Mid December - McPherson, Kansas. I had just completed a nice break at my favorite coffee shop in the Great Plains. It was mid-morning, the temperature around freezing, the sky bright blue with the sun shining brightly.
I head west on U.S. 56, roughly along the route of the Old Santa Fe Trail that followed the Arkansas River. On Kansas Public Radio, a high echelon symphony is playing familiar Christmas tunes. About in the middle of that series, they play "Jingle Bells." I don't pay much attention to it. Then they play "Jolly Old St. Nicholas." Hey, when my accordion playing partner, Bobbie Edler, and I entertain with Christmas songs, we follow "Jingle Bells" with "Jolly Old St. Nicholas."
Next thing, whaddaya know - they follow that sequence with "Up on a Housetop." No kidding; that's the exact sequence we use for those three songs. And we came up with that on our own. We're in good company. I guess that sequence just comes naturally.
There is a stiff wind out of the northwest, but no snow on the ground and the sun remains bright, bringing some relief to the colorless prairie. I surely cannot count on that as I return a week later. They are already forecasting snow and cold in the northwest corner of the state.
Most folks find traveling across the Great Plains to be boring. But I enjoy it, especially the contrast of the flat, open prairie accompanied by that high powered orchestra playing Christmas music, all in the comfort of my GMC.
I soon reach Great Bend, named after a bend in the Arkansas River that flows from Colorado, northeast in Kansas until it makes a bend to southeast. The river is dry enough most of the year that the fish leave a cloud of dust as they swim by.
I stop at Dillion's Supermarket. The wind is whipping as I stroll across the parking lot to partake of their excellent salad bar. That stiff wind is a reminder that the sunshine and blue sky is deceptive in this neck of the woods.
After my nod to good health with a lunch of spinach and fruit, I gas up and resume my route southwest on U.S. 56, upriver toward Dodge City. Instead of bypassing Dodge, just for the heck of it I travel down Wyatt Earp Boulevard to its reconstituted Front Street, site of countless historical gun battles. I'm sure it was wild enough in its day, but I'm also sure that the fictitious gunfights vastly outnumber the real.
I drive by that tourist trap and head south out of Dodge. From there, it's an 85-mile stretch southwest to Hugoton. Along that stretch are six small towns, Ensign, Montezuma, Copeland, Sublette, Satanta, and Moscow, each with massive grain elevators on the right and small business districts on the left.
At Hugoton I stop at a Mexican restaurant along its Main Street, have a couple of enchiladas, and call the Route 66 Motel in Tucumcari, New Mexico. I will be there in several hours.
It gets dark early this time of year. I reach Elkhart in the far southwest corner of Kansas and cross into the Oklahoma Panhandle. At Boise City, county seat of Cimarron County on the western edge of the Panhandle, I have two options: I can head south across the Rita Blanca National Grasslands to Dalhart, Texas, and U.S. 54 to Tucumcari, or, I can head straight west to Clayton, New Mexico, and a 64-mile lonely stretch across rangeland to U.S. 54 and Tucumcari. I opt for the latter as the last two times I tried to get through Dalhart, it was all torn up, nearly impossible to get through.
So I reach Clayton, and head south across that lonely stretch of rangeland. Several years ago I was traveling across that same stretch at night during a wet snowstorm. A couple of huge ghostly apparitions suddenly appeared in front of my headlights - scared the wits out of me. It turned out to be a couple of Black Angus beef cattle, covered with wet snow glistening in my headlights, just leisurely strolling across the road.
But on this night, the roads are dry and the full moon is lighting up the open range.
I reach Tucumcari in good time. The next morning I hit the Pow Wow Inn for my usual huevos rancheros with green chile sauce. They do up that tasty dish as well as any place I have ever been.
Then it's briefly on I-40 to Santa Rosa, then south on U.S. 54 a couple hundred miles to U.S. 70, then across the Tularosa Valley and the White Sands Missile Range, over the Organ Mountains to the Mesilla Valley of the Rio Grande.
In December it's usually a high temperature of mid 50s to 60s there. But they have been having unusually warm weather, reaching near record temperatures of mid 70s.
I spend the next couple of days running some errands. I check in with Jacque who lives next door to my adobe in Mesilla and keeps an eye on it. She assures me that my tenant is happy, which means that I am too.
One morning, I have breakfast with friend and former colleague, Clyde. That evening, another friend and former colleague, Willie, and I head down through the Pecan groves to La Mesa and have dinner at Chopes. There simply is no place better for Mexican food than that long-established local haunt.
On my final morning, I have breakfast with friend and former colleague, Jim, and a group of NMSU retirees - some of whom I haven't seen for years.
Reliving some good days at NMSU, and that chile relleno burrito smothered with green chile sauce, is a good way to remember New Mexico. Soon enough it will be back to the cold reality of a Wisconsin winter.
