20. Dressed up in her full Yogi Bear Ranger outfit with a brace on her teeth, she made me feel very old. I smiled back at her. “Yes, I’d love to,” I heard myself say with some rapidly mustered enthusiasm to support her effort. “Half past eight, just after dark” she replied. “ I’ll be there” I said.
I pitched the tent as it was forecast to rain again, and made supper, after which I wandered to the open amphitheatre for my bat lecture. It was quite good, and I did learn a bit, particularly about fruit bats, although there are none apparently in this immediate vicinity. She gave us a leaflet on how to make a bat box! I put it with my paper collection. After saying goodnight to everyone, and there were a lot at the lecture, we all departed for our camps, me to my tent and them to their touring hotels. At least there was no tent next to me tonight. I instantly fell asleep with my clothes and boots on and did not wake ‘til half six!
Best wishes,
Doc
12th September. Note: a very kind comment and pleasant e-mail from a couple I met who are from Delaware, was posted below, and I have replied to them. Unfortunately, I have had to delete it because I realised that I had included their address and e-mail and so it would not have been anonymous and may have caused them nuisance. I should have deleted that part of their message first before publishing.
