I am road hard (My spring road trip / Part 1)

I just returned from a road trip that took me from South Florida to South Dakota and back. My reason for traveling was to swap cars with my mother. She no longer drives and her Buick Century is more appropriate for my business than was my Toyota Corolla.  The Toyota is still in good shape and will suffice for my sisters or brother to drive her to appointments and doctors visits. The following gives you impressions about my journey that took me approximately one week and 2,500 miles one way. It was a somewhat tiring experience but well worth the escalating gas prices I endured.

Seeing a good chunk of this country via two lane highways, truck stops and anti-abortion signage overkill can be highly entertaining. I listened to a lot of local radio. FM and AM was an audio plastering of right wing misinformation and fundamentalist Christian blather. When I stopped at local cafes or truck travel centers, FOX News beamed brightly on suspended Platforms for all to mindlessly gaze. I heard only one progressive FM station and that was in Chicago. A Little Rock station had a surprizing edition of "Democracy Now." That was it! Fortunately I could pick up NPR in most areas so I didn't feel a total sense of alienation. Vast regions of this country are saturated by over-zealous propaganda spouted by Limbaugh, Hannity, Savage, Beck and other lesser known asshole Righties.  It is no wonder this Tea Party crowd has their dander up. They collectively get their news in a bubble and the bubble is gigantic and stupid.

My route took me through a good chunk of the deep and middle south and then through the midwest and eastern edges of the west. I stayed with old friends I had not hung out with in years. Each of their accommodations were unique and comfortable...a guest house in Gallatin, Tennesee, a mid-century gem in Chicago, a post-modern beauty in Denver and a Victorian delight in Little Rock. Loving architecture, I couldn't believe my luck. It was like a tour of American vernacular where I was assured a bed and more than breakfast. People I loved owned these places and I could roam them at will.

I left on April 16 from our place in Ft. Lauderdale in 78 degree sunshine. My first day took me as far as the Atlanta area (Locust Grove.) It already looked like summer. I ate at a truck stop near my motel. It offered two trucker chapels. You never know when your patty melt might be contaminated and asking God for help against e coli might have been doubly necessary. Day two took me to Tennessee. I passed  multitudes of blooming white Dogwood as I curved around mountain roads. When I got to Gallatin my friends Trent and Serena put me up in their guest cottage. It even had a pool but it was too cool outside for a dip. I am not the kind to really use a pool anyway. Being overly caucasian I often have to check local zoning to see if my reflection might violate some kind of ordinance. I saw Conway Twitty's former Twitty City (Now occupied by evangelical studios and shops.) This part of the country is unofficially a theocratic state.  My friends discussed their difficulty with living in a southern Christian based economy that seemingly permeates everything. They have learned to abide the loss of open minded thinking and pine for the old days when they could easily find solidarity in southern California. You don't casually mention you are pro-choice or friendly towards gay marriage in these parts. I certainly wasn't going to wear my South Park t-shirt.

I spent the next morning with Trent. He saw me off and when I entered Kentucky my first encounter was with a drive-in theatre a mile or two over the state line. It was immaculate and still in use. Across the highway was a big serious Indian welcoming me to the Dixie Trading Post. (He was wooden and carved badly.) Continuing through Indiana I made several quick visits at rest stops to use facilities. It was one of those caffeine days that messed with my urinary functions... I got into Chicago late and was welcomed by my good friend Teri who made me feel right at home by offering me left-over Chicago pizza. We quickly got caught up and then she filled me in on the harsh realities of being in stage 4 cancer. Sciatica in her lower back had been adding insult to injury. In spite of her off and on pain we laughed a lot and had some deeply affecting talks. The day before I left she got good news that her latest round of oral chemo had been working. We went out for a drink. She had a Cosmo and I had a Diet Coke. When I left the next day it made it easier knowing she was feeling a bit of optimism.

After the north shore Chicago suburbs my route took me west to Galena, Illinois where I spent an enjoyable few hours photographing Federal, Gothic, Queen Anne and Victorian wonders of all kinds. The historic town was a gorgeous piece of Americana. I walked on General Grant's lawn and strode into the DeSoto House Hotel where Lincoln and Douglas had spoken to crowds. Grand old homes lined the terraced streets. The town had been a hub for steamship travel between St. Louis and St. Paul and known for its galena mines. When the ore ran out and the Galena River became unnavigable for steam ships, its prominence slipped away. Close by was Dubuque. It too had seen better days as a river and manufacturing town. Vestiges of is former success were sprinkled around and I got some amazing pictures of a few high Victorian homes.

