Day 4: Suddenly West

As I left the La Quinta Inn in Dodge City, I snapped this photo in the back parking lot:

And as I pressed west and north, passing through a lot of small towns, I saw a lot of gear that looked authentically old and decrepit, like this. I wonder how much of the stock of wagons and surreys are still around?

My first leg took me along the original route of the Atcheson, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad, now part of Burlington Northern-Sante Fe R.R. The country was somewhat green, but still fairly dry; I realized everywhere I saw a copse or line of trees, that was a river or creek, and most of these latter were dry when I saw them. Looking ahead, I thought I saw mountains, but soon realized it was just a massive cloud bank. Turns out the earth really is round!

For whatever reason, it fascinates me to re-encounter roads familiar from the east: U.S. 50, 40 and 36, and eventually, I found myself back on I-70. But for the first couple of hours, I was on U.S. 400 and then some state and even local Kansas roads. No matter; there were few cars or even trucks and the posted speed limit was seldom less than 65. The tallest buildings were generally grain silos, water towers and then churches.

Frankly, this section of the trip was almost mesmerizing trip. Don't get me wrong: the landscape was pleasing, and the thought of all the food that is produced here was striking. But I found myself thinking about traveling through here not by car, but by wagon or by horse. I found myself thinking, under the right circumstances, it would make sense to form a convoy -- a wagon train -- with other vehicles.

A lot of the land wasn't cultivated, and it wasn't being grazed, that I could tell. 

Somewhere in far western Kansas, I saw two bicyclists conversing on the side of the road; I suspect they met going opposite directions. Not a tree for many miles, to provide any cover. 

Passing into Colorado, the sagebrush staged a comeback, and I realized, from signage, that I was gradually rising higher, with the elevation approaching (from memory) 4800 feet above sea level. High Plains indeed. West of Wild Horse, Colorado, I could no longer get any FM stations; somewhere before, I lost my cell signal, but got it back after a bit. 

I wasn't at all tired, but invariable landscape did tend to create a strange mental mood: good think I wasn't listening to "buy gold" ads, or I'd have pulled over and executed the sell and buy orders from the side of the road. So I found a news station and listened to very detailed commentary on the commodities and futures markets, not just locally, but worldwide. This area may seem remote, but folks here pay keen attention to the weather on six continents.

Then, as I rounded a long, rising bend, BOOM! The Rockies were suddenly ahead, the snow-crowned peaks knitting with the cloud-dappled sky. Imagine seeing that in a Conestoga wagon, and moving toward them, not at 75 miles per hour as I was, but at a much slower speed. You'd have lots of time to contemplate: how am I crossing that?

One flaw in traveling along state and local roads, in a sparsely populated place: no rest stops. I kept hoping, but finally, I had to pull over. I saw a historical marker telling the story of a massacre of Native Americans in the 1860sa massacre of Native Americans in the 1860s:

If you find this hard to read in the photo, realize that it was just as faded in reality. But, as interested as I was in learning more, I had a more basic need. Again, no trees! Without any more unwanted details, I handled it, and thankfully, not a car came by all the several minutes I stretched my legs at this spot. 

Finally, my wiggling west and north across Kansarado (I made that up) led me to I-70, which was busier than the back roads, but still not congested; that came when I reached the outskirts of Denver, and turned north on the bypass that took me past the airport and up to I-25, which led me -- slowly! -- into Ft. Collins.

Last night for dinner, I had Elk for the first time! No, I didn't shoot one along the way (wouldn't that be fun!); it was on the menu at the Farm House at Jessup Farms. When will I have the chance again? I have a rule for restaurants that look to be serious about good food: trust the chef. The double-rib chop came medium rare, and as game, it was almost purple in color. It was served on a bed of hashed potatoes, spinach, pork belly and garlic, and then surrounded by a "jus" of blackberries (or was it blueberries and raspberries, as one of the servers described it)? In any case, the presentation was a carnivore's dream and a vegan's massive coronary: it looked like a chop of meat in a sea of blood. I ate every bite, even gnawing what I could from the bones. If I ever make it back this way, I'll be glad to visit that restaurant again; it had a very interesting array of libations in the bar, and the wine offered was excellent.

Now it's time to get gas and ice -- the hotel here has a sign pleading with guests not to drain its ice machine, so I'll buy a bag at the gas station and head northwest. Can you guess where next?