BEATING THE HEAT - THE SCENIC WAY!

While I was at my RV “oasis” over the weekend in North Platte, I learned from the Weather Channel that much of the Midwest was in a severe heat wave, including Nebraska.  Careful, girl, when you’re on your hikes…and keep chugging that water.

Back on Rt. 30 W [on Monday, July 18th], I drove for about an hour and arrived at Ogallala, a town in central Nebraska named for the Oglala band of Lakota Sioux Indians.  Dubbed Nebraska’s “Cowboy Capital,” Ogallala is probably the embodiment of a “wild west” cow town, the “Gomorrah of the cattle trail.” as described by Andy Adams in his book, Log of a Cowboy.  With the Union Pacific Railroad located right there in town, Ogallala was, from 1875-1888, the end of the Texas Trail, the trail drovers used to herd longhorn cattle north from Texas.  While the thousands of herded longhorn were being sold and put on trains, the cowboys frequented Ogallala’s saloons, the poker tables, and the ladies.  With all that pent-up testosterone let loose, stuff happened.    

Driving a little bit around the now-peaceful town, I stopped to visit Boot Hill, “…a common name for a western cemetery where the people buried there could have died with their boots on or even buried with their boots on.”  Life was difficult, and violent as well, during the town’s period as the “Trail’s End” and the cemetery was the final resting place for gunfighters, cowboys, drifters, travelers, and local folk.  When the town later established a new cemetery – a “nicer” one – some families arranged to have the bodies of loved ones transferred to the new cemetery.  Abandoned and left in disarray, it was years before city officials took responsibility for Boot Hill and the remaining graves on the site.  Unless they’ve missed a few, I don’t think there are any more graves at this cemetery.  In reverence to the people who were buried there, and to commemorate the history of the time, there are replica wooden planks engraved with names and years around the site. 

  

This bronze statue of THE TRAIL BOSS, on the site of the Boot Hill Cemetery in Ogallala, NE, is a copy of an identical statue in Dallas, Texas.  It represents a cattle herder who "...is contemplating what to do next with his cattle."  

After getting a bite of lunch I then drove along the southern length of Lake McConaughy on Rt. 26 W – the “Western Trails Scenic & Historic Byway.”  Near the west end of the lake, and just before making the turn to drive along the northern length, I stopped to visit the Ash Hollow State Historical Park, near Lewellen.  A homesteader made his home here, building his house from stones, and his homestead was a resting spot for settlers traveling on the California-Oregon Trail.  This area did not make for an easy route and the nearby Windlass Hill was a real challenge for the travelers.  Wagon wheel ruts are also visible here, according to my brochure.    

Cold bottle of water in my shorts pocket, I walked on a concrete path up the hill.  The view from up there was incredible.  I very much doubt, though, the folks traveling this way enjoyed that view as much as I did.  They were too busy to bask in that luxury.  The slope down Windlass Hill was very steep and the descent “…was accomplished in several ways – some tied ropes to the back of their wagons and used ‘people-power’ to slow them; others used their oxen, and still others locked the wheels to make them slide.”  Trying to wrap the image of such a treacherous descent around my mind, I had to remind myself that this hillside and the terrain around me have been significantly tamed since the pioneers came through.  It was a lot more rugged back then.

To the untrained eye (that would be mine), the wagon wheel ruts are hard to find.  I’m not one hundred percent certain, but I think I may have spotted a section of these ruts.  I was standing on a footbridge over what I thought was some sort of ditch.  An informative sign said that “this ravine” was created by the heavy volume of iron wagon wheels that came this way.  Okay, so the wheels were made of iron.   A lot of wagons, each one heavy in itself and carrying hundreds of pounds of supplies, would certainly leave deep “scars” on the earth.  Another sign, adjacent to the ravine, pointed towards the direction of the California-Oregon Trail. 

