Plainscape

Navigating the Plains

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Sat, 28 Oct 2006 01:15:00 +0000

For Plainscape newcomers, a good way to read about my bicycle trip is by month: August, September, October. Over on the right side are links to a photo album and my favorite places.

No more miles

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Sun, 15 Oct 2006 23:51:00 +0000

Aug. 18-Oct. 6, North Dakota-Texas, 1901 miles—After seeing Sweetwater on Saturday, on Sunday morning I woke up sick for the first time all trip, so sick I could do little but lie in my Motel 6 bed and watch TV. Looking back, I believe I was sick the day I rode here from Knox City, when I didn't feel my usual strength.

By Wednesday I still couldn't ride, and I didn't feel like I'd be ready for some time. I went to the Rolling Plains clinic, where a doctor ordered blood tests that showed my white blood cell count was 2,400 on a scale from 7,500 to 10,000. That probably indicated I was fighting an unknown virus. Dr. Clayton said I would risk my health if I continued riding.

I was five days from my final destination—Eagle Pass on the Rio Grande—but it was obvious she was right. Just leaving my motel room was hard enough. Hauling 45 pounds on my bike down the highway seemed like something I'd done only in another life.

I can't make many grand conclusions now. I was fortunate to have near-perfect health for six weeks, but disappointed I couldn't cross the finish line. My trip had been even better than I expected, but I felt cheated out of the satisfaction of reaching the Mexican border and celebrating.

Once I realized it was over, I wanted to be home as soon as possible. I walked to the library, checked transportation options on the Internet, made phone calls. If I could find a way to the Abilene airport, an hour away, Hertz would let me drive a rental car back to Columbia.

I went to Larry's liquor store and told him the situation, asking whether he knew anyone who commuted to Abilene or had to go there. Bob, a retired friend sitting in an easy chair behind the counter, didn't have anything scheduled after he took his grandkids to school the next day. I had my ride.

Some people have asked about Hannah and her ashes, which I've carried on my bike since Lexington, Neb. I wasn't able to do much. Late on my last night I walked outside and away from the motel. I found a nice tree with a spreading crown (a Texas live oak, I think) and put some ashes in the crook of the limbs. Since I won't make it to the Rio Grande, I decided the rest of the ashes can travel to the Gulf of Mexico by another route, the Missouri River near my home in Missouri. When I'm well I'll do that.

At 9 the next morning Bob arrived outside my room, possibly to the second, with his pickup. Gracious and friendly, he wore a white cowboy hat. He took me to the airport in Abilene, to my relief a tiny place where we parked next to the terminal door. I leaned my bike against the wall and walked 50 steps to the Hertz counter inside. Ahead was a 12-hour drive into the trees of eastern Oklahoma and the Ozarks. When he got back to Sweetwater, Bob called me to make sure I was on my way. I think of that kindness as a good finish.

Bad town for snakes

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Tue, 10 Oct 2006 20:24:00 +0000

Oct. 6, Knox City-Sweetwater, 88 miles, SE breeze, 90/65—For a couple of reasons I ride long today: winds are light, and I want to be far down the road when the next headwind shows up. I'm also hoping to see high school football. Sweetwater, a good team, plays at home this evening—in fact, it's homecoming.

For once I don't feel strong on the bike today. At times during the trip I've been heavy-legged, worn out, unenthusiastic, but through it all—and this is not a contradiction—I've always felt strong. But I plug away through the disintegrating towns of Rule and Old Glory, and in Hamlin spend a long lunch at Dairy Queen, clearly the local hangout spot. Bill, a retired locksmith, details for me the decline of Hamlin, which lost the railroad a dozen years ago and is now considering six-man football for the high school.

Unfortunately I don't make it in time for the game, which is Sweetwater's 600th all-time win, 35-0 over Borger, a team from the Panhandle. The Mustangs are now 5-1 and on the verge of a top-10 ranking in class 3A (you can follow Big Country football here). Instead I watch the high school game of the week on television, Nease vs. St. Augustine, whose left tackle is playing the season with a torn ACL.

The next day I visit the team's Mustang Bowl, an earthen-bowl stadium built during the Depression by the Works Progress Administration that seats 16,000. Either I know less about the WPA than I thought, or this is an only-in-Texas thing.

You can't say anything is bigger than Texas high school football, but Sweetwater is best known for its rattlesnake roundup, largest in the world. For a long weekend every March, the Sweetwater Jaycees buy thousands of locally caught rattlers and put on a festival that raises money for charity, this year the Special Olympics.

The roundup sells snake meat and products made of snakeskin, has some educational demonstrations, even a Miss Snake Charmer. It's all very civic, but the ethics of this and other roundups are pretty indefensible. Despite the controversy the Sweetwater roundup doesn't appear to be in trouble—even National Public Radio did a puff piece about it earlier this year (see more here, plus a fairly gruesome video and scholarly reference).

I stop at a liquor store selling rattlesnake souvenirs. They have rattlesnake skin wallets, purses, and cases for cell phones and chewing tobacco, also practical things for people rounding up rattlers: tongs, hooks, snake bite extractor.

Here I meet the owners, Larry and June. Larry is a Jaycee and was Sweetwater roundup chairman in 1967. Until recently he was a large rattlesnake dealer, a middleman. He still gets snakes now and then, and he takes me to the back room and shows me a tiny rattler, probably a first-year animal, and a larger one, three feet long, which he brings out of its box with tongs and places on the floor.

Then Larry and June take me out for barbecue, which comes in a simple sourdough bun with no sauce. Big Boy's has a framed clipping ranking its barbecue in the top 50 in the Texas Monthly survey, a high honor.

Six-man football

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Tue, 10 Oct 2006 20:23:00 +0000

Oct. 5, Copper Breaks State Park-Knox City, 54 miles, SE breeze, 88/65—Copper Breaks is a tremendous park, though unfortunately the longhorns, part of the official state herd, have been taken to Fort Griffin early for their annual health check because poachers have damaged some of the enclosure fence.

The superintendent, David, has a lot to say about the park he runs. Texas state parks are in a tough budget time. For winter the park will be day-use only, a shame because Texas is plenty warm then, and there are no other state parks in the area.

David says he's tried to sell the park as an educational resource. The problem is local teachers have to prepare students for their required standardized tests and don't have time to use the park and its visitor center.

More bad news at my lunch stop, Crowell, which seems to be losing people by the day. There's now only one place to eat, and storefronts on the square are deserted or rented by public services rather than businesses, always a bad sign. The guy bagging my groceries tells me that after high school young people leave for college and work—nothing can hold them here. It's not New York and Los Angeles they're going to, but Lubbock and Fort Worth.

