Saturday, November 26, 2016

A Trail of Discovery in Arrow Rock


A hike down the Lewis & Clark Trail of Discovery within the Big Muddy Fish & Wildlife Refuge, by way of Arrow Rock State Historic Site, and the Sante Fe National Trail.

The Saturday after Thanksgiving promised to be one of the last good days of the year, with temperatures near or above 15 °C. It was as good as any excuse to hit the road, find and discover the sort of tranquility only found hiking in late fall.

After reviewing a map of potential locations within a couple of hours of Kansas City, my traveling companion and I decided upon Arrow Rock State Historic Site. It promised a little history, some unique architecture, and the potential for a quiet and thoughtful walk in the woods.

Missouri Department of Natural Resources Map of Arrow Rock State Historic Site

We did not do much research beyond location and general interests, as is our habit, preferring to take it all in as if having only discovered the place by accident. It was a pleasant surprise to find our choice to be that of a landmark dating back to the pre-history of Missouri, as well as a bit of a crossroads in American history.

Displays of Native American limestone tools and other artifacts at Arrow Rock State Historic Site Visitor Center

As the first inhabitants of the area, Native Americans living along the banks of the Missouri River leveraged the limestone bluffs for tools and weapons in their everyday lives. French trappers passing through the area first noted this, calling it out on their maps as “Pierre á Flèches,” or the “Stone of Arrows.”


After acquisition of the territory through the Louisiana Purchase, population in the area began to increase significantly. Farmers found the bottomland soils highly productive, and salt mining at nearby Boone’s Lick provided a steady supply of the ingredient essential to pioneer life and travel.
Moving goods, people, and wagons across the river remained a task though. The small gap in the bluff offered the perfect spot for a ferry landing and once established, a small community quickly took root.


Originally named New Philadelphia (renamed to its namesake in 1833) it was only a pit stop for most. There was no better place in the area to cross the Missouri River. Freight was already moving along the route, salt was plentiful, and a natural spring on the bluff combined to make it a perfect fit along what would become the Sante Fe Trail.


As settlers passed through with increasing frequency, the little town quickly became one of the busiest steamboat landings in the area by 1830. When the river was free of ice, steamboat traffic moved stock, goods, and people almost constantly. Indeed, a local judge at the time, William B. Napton reported nothing less than “a great throng of emigrants through Saline County to California on the river road in 1849 and 1850. By the early spring of that year, the covered wagons of these emigrants were hardly ever out of sight at Arrow Rock.”


The Civil War came along and changed everything for Arrow Rock. Steam locomotives moved people and freight across the land more efficiently than ever before, dominating transportation. The little town of Arrow Rock, high on a bluff, suffered the fate of many other towns bypassed by the railroad, and population dwindled over the years from more than a thousand residents, to only about 50 remaining today.


Over the years, the town made significant contributions to the westward movement in the United States during its time though. It nurtured a few Governors for the State of Missouri. It was home to a Dr. John Sappington, responsible for revolutionizing treatment of malaria, and home to one of the most easily recognized American frontier artists, George Caleb Bingham.


We stopped to talk with one of the Park Rangers about the trails, before we left the Visitor Center. It was a good thing we did too. She suggested a trail that was not part of the Park; rather part of the adjacent Big Muddy National Fish & Wildlife Refuge. It seems that at this time of year, that path offers the best view of the bluffs, and the trail leads right down to the banks of the river.


Appreciating the information, we slowly made our way across the little town towards the trailhead, pausing and musing over various points of interest. It was a hard to believe that on such a beautiful sunny afternoon, all was rather quiet and empty. A small strip of shops stood open and ready for business, across from the historic tavern, purported to be the oldest west of the Mississippi River. A few folks wandered about, but it was obvious this was a fair weather town.


We found the entrance to Big Muddy easy enough, just past the historic Lyceum Theater. The gravel service road descends through the infamous gap in the bluff, gently sloping down to the bottoms, eventually opening up to the original Arrow Rock Ferry Landing site.


A sign and an old wagon mark the spot where perhaps tens of thousands of folks headed west disembarked and made their way up the hill and to points beyond. The road ends abruptly with a chain across it, restricting vehicular access, but not pedestrian, and a sign indicates arrival at the trailhead of the Lewis & Clark Trail of Discovery.