Behind the ravine was the hill.  The ground directly in front of and beyond the ravine was level and clear, probably due to farming and/or improvements.  Keeping my sightline on the direction of that ravine, I looked up an incline and stopped, fixing my focus on some markings on the surface that appeared unusual.  There were several deep grooves in the ground and on either side of the grooves were what looked like trails or footpaths.  Are those grooves the wagon wheel ruts?  Were those trails made by people walking on either side of the wagons?  I’d like to think so, but I don’t know. 

The view as seen from atop Windlass Hill, Ash Hollow State Historical Park.  That's my truck camper in the parking area.



The incline the travelers crossed, beyond the "ravine," as they continued on the California-Oregon Trail (Ash Hollow State Historical Park). 



Close up view of the same incline.  Are those wagon wheel ruts in the center?  Are those footpaths on either side?



Rt. 92 E took me along the northern part of Lake McConaughy until I reached the headquarters at the lake’s eastern end.  At full capacity, the lake is 22 miles long, four miles wide, and 142 feet deep at the deepest point.  It also has 105 miles of white sand beaches.  Nicknamed “Big Mac,” the lake is Nebraska’s largest reservoir and a very popular year-round recreational area for campers, boaters, wind surfers, scuba divers, and ice boaters.  Swimming, fishing and hunting are also popular activities here. 

Getting the campground information that I needed from headquarters, I stopped first at the campground on Martin Bay.  This was primitive camping (no hookups) and the place was packed!  I couldn’t see any white beaches because, just like the Platte River which is connected to the lake, the water level here was also very high.  Moving on, the Little Thunder Campground on Arthur Bay was nearly full…maybe seven sites available.  Feeling tired (not to mention hot!), I agreed with myself that I should just pick a site and get settled.  The sites closest to the shoreline were all taken so I randomly picked #22.  As luck would have it, there was a path behind my site that led directly to a small beach.  I couldn’t believe it! 

First things first – pay for my site.  The metal slot for the payment envelope was located near the restrooms and as I approached, a little boy came running out.  He was completely nude and I think he was as surprised to see me as I was to see him.  I smiled at him but then had to laugh later.   



Martin Bay, Lake McConaughy.

In no time I was in the blissfully cool lake.  The beach was mostly covered by the water but the sand was soft and I could practically sit down cross-legged with the water up to my neck.  There were some kids playing nearby and I noticed that they were dropping something into a hole that they had dug out from a sandy bank.  I couldn’t see what it was they were catching and dropping in that hole but my curiosity peaked and my maternal instinct for the helpless living creature was aroused.  So I got up, went over there and, for the second time on this trip, I asked – “What are you doing?”

The little girl (9 years old maybe) answered that they were putting (unintelligible) in the hole.  You’re putting what in the hole?  “Toads,” she said.  I looked and, indeed, there were a lot of toads in there, maybe 20 or more.  I asked her why and she said so they can watch them all jump out later.  At that point this lady who must have been the girl’s mother came up and reassured me that the kids were not hurting the toads, that they will release them later (they did). 

Liberated toad (Lake McConaughy). 

The next morning [Tuesday, July 19th] I went back to the lake for a quick dip before leaving.  I took a very scenic drive (Routes 61 N - 92 E – 83 N – 2 E) through what is generally regarded as Nebraska’s most extraordinary geological landscape.  I will be taking a different and longer route through this region later and will write about it then.  In good time, I arrived at the Nebraska National Forest Bessey Ranger District, near Halsey.  This forest, created in 1902 by proclamation from President Theodore Roosevelt, is unique because the trees here were planted by hand.  Named for Charles E. Bessey, a professor of botany in the late 1800s, the Bessey Tree Nursery is located on the premises and has, since 1903, produced seedlings for pine and other trees.

Campground site sketch in hand, I drove around the first loop before realizing it was primitive.  No, I want electricity, so I drove around a second loop but didn’t find a spot I liked.  OK, let’s see what the third loop looks like.  Ah, the Middle Loup River is right there!  And, as luck would have it (again!) there was an access to the river.  I took advantage of that access, of course, and went right in.  The river, interestingly enough, was very shallow, or maybe the sandbar was higher than usual at that particular section.  The water came up to my calves and all I could do was sit down – and lay down, too.  It felt good but, as I discovered later, the flowing river did deposit sand in my hair.  That’s OK, there’s more than one reason why I had my hair shorn Clipper #3 for this trip!