Midafternoon, past the prickly pear and juniper of the rugged Wichita River breaks, I take a rest with Sonny on the shady side of the county courthouse in Benjamin where he's janitor. He's taken a chair outside, where he sits and smokes and drinks a Coke. His son just moved to Arlington, Texas from Columbia, Mo., where I live. I gather the son wasn't pleased with Missouri state government, including the idea of a state income tax (Texas has no income tax).

Sonny turns out to be the perfect go-to guy for answering all the Texas questions in my head. He explains how oil and gas wells work (the tall, skinny tank is the boiler that separates salt water from oil), and about the new energy boom. For the second time today and using the same phrase I heard in Crowell, Sonny says young people are leaving to "go where the money is." Even those who stay often shop for a month or two's supplies in Abilene or Wichita Falls, making it extra tough for local businesses.

I spend the night down the highway in Knox City, which is playing six-man football for the first time because high school classes are shrinking. The team started the season with 20 players, and several have quit because they don't like the six-man game, which is streamlined and high-scoring. I find most people don't know the rules of the game, but it's the only chance for small towns like this to have a football team. In Texas that's important.

Parker family

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Tue, 10 Oct 2006 20:22:00 +0000

Oct. 4, Erick-Copper Breaks State Park, 96 miles, variable breeze, 88/65—On the way out of Erick I ride past the yard photographed in a new book Clyde showed me yesterday: America's 100th Meridian: A Plains Journey. (The two reader reviews are interesting. The guy from Oregon loves it, but a woman from Dodge City, which is on the 100th meridian, doesn't care for it at all.)

Today is a day on the go—I want to get to Texas. Beyond Hollis I pass cotton fields, my first of the trip. I've heard black-eyed peas are also grown around here but I don't see any. In mid-afternoon I cross the Red River, a thin stream in a wide and sandy riverbed where three ATVers are riding all out. I'm now in Texas (trip miles: 1727), happy to be in the last state of my trip. I've been telling myself for the past week not to rush, but I'm excited to be in the same state as the Rio Grande.

I'm also thrilled to be back on the good roads of Texas, and happy to devote another paragraph to slamming Oklahoma roads, which are hazardous enough that cross-country riders should be warned at state borders. Not only can shoulders be measured in inches, but the surfaces feel like hardened gravel under my wheels. When a Texas Farm Road (an official designation) is far superior to an Oklahoma state highway, you've got problems.

Shortly I pass through Quanah, named after (and with a courthouse square monument honoring) Quanah Parker, chief of the Quahadi band of Comanches and a founder of the Native American Church. Which is all very interesting, because Quanah Parker was one of the most important people in the Southwest for 50 years. But add this amazing fact to his bio: his mother, Cynthia Ann Parker, was captured by a Comanche raiding party, married a chief, had three children including Quanah, and was later recaptured and returned to the white world against her will.

Into early evening I ride through mesquite trees and juniper to Copper Breaks State Park. I appear to be the only camper in the park, except for the ringtail raiding my bike bags in the middle of the night.

100th meridian on Route 66

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Tue, 10 Oct 2006 20:21:00 +0000

Oct. 2, Black Kettle National Grassland-Erick, 35 miles, S wind, 92/65—Erick is now on Interstate 40 but used to be on Route 66, a legendary highway from Chicago to Santa Monica. In Erick I come across the Sandhills Curiosity Shop—it would be impossible to miss—without any idea what it is. There I meet Annabelle and Harley. Our meeting is confusing because they're famous residents of Route 66 (here and here) and thousands come to see them on bus tours, including many Europeans, but I don't know what to make of them until they explain and show me their clippings.

They appear to have a store, but don't actually sell anything, just give away free drinks. I'd describe them as performance artists and musicians. When four French tourists show up, Harley and Annabelle give them bearhugs and free beer.

Erick also has a 100th meridian museum, open by appointment. Clyde and June show up right away and Clyde gets out his laser pointer to show me the exhibits. He's a retired Navy aviation mechanic and spent seven years overseas, collecting rocks in his free time, which he's worked into a museum display. He knows local history with a fierce attention to detail. Clyde covers so many subjects in such detail and so fast that June has to scold him afterward.

Custer again

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Tue, 10 Oct 2006 20:16:00 +0000

Sept. 30, Darrouzett-Arnett, 55 miles, NW-SW breeze, 90/65; Oct. 1, Arnett-Black Kettle National Grassland, 55 miles, SW-S wind, 92/65—My main impression of the Texas panhandle is oil and gas wells. Todd and Josh told me yesterday there's such a boom that work goes on day and night.

Riding down a Farm Road (an actual road designation in Texas) on the way back into Oklahoma, I see a tarantula on the move in front of me. In Shattuck I find the best cafe of my whole trip: good food, a railroader's collection for decoration, friendly staff and customers, and iced tea in jars refilled as much as a thirsty biker needs. Though the Shattuck depot is no more, the Santa Fe railroad recently rebuilt its tracks through town on a main line from Kansas City to the Southwest.

At the edge of Shattuck is a windmill museum and park, still adding old windmills, with most donated by landowners wanting to save some history. The park has just acquired an adjacent piece of land for expansion, and will host an international windmillers' gathering in a few years.

In Arnett I sit in the shade on the courthouse steps, snacking on pineapple slices mailed by a friend, and debate whether to go another 25-30 miles to the Black Kettle National Grassland. Tomorrow a strong south wind is scheduled, and I'd rather cover the ground today. Instead the bike gods spring into action with a practical joke. I start feeling faint and buzzy and believe the heat must be affecting me. Though a hot day it doesn't seem possible, since riding offers a natural cooling breeze, and the heat hasn't bothered me once all trip.

But there's no denying the feeling, now getting worse, so I get a motel room, crank up the air conditioner, and try to ease the stress on what I think is my overheated body. I can't figure out how the humid Missouri summer didn't prepare for this until I finally get it: a sugar high from the pineapple (and lunchtime papaya)!

Next day I ride fast to the Antelope Hills and Canadian River. Like most big west-to-east Plains rivers I've seen, it's nearly dry. The sandy riverbed has lots of tracks from ATVs and other vehicles. Windspeed builds around noon when the temperature rises, but it's a fight only the last two miles into Cheyenne.

The Washita Battlefield National Historic Site is my prime destination in Oklahoma, and one of the most important battles in the southern Plains Indian War. Washita is also the sequel to Sand Creek Massacre (here and here), an encounter argued about since the day it happened, and now a national historic site under development.

The Washita battle pitted Custer's 7th Cavalry against a Cheyenne village led by Chief Black Kettle. Gen. Phil Sheridan had ordered a winter campaign against the southern tribes (Cheyenne, Arapaho, Kiowa, Plains Apache) using surprise to strike decisively. First Sheridan arranged to bring Custer back early from a one-year suspension after his court martial because he knew Custer was an aggressive commander. He instructed Custer to attack and destroy any village he found, kill as many warriors as possible, capture women and children, and slaughter Indian horses to take away mobility.

