It's time to leave California once again. Johnny picks up his Honda from my cousin in Pomona, and with me in my GMC, we head east - 111degrees in Palm Springs in late afternoon. Across the Mojave, then the Colorado River about dusk, and to Casa Grande, Az., for the warm desert night. Arizona's fine, but I'm glad to get back to Las Cruces, N.M., the next day.
Evening, and we are invited by Doc's friend, Bellia, for home cooked enchiladas. Next day it's to old Mesilla and lunch with former colleagues, NMSU Regents Professor of Economics Jim Peach and his wife Kathy, assistant dean of the business college. We agree that President Obama is doing all he can, given the witch's brew he inherited and the foot-dragging of a recalcitrant Congress.
A trip to Las Cruces is incomplete without dinner at Chopes, a sixth-generation Mexican joint in nearby La Mesa. Doc, Johnny, and I share a quart of Carta Blanca at the rundown bar - the key to its charm. Then, dinner - the best chiles rellenos this side of the Rio Grande. The warm desert breeze whispers through the Pecan trees as people enjoy the rustic ambience of the bar and restaurant.
Next morning, it's breakfast with Doc and Bellia at the VFW. Then, north on U.S. 54 to Carrizozo. One has to stop at the Outpost for the best chile cheeseburger around. Johnny's "check engine" light is flashing on his Honda. We head north anyway, reaching Tucumcari and Catherine and Michael's Route 66 Motel.
Breakfast in Tucumcari calls for huevos rancheros at the Pow Wow Inn. The same manager, doubling as Tucumcari's Chamber of Commerce president, who asked us about Leinenkugel's on our previous trip through is on duty. I still have a six-pack of New Glarus suds in my truck and present it to him. Johnny photographs it. We need to send a copy to Deb at the brewery.
We hit the trail again on U.S. 54 to Nara Visa, a wide spot in the road with estimated population of a dozen or so. We stop at the post office to ask Kay if her office is slated for closure. She assures me it is not on the doomed list - they serve a broad area. For some reason, I'm relieved that Nara Visa still will have a post office. We can overdo things in the name of "efficiency."
Instead of staying on U.S. 54, we take that lonesome stretch north to Clayton - more than 60 miles of unspoiled vistas, windmills, water tanks, herds of cattle, antelopes, and an occasional circling hawk. I look forward to stopping for lunch at Clayton's territorial style Ecklund Hotel that I had often frequented during my tenure as NMSU's ag econ department head. But the place was closed "temporarily," the sign said. I surely hope it is only temporary. It's a neat place.
Disappointed but undaunted, we head east, across Oklahoma's Panhandle, into southwest Kansas. We reach Hugoton, and Johnny's Honda gives him problems. We find the AAA guy, who tows it to Garden City, resulting in an unplanned detour. It will take two days to get it repaired. Since he is in good hands and will be heading for the Twin Cities, and I want to get back to Wisconsin, I take off the next day.
This unplanned detour affords me an opportunity. One of my Marine Radio School classmates was from Jetmore. During my countless trips across Kansas, I had often passed within 30 miles of Jetmore and, though tempted, didn't get there. This detour from Garden City takes me directly through Jetmore.
Jetmore, seat of government of Hodgeson County, population: 912, resembles many rural Midwestern towns - the courthouse along the main street with a few empty buildings, a couple of convenience stores, and a modest residential district. My windshield survey characterizes it as a town in modest economic decline, but tenaciously hanging in there. It helps to be county seat. A three-year Marine Corps hitch doesn't guarantee upward or outward mobility, but it does expand your horizons. I doubt that Ray is still here.
I stop for gas and check out the local phone book. Nope, no surname of "Koontz" in Jetmore. There are three in nearby Dodge City, relatives, no doubt, but no "Ray." Even if he were there, would he remember me? Would he care? Who knows? It was long ago and far away. But for now my curiosity is satisfied - I have stopped in Jetmore and he isn't here.
As I head east, the rolling plains change to pancake flat. The soft late afternoon sun accentuates the maize of corn tassels, the rich auburn of sorghum tassels, and the deep green of alfalfa fields. I reach McPherson, one of the neatest, best kept towns in the rural Midwest. One of these days I will casually stroll the entire main street that runs perpendicular to U.S. 56. Someone, actually, a lot of people, must be doing something right in that attractive small city.
Between McPherson and Emporia, dusk approaching, I cross the edge of the Flint Hills. Gorgeous range country - lush bluish green grass, rolling hills and large herds of beef cattle grazing contentedly - it is picture postcard beautiful. I don't buy into the oft-voiced view that the Great Plains are boring. There is plenty of color there if one is open to it.
In another day I'll be back in rural Wisconsin, which has a beauty all its own. I guess a cross-country trip is something like life itself. The objective is surely not to get to the end as quickly as possible - that comes soon enough. Rather, one wants to have a range of good experiences, and maybe even do some good along the way.
