On the Road Summer 2021 Days 2 & 3 Mark Twain & Nebraska
I worry that the oceans are taking the brunt of this acidification. They will soon lose both the dilution and cooling effects of melting glaciers. What will be the cascading effects of losing the coral reefs, nurseries for one quarter of the ocean’s marine life? Losing our glaciers from the warming temperatures is not just a problem of rising seas. Mismatched camouflaged animals where snow once concealed them is making them easy prey. When they are gone, the food is gone for their predators. And their primary predators will decline and so on up the line. The loss of services they perform like fertilization will cause even more holes in the web of life. But today my thoughts turn to the problems melting glaciers will cause in Asia. Almost half of the world’s population relies upon waters that originate in Tibet for their water. Six rivers whose source is melting glaciers. Sometimes I wish that I hadn't begun writing for the environmental blog. I am a tireless researcher. It's a silent zen for me, yielding pleasure. But when it came to researching the loss of biodiversity due to the warming planet, the deeper I dug, the deeper the rut I dug for my mind. It got to the point that my self-prescribed therapy was listening to two hours of comedy for one hour of research.
Escapism doesn't seem to work organically for me. I have to try.I’ve been tutoring Chinese online in English, which the Chinese government abruptly declared illegal just before I left. They are encouraging larger families as their social security coffers are drying up. They want parents to use disposable income to have more children rather than on educating their extant children. As an environmental writer, I can’t but find it alarming that a country with a population approaching one and a half billion is actively encouraging population growth! Really? Now? More people mean more goods manufactured, more fossil fuel consumption, higher global temperatures and fewer snowcapped mountains. Of course, I am aware of my own hypocrisy, burning fossil fuel. But, I weakly justify, at least my vehicle is relatively small and gets good mileage. I do not have a ridiculously giant pickup hauling a ridiculously giant recreational vehicle towing all-terrain vehicles as many who pass me do.
I take a deep breath and turn on Spotify. This mental downslide is too much. I owe myself more.
After all, there is more to be grateful for than not. Music is one of those perqs of being alive today. How one can get lost in the world of a talented musician. And we have so very many, in so many genres and the ability to hear it all. And without ads, without news! How wonderful is that?
Anxiety has spun up more anxiety, but I know it’s just my mind searching for more to worry about. Really! It's finances now. One of its favorite defaults. Always some juice there. I remind myself what my brother told me long, long ago. Money is just chips to trade away. I'm good with that. And I know that it comes and it goes. I’ll find another job when I get home. A mindful vocation, thank you very much. It's hard to know where all of the puzzle pieces fit ultimately, but I’ll try to take right action. For now, I am in a beautiful locale. I smile.
The Pine Ridge Recreation Area in the Mark Twain Forest is near New Bloomfield, Missouri.
Follow the directions on the website, not Google maps. It’s along a paved road. Google maps
directed me seven miles down a dirt road unnecessarily. If I don’t have to, I’d rather not get the
car filthy as then I get filthy and laundry is a logistical challenge I’d rather space out. There is
not a set fee. The campground accepts donations. There is a vault toilet and potable water
available from hydrants.
Something weird was going on in the woods behind my site near the campground host site.
A lot of shouting and banging and clanging and revving of engines.
The grass meadow where my picnic table sat was lovely, but so open that my site had zero
privacy. On the next site over sat a smashed-up dusty black truck with its window down that
looked only recently and possibly temporarily abandoned by a serial killer. Warily, I heated up
some soup, scanning the surrounding forest as I ate. What was that equipment in the back of the
pickup? Was it used to grind bodies into hamburger? It was too early and hot to crawl into my
car and sleep, so I spread a blanket on the grass and read until the sun sunk. By then I had a
neighbor on my other side, a fairly new Sprinter whose occupants pretty much stayed inside
but could probably hear me scream if the serial killer did return, hatchet in hand. Whether
they’d bother helping was an open question.
I crawled into my stifling hot car and locked the doors.
Where were the sheep to count? I could still hear the circus behind the trees as I was sliding into
sleep but truly did not want to waste any more imagination what these rednecks with the revving motors
were doing exactly. Was it a small group of angry people trying to tow a disabled RV that had sunk into
the earth in what was already a small turnaround in the campground… with a Harley Davidson?
And so I imagined I was acclimated to the tropics, having grown up in an equatorial jungle, not in the chilly mountains of
Pennsylvania… and let myself sink into a deep, sultry torpor.