Custer and his Osage scouts carry out this plan to near perfection on Nov. 27, 1868, in a pre-sunrise attack prepared in near silence after a night of snowfall. After taking and burning Black Kettle's village, Custer realizes there are many more Indian reinforcements nearby than he thought—around 6,000, versus his 800 troops—so he feints toward the villages the warriors have just left, then returns quickly to Camp Supply, his base to the north. One thing Custer doesn't do is confirm the fate of Major Elliott and almost 20 of his men, all killed during a sweep several miles to the east. (Sheridan and Custer return the next month and find the bodies of Elliott and his men.) This single incident causes dissension in Custer's officer ranks that never healed.

The battlefield site is a beautiful slope of grass running down toward the trees marking the Washita River. An abandoned railroad right of way, also lined with trees, cuts across the scene. High mesas rise beyond the river. You can even see the small knoll where Custer and his staff watched the troops overrun Black Kettle's village.

This area later became reservation land of the Southern Cheyenne and Arapaho. Now their tribal headquarters lie to the east in Concho, but many Cheyennes and Arapahos live in the nearby towns of Hammon and Weatherford.

I stay later at the battlefield than I should because I think the campground at Skipout Lake, in the Black Kettle National Grassland, is 6 miles away instead of 12. I ride nearly as fast as I can to beat darkness, and kick Osage-orange balls aside to pitch my tent near the lake.

Battle of the panhandles

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Tue, 10 Oct 2006 20:15:00 +0000

Sept. 29, Beaver-Darrouzett, 42 miles, SW breeze 85/60—After meeting friendly people from one end of Beaver to the other, I'm sorry to leave. People aren't shy here, either. Before heading out I eat lunch at the park. There Shayla crosses the street with the four girls she has charge of for the day (two her own daughters) and directly starts socializing while the girls play around us.

In Elmwood, 14 miles down the road, I stop for something to drink at a crossroads convenience store and meet Amira and Mohamed, who run this store. Originally from Egypt, they've lived many years in the United States (he 27) and are now Americans. They moved to the Oklahoma panhandle three years ago from Brooklyn, where he worked in computers.

Their lives could hardly be more different, but they wanted to own their own business and found this. After a month's trial, they decided to stay. A year in, the hotel they owned next door was struck by lightning and burned down. They have three kids, an Oklahoma-born 3 year old and 17 and 10 year olds who go to school in Beaver. Last year school was in Booker, Texas—the Oklahoma panhandle is only 63 miles wide, so Texas isn't far—but they had to be driven there, whereas Beaver has a schoolbus. Amira loves the schools, the patient teachers, and low student-teacher ratio. They say they don't mind the isolation compared to Brooklyn, and even prefer it.

I'm relieved to enter Texas. State highway 23 in Oklahoma had almost no shoulder the whole way through the panhandle. As soon as I hit the Texas border, presto, a wide, smooth shoulder appears. Not only had John, the Beaver bike rider, told me Texas roads were good riding—over the next week I hear the same thing repeated by different people.

Booker has nowhere to stay, but Todd at the grocery store tells me of a bed and breakfast down the road he thinks I'll like. It's 12 miles away in Darrouzett, a kind of hunting lodge where the owner guides upland-bird hunters (dove, quail, pheasant, turkey). Now that it's off-season Wade, the owner, is in California with his girlfriend and the place is mostly empty.

Todd tells me to go to the old bank building on Main Street in Darrouzett and look under the cream pitcher for the key. Wade's mother will drop in at some point, he says. It's a fantastic place, large and luxurious by my standards.

Later that evening Wade's son, Josh, shows up with his friend Jordan. Josh is a nursing student at Central Oklahoma in Edmond. Jordan, a local farm kid (he planted winter wheat in the morning on his family's farm), just graduated from Oklahoma State and is thinking about law school. Next morning I meet David, an old family friend staying here with his teenage son for the opening of archery deer season, which is tomorrow. Altogether it's a perfect first day of Texas hospitality.

No man's land

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Tue, 10 Oct 2006 20:13:00 +0000

Sept. 28, Meade-Beaver, 48 miles, NE-SW breeze, 68/45—The High Plains began a few days back in Dodge City, and now the landscape is changing faster than it has all trip, taking turns flattening out and then becoming rough and sagebrushy. Oil wells are multiplying, the pump generators chuck-chucking away. Signs at road entrances list exact locations of all oil company leases on that property.

The weather is also in flux, and I can't figure out which way the wind is coming from. It appears to be shifting from north to southwest, though a small whirlwind rolls into me from the east. Unfortunately the first armadillo of my trip is roadkill.

I cross the beautiful and inviting Cimarron River, which is all fenced off. In a better world public access here and at other rivers would give people a chance to enjoy the clear water and bordering willows. A little farther on is the Oklahoma border (trip miles: 1450), with a marker announcing No Man's Land. For decades, in a strange twist of history, the entire Oklahoma panhandle belonged to no territory and no state.

From 1850, when a slavery compromise in Congress limited the northern reach of Texas to latitude 36°30', until 1890, when it became part of Oklahoma Territory, this was the Neutral Strip, popularly No Man's Land. It couldn't even be officially settled: under the Homestead Act settled land had to be surveyed first, and the neutral strip wasn't.

Beaver is a friendly town with a busy main street. It also has a resident bicyclist, John, who I meet in the library next morning, his Kestrel leaning against the wall outside. I'd seen him the evening before riding on the highway past the state park where I camped, Beaver Dunes. At the library he's wearing cowboy boots, and tells me a lot about biking around here. He rides just about every day and assures me the roads will be better once I'm in Texas.

High Plains hideout

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Thu, 28 Sep 2006 16:01:00 +0000

Sept. 27, Dodge City-Meade, 46 miles, NE wind, 75/40—Today's crisp air makes it feel like I'm on the High Plains—just a mild day, actually—and the look of the land says the same: less irrigated crops, mostly cattle and oil wells. If people insist on calling the Plains flat (which contradicts the experience of my legs), at least they're tilted. I'm now at 2,500 feet and from here the ramp of the Plains continues west all the way to the Front Range, base of the Rocky Mountains. Denver, at the edge of the Plains, is over 5,000 ft, Cheyenne, Wyo. over 6,000 ft., and neither is in the mountains.

Halfway to Meade I had a classic bike trip moment. I happened to be sitting on a bench in front of Minneola's senior center right at noon. Ted was on his way inside and invited me to join the rest of the local seniors for lunch. Fortunately I washed up before entering the dining room. When I walked in about 30 people applauded, and I was directed to the podium to give a short talk about my trip. After a few questions from the audience I enjoyed a taco salad, said my goodbyes, and set out for Meade. It's too bad it took me so long to discover this lunchtime strategy.

