Oct. 12
Driving into the dawn always gives the promise of good things to come.
If you get up in the morning and head out to work in the dark, you may not always deem it a wonder to greet the dawn. Let’s not pretend, driving to the grind in the wee hours most times just means another day, another donut.
But, if you are out adventuring, starting out in the dark in a strange place means that once the dawn emerges, once the black turns ever so slowly to lighter and lighter shades of gray, the promise of a world full of color that you haven’t ever seen before is an allure unto itself.
The Indiana border appeared after about 80 miles and a blink of the eye considering I was thinking about the roads traveled and the folks met the previous days. Not long after Route 131 turned to 13, the first of a couple of semi truck drivus interuptus took place.
A big honking cylinder ( a section of a wind mill I think) was turning and the driver had to get out and lift the belly of the load hydraulically to clear the crest of the intersection. The turn down U.S. 20 (the same 20) came to a crawl by way of a State Trooper who was at an intersection but not cluing us into the bad looking accident down the road about two miles. One of those wreckers on steroids was helping to block the already blocked road from a nasty looking semi accident.
So, a u-turn turned into a race to catch up with locals who had turned left which meant to me that if I could follow them I might get back to 20 eventually. Through twists and turns I wouldn’t have guessed we got close to that return turn, but not before we came upon another semi whose driver must not have had enough coffee yet and had put the trailer wheels into a ditch at a turn.
Finally, Route 20 came back into view and off we went towards South Bend. But, abut 10 miles later more of those wind mill haulers were pulling (trying to) off at a rest area and stopped traffic for another 15 minutes as they slowly got their lengthy loads into it.
I hit Route 24, a longish east/west secondary road that showed more of the glory of the flat much of the Midwest can be. I don’t care how many grain elevators I saw (and they are plentiful), I just don’t see the math working on where they store all the corn and soy these horizon to horizon fields produce. There has to be nonstop shipping going on when the harvest comes in.
Overall, it is predicted that farmers will harvest 12.664 billion bushels of corn and 3.408 billion bushels of soybeans this year. I know that is all across the country, but it isn’t hard to see the breadbasket thing going on here in the Midwest. Billions of bushels boggles the mind and I am bummed I haven’t caught sight (a little too late for it I guess) of fields filled with choreographed combine crews that travel with the harvest to help farmers bring in this bounty.
Farm factoid: 99% of farm houses are painted white. Not sure why, maybe farmers have too many decisions to make and they just run out of energy when it comes to deciding about style. And, there are not that many red barns out here, mostly white.
You see some huge farm houses back from the road that speaks of very well off farmers (maybe only in the past). Not sure if the smaller farm houses are there because as the farms were split up amongst the sons, smaller houses were built.
Autumn colors are here, but mostly in the distance at the groves and copse of trees that remain. Got to think these folks would be blown away by the riot of color we have back East when fall hits the hills and valleys. Towns have a bit more, but no comparison.
I’m not seeing as many RVs as I usually do on these mad dashes, perhaps it’s because of the secondary roads I’m on, that the farmers haven’t finished their chores or perhaps the warmer than normal summer that has folks postponing their snowbird migrations.
Started to see old signs for “vaults,” the places that people would store their meat in – a sort of loose butcher shop sort of business. Also seeing those cool old gas stations that had the attached covered areas the pumps would be placed under. Quite a few have been converted into homes that have an almost art deco feel to them. Bummer to see an old station just down the road from a spanking new station. Who wouldn’t want to have that old feel building to sell gas from?
It hit me as I drive through these small towns that no longer have a diner, maybe a franchise burger joint if they are large enough, that home cooking better not be a lost art. There is no real choice for dining except at home so the husband or wife better be a good cook if eating isn’t a real chore for variety. There might be the occasional church or other group fundraising meal or potluck dinner for folks to come together for a truly communal meal where they can talk about life as they break bread.
Sure isn’t at the local eatery many take for granted, especially the older crowd who do the coffee klatch or Rockwellian cracker barrel gab sessions.
Hit the Illinois border at mile 1,220.5 on the grain highway that 24 is and the terrain started to change into a rolling, slope of sorts; not hills by any means, but there was an elevational change to it. This is a topography phenomenon I have found in state borders. Don’t have a clue why, but there it is. You can drive eastward through the flats of South Dakota, Wyoming, Montana and other states and have to get to the western border until you get to hills and mountains.
Stopped at an antique shop in Roseville, Ill. to see if I could find a Roseville pottery piece. No luck but had to try.
Iowa was crossed into at 1,437.2 into the trip and 512 for the day as I waved to Peoria and the river barges on the Missouri River below the largest bridge I had crossed so far.
Drove through Wayland for a quick smile before I headed up W55 to Washington and the Hawkeye Motel. I was bummed out Monday when I got a return call finally from the owner of the Wayland guest House B&B and she told me she and her husband were going on vacation. It was the only chance I had had to actually stay in any of the Waylands along the way. She was bummed as well. Oh well.
As I pulled into Washington (only to get lost twice trying to get to the Hawkeye), the lyrics of my favorite Creedence Clearwater Revival song, “Lookin’ Out My Back Door,”
Just got home from Illinois lock the front door oh boy!
Got to sit down take a rest on the porch.
Imagination sets in pretty soon I'm singin'
Doo doo doo Lookin' out my back door.
‘Nuff said for a good day on the road.
(Photos: Brikcrete in Wyoming, mich.; big rig; whoops; little house surrounded by wrought iron fence with "special bovines" inside?; what a chef; big chicken (sorry Smitty---too big to fit in the truck); one of so many grain elevators; flat land; in the middle of nowhere store; a small oval barn; the Hawkeye.)