As I write this, it’s Wednesday, July 20^th and I’m at the Calamus Reservoir State Recreation Area, near Burwell.  Taking Routes 2 E - 91 E – 96 N through beautiful countryside, I got here after driving for about 90 minutes.  This is Nebraska’s newest large reservoir and the site of a major fish hatchery.  Fishing and other water-related recreation are available here.  None of the camping sites, sad to discover, are within view of the lake.    

There’s a beach here and I wanted to go find it.  Taking my camera and camcorder, I found a path and followed that down to the lake.  The water was a beautiful blue.  The sky was a beautiful blue, made all the more lovely by the contrast with the horizon of green trees.  And the beach -- it had a beautiful stretch of white sand.  There were some adults and kids on the beach, swimming, playing, and sitting around.  Noticing a small grove of trees further up the beach, I walked towards that area.  There was nobody there.  I looked at the lake.  I watched the gentle waves lapping on the beach.  Darn if I didn’t think to put my swim suit on.  It has been hot, relentlessly so.  I continued to look at the lake, so very inviting.  Oh, what the heck!  I took off my shoes, my socks, and my shorts and wearing just my undies and t-shirt, I went right in the water!  A fish jumped the surface.  Birds flew in and around that small grove of trees.  I stayed right there in the blessedly cool water for a good 20 minutes or so!   

Towards late afternoon, after I’d caught up with a bit of my writing, I put on my swim suit and went back to the beach, bringing with me my blue chair, my water bottle, and my book.  It was nice, really nice, but my earlier dip in the lake was somehow more fulfilling and exciting.   



Calamus Reservoir State Recreation Area.



Ohhh, a respite from the heat!  The moon last night and the flashes of lightning, both visible through my cabover window, lulled me to sleep.  It was cloudy and a lot cooler this morning [Thursday, July 21^st] and the perfect day to go check out a fort.

Taking Rt. 11 E – the “Loup Rivers Scenic Byway” – I turned onto a farm road for about three miles and arrived at the Fort Hartsuff State Historical Park, located between Burwell and Elyria.  With a military infantry of about 55 soldiers, the fort was in service from 1874-1881.  Its primary purpose was to provide protection to homesteading settlers and to the neighboring Pawnee tribe who were being constantly attacked by the Sioux.  Because of the scarcity of timber in this area, the fort’s buildings were constructed of a lime concrete, so durable that nine buildings still stand today.  They’ve been restored and many of the rooms are full of period antiques and clothing that were donated or purchased at auction.  The infantry rifles and ammunition, medical and other artifacts are all locked in glass cases, but I was surprised at how open and accessible many things were.  There were a few touristy children running through those rooms and that made ME nervous!

The life of a soldier at a fort such as this is always interesting to learn about.  But, what of the people who supported the soldier?  One of the buildings housed the living and working quarters for the fort’s baker and his family, and for the laundresses and their families.  The baker, every day he fired up this huge brick oven, kneaded dough by hand, and baked one pound of bread for each soldier.  Every day! 

The laundresses, my gosh -- it took three days to do the laundry for one soldier!  They had to mend the clothing first, to repair rips and holes because those will otherwise grow larger during the wash.  Then the entire cleaning process required soaking the clothing, grabbing the Tide – ooops, that’s my detergent, they used soap they made themselves – rubbing out the potpourri of stains (grass, mud, blood, etc.) then scrubbing the clothes on the washboard, followed by a rinsing, followed by a soaking in boiling water to kill the lice and other vermin (ticks would be a good example), followed by a soaking in cold water, and then hanging them up to dry, but not letting them get too dry because they still had to press them, and let’s also not forget the starch.   I may have overlooked a couple of steps or got the order out of sequence, but that’s the gist of it.