Meade is known for the Dalton gang's hideout at their sister's house. Marc, who manages the museum for the county, was steeped in Wild West history, especially buffalo hunters and outlaws. I'd heard in Dodge City that he does a mean Doc Holliday and places high in national living-history competitions. In fact, he was in Doc's clothes when I arrived; he'd just returned from a Dodge City function playing Doc. He loved to talk about frontier history and told me stories of the Dalton gang, Wyatt Earp-Doc Holliday-Tombstone-OK Corral, gunfighters, and good Hollywood westerns.

Marc had also developed an overly romantic streak about outlaws, I think. Most "weren't such bad guys," he said, though he admitted some like Billy the Kid were psychopaths. He did make a good case for Emmet Dalton, who—after the rest of the gang was gunned down at a simultaneous double bank robbery in Coffeyville, Kan.—was released early for good behavior, went to Hollywood, and got on famously consulting and acting in early westerns.

Meade County was at the epicenter of the Dust Bowl in the 1930s. We're now in another prolonged drought, the length of which varies by place and person I talk to, but it's around 4-8 years long. The peak of Plains settlement in the 1870s and 1880s came during an unusually wet period—giving rise to the saying "rain follows the plow"—and made everyone think this was typical. Ever since people have been finding out it's not.

Buffalo to bovine

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Tue, 26 Sep 2006 23:03:00 +0000

Sept. 25, Kinsley-Dodge City, 45 miles, SW-NW breeze, 80/45—Dodge City has been dealing in either buffalo or cattle for a long time. When it was founded in 1872, it immediately became the primary commercial center for buffalo hunters and hide dealers, who shipped out millions of hides.

Hardy Texas longhorn herds were driven to Dodge City from Texas starting in 1875 on the Western and Jones and Plummer trails. This was the heyday of Dodge City's notoriety, when it was a rough place full of opportunities for newly arrived cowboys to lose their money gambling at faro or poker, or in saloons and brothels. It was also a more diverse place than we think. On the great Texas cattle drives, around a third of the cowboys were blacks, Mexican vaqueros, and Indians.

Today Dodge City makes its tourist dollars off a re-creation of Front Street and Boot Hill, named because those buried there had no friends or family and were buried with their boots on. The real Front Street was torn down in 1970 for urban renewal.

The old Dodge inspired movie westerns and the TV series Gunsmoke, plus so many dime novels that late in life Bat Masterson turned down a job as U.S. marshal of Oklahoma Territory offered by his friend, President Teddy Roosevelt. Masterson knew too many people had read about him and Dodge and would want to make their reputation against him. Instead he became a sportwriter in New York City.

Now, instead of gamblers and and famous lawman (Bat and Ed Masterson, Wyatt Earp, Bill Tilghman), Dodge City is dominated by two enormous meatpacking operations, Excel (part of Cargill) and National Beef (Farmland). Other Dodge industries are built around beef: feed companies, livestock companies, trucking companies. Most of the workforce at the two meatpackers are from Mexico, most legal and some not. Both companies, I heard, are fined regularly for undocumented workers.

So many Mexicans have immigrated here to work in the plants that about 45 percent of Dodge City's 25,000 people are Latino. In the school system, Latinos are over 60 percent of the students. Most of the growth has taken place since about 1990.

At a grocery store I met Victor, who had worked at National Beef for 10 years. He'd moved to Dodge City from Los Angeles and was glad to be here working a good job. He came from Mexico, where he used to ride his bike everywhere, he said. I was interested in him, but he wanted to talk about my trip, not himself. I liked that he saw the adventure part of my trip where many people just saw miles of riding.

Whatever views one may have on immigrant workers, Mexican influence in these parts is almost 500 years old. A few miles east of the city is Coronado crossing, a possible location for the 1541 crossing of the Arkansas River by the conquistador Coronado and his Spanish-Indian force. Gold-crazed, he was searching for Quivera, one of the legendary (and non-existent) seven cities of gold.

When I parked my bike at the Coronado monument, the first voices I heard were in Spanish, from the house next door. After crossing the Arkansas, Coronado's priest held a mass of thanksgiving. Since this is regarded as the first Christian mass in what is now the United States, Dodge City churches and organizations sponsored the monument for the 1976 American bicentennial. Coronado nearly reached present-day Lindsborg, Kan. before turning around.

Nearby is Dodge City's reason for being: Fort Dodge was one of the army outposts on the Santa Fe Trail. This trail was for commerce, not emigration, with Mexican merchants going to Missouri and vice-versa. Four original building from the fort remain, now part of the Kansas Soldiers' Home. Visitors are welcome to walk around the grounds and see both the old barracks and cozy bungalows for World War II and Korean War veterans.

Santa Fe lookout

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Tue, 26 Sep 2006 23:02:00 +0000

Sept. 24, La Crosse-Kinsley, 82 miles, N wind, 70/50—I hadn't seen much natural scenery in Kansas and looked forward to Pawnee Rock, so my heart sank when I approached it from the back. I took a 30-mile detour for a scruffy little outcropping?

But at the top I really did feel I was on the wildest spot of my time in Kansas. Western Kansas has some remote and rugged country, but I'd seen little riding my cross section besides farms and ranches. Pawnee Rock's cactus and sagebrush signaled I was leaving the Midwest and entering the southern Plains. I'm not that good at imagining myself back in time, but maybe this high place gave some perspective. It used to be even more impressive: the rock has been downsized about 15 feet because of quarrying from the railroad and settlers.

The rock was a landmark on the Santa Fe Trail, roughly announcing to travelers they were halfway to Missouri or Santa Fe. From here you could see the trail below, in front of the Arkansas River, which was essential for providing water to trail parties. In this state the river is pronounced "Are-kansas." It's mostly dry since Colorado irrigators use it heavily before it reaches the Kansas border.

To this country came the Arapaho and Cheyenne, Kiowa and Comanche, and Pawnee, to hunt bison herds massed near the Arkansas River. All trip I've been disappointed at not seeing more private bison ranches, though I know they're around. Ted Turner, as the biggest example, has several huge spreads in western Nebraska where he raises bison for meat, just as he does in Montana.

About 15 miles west sat Fort Larned, a national historic site and terrific fort to visit, built to protect Santa Fe Trail trade.

That night I stayed at Kinsley, still another small Plains city in decline. In 15 years the population has gone from 2,200 to 1,400. It's one thing for an out-of-the-way place to lose people, but Kinsley is on a major highway (U.S. 56) not far from Dodge City. Wichita and other large Plains cities are booming, and it seems like regional crossroads like Stockton and Phillipsburg are holding their own for now. Anything smaller and not attractive to young people is in trouble.

