As of October 9, 2009, the Prairie Traveler Guide website will be hosted at http://www.prairietravelerguide.com.
I hope to see you over at our new home!
Friday, October 9, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Roads of the States: Tennessee
Of all the southern states save for my former home Virginia, Tennessee is probably the one I am most acquainted with. Sometimes the Volunteer State is the destination, with places such as Knoxville, Shiloh, and the Smoky Mountains. Other times it has been a state to cross, as in most of my trips to Florida, and the band trip to Atlanta my sophomore year in high school. Either way I have become familiar with many of its roads.
The one I am most familiar with is Interstate 24. As the main connection between Nashville and I-75 at Chattanooga, and therefore Florida, it has carried me many times. I've traveled its entire length in the state, usually accessing it just north of the state line near Hopkinsville, KY. Its path includes one of the most scenic scenes on the Eastern section of the interstate highway system, rising high atop the Appalachians near Monteagle, before plunging back down towards Chattanooga. For a good stretch, the road parallels the Tennesee River, the last segment located in the shadow of Lookout Mountain. It is by far the most enjoyable part of the drive from Illinois to Florida, which is on the whole a rather bland drive.
In addition to I-24, I've also spent a lot of time on I-40, and I-75. Both are good ways to get to the Smoky Mountains from Illinois, and both played a significant role in getting us to Virginia during my post-college Civil War trip. I've traveled all of I-75 in the state, but haven't really traveled west of Nashville on I-40. Even traveling on I-40 east of Nashville, you get a sense of how wide the state of Tennessee is. Its no wonder some places in the east of the state are closer to Washington than Nashville.
As for shun-piking, I can't say I have done that much in the state. I've travelled the scenic roads in and around Smoky Mountain National Park, and have also done some traveling on the roads near Shiloh and Pickwick Lake. I've wanted to check out the Natchez Trace Parkway, but the closest I have come is crossing the road while traveling US 64 towards Monteagle on the Civil War trip.
For a Yankee flatlander, I have to say I enjoy most of the scenery of Tennessee. Its rolling hills in the west and center, and alternating mountains and valleys in the east are very enjoyable. I can't say the drive through Nashville has ever been very pleasant, but it is a nice looking city. I hope some day to drive more of the roads of the home state of Old Hickory.
The one I am most familiar with is Interstate 24. As the main connection between Nashville and I-75 at Chattanooga, and therefore Florida, it has carried me many times. I've traveled its entire length in the state, usually accessing it just north of the state line near Hopkinsville, KY. Its path includes one of the most scenic scenes on the Eastern section of the interstate highway system, rising high atop the Appalachians near Monteagle, before plunging back down towards Chattanooga. For a good stretch, the road parallels the Tennesee River, the last segment located in the shadow of Lookout Mountain. It is by far the most enjoyable part of the drive from Illinois to Florida, which is on the whole a rather bland drive.
In addition to I-24, I've also spent a lot of time on I-40, and I-75. Both are good ways to get to the Smoky Mountains from Illinois, and both played a significant role in getting us to Virginia during my post-college Civil War trip. I've traveled all of I-75 in the state, but haven't really traveled west of Nashville on I-40. Even traveling on I-40 east of Nashville, you get a sense of how wide the state of Tennessee is. Its no wonder some places in the east of the state are closer to Washington than Nashville.
As for shun-piking, I can't say I have done that much in the state. I've travelled the scenic roads in and around Smoky Mountain National Park, and have also done some traveling on the roads near Shiloh and Pickwick Lake. I've wanted to check out the Natchez Trace Parkway, but the closest I have come is crossing the road while traveling US 64 towards Monteagle on the Civil War trip.
For a Yankee flatlander, I have to say I enjoy most of the scenery of Tennessee. Its rolling hills in the west and center, and alternating mountains and valleys in the east are very enjoyable. I can't say the drive through Nashville has ever been very pleasant, but it is a nice looking city. I hope some day to drive more of the roads of the home state of Old Hickory.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
The Mother Road
After watching Cars tonight, I thought for a while about old Route 66. Mostly decommissioned by the time I was born, I've only known it as an idea, a relic of an earlier time of automobile travel. In the pantheon of American transportation, it sits along side the National Road, the Oregon Trail, and the great passenger lines of the U.S. rail network. Being a history buff, and a travel fan as well, it always frustrated me that US-66 wasn't kept around, like many other highways that have since been rendered obsolete by the Interstate Highway system.
I personally have traveled alongside or on much of the old highway. The largest part of the highway that I followed was during a family vacation to the Grand Canyon. From the St. Louis area (where we crossed the Mississippi in sight of the Chain of Rocks bridge) to Flagstaff, we followed the infamous interstates that overtook Route 66. Along much of the road, especially west of Oklahoma City, you could view the old pavement, some of it still drivable, while other portions were in bad shape. Although I would have preferred taking the time to explore some of the road, the family did want to get to the Grand Canyon as quick as possible, so I had to put that off until I could explore it myself.
An opportunity to extend my experience of traveling part of Route 66 came in February 2009. On a whim, I decided to take a day trip to the southwest of Champaign-Urbana. After traveling through some of Abraham Lincoln's stomping grounds, I decided to follow Route 66 from Williamsville up to US 136 at McLean, IL. The entire route was still there, although some parts looked like they hadn't been touched since I-55 had been built. The next day I continued on an even longer portion of the road, going from Towanda to Joliet, where I headed west on US 6 towards Ottawa.
