One Family’s 28-day Wild Odyssey Across the Western U.S.
Chapter 2 – A Westward Expansion. Columbia, Mo to Chamberlain, SD
In the velvet dark of the pre-dawn hours, I reluctantly emerged from the soft cocoon of my hotel bed. We had brought the portable freezer and battery bank inside to plug in for the night. I took the quiet time before everyone else was roused from sleep to get as much in the van as possible. Diem was already awake upon my return, gathering the rest of our things. We ushered up the girls, shaking off the remnants of sleep that clung stubbornly to their eyes. The tone of the early morning was that of a band of rag-tag lost boys who just realized they would be getting up very early, every day, for the entire vacation.
We were a motley crew. Despite the disheveled state, an air of anticipation crackled amongst us, a testament to the journey ahead. Today would be another long drive, but we were close to our immediate goal of officially entering the West. Each day’s mileage will drop considerably once we cross the bulk of South Dakota. The idea has always been to push west as fast as we can. We would then drop to 300 miles or less a day after that, before finding ourselves in Texas a month from now and doing this again for the long sprint home.
The breakfast that awaited us in the hotel lobby was substantial enough but rushed. A paradoxical combination of merely sustenance and haste. I particularly remember the line to get waffles. I stood there, recalling brunch service from my past and going through the exact reasons and solutions to avoid people waiting 20 minutes for a waffle. It was all consumed with an odd mixture of enjoyment, dissatisfaction, and urgency. I struggled, aware that every moment there meant a delay in our departure from Columbia.
As we finally loaded the van, there was an intricate dance of packing and repacking, a delicate Tetris game of maneuvering luggage and supplies until everything was perfectly in its designated place. As we rolled on, Columbia faded behind into the soft pastel hues of the early morning light.
Turning North
We reached Kansas City by 9 am, its bustling, rush-hour streets bathed in the bright, silvery hue of the morning sun. The low angle of the light threw elongated shadows on the scene, lending an ethereal quality to the bright early morning cityscape. It was here, in Kansas City, we hopped onto I-29 and pointed our compass north.
The monotony of the seemingly endless farmland was broken only by the meandering path of the Missouri River. Its languid flow sliced through the uniform landscape, a ribbon of shimmering blue serpentine against the endless canvas of wheat, corn, and soy fields. It was a welcoming sight. A soothing antidote to the stretches of flat, monotonous farmland that seemed to extend into infinity. It was also the protagonist in this story, the true keeper of the path west. It was the Missouri River that Lewis and Clark were to map and search for its source and hopefully find portage to the Columbia. When they left the Missouri River behind, they entered the unknown lands of the West. We, too, would eventually leave the Missouri River behind and officially begin our push into the now-charted west.
As we ventured further into Iowa, the cloud-scattered sky darkened and swelled, heavy with the coming storm. Just short of Omaha, the skies opened up and painted the land with rain. A certain kind of rain that only the Great Plains knows how to stir up. It’s a hearty, boisterous rain, thunderous in its resonance, each drop cascading down with the weight of an epic symphony. It’s the kind of rain that whispers tales of cyclones and tempests, spun from the wildest folklore of these plains, harboring enough might to whisk away a solitary pig farm like a rag doll in the wind.
A surprise detour, courtesy of our GPS, led us through Council Bluffs across the river from downtown Omaha, just as the clouds dissipated. The detour proved to be a serendipitous surprise. We lost ourselves in a time capsule, each building a relic from a bygone era. A period painting of mid-19th-century middle America. The old houses’ charming architecture and weathered facades spoke volumes of the town’s history, their silent stories whispered in the wind. One, in particular, had a dreary, cold, and damp Stephen King look. We allowed ourselves a few moments to appreciate this unexpected side trip before resuming our journey, weaving our way back onto the open interstate of I-29.
It was around noon when we reached Sioux City. We were getting close. One by one, we overtook the great cities of the plains. And here we came to what was, in Lewis and Clark’s time, the end of the known world. Nestled amidst its urban tapestry, Sioux City overflows with history. One spot, in particular, was a beacon of historical significance that piqued my curiosity. The monument is dedicated to Sergeant Floyd of the illustrious Corps of Discovery.
Kentucky-born, Sergeant Charles Floyd was part of the Lewis and Clark Corps of Discovery, a pioneering expedition that ventured into the uncharted American West. His fortitude and unwavering commitment in death set an example for the corps, yet his journey was cut short. The only member of the expedition to lose his life, Floyd is believed to have succumbed to a suspected ruptured appendix in August 1804. A medical condition not entirely understood and untreatable at that time.
