Uniquely Theo

Day # 6 June 23, 2018  Wyoming is a contraction of the Native American word mecheweamiing (“at the big plains”), On day #6 I headed up to Casper Wyoming via secondary roads as I had spotted on the map a national monument and national historic site in the direction I needed to head: Chimney Rock National Historic Site and Scott’s Bluff National Monument. Chimney Rock was a very well recognized landmark along the Oregon Trail. It’s an impressive  monolith, which in the early settlers more puritanical heritage was finally designated Chimney Rock, but I find euphemisms based on the original Native American name, such as Elk’s Peak and Elk Brick or perhaps even Elk’s Pxxxs (male phallus) more interesting.  I had hope to take a hike out towards the rock, but with no designated trails and signs abounding about “beware of rattlesnakes” I used caution (which I am not always prone to do)  and took head of the warning.

A few miles up the road  along the North Platte River is Scott’s Bluff an immense sandstone formation which is gradually eroding away grain by grain of sand.  However with a top that was protected by a cap stone, Scott’s Bluff has survived the erosion that wore away the surrounding structures and that created the Great Planes.

I was so grateful to find the trails here dog friendly and traversed both the South and North Overlook Trails and a brief section of the Original Oregon Trail. I must admit Kili and Simba enjoyed the Overlook Trails but did not have much enthusiasm for the original section of the Oregon trail here. Simba found great relief by the cow and both refused to walk any further.  Guess they were not born of pioneer blood.

I experience some level of nostalgia and fond remembrances of the old geography and history class, as well as movie and TV that brought to life much of the history of the pioneers and the tremendous challenges they faced. I had been complaining about the rather dowdy Motel 8 I stayed at and then on this day found myself feeling internally embarrassed as I viewed the exhibit of the Conestoga 10 x 4 canvased topped wagons and recalled the trials and hardships, rugged terrain and wildly unpredictable weather the pioneers faced right on this very land I was treading on. I am a whole lot heartier than many of my peers and love backpacking in the wilderness in most weather, but my REI, Patagonia, High Sierra, Jetboil and MSR Pocket Rocket make the challenge a luxury high end trek compared to plowing across country to make a better life in a rickety wagon or walking much of the way to lighten the load. 

I was now firmly in the mode of visiting historic sites, I crossed into Wyoming and headed to Fort Laramie National Historic Site, a very stark and treeless setting and again conjured up visions of the Lakota (Sioux) trading buffalo robes and later the emigrants stopping over to re-supply on their westward journey via the Oregon Trail. Naturally I also felt outrage again at the treatment and mass murder and destruction of hunting grounds of the Native Americans as the emigrants swelled and began claiming the Lakota, Sioux and Arapahoe lands, fighting wars, executing treaties and then breaking them.

Moving onward through Wyoming I could not help but notice oil wells and surprisingly to me many long coal trains.

My final stop was in Casper Wyoming, and another very dog friendly LaQuinta and of course the numerous tedious dog walking circles of the motel parking lot. 

Day #5, June 22, 2018   The Choctaw phrase okla humma, literally means red people. It combines two Choctaw words, “okla” meaning person and “humma” meaning red to form the word . The Kansas, Omaha, Kaw, Osage and Dakota Sioux Indian word “KaNze” meanis, in the Kansas language, “south wind.”.  “Nebraska” is based on an Oto Indian word Nebrathka meaning “flat water” (referring to the Platte Rive,).  As this is he fifth cross country driving trip from Florida to Oregon,  it is always a challenge to determine a new and engaging route.  I opted to head up through central Kansas on secondary roads, avoiding Wichita Kansas and populated ares to the east.  I had conjured up images of Wild Bill Hickok, Wyatt Earp, the Chisholm Trail, and the wild western town of Dodge City of the TV westerns of my youth to keep myself amused. I was quite surprised to have my childhood impression of Kansas (being nothing but flat land with fields of corn and wheat) dispelled. There  was not much in the line of dramatic geological featured and there was a lot of flat land & wheat and corn fields but also lovely green and gold undulating terrain and numerous fields of other  crops.  I was also surprised to see oil and gas wells appear on the landscape.

 

The target was the night was North Platte, Nebraska given the amount of driving I wanted to do that day and the spare number of towns along the way.   I knew something “big” was going on in that area as I was hard pressed to get a motel reservation of any kind, let alone one that accepted dogs and had to settle for the Motel 8 in North Platte.  The place was packed and I discovered was in the midst of the attendees  of the 3 day music fest “Nebraskaland Days 2018  Summer Jam Music Festival.”  I new with 3.5 stars rating on trip advisor it wasn’t going to be top of the line even for a Motel 8 (which  find quite variable) but it was pretty clear that ratings are relative to what you expect and where else you usually stay? My room was adequate to sleep in but the decor conjured up images of leftover’s from Aunt Mabel’s attic of days of yore —  and well worn in every way. The real pain was the $150.00 I had to fork over due to the jacked up prices and dog fees.  It was hard to believe I  had paid $80.00 for a very new LaQuinta Room with 2 Queen Pillow Top Beds  the night before. (see entry  below or of previous day.) I felt like a sucker.