Other than taking the scenic route through most of the towns (such as Lincoln, Dwight, Atlanta, and Pontiac), US 66 in this part of Illinois is almost exactly parallel to I-55. Its a leisurely drive, with very little traffic, but I can't say you miss much by taking the interstate, especially considering you can always visit the towns by taking the exits.
However, this was just one part of one state's segment of the road. I am sure that it has a much greater effect when you try to follow it as close as possible from Chicago to Los Angeles. As similar of a view as it was to the interstate, i still felt like I was following history back to a time when the roads were two lanes, the signs were neon, and the hash was (almost) always fresh.
I personally have traveled alongside or on much of the old highway. The largest part of the highway that I followed was during a family vacation to the Grand Canyon. From the St. Louis area (where we crossed the Mississippi in sight of the Chain of Rocks bridge) to Flagstaff, we followed the infamous interstates that overtook Route 66. Along much of the road, especially west of Oklahoma City, you could view the old pavement, some of it still drivable, while other portions were in bad shape. Although I would have preferred taking the time to explore some of the road, the family did want to get to the Grand Canyon as quick as possible, so I had to put that off until I could explore it myself.
An opportunity to extend my experience of traveling part of Route 66 came in February 2009. On a whim, I decided to take a day trip to the southwest of Champaign-Urbana. After traveling through some of Abraham Lincoln's stomping grounds, I decided to follow Route 66 from Williamsville up to US 136 at McLean, IL. The entire route was still there, although some parts looked like they hadn't been touched since I-55 had been built. The next day I continued on an even longer portion of the road, going from Towanda to Joliet, where I headed west on US 6 towards Ottawa.
Other than taking the scenic route through most of the towns (such as Lincoln, Dwight, Atlanta, and Pontiac), US 66 in this part of Illinois is almost exactly parallel to I-55. Its a leisurely drive, with very little traffic, but I can't say you miss much by taking the interstate, especially considering you can always visit the towns by taking the exits.
However, this was just one part of one state's segment of the road. I am sure that it has a much greater effect when you try to follow it as close as possible from Chicago to Los Angeles. As similar of a view as it was to the interstate, i still felt like I was following history back to a time when the roads were two lanes, the signs were neon, and the hash was (almost) always fresh.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Meet Me in St. Louis, Part II
Note: This was written and posted on July 16, I swear. It was just posted on August Prairie, instead of the proper blog. Mea culpa.
Hey Howdy Hey, y'all, we're back to the hotel room in Collinsville, finished with our day in St. Louis. The weather was warm, but not overly oppressive, and it didn't rain on us at the zoo. In addition to the zoo we drove around downtown St. Louis and ate supper at a Dewey's pizza. All in all it was a good day.
If you have never visited, I recommend going to the St. Louis zoo. Its a wonderful zoo in the middle of the city's Forest Park. It's free (although the parking is $11.00), and there is a wide variety of animals to see. The newest addition to the zoo is a pool full of stingrays, which you can pet. Although the stingrays are not free, it is a neat thing to do, especially if you have small kids.
Also, I would have to recommend the pizza at Dewey's. Although it shares a name with the dump that has long since vanished from Champaign, it is nothing like that place. Although it might be considered pizza heresy in the St. Louis area, I like it much better than Imos. I am willing to give Imos another shot some time, however, just not on this trip.
Since my sister is moving from St. Louis in a couple of weeks, I'm not sure when I'll be back. However, I've seen enough of the city that I doubt it will be all that long.
Hey Howdy Hey, y'all, we're back to the hotel room in Collinsville, finished with our day in St. Louis. The weather was warm, but not overly oppressive, and it didn't rain on us at the zoo. In addition to the zoo we drove around downtown St. Louis and ate supper at a Dewey's pizza. All in all it was a good day.
If you have never visited, I recommend going to the St. Louis zoo. Its a wonderful zoo in the middle of the city's Forest Park. It's free (although the parking is $11.00), and there is a wide variety of animals to see. The newest addition to the zoo is a pool full of stingrays, which you can pet. Although the stingrays are not free, it is a neat thing to do, especially if you have small kids.
Also, I would have to recommend the pizza at Dewey's. Although it shares a name with the dump that has long since vanished from Champaign, it is nothing like that place. Although it might be considered pizza heresy in the St. Louis area, I like it much better than Imos. I am willing to give Imos another shot some time, however, just not on this trip.
Since my sister is moving from St. Louis in a couple of weeks, I'm not sure when I'll be back. However, I've seen enough of the city that I doubt it will be all that long.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Meet Me in St. Louis, Part I
I'm currently in the greater St. Louis area with my parents to visit my sister. Its my third trip to see her since she moved down here to intern at the St. Louis Zoo last year. I'll have more details about the current trip tomorrow and Friday, but tonight I want to focus on my second trip down here.
Unlike the other two trips, I took the train from Bloomington. My brother and I sat in the first class, almost a necessity given our height, which makes the standard seats less than comfortable, especially on long rides. It was a quick ride down the rails, with only stops at Springfield and Alton. A few minutes after the scheduled time we arrived at the new Amtrak station, just a couple of blocks from the old Union Station (which is now a shopping center).
We were there in early March, which oftentimes is a fairly mild time to visit St. Louis. In fact, the week before temperatures were in the 70s and sunny. However, the weekend we decided to go down there happened to be during the middle of a cold spell. The temperature was in the 30s both days. Although it could have been worse (at least it was sunny), it certainly wasn't the best walking weather.