The trail continues along an old levee, wide, straight and level through the bottom land forest of the refuge. There is not a significant amount of scenery here, excepting the trees. The bluffs can be seen between the trees at this time of year, but are very likely completely obscured any other time.


We were tempted to try and get a close-up look at the formations, but decided the path through the marshy area was probably easier said than done. One can never be too sure what lies in wait, and it is usually best to leave the natural areas to themselves anyway. There is no sense in disrupting the state of things. Plenty of signs along the way discuss the various aspects of the wildlife and other natural resources in the area.

After about a kilometre and a half, the levee fades, and the trail continues more narrowly through the trees. While it is not a particular tight fit, it could be little bit of a bushwhacking adventure in the depths of summer. The short 50 meter walk at this point is completely non-toxic at this time of year though.

Missouri River, looking North from end of Lewis & Clark Trail of Discovery at the Jameson Island Unit of Big Muddy Fish & Wildlife Refuge

The trail opens up, as promised, with a fantastic view of a wild and muddy Missouri River. The wide, sandy and crumbling banks are packed well-enough to walk around and explore the nearby alternate channels and creeks, to some extent. It is enough for us to just sit on the edge and watch the river roll along, while listening to the sounds of the surrounding wilderness.

It is easy to see why early travelers chose this spot to cross. Aside from the fact that the banks are relatively flat and mostly sandy, the river is not very wide here. I seem to remember reading it was only a couple hundred meters wide back then, and relatively shallow.


After relaxing for a while, we made our way back along the same path. We noticed a footbridge half way along, crossing back towards town, and decided to explore that route. It turned out to be the much shorter River Landing Trail associated with the State Park, an alternate path to access the trail we had taken, returning us easily to the southeast corner of town.



The day was getting late, so we did not linger much longer than that. We paused for a few photos on the way back to our vehicle, and while musing over one of the subjects, the calaboose (an old jailhouse), we noticed a little clearing and a lone structure at the edge of the trees.


It seemed nothing more than a small park gazebo, but turned out to be one the many unique little projects in the region built during the 1930s by the Works Progress Administration. Much more humble in its duty than most other projects associated with President Roosevelt’s New Deal agency, it simply covers the graves of a couple of early settlers in the area, Jacob and Mary Shroyer.


Aside from being a State Park, a National Fish & Wildlife Refuge, being one of many stops on a National Historic Trail, it is also listed on listed on the US National Register of Historic Places, and a US National Historic Landmark District.


There is quite a bit to see and do at this site, and we are definitely looking forward to making a return trip in the near future. Another trail wanders out on the bluff, a 4-acre stocked lake provides fishing access for all, and an adjacent campground offers visitors a chance to stay just walking distance from the town and trails.

. . .

Further Reading

US Fish & Wildlife Service

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Protesting Hypocrites



In the wake of the election of Donald Trump to the Presidency of the United States, people in various, yet extremely predictable places came out to express their anger and frustration. The violence continues to escalate too. Anti-Trump protesters insist they will not accept him to represent them.

All of this, they will tell you, out of fear of what might happen.

I wonder if they realize aliens could land tomorrow and annihilate us all.

That is something to be more afraid of.

Yet…

The protesters scream that they intend to show President-Elect Donald Trump exactly what hate looks like.

They are beating other people down, while holding signs that loudly proclaim “Love Trumps Hate.”

They are calling for more violence, even going so far as to suggest that someone should assassinate the man.

Really?

Are they even listening to themselves?

Does anyone else see the hypocrisy in all of this?

The very same individuals that condemned Trump supporters for their potential unwillingness to accept the election results that are doing the very same. They are unwilling to accept the outcome of the election. The shoe is on the other foot and the irony and hypocrisy are utterly astounding, but not very surprising, and as predictable as the people involved and the locations.

What I do find surprising is that many of the very same people chose to sit this one out, and took no part in the election at all. I heard a piece on NPR, and then a few other mainstream outlets as well, talking with quite a few of the protesters, most of whom indicated they did not even vote.

What exactly are these folks protesting, and on what grounds?

They made a conscience decision not to participate, and now are upset at the outcome, intent on harming others, perhaps even killing people.

Seriously?