If you get up in the morning and head out to work in the dark, you may not always deem it a wonder to greet the dawn. Let’s not pretend, driving to the grind in the wee hours most times just means another day, another donut.
But, if you are out adventuring, starting out in the dark in a strange place means that once the dawn emerges, once the black turns ever so slowly to lighter and lighter shades of gray, the promise of a world full of color that you haven’t ever seen before is an allure unto itself.
The Indiana border appeared after about 80 miles and a blink of the eye considering I was thinking about the roads traveled and the folks met the previous days. Not long after Route 131 turned to 13, the first of a couple of semi truck drivus interuptus took place.
A big honking cylinder ( a section of a wind mill I think) was turning and the driver had to get out and lift the belly of the load hydraulically to clear the crest of the intersection. The turn down U.S. 20 (the same 20) came to a crawl by way of a State Trooper who was at an intersection but not cluing us into the bad looking accident down the road about two miles. One of those wreckers on steroids was helping to block the already blocked road from a nasty looking semi accident.
So, a u-turn turned into a race to catch up with locals who had turned left which meant to me that if I could follow them I might get back to 20 eventually. Through twists and turns I wouldn’t have guessed we got close to that return turn, but not before we came upon another semi whose driver must not have had enough coffee yet and had put the trailer wheels into a ditch at a turn.
Finally, Route 20 came back into view and off we went towards South Bend. But, abut 10 miles later more of those wind mill haulers were pulling (trying to) off at a rest area and stopped traffic for another 15 minutes as they slowly got their lengthy loads into it.
I hit Route 24, a longish east/west secondary road that showed more of the glory of the flat much of the Midwest can be. I don’t care how many grain elevators I saw (and they are plentiful), I just don’t see the math working on where they store all the corn and soy these horizon to horizon fields produce. There has to be nonstop shipping going on when the harvest comes in.
Overall, it is predicted that farmers will harvest 12.664 billion bushels of corn and 3.408 billion bushels of soybeans this year. I know that is all across the country, but it isn’t hard to see the breadbasket thing going on here in the Midwest. Billions of bushels boggles the mind and I am bummed I haven’t caught sight (a little too late for it I guess) of fields filled with choreographed combine crews that travel with the harvest to help farmers bring in this bounty.
Farm factoid: 99% of farm houses are painted white. Not sure why, maybe farmers have too many decisions to make and they just run out of energy when it comes to deciding about style. And, there are not that many red barns out here, mostly white.
You see some huge farm houses back from the road that speaks of very well off farmers (maybe only in the past). Not sure if the smaller farm houses are there because as the farms were split up amongst the sons, smaller houses were built.
Autumn colors are here, but mostly in the distance at the groves and copse of trees that remain. Got to think these folks would be blown away by the riot of color we have back East when fall hits the hills and valleys. Towns have a bit more, but no comparison.
I’m not seeing as many RVs as I usually do on these mad dashes, perhaps it’s because of the secondary roads I’m on, that the farmers haven’t finished their chores or perhaps the warmer than normal summer that has folks postponing their snowbird migrations.
Started to see old signs for “vaults,” the places that people would store their meat in – a sort of loose butcher shop sort of business. Also seeing those cool old gas stations that had the attached covered areas the pumps would be placed under. Quite a few have been converted into homes that have an almost art deco feel to them. Bummer to see an old station just down the road from a spanking new station. Who wouldn’t want to have that old feel building to sell gas from?
It hit me as I drive through these small towns that no longer have a diner, maybe a franchise burger joint if they are large enough, that home cooking better not be a lost art. There is no real choice for dining except at home so the husband or wife better be a good cook if eating isn’t a real chore for variety. There might be the occasional church or other group fundraising meal or potluck dinner for folks to come together for a truly communal meal where they can talk about life as they break bread.
Sure isn’t at the local eatery many take for granted, especially the older crowd who do the coffee klatch or Rockwellian cracker barrel gab sessions.
Hit the Illinois border at mile 1,220.5 on the grain highway that 24 is and the terrain started to change into a rolling, slope of sorts; not hills by any means, but there was an elevational change to it. This is a topography phenomenon I have found in state borders. Don’t have a clue why, but there it is. You can drive eastward through the flats of South Dakota, Wyoming, Montana and other states and have to get to the western border until you get to hills and mountains.
Stopped at an antique shop in Roseville, Ill. to see if I could find a Roseville pottery piece. No luck but had to try.
Iowa was crossed into at 1,437.2 into the trip and 512 for the day as I waved to Peoria and the river barges on the Missouri River below the largest bridge I had crossed so far.
Drove through Wayland for a quick smile before I headed up W55 to Washington and the Hawkeye Motel. I was bummed out Monday when I got a return call finally from the owner of the Wayland guest House B&B and she told me she and her husband were going on vacation. It was the only chance I had had to actually stay in any of the Waylands along the way. She was bummed as well. Oh well.
As I pulled into Washington (only to get lost twice trying to get to the Hawkeye), the lyrics of my favorite Creedence Clearwater Revival song, “Lookin’ Out My Back Door,”
Just got home from Illinois lock the front door oh boy!
Got to sit down take a rest on the porch.
Imagination sets in pretty soon I'm singin'
Doo doo doo Lookin' out my back door.
‘Nuff said for a good day on the road.
(Photos: Brikcrete in Wyoming, mich.; big rig; whoops; little house surrounded by wrought iron fence with "special bovines" inside?; what a chef; big chicken (sorry Smitty---too big to fit in the truck); one of so many grain elevators; flat land; in the middle of nowhere store; a small oval barn; the Hawkeye.)