Nevertheless, we did have fun. We ate at a couple of good restaurants near my sister's apartment, drove around the hills and hollows southwest of St. Louis, and visited the old courthouse near the arch. We visited the zoo, which was a blast, except that many of the animals were not out, due to the near-freezing weather. At least we didn't have to deal with crowds.
Less than thirty-six hours after we arrived, my brother and I were back on the train to Bloomington. The train ride back to the north was just as uneventful as the trip down, save for an adventure to Taco Bell after we got back to the station in Bloomington*. It was a short trip, but an enjoyable one.
Coming tomorrow: I marvel at the animals sleeping in the mid-day haze, as I stupidly walk around sweating profusely.
* Not as interesting of a story as this sentence makes it sound.
Unlike the other two trips, I took the train from Bloomington. My brother and I sat in the first class, almost a necessity given our height, which makes the standard seats less than comfortable, especially on long rides. It was a quick ride down the rails, with only stops at Springfield and Alton. A few minutes after the scheduled time we arrived at the new Amtrak station, just a couple of blocks from the old Union Station (which is now a shopping center).
We were there in early March, which oftentimes is a fairly mild time to visit St. Louis. In fact, the week before temperatures were in the 70s and sunny. However, the weekend we decided to go down there happened to be during the middle of a cold spell. The temperature was in the 30s both days. Although it could have been worse (at least it was sunny), it certainly wasn't the best walking weather.
Nevertheless, we did have fun. We ate at a couple of good restaurants near my sister's apartment, drove around the hills and hollows southwest of St. Louis, and visited the old courthouse near the arch. We visited the zoo, which was a blast, except that many of the animals were not out, due to the near-freezing weather. At least we didn't have to deal with crowds.
Less than thirty-six hours after we arrived, my brother and I were back on the train to Bloomington. The train ride back to the north was just as uneventful as the trip down, save for an adventure to Taco Bell after we got back to the station in Bloomington*. It was a short trip, but an enjoyable one.
Coming tomorrow: I marvel at the animals sleeping in the mid-day haze, as I stupidly walk around sweating profusely.
* Not as interesting of a story as this sentence makes it sound.
Friday, July 10, 2009
My Tribute to Illinois Highway 49
Today we are here to honor a most irrelevant and unenjoyable road by the name of Illinois Highway 49. Beginning in Willow Hill, Illinois, and ending north of Crescent City at the juncture of US 45/52, the road goes through no major cities. Traveling it is about as interesting as watching paint dry while listening to a Perry Como song. Other than being a decent way to get to Chicago from Vermilion County and getting grain trucks to interstate highways, it seems to serve no real purpose.
I admit I am a bit biased. The only speeding ticket I ever received was on a deserted stretch of the road just outside of Brockton. I'm sure I wasn't the only person ever to get a ticket on that road, but it still smarts. I never speed as fast as I was, but the bland scenery, combined with me being in deep thought, just happened to kick the speedometer above 70 just when a state trooper drove by in the other lane.
Even given my personal bias, and the definite mediocrity of the road, I can't entirely dislike it. The road, especially the part from Fithian to its northern terminus, has been well traveled by me. It has taken me on field trips, chess meets and family vacations. As I mentioned before, its a good way to get to Chicago from my hometown. I have good memories of traveling down that road, the sun barely up in the east, the early morning frost sitting on the fields. And if it creates such positive memories, it can't be all bad, right?
I admit I am a bit biased. The only speeding ticket I ever received was on a deserted stretch of the road just outside of Brockton. I'm sure I wasn't the only person ever to get a ticket on that road, but it still smarts. I never speed as fast as I was, but the bland scenery, combined with me being in deep thought, just happened to kick the speedometer above 70 just when a state trooper drove by in the other lane.
Even given my personal bias, and the definite mediocrity of the road, I can't entirely dislike it. The road, especially the part from Fithian to its northern terminus, has been well traveled by me. It has taken me on field trips, chess meets and family vacations. As I mentioned before, its a good way to get to Chicago from my hometown. I have good memories of traveling down that road, the sun barely up in the east, the early morning frost sitting on the fields. And if it creates such positive memories, it can't be all bad, right?
Monday, July 6, 2009
July 3rd in the No Shirt Section: A Second Perspective
July 3rd, 1998: I don't really remember a whole lot about it. I was 11 then. That morning, I remember waking up and seeing dolphins in the ocean (I had slept comfortably on a roll-away next to the balcony window) and I remember sea-shell collecting with mom and dad. I remember IHOP...vaguely....although having a large attention span has never been a strong point of mine. 20 minutes and 2 hours are pretty much interchangable in some cases. I do remember getting lost...several times. And I do remember the Chi-Chi's burning down, and the Mariachi band. I also remember that somehow in the maze that is Fredrick we found a NICER, CLEANER hotel...however we already had our reservations in the one night resort known as Fredrick Inn.
My other brother and I were most dissapointed with the closed pool; it was part of the "refurbishment" of the motel. The actual room didn't phase me too much; I remember it being "icky" and I remember that mom told us not to take our shoes off while we were walking around. In fact, mom made it pretty clear that if we wanted to live then we should not touch ANYTHING in the room. There were offers to sleep in the van, which I believe were taken with all seriousness.
