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ROAD DIARY: Yet another 'tiny' project
Thursday, August 3rd, 2000
From here on out, the trip seems to calm down, ease up, as they say. For one thing, we are almost there (even though 7 to 8 long hours remain) and for another, there is no longer a calling. The road doesn’t call here, not even in a tiny voice. The mountains, once behind, once far enough away, cease to demand and to tease. No, from here on out, it is the easy straight road of the heartland and the rest of the way is, very literally, all downhill.
But with the anticipation I have skipped the very exit from the mountains. Playful and friendly, unlike the trapping tunnels that we had left just a day ago, the road skips down to the passageway that will finally allow us to exit these mountains. Side-stepping again, the road shows us the way and the river sings a morning song, but gently this time. Dancing together, we leave these heights behind. As we must look ahead to keep the vehicle on the road, we invariably miss that last look at the mountains. They were right there a minute ago, and now they are gone.
Maybe it is the green exerting its psychological calming effect, or maybe it is the honest way of the farmer, or even the smell of the cattle, wave of the grain, richness of the earth. Maybe it is just the impending end of the trip, the sameness of the roadside, the rhythmic tick tock provided by the phone and electrical poles that border the road forever, or the ample skies with the capricious clouds drawn by a whimsical mother nature. I don’t know what it is, but these roads that take us down from the Rockies and out into the plains are for sure soothing and welcoming.
A different look here, easy to remember. Flat lands on both sides either full of pasture land, cattle ranches, or farmland, plowed this time of year or showing the stubble left by the dirt conservation conscious farmer. Railroad tracks on one side, river on the other but in the distance, beyond those first fields. Still a two-lane road, no more is needed, with the only excitement provided by the occasional truck that must be passed lest it robs us of the view of the road. Everyone drives the speed limit here, a tribute to the Western Colorado and Eastern Kansas troopers, no doubt.
The road, like these lands, is open like the desert roads we left behind, but it is tame. The road through the western desert is wild, untamed, a bit mysterious and frightening like a wild stallion or an old coyote. Roads through the heartland are tame and submissive, rough in their own way but tranquil and obedient like the sheep and cattle that is seen sporadically by the plod fields. Tick, tock, tick, tock, the poles pass by with the miles, sometimes being the only feature in the vast flat lands. Railroad tracks and clumps of trees interrupt the level views, providing a new meaning to the definition of landmark. Easy to remember these parts, even without pictures, easy to recall these roads, and easy to become attracted by the peace and the honesty and the simplicity of its people.
We arrive at the predicted time, having been showered by refreshing rains, fed by the perfectly spaced towns and rested in the appropriately placed stops. We arrive to the family house and get ready for a family reunion, to start tomorrow. But that is a different story altogether.
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I meant now to start writing about the return trip home, but first I must pay better tribute to another activity called “an expedition,” and to the roads in Kansas.
7-days Later: The Way Back Home
Thursday, August 10th, 2000
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