One Family's 28-day Wild Odyssey Across the Western U.S.
Chapter 2: A Westward Expansion. Columbia, Mo to Chamberlain, SD
In the dark of the pre-dawn hours, I reluctantly emerged from 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, there was an air of anticipation amongst us. 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. 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 a delicate Tetris game of packing and repacking luggage and supplies until everything was perfectly in its designated place. As we rolled on, Columbia faded behind in the early morning light.
Turning North
We reached Kansas City by 9 am, its rush-hour streets bathed in the bright morning sun. The low angle of the light threw elongated shadows on the scene. 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 of wheat, corn and soy fields. It was a welcoming sight and a soothing antidote to the stretches of flat, monotonous farmland. 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, heavy with the coming storm. Just short of Omaha, the skies opened up with 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. It's the kind of rain that tells tales of cyclones and tempests from the wildest folklore of these plains, with enough might to whisk away a solitary pig farm.
A surprise detour, courtesy of our GPS, led us through Council Bluffs across the river from downtown Omaha just as the clouds dissipated, and the detour proved to be a serendipitous surprise. We lost ourselves in a time capsule of mid-19th-century middle America, each building a relic from a bygone era. The old houses' charming architecture and weathered facades spoke volumes of the town's history. 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, and 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, and Sioux City overflows with history. One spot in particular 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 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 Corps of Discovery, Monday, August 20, 1804.
The monument stood tall, 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 of 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, there was 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. It is 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, with 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 set out across America's Great Plains. The road stretched before us through rolling green hills and endless tree-pocked prairies. These landscapes, lush from the seasonal rains, promised to be our constant companions for the next couple of days. Our new guide, I-90 West, led us through the entire spectrum of green. The pastures undulated gently, extending into the distance till they reached the horizon, broken only by the forest green tree tops. It was a spellbinding sight in its vastness and beauty.
The afternoon was slowly fading as we reached Mitchell, South Dakota. Mitchell, South Dakota, is home to the famed Corn Palace, a unique architectural marvel that intrigues and amuses visitors equally. 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 product of 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 with 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 busy 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 colors range from the deepest vermillion red to the most vibrant yellow and turn the arena into a colossal work of art. Each ear of corn is carefully bisected and the halves nailed meticulously in place, creating intricate designs.
This grand spectacle is not stagnant, and 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. The townsfolk gather to witness this annual ritual. The process is a marvel 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, its 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, has 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. There were 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 open road called us forth, pulling us away from the fun confines of the Corn Palace and into the American plains. As we moved further along our path, the sunset started turning the sky orange and pink. The bugs that had met their unfortunate end against our windshield showed the many miles we'd covered. As the windshield filled with dust and insect remains, the van's cameras flashed error messages, their delicate sensors obscured. We pulled into a nearby gas station and gave the windshield a thorough cleaning, restoring my own and the cameras' sight.
Our next destination, and last for the day, Chamberlain, SD, was a welcome sight. It was the last of the long open interstate runs, and 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 a backdrop of gently rolling hills, Chamberlain was a portrait of idyllic small-town America. The quaint downtown area buzzed with life and the parks filled with cheerful families 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.
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 to cast 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, the last of the daylight receded. One by one, distant stars punctured the deepening twilight, their glimmers a faint echo of the incandescent spectacle taking place light-years away. It was a backdrop vast and grandiose, viewed from beneath an endless sky.
One by one, distant stars punctured the deepening twilight, their glimmers a faint echo of the incandescent spectacle taking place light-years away.
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