While sleeping with mom and dad is super cool when you're like....five....being 11 it wasn't so nice. As previouly mentioned, there were 2 double beds. The boys took up one, and absolutely NO ONE would sleep on the suspicious looking stained floor. From what I understand, sleeping with me wasn't a treat for the parents either. I tend to like my space when I sleep, and my ever-patient parents slept on the edges of the bed while I apparently sprawled out in the middle. I remember sleeping well.
From the way dad tells it, the final crazy happening took place around 3:00 a.m while the rest of us were sleeping. Dad awoke to the sound of frantic banging on the room door.
BANG BANG BANG BANG! "STELLA! STELLA OPEN THIS GOD-DAMN DOOR!"
Dad, not sure what to do, slowly approached the door and looked out the peephole. Outside was, predictably, a large shirtless man.
"STELLA!" BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG "STELLA OPEN THE DOOR!"
The way dad tells it, he felt he was left with two choices; stay quiet and hope the irate, possibly drunken, shirtless man would leave or answer the door and risk getting beat up by a misunderstanding that this strange man was found in the same room as his beloved (?) Stella.
Fortunately, dad didn't have to think about it too long as he hears the man walk away and open a door down the hall. He figures Stella woke up a few rooms down, opened their room door and leaned out and probably said something along the lines of "You jackass! Get over here!"
Reflecting on this rendition of dad's story, a story that actually could only be told by the man himself, I wonder if maybe dad shouldn't invest in starting his own blog...or at least becoming a regular contributor to Prairie Traveler.
My other brother and I were most dissapointed with the closed pool; it was part of the "refurbishment" of the motel. The actual room didn't phase me too much; I remember it being "icky" and I remember that mom told us not to take our shoes off while we were walking around. In fact, mom made it pretty clear that if we wanted to live then we should not touch ANYTHING in the room. There were offers to sleep in the van, which I believe were taken with all seriousness.
While sleeping with mom and dad is super cool when you're like....five....being 11 it wasn't so nice. As previouly mentioned, there were 2 double beds. The boys took up one, and absolutely NO ONE would sleep on the suspicious looking stained floor. From what I understand, sleeping with me wasn't a treat for the parents either. I tend to like my space when I sleep, and my ever-patient parents slept on the edges of the bed while I apparently sprawled out in the middle. I remember sleeping well.
From the way dad tells it, the final crazy happening took place around 3:00 a.m while the rest of us were sleeping. Dad awoke to the sound of frantic banging on the room door.
BANG BANG BANG BANG! "STELLA! STELLA OPEN THIS GOD-DAMN DOOR!"
Dad, not sure what to do, slowly approached the door and looked out the peephole. Outside was, predictably, a large shirtless man.
"STELLA!" BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG "STELLA OPEN THE DOOR!"
The way dad tells it, he felt he was left with two choices; stay quiet and hope the irate, possibly drunken, shirtless man would leave or answer the door and risk getting beat up by a misunderstanding that this strange man was found in the same room as his beloved (?) Stella.
Fortunately, dad didn't have to think about it too long as he hears the man walk away and open a door down the hall. He figures Stella woke up a few rooms down, opened their room door and leaned out and probably said something along the lines of "You jackass! Get over here!"
Reflecting on this rendition of dad's story, a story that actually could only be told by the man himself, I wonder if maybe dad shouldn't invest in starting his own blog...or at least becoming a regular contributor to Prairie Traveler.
Friday, July 3, 2009
We'll Take Two Double Beds in the No Shirt Section - A Travel Story (Pt. 2)
View Part One Here
Because we were hungry, and because we wanted to spend as little time as possible in our motel room, we then looked in a phone book for a restaurant. After I spied a location of the late lamented Chi-Chi's chain in the phone book, we piled back into the minivan and headed out in search of dinner. It is here once again our midwestern reliance on grid street patterns and wide avenues failed us, as Frederick was full of meandering streets. We went through several areas of the town, never finding the main road on which our destination sat. After going halfway to Harpers Ferry along US 15, and then getting back on I-70 for a while, without any luck, my dad was about to give up. About at that moment, I saw a turnoff for the road we needed, and we appeared to finally be on our way to a relaxing meal.
While stopped at a redlight on this main commercial thoroughfare, we heard sirens in the distance. As they got closer, we were able to discern that they were from fire trucks. As the trucks passed us, I casually mentioned that it would be very funny if they were going to a fire at the Chi-Chis. Everyone in the van laughed, confident that it was just a joke.
A couple of blocks later, we were able to see the smoke pouring out of a building alongside the road. As we came ever closer to the fire, once again an off-handed comment of mine became a vision of reality. Thick black smoke was pouring out of the Chi-Chi's, as rescued patrons sipped their margaritas out on the front yard of the restaurant. At this point, we just had to laugh, as if it the burning down of the restaurant was the expected result of the day. Fortunately for us, there was a Mexican restaurant just down the street, with the manager standing outside watching his competitor slowly burn. Although I can't be certain, this was probably my first time at an "authentic" mexican restaurant. It was a nice experience, and a better meal than the one we would have had at Chi-Chi's, wandering mariachi band notwithstanding.