Floyd’s contributions to the expedition were not forgotten despite his premature death. His memory is immortalized in the Sergeant Floyd Monument in Sioux City, Iowa. This towering obelisk marks his final resting place and is a testament to his and the corps’ significant role in this important chapter of American history. His brave spirit inspires those who learn of his story. Cementing his place as a fundamental figure in exploring America’s vast frontier.
“…I am dull & heavy been up the greater part of last night with Sergt. Floyd, who is as bad as he can be to live…We set out under a gentle breeze from the S.E…. We came to make a warm bath for Sergt. Floyd, hoping it would brace him a little. Before we could get him into his bath he expired with a great deal of composure. Haveing said to me before his death that he was going away and wished me to write a letter. We burried him to the top of a high round hill overlooking the river & country. For, a great distance situated just below a small river without a name, to which we name & call Floyds River, the bluffs, Sergts. Floyds Bluff…. We burried him with all the honors of war, and fixed a ceeder post at his head with his name, title, and day of the month & year… We returned to the Boat & proceeded to the mouth of the little river 30 yard wide & camped a beautiful evening.”
– William Clark. Excerpt from the journal of the Corp of discovery, Monday, August 20, 1804.
A fragment of history chiseled into stone, the monument stood tall, a silent sentinel preserving the memory of Sergeant Floyd. It was a tale that I had first stumbled upon in the pages of Stephen Ambrose’s works, a tale that served as a testament to President Jefferson’s grand vision and the spirit of unyielding independence that fueled the Corps of Discovery. I took some time to look out over the river, imagining the corps on this very spot having buried Sergt Floyd and taking the time to honor him in what was purposefully a beautiful scene. Clark even comments on how beautiful the evening was in his journal. As we stood before the memorial, the echoes of the past reverberated around us, filling the air with an indescribable sense of awe and respect.
As we came down from the monument, we discovered Diem, Jennie, and Lisa taking pictures in the beautiful prairie adjacent to the monument and river. The lush fields with the deep blue river flowing in the backdrop gave an incredible view. It allowed us all to discuss the incredible scene around us and the importance of its history.
After exploring the monument, we needed to push forward as fast as we could, so rather than take the time to prepare lunch, we swung in the local Taco Bell. Always an easy choice as everyone can find something they will enjoy. Which is almost always chicken quesadillas. We took half an hour to grab a bite and discuss the coming days. Today would be one of the less glamorous days of the journey. A couple of sights, but mostly open interstate and lots of miles.
Our appetites satiated, we hopped back onto the highway. This time catching I-90 at Sioux Falls, South Dakota. We reset our compass westward, leaving behind the urban landscape of Sioux Falls to embark on a journey across America’s Great Plains. The road stretched before us, bounding through a mesmerizing tapestry of rolling green hills and endless tree-pocked prairies. These lush landscapes, a testament to the generosity of the seasonal rains, promised to be our constant companions for the next couple of days.
Our new guide, I-90 West, led us on an enchanted journey through a realm that seemed to be painted in the entire spectrum of green. The pastures undulated gently, extending into the distance till they kissed the horizon, their emerald hues broken only by the forest green tree tops. It was a spellbinding sight, a living painting that held us in thrall with its vastness and beauty.
The afternoon was slowly fading as we reached Mitchell, South Dakota. Mitchell, South Dakota, is home to a unique architectural marvel that intrigues and amuses visitors equally – the famed Corn Palace. Known for its whimsicality and kitschy charm, the Corn Palace was an unmissable stop on any journey across South Dakota. We found parking downtown and walked around the center of the small plains city. It had so many cues of its wild west past. Many buildings still showcase the unmistakable wooden facades of an old wild west town.
We walked up to get a family selfie before the Corn Palace when we chanced upon a couple hailing from Tennessee. Their thick, honeyed accents were unmistakable. Her words rolled off her tongue in the distinctive Southern drawl I heard before exchanging our first greetings. She had just walked up to Diem in the hospitable and kind southern way and just started talking to her about the scene. I came across the conversation, and an instantaneous bond formed, anchored in our shared passion for travel and being Southerners. That kind of immediate kinship Southerners often have. They had once lived in Atlanta. We laughingly discussed landmarks and places to narrow down how close together we once lived. They gave us pointers on some things that lay ahead as they were going in the opposite direction home. After enjoying good conversation, we bid farewell and entered the fabled Corn Palace.