Day #4  June 21, 2018  A few weeks ago, the book club I belong to read “ Killers of the Flower Moon” by David Grann.  It chronicled the murders of numerous Osage Native Americans and the birth of the FBI. Very interesting read. The setting is in northeastern Oklahoma in Pawhuska, Grey Horse and Fairfax within the Osage Nation Reservation. It inspired me to drive through this area to have a keener sense of the setting that caused so much harm to the Osage. I  was enraged yet again about the malicious treatment of the people of this nation — driven from Kansas and given rocky land for their reservation which was not deemed particularly desirable by white settlers until the discovery of oil. In addition to the events in Osage Country  I was reminded of Standing Rock which made current news headlines the last couple of years  with Native Americans protesting their land being used for a pipeline. Some dynamics seem to never change with the total disregard of the Native American tribal rights and history. 

Driving through Oklahoma was pleasurable, using secondary roads and the Indian Nation Turnpike, looping Tulsa and on into Osage County. The landscape was primarily faming — a combination of pastureland and fields of corn, cotton and hay — and dotted with oil and natural gas wells. The area is heavily dependent on oil to drive its economy. I found it fascinating to see the stretches of terrain being used simultaneously for cattle grazing, while dotted with oil  wells and wind farms. The downtown was shabby chic in my estimation and I enjoyed walking its main street. I also surprisingly observed many long freight trains of coal.  

 

The town of Pawhuska has a classic main street with crumbing facades, eroding bricks, and peeling paint of buildings that have seen a richer history. I tried to picture Osage Mollie Burkhart, a resident of Grey Horse; Ernest Burkhart, Mollie’s caucasian husband; Ernest’s uncle, William Hale, whose business interests now dominated the county and who was revered as the “King of the Osage Hills” and Tom White was an old-style lawman assigned by the FBI to the murder cases — all walking the streets of this city.

 

For me, Pahuska is a welcomed  break from the cloned environs of so many towns and cities — homogenized by corporate America with chain after chain after chain of carbon-copy stores and eating establishments. Guess I have already harped on this several times already…but I just can’t help myself in this day and age where there is a desire on the part of many to whitewash everything and bury forever the culture and uniqueness of the small town— all for the sake of big corporate profits. Where towns are  preserved and have a flavor of days gone by, usually through corporate investment, they  becomes trendy and unaffordable (i.e.Jackson Hole). For many I imagine there is a safety in that realm of sameness but I find it somewhat tragic that we have lost so many of the unique mom and pop businesses. I recollect traveling with a Work and Witness Missions Group in the Ukraine and the overwhelming majority of the members voted to eat at McDonalds in Kiev!!! Aargh! 

With the day waning, I opted for the LaQuinta in Panco Oklahoma, sandwiched between car dealerships and yet another xeroxed copy of the now classic USA Interstate Exit.  To be fair though, I did not get into he city so it may have a traditional main street downtown area. Ponca City is the headquarters of the Ponca Nation. Like the Osage the Ponca tribe was able to lease their land for oil exploration and development – land once deemed as marginal and used for the resettlement of native American tribes. This LaQuinta was quite new and sported their pillow top beds – which are very comfortable.  When asked how my stay was I said I only had one suggestion.  They needed to provide a step stool for short people like myself to be able to up onto the rather high bed more easily.

On Day #3, June 20, 2018 of the cross country adventure I was feeling loopy about my plan of looping down through New Orleans LA to play tourist and on to Shreveport LA. I mistakenly anticipated a restful evening the night before and a sound nights sleep in Biloxi MI now that we were 600 + miles into our journey and my exit of Florida was a fait accompli with no further  untoward events.  Knowing that my head had been churning for days, once settled on the bed, I thought it wise to make sure my credit card bill was paid and not overdue.  I was quite shocked to discover my credit had decided to purchase, unbeknownst to me, $759.00 worth of items from a website that sells guns and ammunition. I conjectured that it had been skimmed at a pay-at-the pump gas station transaction earlier that day but will never know for sure.  So I had to report credit card fraud and begin to deal with all of the ramifications that evening. This was not a good sleeping tonic for sure. I imagine over the next few months I will be getting emails about my automatic renewals and recurring payments being rejected.  