After our enjoyable meal, we headed back to our dingy motel room for an early night. But first, we stood outside and watched the fireworks show at the minor league stadium, which was just down the street from the motel. The fireworks were certainly pretty, and appeared to be a nice capper to a bizarre day. As we watched the fireworks, we looked around at the crowd around us. Almost every family standing in the parking lot had at least one family member who was shirtless. Noticing the pattern, I remarked that we must be in the no-shirt section. We all laughed wearily, well aware that things could certainly be worse than standing in a parking lot watching fireworks on a family vacation. Even if all our neighbors for the night were shirtless.
Because we were hungry, and because we wanted to spend as little time as possible in our motel room, we then looked in a phone book for a restaurant. After I spied a location of the late lamented Chi-Chi's chain in the phone book, we piled back into the minivan and headed out in search of dinner. It is here once again our midwestern reliance on grid street patterns and wide avenues failed us, as Frederick was full of meandering streets. We went through several areas of the town, never finding the main road on which our destination sat. After going halfway to Harpers Ferry along US 15, and then getting back on I-70 for a while, without any luck, my dad was about to give up. About at that moment, I saw a turnoff for the road we needed, and we appeared to finally be on our way to a relaxing meal.
While stopped at a redlight on this main commercial thoroughfare, we heard sirens in the distance. As they got closer, we were able to discern that they were from fire trucks. As the trucks passed us, I casually mentioned that it would be very funny if they were going to a fire at the Chi-Chis. Everyone in the van laughed, confident that it was just a joke.
A couple of blocks later, we were able to see the smoke pouring out of a building alongside the road. As we came ever closer to the fire, once again an off-handed comment of mine became a vision of reality. Thick black smoke was pouring out of the Chi-Chi's, as rescued patrons sipped their margaritas out on the front yard of the restaurant. At this point, we just had to laugh, as if it the burning down of the restaurant was the expected result of the day. Fortunately for us, there was a Mexican restaurant just down the street, with the manager standing outside watching his competitor slowly burn. Although I can't be certain, this was probably my first time at an "authentic" mexican restaurant. It was a nice experience, and a better meal than the one we would have had at Chi-Chi's, wandering mariachi band notwithstanding.
After our enjoyable meal, we headed back to our dingy motel room for an early night. But first, we stood outside and watched the fireworks show at the minor league stadium, which was just down the street from the motel. The fireworks were certainly pretty, and appeared to be a nice capper to a bizarre day. As we watched the fireworks, we looked around at the crowd around us. Almost every family standing in the parking lot had at least one family member who was shirtless. Noticing the pattern, I remarked that we must be in the no-shirt section. We all laughed wearily, well aware that things could certainly be worse than standing in a parking lot watching fireworks on a family vacation. Even if all our neighbors for the night were shirtless.
We'll Take Two Double Beds in the No Shirt Section - A Travel Story (Pt. 1)
Note: In contrast to yesterday's serious post about Gettysburg, I thought I would offer a light story about an adventurous day in my family's life. The day in question took place on July 3, 1998, during a trip out east, the day before a visit to Gettysburg.
Most days of my family vacations have been comfortably boring. By this, I mean that they were enjoyable, but not very memorable, involving travel to or from a destination, or just general days of relaxation and entertainment. However, once in a long while, there was a day that everyone in the family remembers very well. Sometimes these days are memorable in a honestly good way, full of happy and truly enjoyable moments. Some aren't so enjoyable at the time, but become funny as we move away from the day. A precious few days transcend that barrier completely and are packed with so many crazy occurrences that they immediately become favorite family stories. July 3, 1998 is one of those days.
The day began like any other day on the trip. It was the final morning at our hotel at the oceanfront in Virginia Beach. It was a pleasant enough morning, with my parents and sister taking a walk along the beach as my brother and I slept. We checked out of the hotel at a reasonable hour, with intentions of lazily traveling up to the Gettysburg area to spend the night. Independence Day in Gettysburg was the important day, as we would be visiting a reenactment as well as the battlefield. We thought that Gettysburg would be packed, but that Fredrick was far enough away we could get a hotel. After all, nobody needed a hotel room along I-70 less than an hour away from a major event at Gettysburg and the Fourth in Washington, right?
Before we depart the Hampton Roads area, we stop at an IHOP for breakfast. I am vague as to where this certain IHOP was in the city, and it probably is no longer there. At least, it probably shouldn't be, for it was one of the worst non McDonald's breakfast experiences our family has ever had. The waitress gets our order taken quick enough, and the family talks as we wait for our meal. We keep waiting....and keep waiting...and keep waiting. Finally, our waitress comes back over and apologizes, pretty much saying that some of the cooking staff had quit right on the spot, and things were taking a while. After a very long time, we finally got our food, although it came out in a slow and piecemeal fashion. After two hours or so, we finally finished our meal. The clock was pushing noon, and we weren't even out of Virginia Beach. Things were not starting out very well.
Nonetheless, we were fed, and we were finally on our way. We said goodbye to Virginia Beach, not knowing that I would be back for a 22 month stay about eight and a half years later. We crossed the Hampton Roads Bridge and Tunnel, and also crossed the Coleman Bridge at Yorktown, in sight of the battleground where the United States effectively won its independence. Once we were north of the York River, it was a nice, yet fairly boring drive up to Fredericksburg. We saw a lot of farmland, a few towns, and an occaisonal glimpse of the Potomac River. As afternoon was moving its way towards evening, we arrived at the National Park Service visitors center at Fredericksburg.
