The Great Western Expedition: Yosemite

In three days, I had crossed through five states. I had started on the edge of the east, and was now deeply in the west. Despite traveling so far, I had yet to reach one of my destinations. On the morning of the fourth day, that would change. Before noon, I would be at Yosemite.

In order to maximize my time at Yosemite, I needed to leave early in the morning. The sun wasn't up as I packed up my car and headed back onto I-80. Therefore I was treated to a beautiful sunrise to the rear of my car as I headed west that Sunday morning. The colors of the desert mountains were striking, almost as much as the lack of traffic on the road.

Although the traffic on the interstate was sparse, it was nothing compared to when I turned onto US 95, the road towards Fallon, and ultimately Yosemite. For the miles between I-80 and Fallon, I met no traffic, although I did get stopped by a train. To the side of the road were the tracks of several historic trails, preserved by the dry desert climate. Eventually they would split off, heading towards the northern passes of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and the promised land of California.

I was heading towards the Golden State as well, but by a different road. After passing through Fallon, the western end of the "Loneliest Road" and the current home of the Navy's Top Gun program, it was back into the deserts of Nevada.

After passing a severely depleted Reservoir, and the dismal ghostly buildings of an army storage reserve, I turned onto the road towards California. Along US 95 were several mountains, some of them even quite tall. It was here that I noticed pine trees, something in short supply along many parts of the road since Salt Lake City. The desert was coming to an end, and I would soon be at the Sierra Nevadas.

Just east of the Nevada/California border, I spotted them. They stood high above the arid desert, like a rock wall made by giants. It was the Sierra Nevadas, and the eastern edge of the Yosemite National Park.

My drive on US 395 was short but scenic. To the right was the wall of the Sierra Nevadas and to the left was Lake Mono, an ancient lake that was full of salt, so full that only a few hardy animals made a bleak existence below its surface. Once I left the shores of Lake Mono, I took notice that the next body of salt water I would set my eyes upon would be the Pacific Ocean.

At Lee Vining, I made the turn on the Tioga road, the great Road across the high mountains of Yosemite. After a short yet picturesque drive, I reached the entrance gate of the national park. Here, for the first time since Salt Lake City, was a large amount of traffic, enough to create a small backup at the gate. Despite this, isn't wasn't long before I paid my $20.00 and entered the park. I had made it to Yosemite.

Yosemite is truly a national treasure. From the floodplains of Tolumne Meadows, to the large Seqouias, to the grandeur of Yosemite Valley, it is easy to understand why John Muir fell in love with the place. Like Yellowstone, Gettysburg, and the Grand Canyon, Yosemite is a place all American should visit in their lifetime.

Being from Illinois, I have often been puzzled why so many people enjoy living in the fault zones of California. Although it still seems somewhat maddening to me, a little bit of that was answered when I gazed upon the valley from atop Glacier Point. Yosemite is only a few hours from Silicon Valley and the Bay Area, perfect for a weekend trip. And sure enough, the beautiful Sunday brought out the crowds. Student or stock broker, web developer or doctor, thousands of people were enjoying this gem of the Sierra Nevadas.

I saw everything I could that day, such as the valley, Half-Dome, and El Capitan. I saw the spot where Yosmite Falls would roar down the valley walls the next spring. I tried to visit the Sequoias, but wasn't able to as there were no parking spots. This was a minor disappointment, alleviated somewhat by the fact that two days later I would be visiting the redwoods of the west coast.

I was so enamored by Yosemite that I decided to take the extra time and mileage to return that next morning to get some more pictures. I was glad that I made that decision, as it gave me a chance to visit the park when it was not nearly as crowded. I basked in the tranquil beauty of the valley, watching the deer eating grass on the valley floor, as the sun slowly rose above Half-Dome.

Although I could have stayed at Yosmite for days, if not weeks, I had to leave it behind me. I had a schedule to keep, and I had to be on the shores of the Pacific by that night. Reluctantly I left the park, and headed down towards the low valleys of the San Joaquin and Sacramento rivers.

The drive down to the low farmlands of California was uneventful, save for the descent from the mountains. The road was incredibly curvy, requiring the judicious use of my brakes, and the attention of all of my senses. All along the road I had seen many large trucks. I was amazed at how skilled these drivers must have been to regularly drive this route, one which made me a nervous wreck.

