Once again, across the Great Plains. Through Lyons on U.S. 56, the route of the Old Santa Fe Trail. The temperature is in the high 90s with a strong south wind. Seems that the wind is always from the south when I go through that area.
My phone rings - it's the electric company telling me I have a bill that's due. Whaddaya mean? I always pay my bills. But it was only a recording - I couldn't even argue with it.
Oh well, I would soon be in McPherson. Last time I went through there I spotted an interesting looking coffee shop that I promised myself I would visit the next time through. I would stop there, have a cuppa joe and call the electric company.
I pulled into McPherson - it looked as prosperous as ever - entered the shop, ordered coffee, and sat at a table by the window. I called the electric company only to be told it would be a 20-minute wait. We've all been through that drill. So I left a call back number.
I noticed my phone was about dead - my vehicle charger wasn't doing the job. Just my luck the electric company would call me and my phone would die. As I was sipping coffee, I looked out the window and noticed a U.S. Cellular shop across the street. Just what I needed.
I went across the street into the shop, asked if they could charge my phone, and told them I was expecting an important call. The staff was friendly and helpful and, sure enough, the electric company called. I told them I thought I had paid the bill.
It turns out that for a brief time I had two accounts, one for the residence in town and one for the farmhouse. My last payment was credited to the wrong account - my mistake, not theirs. How can I let simple things get so complicated? Reminds me of our dysfunctional U.S. Congress - things they obviously need to do, like vote on the President's nominees, but insist on making life complicated.
With the electric bill settled and my phone functional again, I headed west through flat land and harvested wheat fields. At Great Bend I stopped at Dillon's Supermarket and their excellent salad bar. Might as well eat healthy at least part of the time.
I gassed up and headed south and west, the temperature hovering around one hundred, with bright sunshine and that hot, dry wind. Signs along the road admonish, "Get out of Dodge," with the "out of" crossed out and replaced by "into." In addition to income from wheat, irrigated crops, and cattle, Dodge City rakes in tourist dollars as well.
Thriving on tourist dollars is a modern twist to Dodge City's colorful, if violent, history. It was a major stop on the Santa Fe Trail, and railhead for cattle drives. Earlier "tourists" included the horseback riding kind; spending their paychecks received at the end of long, arduous cattle drives. These early day "tourists," celebrating their arrival at the railhead impelled the city to hire the fictitious Marshall Dillon and the real life Wyatt Earp to keep the cowboys from shooting up the town.
I usually whistle past Dodge, but decided to tarry for a while. I drive down Wyatt Earp Boulevard, past the gas stations and assorted commercial establishments, to what was Front Street in the heyday of Dodge. There are a lot of cars parked along the reconstituted Front Street, but not many people. As the temperature hovers around one hundred, they are probably visiting the air-conditioned Boot Hill Museum, or bellying up to the various bars drinking sarsaparilla, or maybe lite beer. Clearly, these modern tourists are a tamer, less dangerous lot than the wild cowpokes of yore.
Along Front Street I spot an "Accounts Retrievable Agency." I guess that's a euphemism for bill collectors. How do they collect delinquent accounts in Dodge City? Send out a posse with six-guns blazing? But I was safe - I already verified that I had paid my electric bill.
I've seen enough, so I climb into my GMC, and cross the Arkansas River. Any school of fish swimming in that riverbed would kick up a cloud of dust. Then it's southwest on U.S. 56, Ensign, Montezuma, Copeland, Sublette, Satanta, Moscow, wide spots in the road lined with grain elevators.
Far southwest is oil and gas country, the Hugoton Basin, doubtlessly giving a healthy boost in income to farmers and ranchers. I stop in Hugoton for a bite to eat, then off to Elkhart in the southwest corner of Kansas. Then it's across the line to the Oklahoma Panhandle and Boise City, county seat of Cimarron County, westernmost county of the Panhandle.
At Boise City, I usually stay on U.S. 56 heading west to Clayton, New Mexico. But today, as I had never been across that route, I take US 385 south across the Rita Blanca National Grasslands to Dalhart, Texas. There are thunderclouds and lightening off to the northwest, but I'm heading south, away from it.
So, it's across the grasslands, alternately flat, then rolling. Across the Texas line, it's soon into Dalhart. I gas up, and then it's across the northwest corner of the Texas Panhandle to New Mexico.
I had called Kathryn and Michael at the Historic Route 66 Motel in Tucumcari. It had been a long, pleasant day, but I was getting a bit tired. When I arrive at Tucumcari, Kathryn has the room ready for me, and the air conditioner on.
My day was not quite done - I broke out my computer and a can of beer, and went to work on my July 12 column. A fitting end to another day across the Great Plains.
Who says that the Great Plains are boring? Those endless wide-open spaces are a tonic in this congested world.