Morning came with the goal of getting close to the Niobrara Scenic River by nightfall so that I
could pick up my Junior Ranger book soon after the visitor center opened the following morning
and make it to a kayak rental appointment. I could scan the book and then have my eyes open
for anything I might learn while floating through the wildlife refuge. Have I mentioned the
Junior Ranger program less than a million times? I am weirdly passionate about earning Junior
Ranger pins. It is a program offered by the national parks and some of the monuments,
ostensibly for children. The goal is to teach about the flora, the fauna, the history, the geology,
whatever it is that is significant about the park or monument. To this end, the Park Rangers
create a book with age-specific tasks; the older you are the more tasks you need to complete.
Thankfully, the number of tasks has a ceiling. The tasks can be taking designated hikes,
identifying plants, answering questions about the history of the park. It is a deep dive into
understanding what you are seeing and truly opens your eyes to wonders you might
otherwise not even notice. Once the book is completed, it is reviewed by a Park Ranger.
This can be a moving experience.
At Glacier National Park, I wrote a story based in part on information I learned at an evening
Ranger program and received a standing ovation by those gathered around. (See how proud I
am that I am bragging about it in my blog! Some pleasures do not diminish with age if you
don’t let them.) Once the Ranger is convinced that you truly understand the significance of the
Park, you swear to conserve and protect the park; this pledge usually includes picking up litter
and an oath to teach others what you have learned. Then you are awarded a badge. I was
deputized to swear in applicants when I worked as the Concierge at Bryce Canyon National
Park. The first time, the small queue behind the child hoping to earn his pin was silent and
respectful. Not a dry eye in the lobby as he swore his oath.
Not counting the wedding accommodations in Stanley, I’d made a total of three reservations, all
at the beginning of the trip. The first was the kayak rental as I really wanted to make sure one
would be available, knowing nothing of the commerce along the Niobrara outside Valentine,
Nebraska.
The second and third were campsite reservations in the Badlands and at the Teddy Roosevelt
National Park, respectively. I didn’t see any inviting camping nearby and didn’t want to be
bulliedoff Park property by well-meaning Rangers. As my trip progressed, I found that my
initial concerns were unfounded. It’s a tough call when recreation.gov shows full campgrounds
months in advantage. Still, I found good camping everywhere, some of it free, the rest costing
only pocket change. I have an “America the Beautiful” Senior pass, which gets me into all
national parks as well as half-off camping fees when it’s the Park Service running the
campground and generally a smaller percentage when it’s run by concessionaires under contract
With Park. It is a beautiful thing.
The Annual Pass also confers discounts. Check out this website for detailed information on passes
that may be available to you: https://store.usgs.gov/pass.
Generally, I don’t like having reservations. It might be part of an overall pattern of balking at
commitments. Of feeling suffocated when I know what’s going to happen next. Or feeling
pressured to arrive at a certain time. There is only so much psychological delving I’m willing
to commit to examining this theme. Seriously, how can I possibly know in advance how much
I will enjoy a place and how long I will want to stay? Or whether I might find something
interesting en-route? Or whether I might find out about another place it makes sense to visit
while I’m in the general area? Perhaps I might decide to completely discard my initial itinerary
and go somewhere mI hadn’t anticipated. Reservations can be a buzz kill. I was glad to have
the first three though and was pretty intent on making them. They also compelled me to get
across the country in fairly short order. I did want to explore the north and Pacific Northwest
as extensively as I could. I wanted to visit Glacier National Park; I had been trying to since
1976, having turned back twice due to blizzards. I wanted to hike sections of the Pacific Crest
Trail if at all possible. And I wanted to explore the Olympic Peninsula.
But first I wanted to see the Nebraska grasslands and float past pink bluffs, prairie wildflowers
and rad foliage from six converging biomes. It was a little over two hours on I-70 to Kansas
City, where I could shoot north to Iowa on Highway 29, then take Iowa Highway 2 west to
Interstate 80 in Nebraska. I was hoping the grasslands would begin. But no. We are talking
serious cornfields here. Miles and miles and miles. The toxic reek of herbicides compelled me
to don my mask as nI drove through the environmental disaster. King Corn: cattle feed. I had
high hopes for Nebraska 2 North, which turned out to be one of those poorly engineered roads
with the bumps that feel like you’ve got a flat, and a rail line running parallel to it. Warren
Buffet’s railroad BNSF cars chugged by constantly, heading north and south, carrying all kinds
of things, including literally thousands ofcrude oil containers, and spewing enough thick black
diesel smoke into the omnipresent smog to choke you to death. I wonder, on balance, which
pollutes more: transporting all of these commodities by tractor-trailer highways or by rail? I
was grateful for fewer trucks on the highway, but lordie, can’t we have cleaner rail?