- Monroe resident John Waelti is a native of Monroe Township. He can be reached at jwaelti@tds.net.
Evening, and we are invited by Doc's friend, Bellia, for home cooked enchiladas. Next day it's to old Mesilla and lunch with former colleagues, NMSU Regents Professor of Economics Jim Peach and his wife Kathy, assistant dean of the business college. We agree that President Obama is doing all he can, given the witch's brew he inherited and the foot-dragging of a recalcitrant Congress.
A trip to Las Cruces is incomplete without dinner at Chopes, a sixth-generation Mexican joint in nearby La Mesa. Doc, Johnny, and I share a quart of Carta Blanca at the rundown bar - the key to its charm. Then, dinner - the best chiles rellenos this side of the Rio Grande. The warm desert breeze whispers through the Pecan trees as people enjoy the rustic ambience of the bar and restaurant.
Next morning, it's breakfast with Doc and Bellia at the VFW. Then, north on U.S. 54 to Carrizozo. One has to stop at the Outpost for the best chile cheeseburger around. Johnny's "check engine" light is flashing on his Honda. We head north anyway, reaching Tucumcari and Catherine and Michael's Route 66 Motel.
Breakfast in Tucumcari calls for huevos rancheros at the Pow Wow Inn. The same manager, doubling as Tucumcari's Chamber of Commerce president, who asked us about Leinenkugel's on our previous trip through is on duty. I still have a six-pack of New Glarus suds in my truck and present it to him. Johnny photographs it. We need to send a copy to Deb at the brewery.
We hit the trail again on U.S. 54 to Nara Visa, a wide spot in the road with estimated population of a dozen or so. We stop at the post office to ask Kay if her office is slated for closure. She assures me it is not on the doomed list - they serve a broad area. For some reason, I'm relieved that Nara Visa still will have a post office. We can overdo things in the name of "efficiency."
Instead of staying on U.S. 54, we take that lonesome stretch north to Clayton - more than 60 miles of unspoiled vistas, windmills, water tanks, herds of cattle, antelopes, and an occasional circling hawk. I look forward to stopping for lunch at Clayton's territorial style Ecklund Hotel that I had often frequented during my tenure as NMSU's ag econ department head. But the place was closed "temporarily," the sign said. I surely hope it is only temporary. It's a neat place.
Disappointed but undaunted, we head east, across Oklahoma's Panhandle, into southwest Kansas. We reach Hugoton, and Johnny's Honda gives him problems. We find the AAA guy, who tows it to Garden City, resulting in an unplanned detour. It will take two days to get it repaired. Since he is in good hands and will be heading for the Twin Cities, and I want to get back to Wisconsin, I take off the next day.
This unplanned detour affords me an opportunity. One of my Marine Radio School classmates was from Jetmore. During my countless trips across Kansas, I had often passed within 30 miles of Jetmore and, though tempted, didn't get there. This detour from Garden City takes me directly through Jetmore.
Jetmore, seat of government of Hodgeson County, population: 912, resembles many rural Midwestern towns - the courthouse along the main street with a few empty buildings, a couple of convenience stores, and a modest residential district. My windshield survey characterizes it as a town in modest economic decline, but tenaciously hanging in there. It helps to be county seat. A three-year Marine Corps hitch doesn't guarantee upward or outward mobility, but it does expand your horizons. I doubt that Ray is still here.
I stop for gas and check out the local phone book. Nope, no surname of "Koontz" in Jetmore. There are three in nearby Dodge City, relatives, no doubt, but no "Ray." Even if he were there, would he remember me? Would he care? Who knows? It was long ago and far away. But for now my curiosity is satisfied - I have stopped in Jetmore and he isn't here.
As I head east, the rolling plains change to pancake flat. The soft late afternoon sun accentuates the maize of corn tassels, the rich auburn of sorghum tassels, and the deep green of alfalfa fields. I reach McPherson, one of the neatest, best kept towns in the rural Midwest. One of these days I will casually stroll the entire main street that runs perpendicular to U.S. 56. Someone, actually, a lot of people, must be doing something right in that attractive small city.
Between McPherson and Emporia, dusk approaching, I cross the edge of the Flint Hills. Gorgeous range country - lush bluish green grass, rolling hills and large herds of beef cattle grazing contentedly - it is picture postcard beautiful. I don't buy into the oft-voiced view that the Great Plains are boring. There is plenty of color there if one is open to it.
In another day I'll be back in rural Wisconsin, which has a beauty all its own. I guess a cross-country trip is something like life itself. The objective is surely not to get to the end as quickly as possible - that comes soon enough. Rather, one wants to have a range of good experiences, and maybe even do some good along the way.
- Monroe resident John Waelti is a native of Monroe Township. He can be reached at jwaelti@tds.net.