After about two hours of walking around and reading the posted informative signs, and petting a resident orange cat, I was on my way south to Grand Island via Routes 11 E – 92 E – 281 S.  By the time I got my site at the Mormon Island State Recreation Area, the heat and mugginess had crept back.  Fortunately, this small state park also has a small lake with a swimming beach.  All I needed was just ten minutes in the water.  Truth be told, I hope this relentless “heat dome,” which is how today’s local paper described it, will move on…and soon!




Officers's Quarters, Fort Hartsuff.



Inside the Officers' Quarters - parlor looking into the dining room (Fort Hartsuff). 



 

Fort baker's brick oven (Fort Hartsuff).

 

Doing the laundry by hand is hard work…ya think?  Try washing a cow! 

As American as apple pie are the summertime county and state fairs that take place all over the USA.  Nebraska has a lot of counties – 89, I think – and most, if not all, of the counties are hosting a fair during July and August.  As, it happens, the very weekend I’m here in Grand Island, the Hall County Fair is taking place.  I like going to fairs in other states because it presents the perfect opportunity to observe the local folk.  I’m always drawn to the farm animals, too.  

After relocating from the state park to the Grand Island KOA [on Friday, July 22^nd], I went to the fair.  All the exhibitions were inside a large airy and cool arena.  One section featured the usual arts and crafts, photography, quilts, farm produce, baked goods, and assorted vendors.  Judging had already taken place and there were lots of colorful ribbons everywhere.  Walking around the section with the animals, I checked out the poultry, the rabbits, the goats and lambs, and the swine.  Some of the goats were dressed up for the costume contest.  The cows I saved for last.

It’s a true family affair to prepare a cow for judging.  Even the littlest kids, 2-3-4 years old, are involved.  They might be doing something as simple as holding a brush for their bigger sibling, or they will be hard at work on a calf of their own.  It is quite a process! 

The cows and calves are led to a large stall to be washed.  They almost always balk and it makes me laugh a little bit to watch all the tugging and shoving that goes on to get the cow or the calf to the faucets.  Dried dung is scrapped off first, the cows are hosed down, shampooed (I spotted Dawn dish soap), and rinsed.  One father was showing his little girl how to use the hose on her calf.  She’s in the 4-H competition and she’s learning something about responsibility and hard work.  One teenage girl, decked out in short shorts and decorated with manicured red fingernails, was soaping down a cow that was nearly as tall as she was.  Nothin’ to it, she seemed to say when she saw me watching her.  The cows are then led back to be dried off and groomed.  Yup, groomed, with clippers and all.    

In the judging arena about 20 kids and their calves were waiting to be called into the ring.  I was looking at a very small calf and the boy holding her asked me if I wanted to pet her.  I did and then I asked him how old she was.  Not understanding his response right then, a nearby adult stepped in and said the calf was six-weeks old.  The boy then caught on that I was deaf and he became much more articulate (even with his braces!) and used gestures as well to answer more of my questions.  Himself 8-years old, the boy said that he had observed how thin the calf was and they discovered that the mother had stopped feeding her.  So, he’s been taking care of her and she’s doing a lot better.  She’s a Black Angus, he said.  She was really cute and it was endearing the way she leaned on him.  Times like this is when I feel most conflicted and I just couldn’t – and didn’t – ask him what will happen to her after she’s full grown.

Back at the KOA I headed for the pool.  Tomorrow is Saturday – got laundry to do! 



My truck camper, surrounded by rolled bales of hay...somewhere along the Loup Rivers Scenic Byway.



MAKING FRIENDS...OF THE FURRY KIND!

Leaving the RV Park [in Nebraska City] on Tuesday morning, July 12^th, I looked to my right, towards Rt. 2 W, the direction I was supposed to take, and I looked to my left, the direction to the Missouri River and Iowa.  I didn’t hesitate.  I turned left. 