Sit down and shut up!

If you chose not to vote, then you have no right to complain about the results. You had your chance.

Another thing strikes me, looking at the photos of the protests. Most of these folks appear to be of a certain generation where disruption is a way of life. Indeed, it is all they seem to understand, and maybe I will write a piece on that in the future, and the ridiculousness of it all.

Whether needed or not, whether good or bad, if they do not like something or the way a situation things turn out, they rally hard and fight for change. That in itself is actually admirable. However, they have the whole country believing that is the norm, and cowering in the corner like frightened parents of a spoiled and abusive child.

They have decided that the democratic process is unacceptable. They are going to hold their breath until we give them their way. They are going to take a stand in the middle of the grocery aisle, stamp their feet, and scream about how life is not fair.

Life is not fair. You do not always get your way, and throwing a temper tantrum is not going to change anything. It might have worked with your apathetic parents, who apparently could not be bothered with teaching you that not everyone wins, and you do not always get what you want.

It is time. Learn it. Accept it. Move on.

Protest when there is something worth protesting.

Those opposed did not rise up and take to the streets in protest because Barrack Obama won election in 2008 or 2012.

Those opposed did not attempt to harm others because Barrack Obama won either election.

Those opposed did not threaten to kill people because Barrack Obama won either election.

Those opposed did not threaten to assassinate Barrack Obama because he won either elections.

Those opposed walked away from the election results, hung their head in disappointment, and went on about their lives.

Those opposed followed a peaceful and democratic route in opposition to President Obama and his policies, without physically harming anyone.

Do you see the difference?

Today, I read reports that the Democratic National Committee and their sponsors are posting advertisements on Craig’s List, hiring protesters, and buying charter buses to ship them to all the right places.

Allow me to translate; the wealthy are hiring the poor to rally together and go to jail and/or die for them.

Does that sound familiar; you know, like all the wars that have been raging around the world for more than a millennium?

Congratulations, duped again.

Add to all of this, the continual flood of disinformation on social media that has been going on several years now. Reading nothing but propaganda on Facebook and Twitter, apparently quite a few folks believed every meme that crossed their path, because that is their only “news.” It is their way of life, and they do not allow themselves to read or understand anything else. If you offer an opposing view, they will unfriend you. They do everything they can to ensure they do not hear anything but their own voice and those that agree with them, and they prefer it that way.

I suspect none of them have read this far; too many words, and not enough pictures with cats.

The media was just as guilty of the same throughout the entire election cycle, and they continue to fan the flames.

Foreign media outlets jumped on the Trump-hating bandwagon early, attempting to manipulate the situation. Sitting at their desks thousands of kilometers away, watching CNN and MSNBC, they looked to social media for confirmation and found it. They followed up reporting biased assumptions, based on preconceived notions and intentionally incomplete evidence.

How is it possible for foreign media to understand anything about this nation, the election, or the candidates from 5000+ km away?

It is not. They know nothing and are only causing trouble, and they know it.

Meanwhile, within the US, media outlets are in disarray, finally recognizing the very echo chamber from which they have been broadcasting. They are not even hiding it now, but doing nothing to correct it. Indeed, they continue to fuel the fire by acknowledging the brat children, broadcasting their antics and portraying the situation as if it were the scene in every town in the US.

It is not and will not be.

The more civilized in this nation will shut them down. They will not allow the country to be ripped apart by spoiled toddlers consumed by a fit of rage.

If you are a one of these non-voting protesters, either in the streets or in journalism, there are a few things you need to come to grips with.

Fact: Donald Trump will be the President of the United States, elected under a fair and democratic election process.

Fact: Hillary Clinton did not get enough votes and conceded the election. Simply stated, she gave up.

It’s over.

Get used to it.

Quit preaching peace at the point of a gun.

The country will move forward with or without you.

There is nothing more to say.

Go home.

If you must protest something, perhaps it would be best if you started at the offices of the Democratic National Committee for blatantly cheating Bernie Sanders out of the nomination. They lied. They cheated. They manipulated the vote. They did everything they could to ensure this result. They are to blame for this mess.

For the record, I am not Republican or Democrat. I am an independent thinker that makes decisions based upon the best available data. My data said that Hillary Clinton was a fraud, wanted to continue a dynasty, insisted that she was rightful heir to a throne that does not exist, and was prepared to continue business-as-usual by lying and cheating her way into office.