- John Waelti's column appears every Friday in the Times. He can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net.
My phone rings - it's the electric company telling me I have a bill that's due. Whaddaya mean? I always pay my bills. But it was only a recording - I couldn't even argue with it.
Oh well, I would soon be in McPherson. Last time I went through there I spotted an interesting looking coffee shop that I promised myself I would visit the next time through. I would stop there, have a cuppa joe and call the electric company.
I pulled into McPherson - it looked as prosperous as ever - entered the shop, ordered coffee, and sat at a table by the window. I called the electric company only to be told it would be a 20-minute wait. We've all been through that drill. So I left a call back number.
I noticed my phone was about dead - my vehicle charger wasn't doing the job. Just my luck the electric company would call me and my phone would die. As I was sipping coffee, I looked out the window and noticed a U.S. Cellular shop across the street. Just what I needed.
I went across the street into the shop, asked if they could charge my phone, and told them I was expecting an important call. The staff was friendly and helpful and, sure enough, the electric company called. I told them I thought I had paid the bill.
It turns out that for a brief time I had two accounts, one for the residence in town and one for the farmhouse. My last payment was credited to the wrong account - my mistake, not theirs. How can I let simple things get so complicated? Reminds me of our dysfunctional U.S. Congress - things they obviously need to do, like vote on the President's nominees, but insist on making life complicated.
With the electric bill settled and my phone functional again, I headed west through flat land and harvested wheat fields. At Great Bend I stopped at Dillon's Supermarket and their excellent salad bar. Might as well eat healthy at least part of the time.
I gassed up and headed south and west, the temperature hovering around one hundred, with bright sunshine and that hot, dry wind. Signs along the road admonish, "Get out of Dodge," with the "out of" crossed out and replaced by "into." In addition to income from wheat, irrigated crops, and cattle, Dodge City rakes in tourist dollars as well.
Thriving on tourist dollars is a modern twist to Dodge City's colorful, if violent, history. It was a major stop on the Santa Fe Trail, and railhead for cattle drives. Earlier "tourists" included the horseback riding kind; spending their paychecks received at the end of long, arduous cattle drives. These early day "tourists," celebrating their arrival at the railhead impelled the city to hire the fictitious Marshall Dillon and the real life Wyatt Earp to keep the cowboys from shooting up the town.
I usually whistle past Dodge, but decided to tarry for a while. I drive down Wyatt Earp Boulevard, past the gas stations and assorted commercial establishments, to what was Front Street in the heyday of Dodge. There are a lot of cars parked along the reconstituted Front Street, but not many people. As the temperature hovers around one hundred, they are probably visiting the air-conditioned Boot Hill Museum, or bellying up to the various bars drinking sarsaparilla, or maybe lite beer. Clearly, these modern tourists are a tamer, less dangerous lot than the wild cowpokes of yore.
Along Front Street I spot an "Accounts Retrievable Agency." I guess that's a euphemism for bill collectors. How do they collect delinquent accounts in Dodge City? Send out a posse with six-guns blazing? But I was safe - I already verified that I had paid my electric bill.
I've seen enough, so I climb into my GMC, and cross the Arkansas River. Any school of fish swimming in that riverbed would kick up a cloud of dust. Then it's southwest on U.S. 56, Ensign, Montezuma, Copeland, Sublette, Satanta, Moscow, wide spots in the road lined with grain elevators.
Far southwest is oil and gas country, the Hugoton Basin, doubtlessly giving a healthy boost in income to farmers and ranchers. I stop in Hugoton for a bite to eat, then off to Elkhart in the southwest corner of Kansas. Then it's across the line to the Oklahoma Panhandle and Boise City, county seat of Cimarron County, westernmost county of the Panhandle.
At Boise City, I usually stay on U.S. 56 heading west to Clayton, New Mexico. But today, as I had never been across that route, I take US 385 south across the Rita Blanca National Grasslands to Dalhart, Texas. There are thunderclouds and lightening off to the northwest, but I'm heading south, away from it.
So, it's across the grasslands, alternately flat, then rolling. Across the Texas line, it's soon into Dalhart. I gas up, and then it's across the northwest corner of the Texas Panhandle to New Mexico.
I had called Kathryn and Michael at the Historic Route 66 Motel in Tucumcari. It had been a long, pleasant day, but I was getting a bit tired. When I arrive at Tucumcari, Kathryn has the room ready for me, and the air conditioner on.
My day was not quite done - I broke out my computer and a can of beer, and went to work on my July 12 column. A fitting end to another day across the Great Plains.
Who says that the Great Plains are boring? Those endless wide-open spaces are a tonic in this congested world.
- John Waelti's column appears every Friday in the Times. He can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net.