The traffic along CA-99 and I-5 was a sharp contrast to the previous two days. This is a rather populous area, full of many decent sized cities surrounded by fields of many different types of crops. In many areas, the flat terrain, abundant farm implements, and cornfields reminded me of Illinois. Save for the occasional palm tree and the scarcity of other trees, I could have easily mistaken it for Vermilion County.

The drive through the dusty farmlands north of Sacramento was thoroughly uneventful. I was starting to get tired, and just wanted to get to my hotel. It didn't help that the terrain was about as exciting as I-74 west of Peoria. It wasn't until I first spotted the snow-capped visage of Mount Shasta that my spirits picked up. Although I wouldn't be driving by Mount Shasta, its appearance meant I was approaching Redding, the gateway to the Coastal mountains, the last barrier between me and the ocean.

The drive through the mountains west of Redding was about as exciting as I-5 was boring. The road was constantly swerving left and right, going up and down, from summit to valley. To make matters worse, the sun was going down in the west. My sunglasses were useless, and many times I would take the turns with only a general sense of the road and blind faith.

The adventures of the curves were starting to take a toll. I was starting to fade, and I also noticed my gas tank was starting to get close to empty. When I made it to an exceptionally large set of curves, I was getting a little worried, fearful that I still had a laborious climb out of the mountains.

These fears were never realized, however, as that set of curves was the last obstacle of the day. Shortly thereafter the road widened, the terrain flattened, and fog began surrounding the road. I had reached the west coast.

After having spent the past few days in the arid climate of the interior west, I found the wet coast near Humboldt Bay rather surreal. Surrounded by mountains, and a long distance away from any other city of note, the area exuded a sense of isolation. It is no wonder that U.S. Grant, away from his wife and family, would feel the need to drink while stationed at Fort Humboldt.

After eating a relaxing dinner in Eureka, I headed back across the edge of Humboldt Bay to Arcata, where my hotel was. I quickly headed to bed, as the next day would be another long one. Tomorrow would be the trip to the land of the Redwoods, and then a journey along the Pacific Coast Highway to the mouth of the Columbia River.

The Great Western Expedition: Into the West

The third day of the trip was just as long as day two. I woke up on the Great Plains, and by the time my head hit the pillow that night, I would be deep into the Great Basin. But first I had to cross into the mountains.

As I left the hotel in Cheyenne, I marveled at the tranquility of the early morning. The sun, just beginning to rise to the East, gave a wonderful red glow to the brisk autumn air. As I drove west along I-80, I kept my eyes on the southwestern horizon, hoping to see the Frontal Range of the Rockies. Not too far out of Cheyenne I got my wish.

Off in the distance were the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies. The first major snowstorms of the winter had crossed through the Rockies just days earlier. Although the lower valleys and foothills were no longer covered by snow, it hung on atop the high summits of the Rockies.

While stopped at the rest area near the highest point of I-80, I decided to make a side trip into the high peaks of the Rockies. Although I would be going through plenty of mountains on the trip, this was my one chance to really visit true alpine conditions. Therefore I got off the interstate at Laramie, and headed into the mountains.

After a short drive across the snowy summit of the scenic byway, I came down on the other side of the mountains, officially in the middle of the mountainous west. I made it back to the interstate, and headed on to the west. Mile after mile was nothing but sagebrush, cattle, and the occasional mine. This part of Wyoming is desolate even for that sparsely populated state, primarily because of the lack of water. Needless to say I was ready for a break once I reached Rock Springs.

Gassed up and resupplied, I continued on, crossing into the state of Utah. Once again I headed into mountains, making my way to the Great Salt Lake. Once I reached Park City, I went from the middle of nowhere to the middle of heavy commuter traffic. As I traveled out of the mountains into the flat valley of Salt Lake City, I was too busy paying attention to traffic to marvel at the site, but I'm sure it was inspiring.

After making sure I had enough gas to continue on, I moved past the Airport and skirted the southern end of the salt-water lake. After taking a few pictures of the drought-plagued lake, I headed into the Great Salt Desert.

It is obvious that this part of I-80 is one of the worst places to breakdown. Other than a Morton saltworks and a few empty buildings, there is nothing but flat saltlands along this part of the road. I was overjoyed when I reached the casino filled hamlet of Wendover on the edge of the Bonneville test track. I had made it to the Pacific time zone.

Although I had reached Nevada, I still had a ways to go. The path through Nevada can be described as a long, boring roller-coaster. Up and down, up and down, by a prison, up and down, up and down, by another prison, and then up and down again. After an up and down or two, you might reach a town of note, one that proudly called itself the "Armpit of the World".