Closing the open range

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Tue, 26 Sep 2006 23:00:00 +0000

Sept. 23, Hays-La Crosse, 30 miles, NW wind, 60/40—There are two kinds of people in the world: those who like barbed wire museums, and those who don't yet know they like them. La Crosse, I think it's safe to say, has the best barbed wire museum in the world, good enough to impress you even if you walked in thinking nothing could be more boring. It's run by serious collectors in the Kansas Barbed Wire Collectors Association, who put their heads together to develop a museum.

It's tempting to put the barbed wire museum in the category of Great Plains curiosities like Carhenge, the world's largest hand-dug well, and the world's largest ball of twine. I wouldn't mind seeing those (though I guess I could skip the twine, maybe also the well), but barbed wire really did change the West. Finally homesteaders could cheaply fence their gardens, cropfields, and pastures, and make investments on their own range without having to share their improvements. Long-distance cattle drives across the vast open range became obsolete.

I'd reached La Crosse at day's end and found the museum on my town scouting trip. Naturally it was closed at 6:30 on a Saturday evening. In fact, as of a week ago it had closed for the season. On the door two names were posted to contact for appointments. I called Mary, hoping possibly to see the museum the next morning but not expecting even that. Mary said she'd be there in 10 minutes to open up. It took her only five, and she refused payment for souvenirs.

New hometown

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Sat, 23 Sep 2006 17:24:00 +0000

So far on my trip there are two cities I wouldn't mind living in: Bismarck, N.D., and Hays. Hays is a college town with pleasant neighborhoods, a great brewpub, a city buffalo herd, and the famous fish-within-a-fish fossil at the Sternberg museum (see here), which when I visited also featured paintings by Koko, the sign-language gorilla. (Is it art?) Even the Hays public swimming pool, built of golden Kansas limestone, looks great.

Hays is also home to an 1800s frontier fort. Multipurpose Fort Hays was the supply center of a string of western Kansas forts and protected the Butterfield freight and stage route, then later the railroad. Here Custer camped with his 7th cavalry during the Plains Indian wars.

The fort had a re-enactment the weekend I was there, so I met Buffalo Bill (Kirk Shapland, who I later heard was one of the best), a cavalryman showing off his tarp-tent, and Michael, who'd built his own Gatling gun and cannon and towed them to events like this by trailer. They were relatively simple models, he said, and didn't require any permits.

Michael said now that Civil War re-enactment is almost mainstream, many old-timers are turning to re-enacting World War II and even the Korean and Vietnam wars. Apparently it's easy to get Russian World War II-era armaments (including captured German weapons) from African countries that acquired them after the war. It's not always an easy hobby. Once one of Michael's acquaintances had a Panzer tank hung up in customs at a Texas port for a year.

Hays at all costs

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Fri, 22 Sep 2006 16:25:00 +0000

Sept. 21, Plainville-Hays, 28 miles, S wind, 70/50—I'm sure Plainview is a fine town, but it's like its name, and I desperately wanted to get to Hays, population 20,000, one of the biggest cities on my ride with lots to see and do. After a quick weather radar check at the library I started down the highway, then almost retreated to Plainville after a few tenths because of the wind. But I figured I could take a few hours of it.

The first half of the ride was bad, but no worse than I expected—a stiff wind in my face. Then I came onto a plateau, and during a brunchstop had to strap my helmet to the bike to make sure it didn't blow away. I hoped it was just the terrain, but when I resumed windspeed had definitely picked up (Hays that afternoon had 31 mph wind, gusts to 39).

I saw the Hays water tower with 8 miles to go, usually a sign I'm home free. Today I doubted I could make it without hitching a ride. With 6 miles to go, I crawled under some farm machinery to get out of the wind and rest. At 3 miles, I passed some horses and spent a few happy minutes with them—horses are the only animals that like my bike and me. At 2 miles, a gust almost blew me into a creek. At 1 mile to go, a stinging rain came and the highway shoulder disappeared because of road construction. Thirty minutes after arrival at the blissful Hays Motel 6, the rain turned to hail.

Nicodemus

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Fri, 22 Sep 2006 16:24:00 +0000

Sept. 20, Stockton-Plainview, 50 miles, SW-S wind, 80/50—At the top of my list of Kansas destinations was Nicodemus (and here), so I was stunned to find it closed on a normal Wednesday afternoon. I rode around—it didn't take long in a town of 34—until I ran into Fred, Nicodemus's deputy marshal. Fred drove to the National Park Service office and honked his horn until Sherda Williams, superindent of the site, came out. Sherda not only opened the visitor center for me, but graciously showed me around (she said she was tired of visitors stopping only to use the bathrooms). The site had to close two days because she was short-staffed, but a new ranger was coming soon.

When federal troops left the South in 1877, violence and new laws pushed former slaves to move north in mass numbers. Some also went west as pioneers, settling especially in Kansas and Oklahoma. For blacks, Kansas had a golden reputation, a free state won by blood and the home of John Brown.

Of all black settlements in the state only Nicodemus remains, though it barely survived when Union Pacific railroad built to the south. Despite the tiny population (it's hard to make a living out here), Nicodemus has a large number of absentee property owners. The biggest weekend of the year is Homecoming at the end of July, when many hundreds of descendants return to celebrate what used to be Emancipation day.

After Nicodemus I planned to go south to Ellis, but the steady and strong south wind changed my mind. After riding into it to Palco, I had to make a sideways move. Ellis had suddenly become hours away in the wind, and I was losing daylight. I decided to return east to Plainville, arriving with no light to spare.

The wind seems to be more of a factor since southern Nebraska, constantly making me shift plans as the direction moves around the dial from day to day. Some of my wind rides are a simple slog, some high drama, at least for me.

At the Stockton library that morning I'd gotten e-mail from Peter, a young and strong cross-country rider I met in Gothenburg. At the same time I was riding east at 21 mph into Kearney, he was heading into a wall on his way to Boulder, Colo. It was so bad he got a ride into Boulder instead of facing two or three days of suffering. I completely understand his decision.

Lately I'm getting a repeating pattern of three warm and fair days with huge south winds. As windspeeds exceed 20 mph and approach 30, conditions become pretty much unrideable. Then three cool days follow with a big north wind (usually NW). I'm carried along on those days, but the catch is chances of rain and thunderstorms. Today I realized the weather could be a big obstacle between me and Texas.

Kansas, finally

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Thu, 21 Sep 2006 14:39:00 +0000

Sept. 19, Franklin-Stockton, 74 miles, SW breeze, 85/65—Even though a recent study showed Kansas is actually flatter than a pancake (read here and here), it started off like a rollercoaster. After crossing the border (trip miles: 1064) I soon reached the Home on the Range cabin, where Dr. Brewster Higley wrote a poem called "My Western Home." It eventually became a famous western song, Franklin Roosevelt's supposed favorite. (It's the one beginning, "Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam, Where the deer and the antelope play.")