Of course, transporting fewer commodities would go a long way as well. Do we really need this
much stuff?
I’d been hoping for a mindless, idyllic drive. Monitoring the mind to focus on the positive is
a never-ending task, but always fruitful. Was my phone charged enough yet for another
hit of Spotify?
Temperatures were now hovering around one hundred degrees.
After nine hours of driving, I was hot, tired and had a massive headache from the black crap
spewing from the trains. I’d given up worrying about the planet and onlywanted to swim in a
cool, preferably relatively clean river.
Stopping in the Bessey Ranger District of the Nebraska National Forest, I leaned over a
railing, gazing hopefully at a stretch of river. The placard indicated that the Dismal River
flows along the southern edge of the Bessey Ranger District and merges with the Middle
Loup west of Dunning.
The river didn't appear dismal, but a sign cautioned that water in prairie rivers such as this,
fed by the Ogallala Aquifer boils up from the river in places forming quicksand. Sure, I was
definitely feeling crusty and overheated, and yes, a bit depressed bout the future, but that was
a hypothetical distant future. There really would be no advantage to stepping into quicksand
that might pull me under water and straight to Hell this very afternoon.
And so, I pulled into the campground to scope out the river. A young dad was leaving the river
with his four-year old son who had been swimming. He quickly dismissed my fears, saying
he’d been coming here for years and while the current could be daunting, it was a safe
swimming spot.
He was wearing cowboy boots, so clearly had not been planning on rescuing his little boy.
I paid for the site directly across from the steps leading to the river, changed into my swimsuit
and headed down to the cool water. On the bottom step, I was assaulted by a pang in my
head. Oh, they had smothered the bottom post in creosote. Couldn’t they have found
a less toxic preservative? The river was clear and shining in the sun. The current in the
middle was fast. The sign had said that these prairie rivers running through the sandhills
run at a steady rate. The heavy loads of sediment these rivers carry form sand bars
which provide roosting habitat for the sandhill crane, the least tern and the piping plover.
While sandhill cranes are tall birds, the least terns are not. They are called the least tern
because it’s the smallest of American terns, an adult weighing only 1.4 ounces, so just
about every small mammal and larger bird considers it prey. A sandbar in the middle
deter mammals, but also protect the plovers, their nests and eggs from off-road vehicles.
The off-road vehicles market size was over USD 15 billion in 2020, and it is projected to
continue growing. I’ve met a lot of avid ATV riders, but never met one who expressed
concern over plover bird eggs, so I was relieved to note that the nearby bank where the
threatened Northern Great Plains piping plovers were hopping around was short, muddy
and steep, in short, uninviting even to the most undiscerning. A lot of sandbars have been
overtaken by invasive plant species to the natural habitat these birds need to nest and roost.
The Fish and Wildlife Service is working to restore them.
I enjoyed my swim immensely. I like fighting against a current. Maybe more so physically
than metaphorically. Dang it, I don't like it when my unifying theory of reality, the one where
this universe we all live in is a hologram, breaks down.
At the top of the stars leading from the river was a shower for rinsing, but the river water
appeared clean and it looked like the shower pulled straightfrom the river, so I got lost in my
head trying to divine the sense in the extra effort and wandered back to my car where I could
change into warm clothes and set out my cooking gear on the picnic table to prepare dinner.
A large revving sound growled insistently from a near corner of the campground.It sounded
like a couple semi-trucks had got themselves stranded in too small of
a space.
This was becoming a theme it seemed. I mean, I understood, having discounted all opportunities
to drive enormous vehicles for precisely that reason. I mean, there were a lot of two-in-one
opportunities as tour bus operator and guide and I'd be good at the guide part for sure right up
until the time the passengers all began hating me for stranding us in tight spots again and again.
The back-up beeping of one of these concealed vehicles was shrill and set the campground
dogs barking. Good heavens, was it scraping against trees now? A brutal sound. People were
of course, shouting angrily at each other.
I didn't want to picture what was going on over there. When I had passed through, the campsites
had all been full. Was someone trying to squeeze into someone else’s site? Did they seek
permission?