I was overjoyed when I finally made it to Winnemucca, my destination for the night. As I am not a gambler, I didn't check out any of the casinos. Even if I wanted to gamble, I really needed to go to sleep. After all, the next day was the day I would finally reach my first destination. Tomorrow I would be at Yosemite.

The Great Western Expedition: Amber Waves of Grain

Where does the historic western United States start? Some might claim the Mississippi River, pointing to the St. Louis' claim to the phrase "Gateway to the West". Others might argue it begins at the Rocky Mountains. Ask some East Coasters, and they'll say everything past the Appalachians.

Although the Mississippi is certainly a major dividing line, the states on the west bank aren't really that different than the states on the east bank. Conversely, drawing the line at the Rockies would cut out much of the fabric that makes up the west. And nobody but the most self-absorbed Yankee believes that the trans-Appalachian Great Lakes and Southeast states are synonymous with the "Wild West".

Having had the opportunity to travel much of the Great Plains and Rockies, I certainly developed my own opinion on the boundary. The truth is, their isn't a clear cut line between the East and the West. On the muddy shores of the Mississippi, a small amount of the West can be found. As you go west across Iowa, past the rolling farmlands and the cities of Iowa City and Des Moines, the trees start decreasing, and the terrain becomes more and more western. By the time you reach the Missouri at Council Bluffs, the west has certainly asserted itself, although you are clearly still in the Midwest. Even the first crossing of the Platte River outside Omaha doesn't mean you are in the west.

Past Omaha, Lincoln, and Grand Island you find the small town of Kearney. The site of a former fort, it is now the home of a museum of western history. A big feature of that museum is a walkway over I-80, an unofficial gateway to the west. Once I passed under this walkway, I truly felt I had left the Midwest behind me, and was in the seductive grasp of the West.

As you go past Kearney, the terrain starts to really take the shape of the high plains. In western Nebraska, the farmlands cannot operate without irrigation, and as such the channels that provide the lifeblood of this great breadbasket are constantly in view from I-80. Irrigation is so prevalent at this time of the year that the Platte River was nothing but a muddy river bed with occasional pools of water.

Western Nebraska is the land of the great trails. I-80, the modern gateway between the great cities of the East and the golden lands of California, is the most prevalent. Before it, however, came US 30, the Lincoln Highway, and the Union Pacific Railroad. But the history of this corridor goes back farther than the Transcontinental Railroad. Following the Platte River were the historic Mormon and Oregon trails. Whether by foot, Conestoga wagon, rail car, or automobile, millions of Americans traveled through these lands looking for a new life.

I of course wasn't looking for a new life, but just passing through on my current one. Despite many different things to see calling me, I had to continue on, for I had a long way to go. As I reached western Nebraska, the sun was going down, and a fierce rainstorm was forming. As I headed towards the Wyoming border, I was struck by the beauty of the rain storm. Isolated, yet strong, it rolled over the hills of the high plains, coming ever closer to my car.

Marveling at the majesty of this storm, I stopped at a rest area to take some pictures. As I took pictures of the storm to the west, I turned around and saw a magnificent site. Sitting in sharp contrast to the storm clouds was a full rainbow.

I captured some pictures of this rainbow, and headed on my way, in awe of this stunning site. Although not as picturesque as the Rockies, or as powerful as the Redwoods, this storm showed me why the Great Plains hold a special place in my heart. The openness, the raw beauty, and the enduring strength of this region represents a large part of what makes the United States a great place to live.

As the sun went down, I crossed the border into Wyoming. Without a doubt I was in the west, although still not at the Rockies. I spent the entire day, over 14 hours of driving in all, crossing the Great Plains. However, Saturday would be the day I reached its end, and moved into the mountainous west.

After a relaxing meal, I jumped into bed at the hotel, wanting to get to sleep quickly. For I would have another long drive ahead of me. Ahead of me were the Rockies, and the High Deserts of Utah and Nevada. I was a day closer, but still far from the crashing waves of the mighty Pacific.

The Great Western Expedition

Today marks the 3rd Anniversary of the start of my 7100 mile trip to the Pacific Ocean and back. In honor of this landmark, I will be writing a short article each day from now until Oct. 6.


Day One: By the Rivers Gently Flowing

Although my journey would eventually take me me through 14 states, I only made it across Illinois the first day. Had I just chosen to cross Illinois, it would have taken just four hours to get from Ridge Farm to the I-74 Mississippi Bridge at Moline. However, I wanted to take a chance to see more of my home state, and therefore decided to take a longer route to the Quad Cities.