The roadblock stretched across all four lanes of the highway.  “Road Closed” was plastered everywhere.  There was also a sign forbidding pedestrians, bicycles, and motor-driven cycles.  I parked on a nearby shoulder and trotted (actually, I walked) over to the middle of those four lanes.  Looking through my binoculars, I was stunned to see where the highway on this, the Nebraska side, just abruptly ended and there was nothing but water.  You really have to feel for all the people, the animals, the communities, who have been displaced by this flooding.   



Route 2, going east from Nebraska City, NE to Iowa, ends abruptly due to flooded Missouri River.


After fueling up the truck I was soon back on Rt. 75 S for several miles and then turned west on Rt. 136 – the “Heritage Highway.”  The highway is so named because this corridor, rich in history throughout the small towns along the way, was a heavily traveled trail “…used by Indians, pioneers and settlers who migrated through Nebraska in the 1800s.”  Driving along the road it was interesting, and probably not surprising, to notice the miles and miles and acres and acres of cornfields.

At the town of Beatrice, I stopped to visit the Homestead National Monument of America, a fascinating museum that commemorates the history, impact, and lifestyle that resulted from the Homestead Act of 1862.  To encourage immigrants and other people to move west and populate the western half of the United States, Congress passed this law and “FREE LAND” was the motivating cry.  Signed by President Abraham Lincoln, the Homestead Act offered 160 acres of free land to qualified people – men, single and widowed women, immigrants, and freed slaves.  The deal was – build a home, farm the land, and if you show prosperity after five years, you’ll get the deed to the land. 

Ignored and pushed over and forced to live on less desirable or inhospitable land were the Indians themselves.  Free land?  This was their ancestral land!  It was inevitable perhaps.  Progress demanded it.  I just wish our Native Americans were treated better, fairly, and with respect.  They weren’t savages.  They were an angry and devastated people.

The museum is on the 160-acre property that belonged to Daniel Freeman, the first homesteader.  Stones mark where Freeman and his wife are buried but there are no original structures still standing other than the 1867 Palmer-Epard Cabin which was moved here from a nearby homestead.  I walked around the property, which is now a restored tall grass prairie, on a 2-mile loop trail.  While wearing my hiking shoes and taking swigs of water from my store-bought water bottle, I tried to imagine living in a tiny and crude log or sod house and using my muscles to plow the land or dig a well for water or cut down trees or do the laundry by hand or prepare a meal of whatever these folks had available to eat.  It was a hard life, very hard indeed. 

I came back to the 21^st Century when I encountered a young fellow who, as it happened, wasn’t on the trail.  He was in the hip-high tall grass, writing materials in one hand, a GPS device in the other hand, a very empty looking water container hanging from a belt loop (it was a hot and humid day) and he was looking here and then turning to look there.  During one of his turns he saw me and we both smiled and said hello.  I had to ask, so I did – “What are you doing?”  He pointed to a tall plant which had a distinctive cluster of seeds and said that he was looking for that particular plant throughout the property and recording their locations.  I wanted to ask him whatever for but botanists are a species in themselves and I didn’t want to keep him from his assignment. 
  

Palmer-Epard Cabin, on the Daniel Freeman Homestead, Beatrice, NE.  The cabin was home to a nearby homesteading couple who had 10 children.    


Where to sleep tonight?  Looking over my materials for RV or state parks in the area, I discovered that the Rockford Lake State Recreational Area (“lake” will get my attention anytime!) was about 10 miles east of Beatrice AND it has “unsupervised swimming.”  When I got there I found the camping section with electricity but didn’t find the swimming area.  Most of these state campgrounds, because they are “pick-your-own-site-and-put-your-cash-in-the-envelope-and-put-the-envelope-in-the-metal-slot,” don’t have posted site maps and sometimes I have to drive around the area a little bit to get the lay of the land.  I was doing just that when I ran into this fellow who confirmed that he was the “Campground Host.”  I asked him where the swimming section was and he pointed to an area on the other side of the lake.  OK, I told him, I’ll be right back. 