If you have ever been to Fredericksburg, you know that it is as uniformative of a battlefield as Gettysburg is informative. The modern city of Fredericksburg encroaches right up to the wall at Marye's Heights, quite possibly even farther than the Union got in December 1862. Sure the house with the bullet holes and the sunken road are neat, and you can get some idea of how it was, but it is kind of hard to picture the killing field before the wall when 20th century frame houses are within your eyeline. There are other, more pristine parts of the battlefield, and three other major battles (Wilderness, Spotsylvania, and Chancellorsville) are part of the park. However, given that Gettysburg was our destination, we only had time for a quick stop. More exploration of this hotbed of Civil War action would have to wait for another time.
Up until now, except for our marathon breakfast and a minor detour through the redeveloping area of Newport News, things were going fine. They stayed fine until we entered the Beltway. I had convinced my dad to skip the bypass and go along the George Washington Parkway across from Washington, so we could get a quick glimpse of the skyline of our nation's capitol. As we drove towards the Pentagon, I made an joking remark to my dad that if we crossed the river, we had gone too far.
Unfortunately, that joke was actually an unintentional prophecy, as we cruised on across the Potomac into the District of Columbia. I feel it necessary to remind you that this was the day before Independence Day. It was the dress rehearsal day for the big festivities, and the city was packed. My dad wasn't too happy about having to navigate through the traffic, although we did get to see several of the monuments and a close-up view of the White House. Other than the stress caused by having to drive through the mess, I'm sure every one did get some enjoyment out of the quick detour through our Washingotn.
Within minutes my dad had gotten us back on the parkway, and towards I-70 and Frederick. It is at this point we lapsed into our Illinois sense of distance, not understanding that Frederick was as close to Washington and Gettysburg as Ridge Farm is to Champaign and Danville. Not only is Frederick close to both places, but also it is right on I-70, a major conduit between Washington and pretty much everywhere west of there. So instead of expecting everywhere to be full, or reserving a room in advance, we strolled up to our usual chain motel choices and tried our luck. Place after place our luck was a failure, until the clerk at one of the hotels gave us a possible choice: The Frederick Inn.
Therefore, we drove over to The Frederick Inn, our one hope for the night. And what luck, they had a room. Sure, it was in the part of the hotel that wasn't remodeled, and the place looked a bit weathered. But we had a room for the night. Yeah, the beds were tiny, the carpet looked like it was pieced together from stained samples, and the non-carpeted floor wasn't much better. At least we had a place to rest for the night, even if I felt compelled to sleep in the van instead of the room. My parents were right in convincing me to stay in the room, although not by much.
Continue with Part 2
Most days of my family vacations have been comfortably boring. By this, I mean that they were enjoyable, but not very memorable, involving travel to or from a destination, or just general days of relaxation and entertainment. However, once in a long while, there was a day that everyone in the family remembers very well. Sometimes these days are memorable in a honestly good way, full of happy and truly enjoyable moments. Some aren't so enjoyable at the time, but become funny as we move away from the day. A precious few days transcend that barrier completely and are packed with so many crazy occurrences that they immediately become favorite family stories. July 3, 1998 is one of those days.
The day began like any other day on the trip. It was the final morning at our hotel at the oceanfront in Virginia Beach. It was a pleasant enough morning, with my parents and sister taking a walk along the beach as my brother and I slept. We checked out of the hotel at a reasonable hour, with intentions of lazily traveling up to the Gettysburg area to spend the night. Independence Day in Gettysburg was the important day, as we would be visiting a reenactment as well as the battlefield. We thought that Gettysburg would be packed, but that Fredrick was far enough away we could get a hotel. After all, nobody needed a hotel room along I-70 less than an hour away from a major event at Gettysburg and the Fourth in Washington, right?
Before we depart the Hampton Roads area, we stop at an IHOP for breakfast. I am vague as to where this certain IHOP was in the city, and it probably is no longer there. At least, it probably shouldn't be, for it was one of the worst non McDonald's breakfast experiences our family has ever had. The waitress gets our order taken quick enough, and the family talks as we wait for our meal. We keep waiting....and keep waiting...and keep waiting. Finally, our waitress comes back over and apologizes, pretty much saying that some of the cooking staff had quit right on the spot, and things were taking a while. After a very long time, we finally got our food, although it came out in a slow and piecemeal fashion. After two hours or so, we finally finished our meal. The clock was pushing noon, and we weren't even out of Virginia Beach. Things were not starting out very well.
Nonetheless, we were fed, and we were finally on our way. We said goodbye to Virginia Beach, not knowing that I would be back for a 22 month stay about eight and a half years later. We crossed the Hampton Roads Bridge and Tunnel, and also crossed the Coleman Bridge at Yorktown, in sight of the battleground where the United States effectively won its independence. Once we were north of the York River, it was a nice, yet fairly boring drive up to Fredericksburg. We saw a lot of farmland, a few towns, and an occaisonal glimpse of the Potomac River. As afternoon was moving its way towards evening, we arrived at the National Park Service visitors center at Fredericksburg.
If you have ever been to Fredericksburg, you know that it is as uniformative of a battlefield as Gettysburg is informative. The modern city of Fredericksburg encroaches right up to the wall at Marye's Heights, quite possibly even farther than the Union got in December 1862. Sure the house with the bullet holes and the sunken road are neat, and you can get some idea of how it was, but it is kind of hard to picture the killing field before the wall when 20th century frame houses are within your eyeline. There are other, more pristine parts of the battlefield, and three other major battles (Wilderness, Spotsylvania, and Chancellorsville) are part of the park. However, given that Gettysburg was our destination, we only had time for a quick stop. More exploration of this hotbed of Civil War action would have to wait for another time.