- John Waelti of Monroe can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net. His column appears Fridays in The Monroe Times.
I head west on U.S. 56, roughly along the route of the Old Santa Fe Trail that followed the Arkansas River. On Kansas Public Radio, a high echelon symphony is playing familiar Christmas tunes. About in the middle of that series, they play "Jingle Bells." I don't pay much attention to it. Then they play "Jolly Old St. Nicholas." Hey, when my accordion playing partner, Bobbie Edler, and I entertain with Christmas songs, we follow "Jingle Bells" with "Jolly Old St. Nicholas."
Next thing, whaddaya know - they follow that sequence with "Up on a Housetop." No kidding; that's the exact sequence we use for those three songs. And we came up with that on our own. We're in good company. I guess that sequence just comes naturally.
There is a stiff wind out of the northwest, but no snow on the ground and the sun remains bright, bringing some relief to the colorless prairie. I surely cannot count on that as I return a week later. They are already forecasting snow and cold in the northwest corner of the state.
Most folks find traveling across the Great Plains to be boring. But I enjoy it, especially the contrast of the flat, open prairie accompanied by that high powered orchestra playing Christmas music, all in the comfort of my GMC.
I soon reach Great Bend, named after a bend in the Arkansas River that flows from Colorado, northeast in Kansas until it makes a bend to southeast. The river is dry enough most of the year that the fish leave a cloud of dust as they swim by.
I stop at Dillion's Supermarket. The wind is whipping as I stroll across the parking lot to partake of their excellent salad bar. That stiff wind is a reminder that the sunshine and blue sky is deceptive in this neck of the woods.
After my nod to good health with a lunch of spinach and fruit, I gas up and resume my route southwest on U.S. 56, upriver toward Dodge City. Instead of bypassing Dodge, just for the heck of it I travel down Wyatt Earp Boulevard to its reconstituted Front Street, site of countless historical gun battles. I'm sure it was wild enough in its day, but I'm also sure that the fictitious gunfights vastly outnumber the real.
I drive by that tourist trap and head south out of Dodge. From there, it's an 85-mile stretch southwest to Hugoton. Along that stretch are six small towns, Ensign, Montezuma, Copeland, Sublette, Satanta, and Moscow, each with massive grain elevators on the right and small business districts on the left.
At Hugoton I stop at a Mexican restaurant along its Main Street, have a couple of enchiladas, and call the Route 66 Motel in Tucumcari, New Mexico. I will be there in several hours.
It gets dark early this time of year. I reach Elkhart in the far southwest corner of Kansas and cross into the Oklahoma Panhandle. At Boise City, county seat of Cimarron County on the western edge of the Panhandle, I have two options: I can head south across the Rita Blanca National Grasslands to Dalhart, Texas, and U.S. 54 to Tucumcari, or, I can head straight west to Clayton, New Mexico, and a 64-mile lonely stretch across rangeland to U.S. 54 and Tucumcari. I opt for the latter as the last two times I tried to get through Dalhart, it was all torn up, nearly impossible to get through.
So I reach Clayton, and head south across that lonely stretch of rangeland. Several years ago I was traveling across that same stretch at night during a wet snowstorm. A couple of huge ghostly apparitions suddenly appeared in front of my headlights - scared the wits out of me. It turned out to be a couple of Black Angus beef cattle, covered with wet snow glistening in my headlights, just leisurely strolling across the road.
But on this night, the roads are dry and the full moon is lighting up the open range.
I reach Tucumcari in good time. The next morning I hit the Pow Wow Inn for my usual huevos rancheros with green chile sauce. They do up that tasty dish as well as any place I have ever been.
Then it's briefly on I-40 to Santa Rosa, then south on U.S. 54 a couple hundred miles to U.S. 70, then across the Tularosa Valley and the White Sands Missile Range, over the Organ Mountains to the Mesilla Valley of the Rio Grande.
In December it's usually a high temperature of mid 50s to 60s there. But they have been having unusually warm weather, reaching near record temperatures of mid 70s.
I spend the next couple of days running some errands. I check in with Jacque who lives next door to my adobe in Mesilla and keeps an eye on it. She assures me that my tenant is happy, which means that I am too.
One morning, I have breakfast with friend and former colleague, Clyde. That evening, another friend and former colleague, Willie, and I head down through the Pecan groves to La Mesa and have dinner at Chopes. There simply is no place better for Mexican food than that long-established local haunt.
On my final morning, I have breakfast with friend and former colleague, Jim, and a group of NMSU retirees - some of whom I haven't seen for years.
Reliving some good days at NMSU, and that chile relleno burrito smothered with green chile sauce, is a good way to remember New Mexico. Soon enough it will be back to the cold reality of a Wisconsin winter.
- John Waelti of Monroe can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net. His column appears Fridays in The Monroe Times.