Right in the heart of Mitchell, South Dakota, stands a marvel that’s as quirky as it is charming. A true testament to the ingenuity and vision of the American frontier. The Corn Palace was erected in 1892. Its birth was a calculated effort to mark Mitchell on the map. A unique landmark that would draw eyes and feet toward this budding frontier town. I was quite impressed to learn that the Corn Palace here in Mitchell was once one of many built across the open plains. All intended to draw tourists to their frontier towns. Now it stands alone as a silent memorial to a bygone era of the American frontier. Over a century later, the Corn Palace in Mitchell still commands attention, serving as a monument to human imagination and a bustling arena for local sports teams and events.
Its unique facade sets the Corn Palace apart and makes it a spectacle. The entire exterior of the edifice and all the artwork inside the arena floor is meticulously adorned with twelve distinct varieties of corn. The rainbow of hues, ranging from the deepest vermillion red to the most vibrant yellow, turns the arena into a colossal work of art. Each ear of corn is carefully bisected, their halves nailed meticulously in place, creating intricate designs that transform the building into a dynamic, living canvas.
This grand spectacle is not stagnant. Each year, the Palace undergoes a metamorphosis. Fresh corn is brought in, new designs are conceived, and roughly $130,000 is invested to replenish the artistic masterpiece. An annual ritual, the townsfolk gather to witness this rebirth, celebrating the old and embracing the new. The process is a marvel, a ballet of labor and love that pays homage to the town’s past while carrying forward its unique tradition.
Today Mitchell sits on the edge of the largest corn-producing region in the world. And incidentally, it’s most efficient. In the United States, a single hectare of land will produce, on average, 10,532.3 kg of corn. Its closest competitor, China, with a still impressive 6,317.1 kg per hectare. With over 32,950,670 hectares under production, the United States produces a staggering 347,047,570 tons of corn annually. I also thought these facts about America were important for the girls to learn. Our journey will be filled with many little lessons like this. I had to instill as much knowledge about our wonderful country as possible in this month-long journey. The massive production of vast corn crops across the wide expanses of the plains was a perfect setting for the Corn Palace, the champion of the now ubiquitous food crop.
Inside the Palace were concessions and a timeline museum that filled the exterior wall and extended around the arena. No events were scheduled today, so the floor was filled with rolling shelves and cases displaying the regular kitschy souvenirs one finds in such places. Only here, it was mostly in the spirit of the Palace’s specialty, corn. Corn holders, corn soup mixes, corn magnets and stickers, corn games, corn dog treats, and pet clothes. It was anything and everything corn. We explored the baubles and keepsakes and took photos among the photo-op displays before making our purchases and exiting.
Again, the allure of the open road called us forth, pulling us away from the fun confines of the Corn Palace and into the boundless expanse of the American plains. As we moved further along our path, the vibrant sunset started painting the sky with brilliant hues of orange and pink, marking the end of another day of adventure. The bugs that had met their unfortunate end against our windshield were a testament to the many miles we’d covered. As the windshield transformed into a mosaic of dust and insect remains, the van’s cameras flashed error messages, their delicate sensors obscured by the detritus of our journey. Pulling into a nearby gas station, we gave the windshield a thorough cleaning, restoring my own and the cameras’ sight and ensuring our safe onward journey.
Our next destination, and last for the day, Chamberlain, SD, was a welcome sight. The last of the long open interstate runs, we had pushed over 1300 miles in two days. Our next pace would cover that distance in over four days. It was time to slow down and enjoy our journey. Set against the stunning backdrop of gently rolling hills, Chamberlain was a portrait of idyllic small-town America. The quaint downtown area buzzed with life. The parks filled with cheerful families basking in the warmth of the setting sun. It was as quaint and picturesque of a small town as I have been,, in this great land. The town’s centerpiece was a beautiful bridge. Its industrial arches stretch across the tranquil river like a sleeping giant, contributing to the serene beauty of the town.
Our day of adventure had left us weary yet fulfilled. Eager for respite, we ordered pizza and wings, and the girls took a refreshing dip in the hotel’s pool. I drove to the small-town Italian restaurant and had a cold beer in the bridge’s shadow. The sun had begun a stunning chromatic dance of silver and gold across the shimmering river and memorial bridge. As I drank my beer, I watched the families, couples, and take-out customers come and go. I sat in the illuminating conversations and interactions of those around me, getting a little insight into small-town life on the open plains.
As I returned to the hotel, arms laden with pizza and wings, the girls, cold from a frigid dip, retreated to the warmth of our room. Outside, as the last vestiges of daylight reluctantly receded, the world beneath began to unfurl its nightly panorama. One by one, distant stars punctured the deepening twilight. Their glimmers a faint echo of the incandescent spectacle taking place light-years away. This celestial performance painted a backdrop vast and grandiose, a universe’s symphony viewed from beneath an endless sky.
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