Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Missouri face each other across a broad bend in the river. I was heading towards Hannibal
in Missouri and was hoping to see a bit ofthe town en route to the bridge south. But before
I knew it, I found myself on a bridge going east to Illinois. I was so disconcerted by this
that I only caught a glimpse of the river, a glistening smear of brown stretching off in two
directions, and then, chagrined, I was in Illinois. I had really looked forward to seeing the
Mississippi. Crossing it as a child had always been an adventure. Dad would call, “Here's
the Mississippi, kids!” and we would scramble to the window to find ourselves on a bridge
practically in the clouds, so high it made our breath catch, and the silvery river far, far be-
low, wide, majestic, serene, going about its timeless business of just rolling on. You could
see for miles-a novel experience in Iowa. You could see barges and islands and riverside
towns. It looked wonderful. And then, abruptly, you were in Illinois and it was flat and full
of corn and you realized with a sinking heart that that was it. That was your visual stimula-
tion for the day. Now you had hundreds of miles more of arid cornland to cross before you
would experience even the most fractional sense of pleasure.
AndnowhereIwasinIllinois,anditwasflatandfullofcornandboring.Achildlikevoice
in my head cried, “When are we going to be there? I'm bored. Let's go home. When are
we going to be there?” Having confidently expected at this stage to be in Missouri, I had
my book of maps opened to the Missouri page, so I pulled over to the side of road, in a
state ofsomepetulance, tomakeacartographical adjustment. Asignjustaheadofmesaid,
BUCKLE UP. ITS THE LAW IN ILLINOIS. Clearly, however, it was not an offense to be
unable to punctuate. Frowning, I studied my maps. If I turned off at Hamilton, just down
the road, I could drive along the east bank of the river and cross into Missouri at Quincy.
It was even marked on the map as a scenic route; perhaps my blundering would turn out to
be no bad thing.
I followed the road through Warsaw, a run-down little river town. It plunged down a steep
hill towards the river, but then turned inland and again I caught no more than a glimpse of
theriver.Almostimmediately,thelandscapespreadoutintoabroadalluvial plain.Thesun
was sinking in the sky. To the left hills rose up, flecked with trees that were just beginning
to show a blush of autumn color. To the right the land was as flat as a tabletop. Teams of
combine harvesters labored in the fields, kicking up dust, working late to bring in the har-
vest. In the far distance, grain elevators caught the fading sun and glowed an opalescent
white, as if lit from within. Somewhere out there, unseen, was the river.
I drove on. The road was completely unsignposted. They do this to you a lot in America,
particularlyoncountryroadsthatgofromnowheretonowhere.Youarelefttorelyonyour
own sense of direction to find your way-which in my case, let us not forget, had only re-
cently delivered me to the wrong state. I calculated that if I was going south the sun should