Within 10 minutes I was on the other side and in the water.  Nobody there but me and about 10 turkey vultures hovering around directly above me.  For such ugly birds they do have a beautiful wingspan and a graceful soar.  Hover above me all you want, you beauts, but please don’t crap on me!  It sure did feel nice to get wet and cool off a bit, especially after that 2-mile loop walk!      

Returning to Beatrice [on Wednesday, July 13^th] I picked up some provisions at a grocery store and then continued on Rt. 136 W until I reached a farm road that led to the Rock Creek Station, a state historical park near Fairbury.  Established in 1857, Rock Creek Station was a road ranch that “…catered to stages, freight lines, and emigrant traffic on the Oregon Trail.”  It was also a Pony Express station.  Deep ruts, made by the many wagons that traveled along this trail, are visible at this site

Rock Creek Station was later purchased in 1859 by a man named David McCanles.  Separated by the creek, one side of his ranch was the West Ranch and the other was the East Ranch.  Travelers had to pay McCanles a toll to cross the bridge that he had built across the creek.  In addition to being shrewd, McCanles was apparently somewhat ruthless as well.  On July 12, 1861, outside the bunk house on the East Ranch, McCanles was shot and killed by James Butler Hickok, later known as “Wild Bill” Hickok. 

Hickok’s life as a gambler and gunfighter became legendary and he was glamorized over the years by different writers.  As the location of Hickok’s first killing, Rock Creek Station became an archaeological site and many items and artifacts from that period were found in the area.  A photograph of the East Ranch, taken around 1860, and old sketches of the entire area, made it possible to construct replicas of the structures that were on both sides of the ranch.  I spent about two hours walking around this place.
 

Some of Nebraska's wildflowers.

 

Rock Creek Station West Ranch, Fairbury, NE.  Wheel ruts are visible in the dip to the left of the foot path.  The wagons give perspective as to the direction the settlers came.

 

Rock Creek Station East Ranch.  The building in the foreground is a replica of the bunk house where "Wild Bill" Hickok committed his first killing.


As it was getting on into mid-afternoon I decided to call it a day and get back on Rt. 136 W for the 55-mile drive to Red Cloud.  I looked for and found the Green Acres Motel and RV Park.  Strolling into the office, there was a young boy, around 15 maybe, waiting for me and a registration form and pen were already on the counter.  As I said my hello, the door behind him opened and his brother came out.  They could’ve been twins only Brother #2 was taller and a few years older.  They were both very courteous and had the most charming smiles.  Their father appeared just as they were registering me and while that was going on I noticed a family photo on the wall.  Logos on the brothers’ t-shirts and the family photo indicated to me that this was a Christian family of five or six kids.  The two brothers then helped me get set up on a spot behind the motel.  In addition to providing electricity and water, they had cable! 

                                                                         

I made a friend for life!  As I was transferring stuff from the truck to the camper, this grey cat came out from somewhere and sauntered over to me.  It rubbed against my leg and let me pet it for a few minutes.  Then I met Brother #3, who confirmed that the cat belonged to the family and he also agreed that she was indeed very friendly.  He didn’t know how old she was but he let me know he was 11 years old and will be 12 soon. 

Too tired to really do anything else (e.g., write), I sat outside in my blue chair.  Grey Cat jumped up on my lap and, for a good 45 minutes, she allowed me to stroke and pet her before she jumped off onto the grass and groomed herself.  During that time of quiet and reflection, the brothers’ sister came home on her bike, toting what must have been her paper route bag, and then Brother #4, most likely the eldest, came home in his pick-up.  The family had two dogs inside the fenced yard and there were two horses next door.  Happy to comply and jump back up on my blue chair, I took pictures of Grey Cat.  She stayed there for awhile after I finally went inside the camper.         

  

Grey Cat, resident cat at RV Park in Red Cloud, NE.


I didn’t plan it this way but since crossing into Nebraska, I’ve driven along the northern border from west to east, the eastern border from north to south, and part of the southern border from east to west -- all on scenic byways.  There are scenic byways in central Nebraska as well and I’ve decided that now is the time to check out this region of the state.  From Red Cloud [on Thursday, July 14^th] I took Rt. 136 W to Rt. 10 N and headed for the Windmill State Recreation Area in Gibbon, arriving here around 11:00 a.m. 

