Monday, September 24, 2007

The Great Western Expedition: Amber Waves of Grain

Where does the historic western United States start? Some might claim the Mississippi River, pointing to the St. Louis' claim to the phrase "Gateway to the West". Others might argue it begins at the Rocky Mountains. Ask some East Coasters, and they'll say everything past the Appalachians.

Although the Mississippi is certainly a major dividing line, the states on the west bank aren't really that different than the states on the east bank. Conversely, drawing the line at the Rockies would cut out much of the fabric that makes up the west. And nobody but the most self-absorbed Yankee believes that the trans-Appalachian Great Lakes and Southeast states are synonymous with the "Wild West".

Having had the opportunity to travel much of the Great Plains and Rockies, I certainly developed my own opinion on the boundary. The truth is, their isn't a clear cut line between the East and the West. On the muddy shores of the Mississippi, a small amount of the West can be found. As you go west across Iowa, past the rolling farmlands and the cities of Iowa City and Des Moines, the trees start decreasing, and the terrain becomes more and more western. By the time you reach the Missouri at Council Bluffs, the west has certainly asserted itself, although you are clearly still in the Midwest. Even the first crossing of the Platte River outside Omaha doesn't mean you are in the west.

Past Omaha, Lincoln, and Grand Island you find the small town of Kearney. The site of a former fort, it is now the home of a museum of western history. A big feature of that museum is a walkway over I-80, an unofficial gateway to the west. Once I passed under this walkway, I truly felt I had left the Midwest behind me, and was in the seductive grasp of the West.

As you go past Kearney, the terrain starts to really take the shape of the high plains. In western Nebraska, the farmlands cannot operate without irrigation, and as such the channels that provide the lifeblood of this great breadbasket are constantly in view from I-80. Irrigation is so prevalent at this time of the year that the Platte River was nothing but a muddy river bed with occasional pools of water.

Western Nebraska is the land of the great trails. I-80, the modern gateway between the great cities of the East and the golden lands of California, is the most prevalent. Before it, however, came US 30, the Lincoln Highway, and the Union Pacific Railroad. But the history of this corridor goes back farther than the Transcontinental Railroad. Following the Platte River were the historic Mormon and Oregon trails. Whether by foot, Conestoga wagon, rail car, or automobile, millions of Americans traveled through these lands looking for a new life.

I of course wasn't looking for a new life, but just passing through on my current one. Despite many different things to see calling me, I had to continue on, for I had a long way to go. As I reached western Nebraska, the sun was going down, and a fierce rainstorm was forming. As I headed towards the Wyoming border, I was struck by the beauty of the rain storm. Isolated, yet strong, it rolled over the hills of the high plains, coming ever closer to my car.

Marveling at the majesty of this storm, I stopped at a rest area to take some pictures. As I took pictures of the storm to the west, I turned around and saw a magnificent site. Sitting in sharp contrast to the storm clouds was a full rainbow.

I captured some pictures of this rainbow, and headed on my way, in awe of this stunning site. Although not as picturesque as the Rockies, or as powerful as the Redwoods, this storm showed me why the Great Plains hold a special place in my heart. The openness, the raw beauty, and the enduring strength of this region represents a large part of what makes the United States a great place to live.

As the sun went down, I crossed the border into Wyoming. Without a doubt I was in the west, although still not at the Rockies. I spent the entire day, over 14 hours of driving in all, crossing the Great Plains. However, Saturday would be the day I reached its end, and moved into the mountainous west.

After a relaxing meal, I jumped into bed at the hotel, wanting to get to sleep quickly. For I would have another long drive ahead of me. Ahead of me were the Rockies, and the High Deserts of Utah and Nevada. I was a day closer, but still far from the crashing waves of the mighty Pacific.

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