This wasn’t my problem. I was grateful that my little corner of the world was peaceful. I had
settle on my site because the adjacent my site one was reserved for the day before and tonight
by someone who hadn't yet shown up and I figured was unlikely to at this point. I cleaned
up the dishes and settled down with my journal and pen.
Not five minutes later, a stocky short-haired dishwater blond woman strode across my
campsite two steps in front of the picnic table where I was sitting, without so much as glancing over.
I guess she wasn't from the South. That’s not acceptable behavior in the South. She headed intently
toward a small white box at the edge of the paved drive of the reserved campsite next to me.
She flipped open the door of the box, slapped it shut and marched back, retracing her steps.
“Hello,” I piped up, smiling kindly. She turned a glowing, dimpled face to me. She appeared in
her mid-forties. “Hello,” she answered, continuing back around the bushes to the corner of the
campground toward the ferocious melee. Curious, I walked over to the mysterious white box.
An electrical connection for an RV.
A few minutes later the entire circus descended upon me. First, a mega pickup pulling a mega
recreational vehicle inched slowly past on its way to the cul-de-sac behind a screen of bushes
where I knew there was an appropriate space for them. However, the driver, the woman I had
seen was only using the cul-de-sac to turn her rig around. She returned in short order, the vehicles
hooked together hunkering and spluttering in front of me. Jerkily, she pulled her pickup to face
the river and began a protracted process of backing into the drive just a few yards from me. She
was missing the drive by a fat margin. Moments later another large dark blue pickup appeared
infront of me, this one with both an all-terrain-vehicle and a golf cart secured in its bed. A large
masculine woman with a ruddy face and wearing a neon orange polyester shirt sat at the wheel
looking cross. She began shouting terse directions to the prettier woman. “Turn the wheel left!
For God’s sake, not that far!” She sighed in disgust. “Pull forward and try again. Now go back
straight like I showed you!” “No! Come forward! You’re never going to fit it in that way! Why
can’t you listen to me?” As she was barking her orders, a third vehicle appeared. A shiny black
Escalade with an extended cab. A chubby woman wearing a tight fuchsia dress and bright red
lipstick jumped out, leaving her car motor running. My view of the river was now filled with
these three women and their oversized toys. This younger woman had pulled her bleached
blonde hair into a pony-tail bobbing from the top of her crown. It swung back and forth as she
sauntered about. She went about her way, seemingly oblivious of the increasingly hostile
communication between the other two women. First, she disengaged the ramp from the
still-running pickup. Then she sallied up to the bed and unfastened the bungee cords around
the golf cart. She hopped in and drove it expertly backwards down the ramp, circling around
to the back gate of her Escalade. She then proceeded to unload bag after bag of junk food from
the Escalade into the golf cart. Once the cart was too full to fit another bag of chips or can of
soda in, she drove the cart the twenty feet over to their new campsite’s picnic table. The pert
dimpled dishwater blonde was trying yet another time to back the recreational vehicle into the
drive, when her ruddy-faced supervisor swore, “God dammit! Alright!” and opened her driver
door. Two enormous Doberman Pinschers leaped over her lap and bounded onto the road in
front of me, where they bared their teeth at each other, snarling. One snapped at the other and
the second sunk its sharp teeth into his face. The ruddy faced woman yelled, “Stop that! Stop
that now!” to no avail. The dimpled driver shrieked and slammed the RV into the picnic table
with a loud thwack. The pony-tailed blonde pouring chips into a yellow plastic bowl never even
looked up.
I packed up my gear and drove my little car through the center of their melee, to the empty site
in the hedge-screened cul-de-sac. In front of me was a small balcony over the water with a
bench from which I could watch the sun sink, its reflection spreading toward me across the
ripples of the river. I stuffed in earplugs, took a deep breath and focused on finding wildflowers in the tall
grasses along the riverbank. It was clear that I was going to have to keep the ear plugs in if I
wanted any sleep as two of three of my neighbors were still barking in a volume befitting
giants.
Sadly, this was necessary if they were to hear each other’s bludgeoning criticisms over their
blaring radio.
Tomorrow would be another long day of driving. My goal was still to get close enough to
Valentine,Nebraska to be at the Visitor Center shortly after it opened the following morning to
pick up a Junior Ranger book and then get to the nearby river outfitters to sign in for my kayak
rental.