Amazingly, I'd seen a mule deer a couple of miles before reaching the gravel road to the cabin (the antelope were back in South Dakota). The scene on the range was so beautiful I decided to sit down in the grass and fix a flat tire. After three rear-tire flats in 10 days, I was annoyed with my Kevlar tire, a victim of sandburs and gravel, and switched it with my spare. By the end of the day, I'd hummed and sung Home on the Range enough to make me wish I knew more than one verse.

Since this was mainly a riding day, I plowed ahead to Stockton through a breezy, sunny afternoon and reached the city park with light enough for the end of a pee wee football game. Rooks County produces so much crude oil that some Stockton homeowners pump oil out of their yards.

Trapped by 50,000 historical items

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Thu, 21 Sep 2006 14:37:00 +0000

Sept. 17, Kearney-Minden, 33 miles, NW wind, 70/40; Sept. 18, Minden-Franklin, 30 miles, NW wind, 65/35—After so many days in Nebraska I had a strong urge to reach Kansas, probably an unusual feeling. But I kept running into interesting places along the Platte River and in southern Nebraska.

Pioneer Village in Minden is a throwback to the 1950s and '60s and has tons of stuff, literally: cars, tractors, televisions, china, outboard motors, guns, furniture. Some of the collections must be the best in the world. If you find something that grabs you (bicycles for me, also to my surprise carriages and snowmobiles), it's an incredible place.

Founder Harold Warp's introduction at the main gate gives you a sense of the old-fashioned atmosphere: "In a mere hundred and twenty years of eternal time man progressed from open hearth, grease lamps and ox carts to television, super sonic speed, and atomic power. We have endeavored to show you the actual development of this astounding progress as it was unfolded by our forefathers and by ourselves."

The 50,000 objects are organized and labeled beautifully—for 1960. Harold Warp was self-made, a farmboy who later started a company in Chicago to sell his invention, Flex-O-Glass. Visiting home after making his fortune, he discovered the old schoolhouse he'd attended was about to be torn down. He bought the school, and soon after started building Pioneer Village. He insisted on putting collections in chronological order, a good decision.

Its greatness is caught in an older time, and visitor attendance is going down. Old Harold died 12 years ago, and several locals have nothing good to say about the management of his son, also Harold. Apparently he has little interest in upgrading the museum and won't spend on maintenance, instead banking on Pioneer Village's longtime reputation as the no. 1 tourist site in Nebraska.

Pioneer Village also has a campground and motel. Two out-of-town harvesters were staying there for the corn and soybean crop, most of which would go to the nearby cattle feedlot. Peter, from England, returns to Minden every season as a foreman, and stays in the hotel. Chris, a farmhand, stays in the campground, sleeping in the bed of his pickup.

Around Kearney, the Archway Monument (hard to miss, built over the four lanes of Interstate 80) and Fort Kearny are opposites in presentation. The exhibits budget must have been gigantic for the Archway. It's well done and feels like watching a good movie, though like most pioneer sites runs quickly and painlessly through American Indian relations.

When I was about about 9 I visited Fort Kearny. Sadly, it doesn't look like the displays have changed at all. The only other visitors were University of Nebraska students from Leipzig, Germany, who were scolded for wanting to see Pioneer Village in two hours ("Two hours? You need two days!). The Fort Kearny outdoor exhibits are so weathered they're only half readable. For a state historical park, it's an embarrassment.

I hear the Archway isn't getting the visitors it expected—hardly anyone was there the Sunday I visited. Possibly last night's game had something to do with that—Nebraska's beloved football team got crushed by USC. I think people don't have time for history.

Buenos dias, Lexington

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Tue, 19 Sep 2006 21:01:00 +0000

I like arriving in a new town and riding up and down the streets to check things out. Lexington, Neb. looked like an orderly, prosperous town, though one thing stood out: nearly everybody I greeted or saw was Hispanic. Lexington was full of Spanish-language business signs, and I saw a poster for a Hispanic heritage festival the next day. It turns out Lexington is far more Hispanic than the Nebraska cities around it: Gothenburg is 4 percent Hispanic, Cozad, 11 percent, Kearney, 4 percent. Lexington is 51 percent Hispanic.

The short reason is that meat-packing company IBP (now in the Tyson empire) opened a plant employing 2,500 people. Before that, Lexington's Hispanic population had been about the same as its neighbor cities.

When in doubt, google. In Rural Migration News, I read:

"Celebrations of Mexican festivals have become the largest public events in many small towns in rural America... In Lexington, Nebraska, the Cinco de Mayo picnic draws more people than the Fourth of July. Some of these towns went from fewer than 10 percent Hispanic residents to 50 percent Hispanic in less than one decade.

"Integrating immigrants is proceeding unevenly in rural areas of the midwest and southeast. In 1995, Lexington, Nebraska passed a $9 million school bond on the third try to accommodate the influx of Latino pupils—there are 1,100 Latino students in 1998, and they are half of Lexington's K-12 pupils."

And in a newletter of the Julian Samora Research Institute:

"Yet, today, immigrants represent an important economic lifeline for states like Nebraska and, especially, for rural communities like Lexington which could have otherwise been destined to join their neighboring ghost towns in the aftermath of the farm crisis of the 1980’s. Immigrant networks (formed by documented and undocumented workers) also subsidize the costs of hiring, recruitment and training for particular jobs and industries. Contrary to recently popular views about the low quality and diminished chances for upward mobility of this new immigrant wave, and against formidable odds, immigrant families in communities like Lexington, Nebraska, are settling, moving out of meatpacking jobs and into self employment, and buying houses at very high rates."

One other thing I noticed on my scouting ride through Lexington: the high school mascot is the Minutemen.

Traveling companion

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Tue, 19 Sep 2006 20:59:00 +0000

Sept. 11, Cozad-Kearney, 55 miles, SW wind, 85/65—With the wind at my back (in case you don't know, I'm wind-obsessed), I ride so fast to Kearney I can hardly get a good look at my surroundings, they're moving by so quickly. Mostly I see Union Pacific coal trains and irrigated corn and alfalfa fields. Over the last 30 miles I average about 21 mph, top sustained speed of the trip.

I wanted to ride a bike on the Great Plains to be closer to them (and today's 21 mph makes them close enough; I'm confident I could make the adjustment from 12-15 mph). The bike also brings me closer to people on the way. Since it has no barrier the bike makes me public, which I like. Chance meetings with people wanting to know where I'm going and why often lead me to a new route, place, experience, or another person. The physical part of the trip is making miles by turning my chain—the rest of the trip is a human chain.