In my humble opinion, democracy triumphed and prevented that atrocity.

And no, I am not of Gen X, Gen Y or of the Millennials. I am one of the “In Between,” those that have been ignored and marginalized. I am not white. I am not black. I am an American mutt among other mutts, and as you might have noticed, we have had enough of the bullshit.

Can we try just once, to give peace a chance

Friday, August 5, 2016

Chicago Encounters


Jolted from a reverie incited by the beauty of the mountains and high desert of the Colorado Plateau, only one short week later I found myself on a rocket to Chicago on business.

The initial shock and ensuing depressive state of the extreme cultural shift threw me off balance only temporarily. With very little delay, I was quickly back on my feet again, hiking the valleys between skyscrapers, and wandering the one river trail available.

Looking East along the Chicago River from the DuSable Bridge

Architects try repeatedly to match the beauty of the natural features such as the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, creating towering structures of glass and concrete, with yawning chasms that generally lead only to busy city streets.

Their efforts always fail to consider inclusion of a peaceful valley, where one might walk quietly along a mountain stream contemplating greater things. They are successful on one count only; replicating an environment conducive to producing predators.

I imagined all of these things as I wandered the streets of Chicago each evening for a week, making every effort to remember the journey to Colorado and Utah in as much detail as possible, as I have still not completed writing on that particular adventure. Time will tell if I was successful.

. . .

The flight out of Kansas City was a harrowing experience, with stormy weather only beginning to announce its arrival with a few low flying clouds and blustery winds. Informed that there would be no snacks or beverages during the flight, if there was any doubt as to why, the reason became abundantly clear, just after leaving the ground.


I am not particularly afraid of flying; falling from such a great height concerns me most. Indeed, with my knuckles glowing white clenching the arm of the seat, I perceived many of my comrades sympathizing. We landed safely though, and to much more fair weather than when we departed.
Quickly deciphering the various options related to attain my hotel destination with the aid of Google Maps, I found the Orange Line to be the most expedient of all of the choices available. The affair would only take about 45 minutes total, including a 15-minute ride on a bus.

Map of the Chicago Elevated Train System — Chicago Transportation Authority - 2016

While I have been a traveler on similar situations in New York, Washington DC, and San Diego, I had never had the opportunity to ride what Chicagoans simply and affectionately call “The L.” The experience alone is worth the effort. Some of the most interesting folks lurk within the public transportation system, and you can quickly gauge the relatively friendliness of any particular metropolitan area. Chicago is no exception.

I found the train empty at Midway though. Only one other person resided in the car I had chosen, and he had taken the very seat I was hoping to obtain. The perfectly positioned seat facing forward, could give one the illusion of actually driving the train. Two others straggled in just before the doors closed, looking somewhat frightened, angry, and lost all at once. They moved down the train though, whispering their fears between one another.



The one that had acquired the best seat was an odd fellow, who continually glanced suspiciously at me throughout the entire trip. On a couple of occasions I thought I would make some attempt to reassure him that I would make no effort to displace him from the prize. Just as I decided such a statement was past due, he stood for the next stop and scurried out the door.

A hoard people also entered at that stop. I think it was Ashland. It is hard to know for certain, since the announcer had proclaimed the previous three stops to be Ashland. I was concerned that he would announce all of the stops that way, so remained in my set in order to retain a perfect view of the station name outside the window, assuming those would not repeat unnecessarily.

Chicago Theater signage near the State/Lake Station

State/Lake Station loomed outside the window, and I disembarked in search of the next adventure in public transportation. The folks on this particular portion of the route had not been especially friendly or talkative. Many of them simply scowled or stared blankly out of the window, and avoiding all eye contact.

Those that seemed friendly enough, and whom I might have enjoyed a superficial conversation with, were duly engrossed in conversation with their traveling companions in an entirely different language. That was deterrent enough to remove me from the conversation.I have no experience with Swahili, Aramaic, or Khoisan. My German is questionable at best, so I stick with straightforward transactions in my native English.



Pondering the situation momentarily, it seemed as though I was close enough to march on down to Ontario Street from there. However, should the need arise to return to Midway by the same route, I thought it more prudent to continue with the original plan.

