From Topeka Kansas to Kearny Nebraska

 

 Greater Topeka--About last night—the outlook on arrival wasn't propitious—we found the hotel off the strip mall, behind Hooters, within earshot of the Interstate, but on closer inspection, it was clean, friendly and quiet. Though quiet refers to man made noise only, for as we sat by the pool [waterhole?] drinking a complimentary beer [who says this isn't a great country?] the noise of the cicadas in the surrrounding trees was deafening—like an orchestra of hair dryers tuning up. Their noisy efforts to deter predators forced our conversation to the level of a low shout  In noticing their noise we were in company.  They have been featured in literatrue since Homer's Iliad.  The local dining offerings did not include deep fried cicadas as they do in  other parts of the world, but the franchised fare of the strip mall included, Jack-in-the-box, McDonalds, Pizza Hut, and the rest, supplemented by some locals – a Mexican, a Freddies steakburger, and another place offering a deep fried Oreo cookie based churro-like object, capable of clogging all your arteries at a distance of 10 yards.

 

 The next morning we were wiggling our way up through Kansas to Nebraska then up and across Nebraska toward the great Platte River.  Here is where the plains really come into their own.  The rolling, semi-wooded nature of western Missouri now becomes the big-sky-far-horizon, with corn, sorghum and soybeans as far as the eye can see.  In the far distance, the grain elevators stand out on the horizon like ocean liners at sea.

The road passes plaque after plaque, commemorating watering holes, meadows, fords, and springs used by the emigrants.  Scattered along the road are also isolated graves left of the emigrants whose adventure to California ended not with the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but with the rapid onset of cholera, the biggest killer on the trail.  There were others besides.  In Joe B's company was the unfortunately well named Mr. Shotwell, who carelessly pulled his rifle, barrel first, out of his wagon.  The trigger snagged on something and Shotwell was well shot in the chest and died within the hour.  He was buried with as much ceremony as they could muster and the wagon train moved on.

Today, at the likes of Alcove Springs, there is a boarded nature walk down to the creek, and a plaque with a flagpole commemorating this welcome and popular spot on the trail.  We walked to a roughly carved obelisk standing in the middle of a field to see the tombstone of a cholera victim and on the hill opposite we could see the faint trace of wagon ruts--an infrequent moment of connection between the present and the past.