In Lexington, Diana envies my setup and at first apparently thinks I'm shopping for groceries by bike. She lives in Sioux Falls, S.D. and bike-commutes to her human resources job. We talk about my trip and have an enjoyable but not out-of-the-ordinary conversation. Then Diana suddenly turns it into something surprising.

Diana and her son, plus another family, are returning from a Grand Canyon vacation and conference in New Mexico—minus one member of the family. In February, her daughter, Hannah, died of leukemia only a month after the diagnosis, and shortly after starting chemotherapy. From what I've gathered since, Hannah led an unusually full life in 9 years—this was not a family that sat around in front of the TV. In death, too, Diana wants Hannah to be a traveler and seeker. Some of her ashes are out West, some in Europe, and now a small portion on their way to Texas by bicycle with me.

I'm taken aback by Diana's request, but on the road everything is possible. Of course I'm honored she would ask. Mainly Diana's humor and openness make this seem like a simple act I can measure up to.

The ashes are carefully packed on the bike and I plan to take them to my destination at the Rio Grande. Her mom says Hannah will be a good traveling companion.

Ride the line

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Tue, 19 Sep 2006 20:56:00 +0000

Sept. 15, Gothenburg-Cozad, 18 miles, SSE wind, 85/65—Cozad promotes itself as a 100th-meridian town. Until GPS showed the line passing just west of town near the airport, 100 degrees west longitude was thought to run through downtown on Meridian St. Nobody seems to mind the difference.

I was able to visit the 100th Meridian museum thanks to Judy, head of the Cozad Chamber of Commerce, who probably should be running a small country. Then Judy tag-teamed with Bonnie, who showed me the Henri museum. Robert Henri was a moderately famous painter and the son, it turned out many decades later, of riverboat gambler and town founder John Cozad, who moved east after killing a man (possibly self-defense), changed his children's names, and claimed they were adopted.

I won't travel too far down the history geek road, only mention that the first pioneer trails to cross the West (Oregon-California and Mormon), first transcontinental railroad, first transcontinental highway (Lincoln highway in 1913), and first transcontinental fiber-optic line all used this Platte River corridor. Now Interstate 80 has managed to make it look like everywhere else.

Expert riders willing to risk death daily

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Sat, 16 Sep 2006 16:43:00 +0000

Sept. 13, Arnold-Gothenburg, 36 miles, S wind, 85/60—It's now official: I'm in Cornhusker country. In Gothenburg I met other tourists driving highway 30 or Interstate 80 along the Platte River corridor, and they wondered if the corn would ever end. I'm just in from the Sandhills, and for me the corn started late yesterday.

Gothenburg has a Pony Express station in a city park, moved a short distance from its original location. George, the volunteer on duty (faithful station cat Buttons was a no-show this morning), grew up in Nebraska City and knew the last living Pony Express rider, Bill Campbell, who died in 1932. George also told me a 13-year-old girl disguised as a boy rode this section.

The owners, Russell, Majors, and Waddell, operated the Pony Express as a kind of loss leader. With the telegraph and transcontinental railroad coming on the scene, mail delivery on horseback was obviously doomed. Overhead (stations, horses, feed, riders, station agents) was enormous over such a great distance, and returns low with each rider carrying at most 20 pounds of mail. But the owners hoped the spectacular publicity during the year and a half of the Pony Express would win them the central overland mail contract. Instead the Butterfield Stage won the contract. Russell, Majors, and Waddell lost $100,000.

Mythbusting department: this entry's title is thought to be from a famous newspaper ad for Pony Express riders: "Wanted. Young, skinny, wiry fellows. Not over 18. Must be expert riders. Willing to risk death daily. Orphans preferred." A children's book may be the actual source.

Gothenburg had a perfect city campground, best of my trip. Unfortunately it was in the wrong place. On the Great Plains wind doesn't necessarily ease up at sunset, and we had a small gale. I also found the busiest railroad freight corridor in the country—Union Pacific's Platte River line—lay a mile south of my tent. Karen, the campground manager, believed a train passed through Gothenburg every six minutes. That didn't seem right, since I'd heard only 20 or 30 train whistles the night before, not 80.

In defiance I cooked dinner in the gale, and even read the newspaper. Tomorrow's punishment by the wind gods may be severe.

Sandhills good, sandburs bad

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Wed, 13 Sep 2006 19:35:00 +0000

Sept. 11, Ainsworth-Brewster, 43 miles, N breeze, 75/45; Sept. 12, Brewster-Arnold, 53 miles, W breeze, 80/45—The bad news is the sandbur (or goathead, puncturevine, tackweek) has a fierce thorn, and it's my no. 1 suspect for two flat tires in two days. Prime evidence: along the Niobrara two days ago, I picked half a dozen buried spines out of my Kevlar tires.

The good news is the Nebraska Sandhills, which provide one of the most enjoyable afternoons of the trip. I don't leave Ainsworth until nearly 4, but I have the perfect combination to make the distance to Brewster: remote highway 7, warm sun, temperatures in the 70s, small tailwind, and sunflowered Sandhills scenery. The Sandhills are a huge area of dunes laid down 5-10,000 years ago and covered by native grasses. Raising cattle is about the only way to make it here, and the beef is supposed to be high quality, exported to Japan and other premium markets. But with no real soil, it's easy to overgraze the Sandhills. Where that happens sand blowouts are obvious.

The cattle depend on water drawn by windmills from the Ogallala aquifer, which is more than just a handy water source. From here to Texas, the Ogallala makes agriculture possible. Exactly how long that will last is the question—the Texas panhandle has reached unusable saline water. Nebraska's Sandhills are a key recharger of the aquifer for the whole Plains. The Ogallala is shallow, and fast-draining sands here allow the 20 or so inches of annual rain to percolate down.

I pass a pretty Lutheran church and widely spaced ranches. The Schipporeits have a sign at their driveway saying their land was homesteaded in 1883, early in these parts. The Homestead Act gave only 160 acres to those proving up, not enough land where it's dry. Later, the Kincaid Act allowed a claim for four times that, 640 acres, still small in the Sandhills but enough to make a start.

I get to Brewster, population 22, in time for dinner. Businesses on the main street all seem to be abandoned, plus several houses. At night, in fact, the street has no lights at all. But the Brewster town park is as nice as they come: shelter, picnic tables, spotless restrooms, and character. I'm used to empty towns, but what's amazing is that Brewster is the county seat. The courthouse one of the few going concerns.

After the next morning's fog and chill burn off, I run into Tom at the Sinclair station in Dunning. He runs Historical Trails Cycling, and today is crossing the state with his dog scouting future tour routes. It's fun talking, and I get not only local information but local biker information. The last half of the day I ride a county road 30 miles to Arnold through overgrazed sandhills. A car passes only every 15 minutes, and I have trouble finding trees to rest under.