The intended plan was to loop down into New Orleans (NO)  since it had been many, many years since I had visited there . But still feeling unsettled about the credit card fraud issue I began a back and forth debate with myself about spending that half day going into New Orleans. I found myself  engaging in something I rarely ever do — i.e.putting a negative spin on everything and projecting the worst case scenario — imaging traffic, no place to park, crowds, getting lost … I became acutely aware that  a doom-and-gloom person was inhabiting my body?  Fortunately I reclaimed my brain and a + attitude and headed on down into New Orleans to be a real tourist and cruise Bourbon Street and Cafe Du Monde.

Though none of the things in my minds eye worst case scenario occurred, I did discover that the NO French Quarter is NO place to be walking with 2 dogs. Weaving in and out of the mass of bodies, avoiding “splatting”on the dirty cracked sidewalks,  and keeping the pups from snacking on the discarded food waste required intense focus. Kili was intent on “shopping” I think because he strained to enter every shop with an open door —  though it is more likely he was trying  to get out of the hot humid weather that NO is known for.

The  Cafe du Monde  is definitely a more widely popular destination than I recollect it being many years ago. But since I committed to being touristy today, I got in a long line for the classic order of cafe au lait and beignets — the original Acadian fritter. Nary a table to be had at the open air cafe but the line moved quickly and a heavy rain spatter added an element of squeeze to the line, all of us trying to get under the overhang and not fall over Kili and Simba.  I was a bit surprised to see several groups of young children, probably 5-10 years of age, getting beignets and sodas. I would not imagine this to be a health giving outing for a day camp or school group.

After scalding my mouth on the cafe au lait and dragging the dogs onward,  I wanted to saunter down Bourbon Street.  So I took a right turn on one of the first streets— onto St. Peter’s Street and looking up I saw the sign for Pat O’Briens Bar. Like a flash bulb going off, erupting out of my aging memory bank was an all too vivid recollection of one of my LEAST fine moments in those years of partying and drinking. 

My husband was at a convention and on this trip without children, I was free to roam about for the afternoon. It was in the early 1970’s. The destination was Bourbon Street and the French Quarter. During my wanders I happened upon Pat O’Briens and it’s infamous Hurricane Punch drink and naturally was inclined to try one, or, two, or three… I got hooked into sitting with a group of male conventioneers and the hours flew by. I do remember having quite a few, being quite drunk, and one of the men trying to desperately coax me up to his hotel room. Thank goodness for that moral training I received from the nuns at Immaculata High School in Detroit Michigan, so that resolve to be a good moral Catholic wife won out and I finally found my way back to where I was staying (how I do not recall).  It now was at least 8 o’clock and of course my husband and brother-in-law were frantic and were ready to call the police. So how ironic it was to randomly turn down that street to jog my memory of a way of living I would never choose to today. I wandered on down to Bourbon Street and was so sorely disappointed.  It seemed so well worn and quite shabby and nothing like the memories of 40 + years ago. Granted, younger eyes see things with a different hue than the eyes of an adult with a few more years under their belt, but I recollect just wandering into Preservation Hall, listening to the jazz for a while and meandering on.  Seems like today it is by reservation and show times. I opted not to walk much more than 6 blocks due to so much construction and infrastructure work being done and the street torn up in sections.  But I knew in my gut I was not wanting to see any more of the 21st century transformation of an area that had shown brighter in my memory of years gone by.

So the dogs and I  loaded up and I wound my way out of the city with the destination being a LaQuinta at sterile interchange in Shreveport LA.   I needed by now to avoid the interstates so I back-roaded after getting through Baton Rouge northwest to the town of Natchez  — the southern terminus of the Natchez Trace Parkway. This National Parkway, operated by the National Park Service commemorates the historic Old Natchez Trace and traverses  sections of the original trail. It runs 444 miles from Natchez, Mississippi, to Nashville, Tennessee.

This a historic corridor was used used by American Indians, “Kaintucks,” European settlers, slave traders, and soldiers. I like to engage my mind imagining what it might have been like centuries ago  Though I could only drive 50 miles on it,  it was a perfect offset to the stress induced by the chaotic traffic of New Orleans and vicinity.  It was a bucolic traverse of lush woodlands and brilliantly green fields with almost no cars and NO advertisements. It was disappointing to have to head off but it meandered east and north instead of northwesterly. Since this was a 500 mile day I succumbed to expediency and imprisoned myself yet again on the interstate grid . This being my first time traveling with my dog Simba since he was diagnosed with diabetes,  i was faced with the dilemma of sticking to his feeding and shot schedule.  It was getting late so I had to provide them with a Love’s Truck Stop dining experience in the back seat of the Jeep at the appointed time and had a very awkward time giving  Simba his insulin shot.

At this point i was grateful for the interstate and finally settled in in Shreveport late in the day..