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.