Seven miles before Arnold, the state highway map shows the Sandhills region replaced by dissected plains, and it happens right on schedule. The transition happens over only a couple of miles. Suddenly I'm riding through cornfields and trees (not a lot of trees—let's not get carried away), more typical Nebraska Cornhusker landscape. I climb high tablelands over the South Loup River and its canyons, then drop steeply into Arnold.

Arnold delivers big-time in hometown friendliness. I'd first heard about Arnold in connection with BRAN (Bicycle Ride Across Nebraska), a yearly state ride that stops in different towns each year. After the librarian gives me a full rundown of town services, I ride through town greeted by actual arm waves from drivers, not the traditional one-finger-raised-from-steering-wheel wave.

First I go to the hardware store for white gas for the campstove. My fuel bottle is only about one-sixth the gallon container, so I plan to fill up and give away the rest. Dena, the owner, has different ideas, insisting on giving me the fuel. When she finds out I'm staying at the primitive campground on the river outside town, she takes me to a shower in back where her brother runs a tractor-repair business. It's near closing time, but Dena tells the clerk to keep the store open as long as I need.

The river campground is pleasant but buggy and a little down at the heels, thanks to budget cuts at Nebraska Game and Parks. "Musquetors are verry troublesom," as William Clark would say, and I have to eat dinner in the tent.

Cowboy vs. Katy

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Mon, 11 Sep 2006 19:00:00 +0000

Sept. 10, Valentine-Ainsworth, 49 miles, NE wind, 60/45—I'm excited about riding the Cowboy Trail, first time on the trip I've been off-road. The Cowboy is a converted railroad right of way still being developed, so I expect to return to the highway after 18 miles. The first eight are sandy and loose, then the trail hardens. From Valentine I cross the Niobrara River on a long bridge and ride through wild-looking grassland well away from highway 20. At Arabia Ranch I hit the undeveloped gap, which I've heard might be doable. I try for a mile, then give up—too gravelly and too many soft spots, though a mountain bike would work.

The remaining 30 miles into Ainsworth are uneventful. Two towns on my route, Wood Lake and Johnstown, like many places on the Plains, have main streets that can't sustain businesses.

I've spent enough of the last four years working for Missouri's Katy Trail, a long rail-trail like the Cowboy, to feel competitive. The Katy is the longest bike trail in the country for now, but the Cowboy will pass it when resurfacing is finished. Admitting my extremely limited experience with the Cowboy, and the Katy's advantage of being older, here's how they stack up.

Cowboy Trail, Nebraska Game and Parks, 1994, 136 miles long (321 when complete), may expand to Lincoln-Omaha in future, former Chicago and North Western Railroad

Katy Trail, Missouri State Parks, 1990, 225 miles long (238 when complete), may expand to Kansas City in future, former Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railroad

SCENERY East from Valentine, the Cowboy crosses the Niobrara and enters the Sandhills. West from Norfolk (the eastern terminus) it runs along the Elkhorn River. The Katy follows the Missouri River for about 165 miles under tall limestone bluffs, then cuts across agricultural land.

ACCESSIBILITY Both have trailhead towns about every 10-15 miles. Katy towns are probably more historic because Euro-American settlement in Missouri goes back an extra half-century. Katy trailheads have better features (restroom, kiosk, exhibits) than the few I saw on the Cowboy.

REMOTENESS The Cowboy is remote for about 15 miles east of Valentine, otherwise it goes alongside highway 20. On multiple stretches, the Katy is only route at the base of Missouri River bluffs. The Katy also runs near highways for great distances, but a screen of trees usually blocks traffic views.

SURFACE Both are crushed limestone, which packs and drains well. However, the Cowboy section I rode on had loose, pebbly sand (no surprise in the Sandhills).

BRIDGES The Cowboy's Niobrara River bridge is spectacular, and the trail boasts 221 bridges. Many Katy bridges are beautiful riveted trusses 80-100 years old.

DEPOTS Cowboy has two old depots at O'Neill (brick) and Long Pine (wood). Going by photos and descriptions of Cowboy depots, Katy depots at Sedalia, Boonville, and St. Charles are far more striking.

WEATHER Missouri summers are humid and uncomfortable, Nebraska winters harsher. The Katy is often shaded by trees grown up since railroad maintenance ended in the 1980s. Over my Cowboy stretch, trees were rare.

HORSES Katy allows horse riders on about 25 miles. No horses on the Cowboy.

POLITICS In its early days the Katy faced strong landowner opposition. Property owners feared trespassing, vandalism, and liability. In fact, the trail has boosted local economies. From what I hear, similar arguments are now made against the Cowboy.

Feeling centered

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Durbin) — Mon, 11 Sep 2006 18:59:00 +0000

On a daytrip from Valentine, I planned to kayak the Niobrara River as a National Park Service volunteer. I would pick up litter while floating with Kyle, a ranger on the 76-mile-long Wild and Scenic River stretch. But the weather turned chilly and damp, so I tagged along as Kyle drove his patrol instead. It was a good trade: I missed an upclose experience in the Niobrara but still got plenty of river scenery, sandstone bluffs, and waterfalls including Smith, highest in Nebraska at 70 feet.

The Niobrara has a Midwest accessibility, with a gentle current and many shallows late in a dry year, but also tricky rapids rated up to Class IV. Where we met the river it was about 150 feet wide between forested bluffs—pines and cedars on the north bank, deciduous trees on the south, grasslands on top. Downstream the valley widens and the Niobrara becomes braided and even shallower. It's a fantastic float, though during high-season weekends drinking can be a problem. Many parties (pun intended) tie together a dozen or more tubes to form a vast raft, a hazard to canoes and kayaks.

The Niobrara is a meeting point of forest types (Rocky Mountain, northern boreal, eastern deciduous) and grassland types (shortgrass, mixed grass, tallgrass). Odd species find refuge here from all directions of the compass, like ponderosa pine from the west and paper birch from the north, and many birds are at the edges of their ranges.

Adjacent Fort Niobrara National Wildlife Refuge has elk and bison herds, though no longer Texas longhorns, brought to these parts by early Nebraska Sandhills ranchers. Fortunately I saw the elk and bison by car; the day before, by bicycle, I couldn't take the tour loop to see the herds because they were unfenced and might be aggressive.

The Niobrara runs from Wyoming to the Missouri across dry country, and a lot of its volume comes from springs. The river cut down into the Ogallala aquifer, so aquifer water exits the sandstone bluffs once it hits resistant rock, and feeds the Niobrara.

For me the Niobrara is a find. I chose the 100th meridian for my route, and I'm passing more centers than you can shake a surveyor's rod at: geographic center of the continent (Rugby, N.D.), and geographic center (Lebanon, Kan.) and geodetic center (Osborne, Kan.) of the lower 48 states. But I never thought about the Great Plains having their own center. This may be it.