That Midwestern Feeling, Again
Traveling across country was incredibly difficult back in the early 1800’s. Just imagine — and it’s not easy to do — driving a covered wagon across rutted dirt trails that stretched thousands of miles from the Midwest to the West Coast. It took months, and many of those 19th-century travelers never made it. They had to endure weather and predators (human and animal) and sickness and a merciless calendar that warned them that they’d better “get over” those mountains before snow flew.
Now, fast-forward to the early 21st century — ours. Cross-country travel by car — at least, travel from our Left Coast to the Midwest — is not a “breeze,” but it’s a whole lot “breezier” than it was for the pioneers. Sharon and I left our Central Coast (of California) home Wednesday just before noon. We arrived at our “other place” here in the Heart of the American Heartland — Ames, Iowa — at 4:30 Saturday afternoon. Our trek spanned 1826 miles and seven states and lasted a bit more than 75 hours. Yes, we were weary after our excursion, but we did not have to fight our way through weather or predators or anything else, other than the tiredness that accrues after being in a car for several days.
During our lives together, we have driven back and forth across our great country three times. We’ve gone west to east and back on interstates 10, 20, 40 and 80. This time, we decided to try something new. We headed east on Highway 46, south on the 99 and then east again on Highway 58. We drove through the towns of Tehachapi and Mohave and Boron — all of which have fascinating histories — and found ourselves, after a few hours on the road, in Barstow, population about 23,000. Barstow is a big-time transportation center, not least of which is because it’s where interstates 15 and 40 show up, along with Highway 58 and the old Route 66. Barstow makes a big deal of its Route 66 heritage — as it should — but it’s also justifiably proud of having an actual working drive-in theater.
We didn’t want to spend our evening watching a movie from our car, so we headed north on the I-15 toward Las Vegas. Just before we drove into the city, we were startled to come over a small hill and see something shiny — really, really shiny — off to our left. It was almost frightening — something you might see in a Spielberg movie about space creatures. But this was no movie — it was the massive Crescent Dunes Solar Energy plant — more than 10,000 mirrors — each the size of a small house — spread over nearly 1700 acres. Those mirrors track the sun each day and focus it on a receiver filled with molten salt, which stores the energy as heat. When the “grid” needs power, the salt’s heat is released to turn water into steam, which drives generators to make energy.
It’s all amazing to me, but it’s still a little frightening to see all of it, shining so brightly, over such a wide area in broad daylight.
Then — as evening was about to descend, we drove into Vegas. I’ve never been a fan of this particular city-of-so-many-vices, and I had not visited in more than three decades. But a feeling of sadness shook me more than somewhat, as I-15 took us past the heart of town. For there, on the right side of the freeway, was the Mandalay Bay Hotel, the place where one of our mass killers opened fire from the 32nd floor last October, murdering 58 people and injuring more than 800 others. One day, drivers on that interstate may not know that, but that is not the case now.
A bit farther up the road was the giant Trump Tower, gleaming gold as the sun was setting. Give the man credit — he knows how to build luxury places. But this particular luxury was not in range of our particular pocketbook, so we veered off the 15 and headed west, on the 94, winding up in a Vegas suburb that looked a lot like the Phoenix suburb we lived in a few lifetimes ago. We spent the night at a satisfactory hotel — one that provided a decent “free” breakfast the next morning.
Day 2 of our journey found us back on I-15, heading toward and into Utah. Along the way, we drove through the incredibly lovely Virgin River Canyon. This part of the 15 is said to be one of the most expensive ever built, because of the complexity of the surrounding landscape. Miles later, we passed through St. George, Utah, said to be the fastest-growing metro area in the nation. It’s easy to see the lure — it’s quaint and seems to be a throwback to a simpler time. But back in the ’50s, this now-booming town received the brunt of the fallout from the above-ground nuclear testing at the Yucca Flats/Nevada test site northwest of Vegas. Winds carried the fallout of the tests right through the St. George and Southern Utah area, leading to a marked increase in cancer rates in the population. Much as I enjoyed driving through St. George, I would never want to live there.
A bit farther up the road, we stopped for an excellent lunch at Charlie’s Southern BBQ in lovely Cedar City. Thus fortified — and heavily — we pressed on, eventually leaving the 15 in favor of I-70, that amazing road that carries you up, up and eventually over the vaunted Rockies. But before we made that climb, we drove through desert scenery so beautiful that it’s difficult to describe. We whizzed by quickly because the speed limit in those parts was 80 mph. And, yes, we were passed by those who believe no speed limit is too high to violate. We overnighted in Fruita, Colorado — a nice-enough small town that features plenty of outdoor activities. I walked through the James M. Robb Colorado River State Park next to our hotel, and envied those who had brought their RV’s and set up shop in heavily wooded campsites. It made me wish we’d tried RV camping ourselves during our salad days.