This is a lovely state park and I’m glad I arrived here as early as I did.  It’s a good place to rest, to forget about driving for a little bit, and to catch up on some writing and reading.  There are five man-made lakes on the park and each one is stocked with different varieties of fish for fishing.  One lake has a swimming section and that’s the lake I’m closest to.  I went swimming around noon and then sat outside my camper to read for awhile.  I came inside to do my writing and, since I can see the lake from my dining area window, I’ve been glancing up very often to look at it.  There’s lush green grass and beautiful trees all around these lakes.  There are also three antique windmills, restored and operational, that were brought here from elsewhere.  It is peaceful here, serene and tranquil and, but for the birds, the dragonflies, and the chipmunks, not at all crowded.

I made another friend for life!  A puppy!  And not just any puppy – a five-week-old pure bred Brittany Spaniel!  Traveling in the camper, I never know what I will see over that hill, around that bend…or at that state park! 

I stepped outside the camper around 7:00 p.m. to read for awhile.  Across the way was an RV, but what was that next to it?  It looked like an enclosed pen and some white things were moving around in it.  Retrieving my trusty Russian-made binoculars, I looked and -- puppies!  The fella over there saw me looking and he waved me over.  Not one to pass up an invitation like that, I walked across that lush green carpet of grass (barefoot, too!) over to his camp site.  Letting him know first that I couldn’t hear, I then apologized for being so nosy and told him I had never seen an enclosed pen of puppies at a campground before.  We talked for awhile -- the mother dog, just outside the pen, had papers and she was an excellent hunting dog (pheasants); the puppies (seven total) were just about weaned and cost $400 each; he and his wife live in Nebraska and this is the second time they have traveled in their RV with mother and puppies.  He picked up one of the pups and gave it to me to hold.  Oh, I just fell in love with the little darling and his blue eyes (they will change later, he said), his teething teeth gnawing on my chin, his pink tongue and puppy-grin, his endearing puppy-breath, and his soft coat of fur.  Grey Cat yesterday and puppies today!  Never fails to bring a smile to my face!

Waving good-bye to the folks with the puppies, I left the lovely state park [on Friday, July 15^th] and drove for about 75 miles on Rt. 30 W to the town of Gothenburg.  The sky was dark and there was some lightning when I started out, but that cleared up fairly quick.  Rt. 30 -- the “Lincoln Highway Scenic & Historic Byway” -- is a straight stretch of road.  This is, by far, the flattest part of Nebraska I’ve driven on.  To my left, following along with me, were railroad tracks, and just beyond the tracks is I-80. 

"Wanted: Young, skinny, wiry fellows not over eighteen. Must be expert riders, willing to risk death daily. Orphans preferred." 

So said the advertisement for Pony Express riders.  Lasting only 18 months, from April 3, 1860 to October 1861, the Pony Express nevertheless has its place in America’s “wild west” history.  The young riders, who received from their employers a revolver, a rifle, and a Bible, carried the mail in padlocked pockets attached to a mochila, which fit over a saddle and was easily transferred when the rider changed horses at “swing” stations.  Along the route – St. Joseph, Missouri to Sacramento, California – there were 184 stations, set up about 10 miles apart, roughly the distance a horse could run at a gallop before tiring.  The riders themselves rode about 75 miles per day, stopping to rest at “home” stations.  The Pony Express ceased to operate when it was replaced by the telegraph.

Having seen the Pony Express station at Rock Creek, I wanted to see one more – the Sam Macchette Station in Gothenburg.  Originally a fur trading post and ranch house that was located along the Oregon Trail (southwest of Gothenburg), the structure was later used as a Pony Express station.  The station was moved to Gothenburg in 1931 and restored.  Inside the building is an exhibition area and gift shop – which explains the AC unit jutting out one of the windows and the electric meter in the back. 



Pony Express Station, Gothenburg, NE.