Motoring on I moved into Iowa's farmlands just as the sun was lowering. My GPS insisted on taking me on a narrow two lane highway that ran parallel to I-90 only 40 miles above in Minnesota. I stuck it out as I passed dozens of grain towers, gigantic farm houses, "Kum & Go" convenience stores and endless implement dealers. Just about the time I was entering Spencer I got a call from Raphael in Fort Lauderdale. We exchanged our daily experiences: His Saks Fifth Avenue customer nightmares and my up close and personal viewing of convenience store clerks with amazingly bad teeth. I assured him I was safe and not tired and would call him when I crossed into South Dakota. About an hour and a half later I did cross into the Buffalo State (former Sunshine State and Coyote State as well. They keep changing it. In fact, it may be the Mt. Rushmore State now. I can't keep up...) and whisked myself through Sioux Falls. I called him as I stopped at the first motel I came to. The night clerk was so friendly that I practically had to peel her off me as she spoke about everything from her cleaning techniques to the free breakfast I would receive. South Dakota has this certain kind of almost aggressive friendliness that is possibly unique. Even Southern hospitality doesn't wear you down like this kind of "Hello pardner! How you doin'? Want to know everything about you and here is the weather forecast and look what happened when I took my grandmother to Walmart...!" type of talking. I finally got away and piled into my cozy, warm room. When I awoke it was a foggy, dreary day. I ate my free continental breakfast. FOX News blabbered lies at me while I slurped my cereal in the breakfast room.

This was the day I had been looking forward to. Once before in the late 80s I had driven some state highways in South Dakota. I loved the small towns and subtle beauty of its open space. I pulled off I-90 and drove north to US Highway 34 as I took myself west. Farms and lowlands were flooded with water and in some areas it came right up to the bottoms of bridges. Waterfowl was teeming and ducks and geese were delighted with their good fortune. Small towns that had once been prosperous farming communities now stood shabbily breathing on life support. There was often one bar, convenience store or maybe a community hall still in use. A few had surprisingly well kept late nineteenth century homes or maybe a manicured park. A few hamlets still had their preserved WPA era county courthouses. Interstates had killed these burgs long ago and their glory days were a thing of the past.

Woonsocket, South Dakota (the home of George McGovern's wife, Eleanor) boasted that it was "The town with the beautiful lake." It said so right along side the Pepsi sign on the abandoned Masonic Temple building. It was true. The town did have a nice lake and you could tell that every ounce of pride that was left went into maintaining its shores and surrounding walkways. A huge tidy brick basilica sat across from it. It was obvious that one either put their extra bucks into the lake or supported the Catholics. For a town of less than 700, they did their best to keep up appearances.

Driving on I ran into intensely thick fog near Wessington Springs. It was like a wall. I could barely see the town's outline as I pulled into its business district.  About 10 miles west I suddenly emerged from the murkiness and onto the open rolling prairie. The sun popped in and out and the lighting was beautiful as it spotlit the undulating plains. Suddenly, I could see for miles. At one point I pulled over and took pictures of broad panoramas. Far vistas of grass blowing in the South Dakota sun was marvelous. The wind started getting intense. It was more like a gale force. Gusts must have been in excess of 50 to 60 miles per hour. I was amazed my Corolla did as well as it did. Some curious Angus cattle came up and inspected me as I perused the countryside for shots. They felt familiar. They were the breed my father had raised.

My next destination was Pierre and it was still many miles away. At one point my cell phone rang to tell me I had a voicemail. Cell service across South Dakota was patchy at best. When I listened I found that my sister Susan had called to tell me that I should probably make a bee line for Spearfish. A winter storm was approaching. I decided I would stop in Pierre, snap a few pics, grab a bite and then bolt toward the Black Hills as fast as possible. As blustery as it was with the wind coming out of the west, it made sense that some kind of weather change was on its way.