My small bag and grossly overstuffed backpack made for slow progress as well, so I wobbled on down the stairs and across the street to hop on the bus. A friend would later remark that I should have just jumped the Red Line, but for whatever reason, Google never identified that option.


The 10/146 arrived in only a few minutes, and I greeted a somber crowd who only stared curiously at me until our gaze met, and then they quickly looked away. Nobody spoke as the bus lumbered towards and then down Michigan Avenue stopping it seemed, about every 20 feet or so.

I was beginning to believe that I had completely lost my hearing, when an elderly woman boarded, whom I immediately offered my seat. She shattered the illusion with a smile, declining and thanking me in a soft voice that echoed unusually loud off the apparent mutes that packed the bus.


Chicagoans are an odd breed when it comes to conversation. Most ignore each other on the street, unless they are paired up for a particular mission. Otherwise, they do not seem interested in talking with unknowns, except perhaps to curse and yell when some issue or another proves unsatisfactory; and then, prefer to use car horns, before vocalizing.

Being from more westerly points, where all manner of conversation occurs between individuals whom hardly know one another, all of this can be a little unsettling at times though.

My friends from the City have assured me that this is perfectly normal, even translating the language of the horn, although I generally understand it fairly well. When you hear it directed at you, move! Down the street, out of the way, away, does not really matter.

Looking south along Michigan Avenue from Ontario Street

Finally arriving at Ontario & Michigan, I was more than ready to get off the bus, as it had become as packed as a sardine can, and the silence deafening. I got up from my seat and bumped a few people as I attempted to plow a path to the door before it closed, offering verbal apologies along the way, and receiving only wild-eyed stares in return.

The folks at the hotel shattered any preconceived notions related to interaction with those from Chicago, offering a warm and friendly environment, along with a good dose of conversation, before offering up the keys to my room. Boarding the elevator, I encountered others like myself, obviously in need of conversation with unknowns too.

After taking some time to settle in to my home for the week on the 20th floor, and soaking in the fantastic view my room afforded, I retreated to the streets of the downtown Loop. I spent nearly every evening of my stay wandering about admiring architecture and puzzling over the mass of humanity migrating here and there along Michigan Avenue. The weather was perfect for this sort of enterprise too, with temperatures hovering near 30°C every day.


Lake Michigan seemed as good as any destination, since I was only a few blocks away, so I started in that direction to have look at what might be developing there. A wall of traffic put this ambition in check quickly and I detoured south, ultimately choosing to discover what sources of sustenance were available, and wander around the River Walk.

The sources available were of the hopelessly generic kind, but I was happy to discover that the River Walk had undergone a relatively large renovation project since my last visit, making the area more enjoyable to the average citizen and less desirable to those engaged in questionable enterprises. Yet, some of the latter still occurred at random intervals.

. . .

After meeting with friends for Pho at little place up on the north side of town called Cafe Hoang the next evening, which was every bit as tasty as they promised, they dragged me over to a place called The Magic Hedge, and associated waterfront. I am still not quite sure where the place obtained its name, but I have a suspicion the magic is likely something better left undisclosed among polite circles.


It might have only been the rustling of birds, as the location is also home to the Montrose Bird Sanctuary. Birdwatchers have recorded more than 300 different species of birds at the site. As darkness descended, the shadows and noises seemed much too large for attribution to our fine feathered friends; that is, unless all 300 hundred were gathering in the same location.

. . .

I wandered alone around the north side of the river the next evening, after a fine round of Fish & Chips and accompanied by a Blueberry Blonde at Timothy O’Toole’s. Making it as far west as State Street, I zigzagged northward towards Chicago Avenue, then back down along Michigan Avenue.

Along the way, I encountered one of my favorite little buildings, the Cable House. A Richardsonian Romanesque-style house built in 1886 for a local socialite, it is a marvelous little castle with a courtyard that easily could have inspired numerous fantasy novels, especially with the array of multi-colored lighting on this particular evening.

Fountain at the Cable House Courtyard at night

I am not sure exactly what drew me, but with a little time to kill the next evening, I drifted down to the Chicago Cultural Center. I had never been and it seemed as good a destination as any other. Roaming stairways and corridors containing some beautiful and artfully decorated interior architecture, I eventually found myself standing under the monstrous Tiffany dome, and remembered why I had been so interested in coming.