I also visited a nearby museum and learned from this nice white-haired gentleman that half of the immigrants who settled here were from Sweden and half were from Germany.  “Gothenburg,” he said, is the German spelling.  Not wanting to drive any further today, I then headed for the Lafayette Park Campground.  Isn’t “Lafayette” French?  We truly are a nation of immigrants!

The office was open but there wasn’t anybody there and the note on the door said I could pay in the morning.  So, I picked my site, got set up, and then walked over to the nearby Lake Helen.  No swimming there.  They’re having some sort of algae problem, so said the posted sign.  Didn’t seem to bother the duck and geese though. 

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the most annoying aspect of traveling in the camper.  We can’t avoid them, we have to live with them, and sometimes it’s not a good idea to ignore them.  With apologies to Mom, bless her heart and bless her soul, they can, they have, and they always will make me curse under my breath, or even out loud.  I sincerely do appreciate the bats and the birds.  They’ve got this huge banquet but they can’t get them all. 

I’m referring of course to the insects.  The mosquitoes, gnats, and flies (and I hate the ones that bite!) come with the territory and are always expected.  Spiders, too, but sometimes those will fascinate me.  Like the huge Daddy Long-Legs that were crawling all over the ground (not to mention a few that got on my tires) at one of the state parks last week.  Dragonflies and butterflies I do like – they’re beautiful and they leave you alone. 

And then there are the ticks – the insect you absolutely should not and must not ignore.  There’s a first time for everything and the first time can become a valuable lesson.  I pulled a tick off my head the other morning and found another tick on the blanket I use in the truck to cover my camera and camcorder.  Ah, my walk on the trails.  That’s what they do…they’ll hitch a ride on your clothing, or even on your camera strap, and then get on you.  Lesson learned – be more observant of my clothing, my equipment, and my self.     

As I write this, it’s Saturday, July 16^th and after nearly two weeks of hot and humid weather, I’ve found an oasis in central Nebraska – the Holiday RV Park in North Platte.  They have a swimming pool!  I got here early, about 10:30 a.m., secured a site for two days, and then took off to go visit the Buffalo Bill Ranch State Historical Park.

Closed!  The sign said the park was closed because of “forecast flooding.”  The North Platte River is very close to Col. William F. “Buffalo Bill” Cody’s ranch – Scout’s Rest Ranch.  This is the same river I had noticed near Nebraska City, being at very high levels.  On the drive into the city this morning, I crossed an overpass above the river and could see again that the river was quite high here, too.  Buffalo Bill’s beautiful house, which was constructed in 1886, and the barn, both restored and full of memorabilia from his “Wild West Show,” were surrounded by sand bags.  I walked around the grounds but was keenly disappointed I couldn’t go inside the buildings.  I would have loved to see Annie Oakley memorabilia as well.  Even the nearby buffalo pen was empty – they moved the buffalo elsewhere. 

Walking back to my truck through the empty parking lot, I noticed a whole bunch of extra sand bags in the middle of the lot.  Lemme go see if I can pick one up.  Ugh!  No can do! 



Buffalo Bill's house, surrounded by sand bags, North Platte, NE. 

  

Buffalo Bill's barn, also surrounded by sand bags.

 

Extra sand bags on Buffalo Bill's ranch.



One has to have a deep fondness for trains to really go bonkers over the next place I visited – the Union Pacific Bailey Yard, the world’s largest Railroad Classification Yard.  This rail yard is “…where east meets west on the Union Pacific line, and where 10,000 cars are handled each day on 2,850 acres of land stretching out eight miles.”  I’m not a train aficionado myself, but the panoramic view up in the eight-story Golden Spike Tower provided an incredible look at the array of locomotives and railroad cars on rows and rows of track that, if stretched out in one direction, would equal 315 miles.

Okay, back to the oasis for a much deserved dip in the pool.  I’ll be here tomorrow – time to drain the tanks and take care of other housekeeping chores. 

 

Union Pacific Bailey Yard, North Platte, NE.