I stopped in a tiny place called Stephen on the Crow Creek Indian Reservation. A handsome cowboy was pumping gas and trying not to notice that I had Florida plates. A young Native American guy did the same opposite the cowboy. The woman behind the cash register was as rugged and weathered as the landscape surrounding the station. The farmers at the coffee counter were shy and nodded at me with just a hint of smiles. This was not a place you would ever get a latte' or discuss the latest Almodovar film. Life was harsh and unyielding. So, when I entered Pierre it felt like a relief in some ways because there was hustle and bustle and the familiarity of fast food and the local Verizon store. But in spite of its energy and spirit, it was also depressing to think that this was the state capital. It was a bit rough and tumble. Sure, the capital grounds were manicured but the usual detritus of corporate America surrounded it like a ring of dirty foam in a bathtub. Muddy pickups and enormous SUVs commanded the streets. The old downtown was dying and the newer strip was full of convenience and junk food. A once majestic hotel looked pitifully abandoned even though I think it still operated. It might have been the fact that the beauty of spring had not yet arrived. Everything was still brown and cold. I should have hit this town in summer. Had time allowed, there would have been some discoveries in the residential neighborhoods. Pierre is very historic and traces its roots back to French fur trappers in the early 19th century. Its river breaks setting can be beautiful. This was not one of those days. It looked hopelessly provincial, monochromatic and not what I wanted for my home state capital. I also had come into this town with an attitude. The new governor and rabid right wing Republican legislature was one of the most neanderthal in the country. It gave me the creeps to think what laws were being debated or passed as I lingered outside the state house. I wanted to stop into the governor's office and ask him if he would make an exception about having to make me wait for an abortion. Luckily,  a blizzard awaited me and I had to book out of there via a quick stop at Hardee's.

The town of Philip came just in time because my bladder was full and one of its gas stations fit the ticket. When I walked (ran) inside a group of farmers were all sitting in a circle in the back laughing and talking in their overalls. They all stopped and kind of stared at me. One of them murmured something and then they all laughed. This is not uncommon in South Dakota. It is a throwback to the old general store days when locals would hang out around the woodstove and gab. After a very satisfying pee I asked how far to Wall and a very pretty high school girl gave me perky directions. I jumped in the Toyota and sped off. As I drove away I thought of Scotty Philip who had rounded up some of the last remaining buffalo and kept them alive. From his herd a slow replenishment of bison built from extinction. Any vestiges of that herd were gone around Philip. All that was present were countdown signs to Wall Drug. ( One sign had a coiled snake proclaiming: "Don't Misssssssssssss Wall Drug."

In a little over an hour I passed through the ghost town of Cottonwood and then came to Wall. There was no time to stop and see the mechanical cowboy band at the drug store or sit on the giant Jack-a-lope. It was onto Rapid City. I was now on I-90 and would make good time. About 25 to 30 miles east of Rapid City I caught my first glimpse of the Black Hills. They looked mysterious and shiny on the horizon. Dramatic clouds and reflections were swirling over them. It was snow flurries I assumed. The wind continued to howl and late afternoon sun reflected brightly on the pavement.

Approaching Rapid City was bittersweet as always. The outskirts of the town are a modern slum of old trailer parks and cheap subdivisions. Development is hodge-podge and the zoning for residential and commercial is a confusing mess. The setting was so beautiful and it will be forever mired. You know you are finally almost home but the disgust of poor land use makes you want to vomit. I tried to focus on the forested mountains in the distance and concentrate on their beauty.

Around 30 miles from Spearfish I began to hit snow. I knew that if I did run into any, this would be the place. It is a spot called Tilford which used to be a railroad stop in the early 20th century. You come up out of Piedmont Valley and go over a mild pass. It is just high enough that in the winter you get blowing snow conditions and in the summer you can enter wild thunderstorms or hail. People call it the Bermuda Triangle of the Black Hills. It is just uncanny how many times people hit bad weather there when everywhere else it might be fine.

The snow wasn't blinding but it was wet and coming down in a sloppy mess. The farther west I got the more it began to stick. My sister was correct to call me and warn me. By the time I stopped in Sturgis to put in gas, it was a cold winter day. I shivered as I pumped in my last tank's worth. It must have been around 30 degrees with a windchill of about 12. Spearfish was only about 20 miles away at this point.  When I pulled into my mother's driveway, my hood and grill were completely covered in snow and slush. The yards were getting white. The sky was grey and low. My once shiny car was now filthy from semi trucks that had splashed me mercilessly. I pulled my computer bag from the backseat and yanked down on my baseball cap. The biting wind hit me like little daggers as I rushed from the car to the door.

Inside sat Lola, my 92 year old mother, watching TV. I could tell she had just gotten her red hair styled and it was all poofed out. Her body had shrunk even more since last Thanksgiving and looked tiny and frail.  She turned with her oxygen tubes cascading down her bright green sweater. and smiled as her face brightened. I told her not to get up as I hugged her very carefully so as not to press her sore shoulder that continually aggravates her. Her low gravely voice peppered me with questions about the wintry driving conditions. I poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from her. Old tired eyes inspected me eagerly. I was finally home.