Early December - I finally broke away to head for New Mexico to take care of some business and visit some friends. And catch some warmer weather - it didn't quite work out that way.
It was gray and dismal when I left Monroe, the temperature about 30 and no snow. I head west and south - Iowa City, Des Moines, and south toward Kansas City. The weather remained drab, but the roads were dry.
As I approached Missouri, Aaron Rodgers had just brought the Packers back from a deficit to victory over the Giants, compensating for Green Bay's erratic defense - some brightness in a drab day. To us cheeseheads, the only thing more nerve-wracking than Green Bay's defense is the Wisconsin Badgers punting unit.
They have completed the new bridge across the Missouri River at Kansas City. It's an impressive, artistic structure, especially with its towers and supports lit up in the murky darkness.
As the driving is easy, I push on to Emporia, Kansas and stop for the night. The next day is again drab and gray. The temperature has dropped to the teens. I grab a bite to eat and head west, across the northern edge of the Flint Hills.
In summer, the Flint Hills are lush with bluish-green range grass and the hills dotted with large herds of cattle, mostly Black Angus. What happened to Herefords as the once-dominant beef breed? In winter the cattle are still grazing on the hills, the range grass now shades of reddish brown.
Once past the Flint Hills on US 56, the landscape is flat once again. The fields alternate between pale tan corn stubbles, gray and brownish range grass, and green of emerging winter wheat. The deep green of the winter wheat blends with the overcast slate-gray skies to form a cool, picturesque scene that an artist could appreciate even with this drab landscape.
I reach Great Bend, the approximate geographical center of Kansas, refuel and stretch. I stop into Dillon's Supermarket for their salad bar - a departure from the junk food one is too tempted to eat on the road.
The temperature remains in the single digits as I head west and south toward Dodge City. The sky becomes darker across southwestern Kansas. At dusk, I stop in Boise City, the center of the Oklahoma Panhandle. I call ahead to Kathryn and Michael Fulton at the Route 66 Motel in Tucumcari and ask how the weather is. Kathryn tells me it's snowing there. What? Snowing and colder as I head south? Oh well, reserve me a room - I'll be there in a few hours.
It's starting to snow but the roads remain good as I cross into New Mexico and head for Clayton, the regional center of New Mexico's northeastern high range country. When traveling through northeastern New Mexico during my tenure as NMSU's agricultural economics department head, I often stopped at the historic Eklund Hotel for lunch or dinner. Much to my disappointment, it had been closed for the last couple of years. I was pleased to see it was now open and its bright lights on again, a cheerful sight on this stormy evening.
The earlier snow had pretty well quit. So I parked and went into the Eklund for some coffee and a bowl of their green chile stew before pushing on to the last stretch to US 54 and Tucumcari.
A strong north wind was howling but the highway was clear. As I drove south across the range country, clouds covered the waxing moon. But even in the murky darkness one could still see herds of cattle out on the snow-covered range. Had it been a clear night with full moon, those herds of cattle on the snow-covered range would have been an artist's delight.
As I headed south across that lonely stretch, the temperature dropped - my GMC thermometer reading about zero. That strong north wind was blowing, but the road was clear.
About half way across that lonely stretch, I rounded a curve and yikes - what was that? A ghostly apparition suddenly appeared, about making me jump out of my skin. I swerved slightly to avoid it, and slowed down as reason took over. It was the snow-speckled head and neck of a large Black Angus steer standing on the shoulder, facing the highway. The sudden glare of the headlights on bright snow speckled against the black shadowy silhouette, unexpected as it was, really made me jump.
I slowed down and, sure enough, there was another one, this one standing on the shoulder parallel to, and very close, to the highway. I surely didn't want to hit a beef steer. Come on boys, get smart: The grazing can't be any better along the shoulder of the highway than it is on that snow-covered range.
A lonely highway, howling winds - at least it was a tail wind - zero degree temperatures, ghostly apparitions appearing out of nowhere - this was not a good idea. I should have stayed in Clayton. The north wind was starting to drift the snow on the east-west stretches. But I encountered no more errant cattle, and soon enough reached Nara Visa, estimated population two dozen, on US 54 and easily traveled the remaining distance to Tucumcari.
The temperature in Tucumcari was minus two, with about 6 inches of snow on the ground. Kathryn informed me that even stretches of I-25 were closed, mainly in the southern part of New Mexico. The farther south, the more snow.
I was glad to hit that cozy motel room. I broke out a beer and my computer, and edited a draft of a column for my recent boot camp series.
I would wait till tomorrow to worry about the roads.
Next week: A detour, and revisiting a New Mexico tradition.