Up until now, except for our marathon breakfast and a minor detour through the redeveloping area of Newport News, things were going fine. They stayed fine until we entered the Beltway. I had convinced my dad to skip the bypass and go along the George Washington Parkway across from Washington, so we could get a quick glimpse of the skyline of our nation's capitol. As we drove towards the Pentagon, I made an joking remark to my dad that if we crossed the river, we had gone too far.
Unfortunately, that joke was actually an unintentional prophecy, as we cruised on across the Potomac into the District of Columbia. I feel it necessary to remind you that this was the day before Independence Day. It was the dress rehearsal day for the big festivities, and the city was packed. My dad wasn't too happy about having to navigate through the traffic, although we did get to see several of the monuments and a close-up view of the White House. Other than the stress caused by having to drive through the mess, I'm sure every one did get some enjoyment out of the quick detour through our Washingotn.
Within minutes my dad had gotten us back on the parkway, and towards I-70 and Frederick. It is at this point we lapsed into our Illinois sense of distance, not understanding that Frederick was as close to Washington and Gettysburg as Ridge Farm is to Champaign and Danville. Not only is Frederick close to both places, but also it is right on I-70, a major conduit between Washington and pretty much everywhere west of there. So instead of expecting everywhere to be full, or reserving a room in advance, we strolled up to our usual chain motel choices and tried our luck. Place after place our luck was a failure, until the clerk at one of the hotels gave us a possible choice: The Frederick Inn.
Therefore, we drove over to The Frederick Inn, our one hope for the night. And what luck, they had a room. Sure, it was in the part of the hotel that wasn't remodeled, and the place looked a bit weathered. But we had a room for the night. Yeah, the beds were tiny, the carpet looked like it was pieced together from stained samples, and the non-carpeted floor wasn't much better. At least we had a place to rest for the night, even if I felt compelled to sleep in the van instead of the room. My parents were right in convincing me to stay in the room, although not by much.
Continue with Part 2
Thursday, July 2, 2009
On Gettysburg
One hundred and forty-six years ago today the bloody middle day of the battle of Gettysburg took place. Although it wasn't the day of the most famous event of the battle (Pickett's Charge), many important events took place on this day. Whether it was the charge of the 20th Maine, the sacrifice of the 2nd Minnesota, or the desperate overnight fighting around Culps HIll, it was a close struggle. Utlimately, however, the Union held its line, setting up the famous and unsucessful charge on July 3. Four and a half months later Abraham Lincoln would give his famous Address at the newly dedicated cemetery.
If you can only visit one National Battlefield, I would recommend Gettysburg. Few other battlefields give you as good of a sense of the ground, of what each army was fighting for. Several states have monuments, some of which are absolutely amazing and pieces of history by themselves. It is simply amazing to stand atop Little Round Top and wonder at the sheer strength of will it took the soldiers of the Confederacy to charge that steep hill, or the soldiers of the Union to hold it.
The Civil War was then, and still is, the great tragedy of the United States. The Battle of Gettysburg, combined with the surrender of Vicksburg on July 4, were effective turning points in the great conflict. At that point, the Union may still have lost the war, but it became almost impossible for the Confederacy to win. In the fields and forests outside of that small Pennsylvania town, the fate of our nation was quite possibly decided. Walking on that hallowed ground today, the peace and serenity contrasts greatly with the cacaphonous hell that was the battlefield that terrible July day.
If you can only visit one National Battlefield, I would recommend Gettysburg. Few other battlefields give you as good of a sense of the ground, of what each army was fighting for. Several states have monuments, some of which are absolutely amazing and pieces of history by themselves. It is simply amazing to stand atop Little Round Top and wonder at the sheer strength of will it took the soldiers of the Confederacy to charge that steep hill, or the soldiers of the Union to hold it.
The Civil War was then, and still is, the great tragedy of the United States. The Battle of Gettysburg, combined with the surrender of Vicksburg on July 4, were effective turning points in the great conflict. At that point, the Union may still have lost the war, but it became almost impossible for the Confederacy to win. In the fields and forests outside of that small Pennsylvania town, the fate of our nation was quite possibly decided. Walking on that hallowed ground today, the peace and serenity contrasts greatly with the cacaphonous hell that was the battlefield that terrible July day.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
A Month of Writing: 31 Posts in 31 Days
Welcome one and all, to my latest experiment on my great blogpire. In order to find my writing voice, and just to see if I can stay committed to something, I am going to write one blog post a day during the month of July, the result being 31 total posts.
This experiment will have a few ground rules. First off, the one post a day is one post total, and not 1 each on the four blogs I (in theory) maintain. This limit is in place because I really haven't shown an ability to keep up with the one post a day goal before. Other more economically beneficial commitments must be kept, and I want to do the best job possible with these posts, so I need to keep the goal somewhat realistic.
Second, each post won't just be a link and a quick blurb. Each post will be at least three paragraphs long. I intend to keep the posts to the point and as entertaining as possible. I've gotten rather rusty in the writing game, being out of it for a while. By July 31, I hope my work will be an improvement over the earliest pieces.
