Even in retirement, a busy schedule and not enough hours in the day. I had wanted all summer to take a brief jaunt to New Mexico, and finally found a small window to leave for a few days.

It may sound weird, but my idea of a vacation is to toss some gear into my pickup and head across the Great Plains, wide open spaces, away from crowds, and on roads less traveled. I detest airports, being herded around like a bunch of sheep, as necessary as that is for safety and efficiency.

Near the end of July and a gorgeous summer day, I head west to Dubuque. The small grains have been harvested and the corn is tasseled out. Looks to be a good crop on the rolling hills of Southwestern Wisconsin. Approaching the Mississippi, I nick the extreme northwestern corner of Illinois, cross the river to Dubuque, and head southwest on US 151, passing by the small towns of Cascade and Monticello. A few miles past another small town, Anamosa, instead of continuing to Cedar Rapids, I take state route one through Mt. Vernon — seems that every Midwestern state has a Mt. Vernon — home of Cornell College. A few miles farther south, its I-80 and Iowa City, home of the U. of Iowa.

Straight west on I-80, it’s about one hundred miles to Des Moines, then south on I-35 to Kansas City. Sometimes it’s problematic to get through KC, but not this time. It’s about dusk. With cool temperatures and periodic rain showers, I continue on I-35 to Emporia, home of the legendary journalist, William Allen White. 

After a restful night at my favorite Mom and Pop type motel, and a light breakfast, I head west on U.S. 50, then southwest to U.S. 56 at the edge of the Flint Hills. It’s scenic and peaceful with light traffic across the Flint Hills; the grass is rich green, enjoyed by herds of cattle grazing peacefully on the scenic hills.

I reach McPherson, a pleasant town, but without one of my old favorite stops, a coffee shop and reading room populated by folks that looked like they might even be Democrats. Its closure, a casualty of the Pandemic, no doubt.

I push on to Great Bend. With the impressive fields of waving golden wheat now harvested, the landscape is less colorful as a month earlier. But the remaining crops look good.  At Great Bend, I used to stop at Dillon’s Supermarket — no relation to Marshall Dillon, hero of the long running TV series, “Gun Smoke.” Their salad bar was great, an enjoyable way to eat healthy on the road. But now, it’s gone, another casualty of the pandemic.

I continue southwest to Larned, a town of about four thousand, county seat of Pawnee County. I have a light lunch at a newly established Mexican restaurant. Not bad, I rate their enchiladas as about a C plus. But then, having lived in the Southwest for a spell, I have a strict grading scale for Mexican food.

I drive west to Dodge City, then continue southwest through the small towns of Ensign, Montezuma, Copeland, Sublette, Satanta, and Moscow. These six towns are remarkably similar, with giant grain elevators along the railroad tracks on the right, and small business districts on the left. Just out of curiosity, one day, I’ll take a closer look at these individual business districts, but not this time.

I soon reach another small town, Hugoton, and spot a Mexican food truck, the same one that son Johnny and I stopped at a year ago. I couldn’t resist having a couple of their tacos. These were legit — rating an A.

Continuing west on U.S. 56 to Elkhart on the Kansas border, I cross into the Oklahoma Panhandle to Boise City. Instead of taking a left on U.S. 385 across the Rita Blanca National Grassland to Dalhart, TX, I continue west to Clayton, New Mexico. Then, its south across high range land on sparsely traveled state route 402 to where it meets Nara Visa, a wide spot in the road on U.S. 54. Then it’s on to Tucumcari where I frequently spend the night.

The Pow Wow Inn where I long ago acquired a taste for huevos rancheros is no longer open for breakfast. So I hit Kix at Sixty Six, which has essentially the same menu. Eggs sunny side up with beans, hash browns, and salsa, drowned with green chile sauce on top of corn tortillas — sounds simple enough, but most places just don’t do it right. This place does.

I take the short stretch on I-40 to Santa Rosa, then south on U.S. 54 through Vaughn, and Corona, to Carrizozo where I add a new “small world” story to several that I already had regarding New Mexico.

It’s lunch time. I spot Franchesca’s Food Truck. Looks like a good place for a couple of tacos. I’m sitting on a bench under a shade tree, enjoying those tacos, the real thing. It’s enough past lunch time that business is slow. Fran strolls over just to chat, and she wonders why I’m passing through. She’s originally from Vermont, now living in Carrizozo. I explain that I’m a Wisconsin native, but was on NMSU’s faculty for eleven years. I still have a house in Mesilla, giving me reason for a periodic trip down here.

“Oh,” she says,” Do you happen to know Steve Duffy?” Now, what are the odds that two strangers from far away, accidentally meeting in a small town, would know the same person living in another town 120 miles from there?

It beats the odds in not one, but two ways. Not only do I know Steve Duffy, but he is the individual that just happens to be renting my house. Incredible.

It turns out that Steve used to live in Ruidoso, and was Chair of the Lincoln County Democrats. There aren’t many Democrats in Lincoln County, but Fran is one of them. Steve’s time is now occupied with reelecting Congressman Gabe Vasquez of New Mexico’s 2nd Congressional District.

Just another small world story to add to those that I already had.

— John Waelti’s columns appear regularly in the Times. He can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net.