- John Waelti of Monroe can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net. His column appears each Friday in The Monroe Times.
It was gray and dismal when I left Monroe, the temperature about 30 and no snow. I head west and south - Iowa City, Des Moines, and south toward Kansas City. The weather remained drab, but the roads were dry.
As I approached Missouri, Aaron Rodgers had just brought the Packers back from a deficit to victory over the Giants, compensating for Green Bay's erratic defense - some brightness in a drab day. To us cheeseheads, the only thing more nerve-wracking than Green Bay's defense is the Wisconsin Badgers punting unit.
They have completed the new bridge across the Missouri River at Kansas City. It's an impressive, artistic structure, especially with its towers and supports lit up in the murky darkness.
As the driving is easy, I push on to Emporia, Kansas and stop for the night. The next day is again drab and gray. The temperature has dropped to the teens. I grab a bite to eat and head west, across the northern edge of the Flint Hills.
In summer, the Flint Hills are lush with bluish-green range grass and the hills dotted with large herds of cattle, mostly Black Angus. What happened to Herefords as the once-dominant beef breed? In winter the cattle are still grazing on the hills, the range grass now shades of reddish brown.
Once past the Flint Hills on US 56, the landscape is flat once again. The fields alternate between pale tan corn stubbles, gray and brownish range grass, and green of emerging winter wheat. The deep green of the winter wheat blends with the overcast slate-gray skies to form a cool, picturesque scene that an artist could appreciate even with this drab landscape.
I reach Great Bend, the approximate geographical center of Kansas, refuel and stretch. I stop into Dillon's Supermarket for their salad bar - a departure from the junk food one is too tempted to eat on the road.
The temperature remains in the single digits as I head west and south toward Dodge City. The sky becomes darker across southwestern Kansas. At dusk, I stop in Boise City, the center of the Oklahoma Panhandle. I call ahead to Kathryn and Michael Fulton at the Route 66 Motel in Tucumcari and ask how the weather is. Kathryn tells me it's snowing there. What? Snowing and colder as I head south? Oh well, reserve me a room - I'll be there in a few hours.
It's starting to snow but the roads remain good as I cross into New Mexico and head for Clayton, the regional center of New Mexico's northeastern high range country. When traveling through northeastern New Mexico during my tenure as NMSU's agricultural economics department head, I often stopped at the historic Eklund Hotel for lunch or dinner. Much to my disappointment, it had been closed for the last couple of years. I was pleased to see it was now open and its bright lights on again, a cheerful sight on this stormy evening.
The earlier snow had pretty well quit. So I parked and went into the Eklund for some coffee and a bowl of their green chile stew before pushing on to the last stretch to US 54 and Tucumcari.
A strong north wind was howling but the highway was clear. As I drove south across the range country, clouds covered the waxing moon. But even in the murky darkness one could still see herds of cattle out on the snow-covered range. Had it been a clear night with full moon, those herds of cattle on the snow-covered range would have been an artist's delight.
As I headed south across that lonely stretch, the temperature dropped - my GMC thermometer reading about zero. That strong north wind was blowing, but the road was clear.
About half way across that lonely stretch, I rounded a curve and yikes - what was that? A ghostly apparition suddenly appeared, about making me jump out of my skin. I swerved slightly to avoid it, and slowed down as reason took over. It was the snow-speckled head and neck of a large Black Angus steer standing on the shoulder, facing the highway. The sudden glare of the headlights on bright snow speckled against the black shadowy silhouette, unexpected as it was, really made me jump.
I slowed down and, sure enough, there was another one, this one standing on the shoulder parallel to, and very close, to the highway. I surely didn't want to hit a beef steer. Come on boys, get smart: The grazing can't be any better along the shoulder of the highway than it is on that snow-covered range.
A lonely highway, howling winds - at least it was a tail wind - zero degree temperatures, ghostly apparitions appearing out of nowhere - this was not a good idea. I should have stayed in Clayton. The north wind was starting to drift the snow on the east-west stretches. But I encountered no more errant cattle, and soon enough reached Nara Visa, estimated population two dozen, on US 54 and easily traveled the remaining distance to Tucumcari.
The temperature in Tucumcari was minus two, with about 6 inches of snow on the ground. Kathryn informed me that even stretches of I-25 were closed, mainly in the southern part of New Mexico. The farther south, the more snow.
I was glad to hit that cozy motel room. I broke out a beer and my computer, and edited a draft of a column for my recent boot camp series.
I would wait till tomorrow to worry about the roads.
Next week: A detour, and revisiting a New Mexico tradition.
- John Waelti of Monroe can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net. His column appears each Friday in The Monroe Times.