Day 3 found us heading to the top of the Rockies. The scenery here is as good as it gets anywhere in the United States, with incredible snow-capped peaks (yes, even in June) and world-renowned ski spots such as Vail and Breckenridge. I-70 just keeps climbing and climbing, eventually reaching the Eisenhower Tunnel complex on top of the mountains. There, you go through the mountains at an elevation of 11,000 feet. While you’re still inside, you cross the Continental Divide, and when you emerge, it’s virtually all downhill to Denver, about 60 miles away. But we stopped well before Denver and had lunch in a gorgeous little Western town with a great mining history — Idaho Springs. This is one of those places you tell yourself that you “could have lived in,” if only you had changed the course of your life and if only you had found a way of making a living there.
Given the beauty of the western side of the Rockies, the eastern side disappoints. The scenery is not as lush, not as green — because much of the moisture that comes with all those west-to-east storms that batter this great mountain range is squeezed out by the time they get over the peaks and head toward Denver and the plains. We sped by Denver on the 70, having no desire to spend time there. It was at that point — just past Denver and now on I-76 — — that our Great Journey to the Midwest became a slog. We were getting tired — though we had been trading off driving shifts every two hours — and the landscape was getting tiring to look at. We eventually made it to Interstate 80 and drove through the flat-lands of Nebraska before arriving at our last overnight stay, North Platte.
Our final driving day on this odyssey was also our shortest — a mere seven hours. We motored east from North Platte and stopped for lunch three hours later at a marvelous BBQ place in Lincoln — Phat Jack’s. It’s in an undistinguished industrial-type building — we passed it by before turning around and finally locating it — but it’s worth the effort to find it. Simply put, Phat Jack’s has great food, and enough of it to satisfy anyone’s appetite. If you’re ever in Lincoln, look it up. You won’t be sorry.
The final leg of our journey took another four hours. We drove through Omaha — a handsome city, indeed, with some gorgeous, tree-lined neighborhoods, a nicely appointed downtown and the highly regarded Henry Doorly Zoo. Then it was into heaven — otherwise known as Iowa. The contrast between the flat-lands of Nebraska and the rolling hills of Iowa was stark. Simply put — Iowa’s landscape was lovely, given the great amount of rain the state had this past spring. The hills were a gorgeous shade of green, and lucky, indeed, where the horses and cattle that got to graze.
We rolled into Ames on Saturday afternoon and went right to the condo we had purchased and renovated last year. Amazingly — after being away eight months — everything “worked” when we turned it on — our water, our water heater and our cable TV. Well, almost everything. Our WiFI was on the blink, but a Mediacom technician rolled by early Sunday morning to perform the quick fix that we did not think of. Yes, he unplugged a cable and plugged it back in. Highly technical stuff, and it worked.
So here we are, once again, in one of our favorite spots on the planet. We lived in Ames once before — decades ago, when I somehow wrangled a job teaching journalism at Iowa State University. I was working alongside some truly great instructors — men and women who had spent years, decades, in broadcast or print journalism and who were now giving some of their vast expertise to their students. They were fine teachers, and ISU’s “J” Department was one of the nation’s best. Naturally, being too young to appreciate all this, we left Ames (it got cold in winter, we discovered) and returned to the broadcast world we had come from.
For decades, we lamented having given up life in a truly smart and safe and idyllic community. Well, here we are again. We’ve decided to spend our retirement years “living the dream” — spending part of the year on California’s Central Coast and part here in the Heartland. Our first full day — Sunday — was a whirlwind of visiting old friends, walking through the historic Old Town Neighborhood where our condo is, stocking up on food at a Fresh Thyme and, in the early evening, attending a free Summer Sundays concert at Roosevelt Park.
Ahead, we plan to place ourselves smack in the middle of “living” in Ames. We both plan to attend school board and City Council meetings, partake of some of the numerous historical lectures at the marvelous Ames Library, shop at the weekly Farmers Market that shuts down Main Street on Saturdays and offer our services as volunteers. And, oh, yes, we plan to eat a lot of Midwestern beef, especially at the legendary Hickory Park on South Duff here in town. And come July, the Des Moines Register’s Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa makes its way through Ames, and we want to be there as thousands of bicycle crazies descend upon Ames.
We don’t know how long we can sustain all this activity, all this moving back-and-forth from one retirement spot to the other, but for now, it’s a marvelous way to spend the so-called “Golden Years” of our lives — and to discover new things like Phat Jack’s.