My journey for the day would be divided into two segments. The first would recreate a trip across the state on IL 16, a recreation of a trip I took while at Eastern Illinois University. The second portion would follow the Great River Road, taking me from southern Illinois to the Quad Cities. My itinerary set, my car gassed up, and my cooler iced down, I headed off for points west.

After making it to Paris, I turned on to IL 16, my road of choice until its end at the Illinois River. This road was a very familiar road, the way to my alma mater. As I drove into Charleston, I saw the familiar stone rampart of Old Main, and decided to check in on my old campus.

I turned down 7th Street, the road to my old home at Thomas Hall. A building had caught fire on campus just a few weeks earlier, and I wanted to check it out. I viewed the burnt roof of Blair Hall, and the still delayed construction of the new fine arts building. I was disappointed with the progress of the construction, as I really wanted to see how the new design might have looked. There were many other things I could have seen in Charleston, but I had to get going. I had a ways to go, and it wasn't getting any earlier.

Thus I headed down Lincoln Avenue and out of town, towards Mattoon. Mattoon marked an embarrassing moment for me, as my usually reliable sense of direction failed me, and I started off on the wrong road. Fortunately I discovered my mistake, and got back on track after a delay of only five minutes. It wouldn't be my last navigational error, although it was the most embarrassing, considering I had made the right turn before.

Back on the correct track, I continued west into the Lake Shelbyville region of Eastern Illinois. Never having been to Shelbyville before, i was suprised at how large the lake and dam was, and took the first of many pictures on my trip here. As I was rushed, I once again had to quickly leave Shelbyville, stopping only to eat a quick lunch at Pizza Hut.

My stomach full, I continued on, going through towns such as Pana, Nokomis, and Hillsboro. Although no match for the majesty of Yosemite or Yellowstone, I have always found a subtle beauty in the farmlands of Illinois. The drive through this part of the state was certainly no different

At Litchfield I crossed old Route 66, as well as its replacment I-55. Crossing the paths of Route 66 would be the first of many encounters with historic trails, although most certainly one of the quickest encounters. I'm sure I will get my kicks following this road some day. Today, however, I was heading towards the Mississippi River, and left Route 66 in my dust.

After going through the small county seat of Jerseyville, I finally came into the Illinois River Valley. Had I been crossing the Illinois on I-74, I would still have a good distance to go until reaching the Mississippi. Being that I was close to the confluence of the two rivers, however, it was but a few miles before I reached the Great River.

Although called the Great River Road, this name is somewhat misleading. From Kampsville to Rock Island, you rarely see the river, and many times are many miles away from it. However, the scenery is interesting, especially at Quincy. South of town are large caves dug into the bluffs overlooking the river. Seeing as Quincy isn't too far from Mark Twain's hometown, it isn't too hard imagining Tom Sawyer exploring these caves. At least until you see the semi trucks pulling out from the storage facilities in those caves.

After driving through more cornfields, I finally reach a stretch south of Nauvoo where the road parallels the Mississippi. It is a beautiful drive towards the historic town of Nauvoo, and I only regret that it was so short.

At Nauvoo, you pass the old homes of the Mormon pioneers. Nauvoo is one of the darker chapters in the history of the state, but you cannot deny that the Mormon temple standing atop the bluffs is a compelling site. I regret not taking any pictures, but it was getting late, and I was getting tired. I wanted to get to Rock Island before dark, and the prospects of that was growing dim.

North of Nauvoo, the drive wasn't exactly what I would call scenic. It was mainly the repetition of the same pattern of fields and streams I had been passing all day, broken only by a short trip through a state forest. The sun was going down, and I wished I was already at Rock Island.

About the end of dusk, I finally made it to the greater Quad Cities area. I crossed the Rock River at Milan (pronounced by locals as MY-lan) and headed towards the campus of Augustana College.

After taking my brother out for a meal, I went back to his apartment. Before heading to bed I watched a show on the Travel Channel about great places to visit in the West. Most of the choices were places I was planning on visiting. It was hard to get to sleep, but I finally did. I needed every minute of it, because the next day would be a long one.

Welcome

Welcome to the Prairie Traveler's Guide! This is a temporary home, as we will be moving to our own site and system on www.prairietravelerguide.com. However, we were so excited to regale you fine people with the stories of our many adventures that we couldn't stop ourselves. So settle in for a while, and we'll let you know when its time to move on down the road...