Tiffany Dome at the Chicago Cultural Center
Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company of New York installed this fantastic piece of art back in 1897, using Tiffany Favrile glass cut in the shape of fish scales. It is one the largest of its type in the world, measuring nearly 12 meters in diameter. It is indeed a stained glass art masterpiece marvel to behold, containing approximately 30,000 pieces of glass in 243 sections, held together with a cast iron frame.

Staggering around staring at this ceiling for longer than was likely necessary, and probably attracting undue attention judging from the guards that began to appear in my peripheral, I realized I was running behind to meet my friends again for dinner, and sought a quick exit.

Mosaic under the staircase near the south entrance of the Chicago Cultural Center
At first, it seemed as though it would be an easy enough task. I noted a fantastic mosaic under the staircase of the entrance I had come in. Somehow, I ended up on the wrong side of the building from which I entered, and could find no exit. While not particularly an issue, I found it somewhat curious, as I was certain I retraced my path precisely. After cutting through a couple of workshops in progress, I managed to find the originally point of entry and stumbled onto the street.

I quickly made my way back up Michigan Avenue to Huron and joined with friends for a brief ride out to Twisted Spoke. Identifying itself as a “Biker Bar,” I saw more of the trendy sort lingering than anything else, but it was good fun and good food with good company, from an upper deck providing for decent views of the surrounding area, and part of downtown.



Dining is very likely not the primary focus here though. The food menu is only a page long; the beer menu goes on for three pages. On top of that, they were hosting a half-price whiskey night; that menu, even longer than that for the beer. I leaned heavily on our server for the final decision on those latter points. It was simply too much reading.

After conspiring to meet again the following evening, my comrades retired for the evening, depositing me in front of my hotel once again. I was not feeling very tired though, so went a wandering again.


Just as I was arriving at Cityfront Plaza, I heard explosions and thought perhaps the City was under attack. I crouched and started to quickly make for a nearby concrete barrier when I noticed other folks in the area who stood their ground, unconcerned; some, clapping and yelling at towards some activity occurring to the east of the City.

Turning my attention in that direction, I realized it was only fireworks at the Navy Pier, and the location just happened to provision a grand view of the spectacle. I remain unsure of the special occasion, but it was quite lively and very much worth the 10 minutes wasted.


It was beginning to get late, so I headed back to Michigan Avenue from there, wanting to make a stop down at the Chicago Water Tower. It is such a wonderful old stone building with a storied past, as one of the few survivors of the Great Chicago Fire of 1871. Nearly 9 square kilometers of the old lakeside village burned in that event, but this structure and a few others firmly stood their ground. It is mostly unremarkable in the daylight but at night, the shadows cast from carefully placed lighting give it an perfectly beautiful ominous appearance.

. . .

My final night in Chicago arrived, much sooner than I expected, and much hotter than any of us thought it would be. Humidity had rolled in and the temperature jumped up to 34°C.

One would think I would have paused at this point and called for a lift to meet my comrades for the evening’s adventures. However, there were scheduling conflicts related to our escape times, and it seemed so unnecessary anyway. Making my way to join with them at the Aon Center, I almost wished I had called for ride.

The sun was sinking behind the superstructures quickly though, and shade was becoming more abundant, so the wish vanished before it had time to congeal. There was a moment of confusion in the heat, while I lingered at the southwest corner of the building waiting. She agreed to meet me there. However, I was unaware that corner of the building extended below street level.

A view of the southwest corner of the Aon Building

Resolving this minor crisis, we promptly detoured through a nearby market to organize accompaniment to our scheme for the evening, related to lounging on the lawn. This sort of activity necessitates the gathering of blankets, beverages, and snacks. It would just not be proper otherwise; indeed, without as much would leave one begging around the lawn, instead of lounging.

The park was just across the street and with our various sundries in hand, we entered efficiently, without impedance, and landed a perfect spot in the shade of Fornelli Tower, and in perfect view of the stage at the J. Pritzker Pavilion of Millennium Park.

