Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
melts, you stride about in shirtsleeves, you incline your face to the sun. And then, just like
that, spring is over and it's summer. It is as if God has pulled a lever in the great celestial
powerhouse. Now the weather rolls in from the opposite direction, from the tropics far to
the south, and it hits you like a wall of heat. For six months, the heat pours over you. You
sweat oil. Your pores gape. The grass goes brown. Dogs look as if they could die. When
you walk downtown you can feel the heat of the pavement rising through the soles of your
shoes. Just when you think you might very well go crazy, fall comes and for two or three
weeks the air is mild and nature is friendly. And then it's winter and the cycle starts again.
And you think, “As soon as I'm big enough, I'm going to move far, far away from here.”
At Red Cloud, home of Willa Cather, I joined US 281 and headed south towards Kansas.
JustovertheborderisSmithCenter,homeofDr.BrewsterM.Higley,whowrotethewords
to “Home on the Range.” Wouldn't you just know that “Home on the Range” would be
written by somebody with a name like Brewster M. Higley? You can see the log cabin
wherehewrotethewords.ButIwasheadedforsomethingfarmoreexciting-thegeograph-
ical center of the United States. You reach it by turning off the highway just outside the
little town of Lebanon and following a side road for about a mile through the wheat fields.
Then you come to a forlorn little park with picnic tables and a stone monument with a
wind-whipped flag atop it and a plaque saying that this is the centermost point in the con-
tinental United States, by golly. Beside the park, adding to the sense of forlornness, was
a closed-down motel, which had been built in the evident hope that people would want to
spendthenightinthislonelyplaceandsendpostcardstotheirfriendssaying,“You'llnever
guess where we are.” Clearly the owner had misread the market.
I climbed onto a picnic table and could instantly see for miles across the waving fields.
The wind came at me like a freight train. I felt as if I were the first person to come there
for years. It was a strange feeling to think that of all the 230 million people in the United
States I was the most geographically distinctive. If America were invaded, I would be the
last person captured. This was it, the last stand, and as I climbed down off the table and
returned to the car I felt an uneasy sense of guilt for leaving the place undefended.
I drove into the gathering evening gloom. The clouds were low and swift. The landscape
was a sea of white grass, fine as a child's hair. It was strangely beautiful. By the time I
reachedRussell,itwasdarkandrainwasfalling.Theheadlightssweptoverasignthatsaid,
WELCOME TOBOB DOLE COUNTRY.Russell isthehometown ofBobDole, whowas
at this time running for the Republican nomination for president. I stopped and got a room
for the night, figuring that if Dole were elected president, I could tell my children that I
had once spent the night in his hometown and perhaps thereby deepen their respect for me.
Also,everytimeRussellwasshownonTVoverthenextfouryearsIcouldsay,“Hey,Iwas