Finally, each post will be on the appropriate blog. If it is political, historical, or another serious topic of that nature, it will go on August Prairie. If it is related to movies, sports, games, web development, or just general ruminations, it will go on Quo Vadimus. Travel stories will go on Prairie Traveler Guide, and Vermilion County related posts will go up on the Vermilion Expat. If you wish to see a list of the posted stories in a central location, I have a page here. Each blog will have a link to the 31 Days of Writing page.
Please keep checking back every day. I hope to have the next story up by 5:00 (although tomorrow's post won't be up until later in the evening). And don't hesitate to offer feedback, as comments will be open for business on every post.
One down, 30 to go. Let it begin!
This experiment will have a few ground rules. First off, the one post a day is one post total, and not 1 each on the four blogs I (in theory) maintain. This limit is in place because I really haven't shown an ability to keep up with the one post a day goal before. Other more economically beneficial commitments must be kept, and I want to do the best job possible with these posts, so I need to keep the goal somewhat realistic.
Second, each post won't just be a link and a quick blurb. Each post will be at least three paragraphs long. I intend to keep the posts to the point and as entertaining as possible. I've gotten rather rusty in the writing game, being out of it for a while. By July 31, I hope my work will be an improvement over the earliest pieces.
Finally, each post will be on the appropriate blog. If it is political, historical, or another serious topic of that nature, it will go on August Prairie. If it is related to movies, sports, games, web development, or just general ruminations, it will go on Quo Vadimus. Travel stories will go on Prairie Traveler Guide, and Vermilion County related posts will go up on the Vermilion Expat. If you wish to see a list of the posted stories in a central location, I have a page here. Each blog will have a link to the 31 Days of Writing page.
Please keep checking back every day. I hope to have the next story up by 5:00 (although tomorrow's post won't be up until later in the evening). And don't hesitate to offer feedback, as comments will be open for business on every post.
One down, 30 to go. Let it begin!
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Google Maps Custom Routing: An Imperfect Tool
For the most part, I'm a big fan of Google's various products and services. My personal email is gmail, I often use google docs instead of Office, iWork, or Open Office. Heck, this blog is located at blogger, a Google entity.
Above all, I am a big fan of Google Maps. It is just a much smoother interface than Mapquest (or the godawful product known as Microsoft Maps), and I like how the directions interface works. Until today, I was a big fan of the ability to do custom routing.
Although I still find it to be a somewhat useful tool, I recognize now that it still has a way to go. Trying to chart the map of a road trip I took earlier in the day (more on this in a later post), I was about ready to pull my hair out. Often times it doesn't seem to get that I want to go a certain way, and does weird stuff instead, doubling back on itself, or routing itself way out of the way.
It was like moving heaven and earth just to get the damn thing to take the main road between SR 48 and Maroa, IL, always trying to take I 72 instead.
Maybe I'm just not using it right, or maybe I expected far too much. If any one reading this has some tips, or even possibly a better tool for this purpose, I would be interested to hear from you about this. The comments are open for discussion on this and other online mapping services.
See you out on the road!
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Traveling into the (or away from) the Sunrise
As anyone who knows me can attest, I am not a morning person. If I could get away with it, I probably wouldn't get up until at least 10:00. Unfortunately, that would make me about 90 minutes late to work.
When it comes to travel, however, I can easily get up at a very early hour. As I have gone on many road trips, most of them have started early in the morning, sometimes even before the sun is up. I love how things look in the morning, the trip not yet started, the experiences ahead instead of behind me.
On my trip out west, I started at or before sunrise several days, to maximize my enjoyment of the sites before me. I remember the cool dew-filled morning as I left Rock Island, and the crisp air outside of Cheyenne, Wyoming. I remember the sun coming up behind me as I drove through the Nevada desert to Yosemite, and the sun rising over the canyon walls as I headed back up to the Yosemite Valley the next morning. Most of all I remember the frost and fog outside of Glacier National Park, and the sun rising over the mountains as I drove along the Yellowstone River towards the Roosevelt Gate.
The world can be a very beautiful place when the sun rises. I'm not certain why I can't find that beauty every morning, but I do appreciate it when going on my road trips. Maybe I can take the feeling of anticipation for a day a travel and apply to my regular daily routine.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Holidays 07-08: From VA to IL and back via Amtrak
A year ago today I had just finished my trip home for the holidays, and was getting settled back into my daily routine in Virginia. Unlike 2006, when I made a quick drive home for Christmas, I decided to take Amtrak from Newport News to Chicago, and then took the trip back again after the New Year.
Although sitting on a train for about 25 hours each way was somewhat tiring, I still found it to be a mostly enjoyable adventure. Although a lack of vacation days due to moving jobs prevents me from taking the trip this year, I hope sometime soon to take one of the cross-country routes from Chicago to Seattle or Chicago to the San Fran/Oakland area. Of course when I do that, I'll be taking one of the sleeper berths. Instead of travel for a destination, the journey will be the main objective of the trip.
Although I always admired the concept of Amtrak, actually traveling the rails has further cemented my support of it as an alternative to the crowded cattlejets of the airlines. Although the cross-country trains can't compete with the airlines, it still can be a viable regional solution, and there really should be many more trains in Illinois. I would love to see a route from Indianapolis to Springfield, connecting to Chicago from Champaign and St. Louis from Springfield. Maybe with a longtime user of Amtrak in our next administration, real progress in the world of rail travel might happen.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
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.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
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.
Monday, September 24, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, September 3, 2007
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...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)