Panoramic shot of the J Pritzker Pavilion at Millennium Park
One of my favorite venues in all of the United States, this pavilion with huge polished steel looking curly cues surrounding a stage set before a massive lawn, against a backdrop of skyscrapers all around. It is at once peaceful and chaotic.

The bands fired up almost immediately on our arrival, as if on cue. It was good to know that they received our message to delay until our arrival. They played well, and ended early enough to get yet more wandering the streets under my belt.

My friends implored me to ride back with them, as the walk back was too great a distance in the heat. I assured them that I would be fine, and actually looked forward to the quiet walk back to the hotel; well, as quiet as Michigan Avenue can be at 9 pm on a Thursday night.

Looking west towards Michigan Avenue from Randolph Street

As I began the trek northward, I suddenly realized that we had really done nothing but snack and enjoy a variety of malted beverages the entire evening. It seemed sufficient at the time, and even when departing, but the walking reminded me that I need something with a bit more substance.

I recalled seeing Giordano’s up by the fabulous old and somewhat eerie water tower, and decided that might be a good option. Indeed, although it was packed full of folks waiting on pizza, it turned out to be no wait for a lone traveler willing to take his meal at the bar. I was not able to enjoy their fine pizza pie, but the meatball sub was just as good, and ended the evening nicely.


After handling various duties and obligations Friday morning, it was time to bid farewell to the windy city. It was only a 15 minute walk down to the Orange Line, according to Google Maps, so I decided to skip bidding adieu to the busload of zombies. Those on the Orange Line would have the pas the message along to the others.

Enjoying one last walk through the streets, I arrived in due time at the platform. The ride back to Midway was uneventful, excepting an argument with the transit machine, prior to entering the platform. It and its companion refused my credit card several times over. I now understand the plight of those usually found lingering nearby, asking for change to catch the next bus or train. I narrowly escaped the same fate.

Douglas SBD Dauntless suspended from the ceiling at Midway Airport

The flight back was equally uneventful. Skies were clear in Chicago, and only beginning to cloud up back in Kansas City. Everywhere in between, a series of low flying clouds associated with one front or hovering just below the wings.

It had been a great trip; the day portions, as interesting as they could be and the nights, enjoyable in the warm company of friends with which I spend entirely too little time.

Saturday, July 23, 2016

Crossing Kansas out of Colorado


Eastbound out of Winter Park, through Denver, across Colorado and Kansas.


After one trip down to the village for breakfast, the path began winding down through Berthoud Pass.  The weekend had come, a festival was planned, and traffic headed into the little mountain town with increasing frequency.  Our plans coincided perfectly with everyone else.


A return to the harried civilization at the foot of the front range seemed not quite so pressing.  One last chance to enjoy peaceful solitude along the banks of a clear running stream stood more important as the trail turned east towards the chaos of the Interstate.  


Denver offered the much anticipated increasing array of chaos until finally arriving in the northern suburbs.  A brief visit with comrades from that town found a continuation of a unique style of painting. The recent move to the mountains seemed to have changer the scale of the work though.  Some pieces were as much 2 meters long.


Beyond the hustle of Denver, the new sentinels of the prairies dotted an otherwise blissfully empty landscape. It remained the Interstate though.  While an undesirable route, it had offered the opportunity to spend the previous day relaxing in Winter Park.


It also enabled a stop at a favorite location in Burlington, just before the jump into Kansas.  The Kit Carson Carousel is always a fun treat, if the season is cooperative.  One of about 150 remaining wooden carousels carved in the America, it is protected inside a wooden structure, but is not open year round.


Otherwise, this survivor of the last few centuries resides at the Kit Carson County Fairground and regularly spins visitors up to 19 kph. While the animals do not go up and down, this sixth of 74 carousels built by Philadelphia Toboggan Company between 1904 and 1933, is one of the fastest!


The plains across I-70 unfolded at lightening speed, offering few opportunities to really stop and soak in the wide-open landscape. Feed lots, freshly harvested fields and the sun raced by though the remainder of the afternoon. It eventually gave into little more than the lights of passing traffic and home.



This 3,800 kilometre journey comes to a close.  The adventure across the Front Range, into the Uinta Basin, and back again witnessed some of the most beautiful landscapes and offered up multiple new opportunities for future excursions.
. . .

Further Reading




Popular Variations