Just a small town kitty with a map of the city and not much else to claim… picked up a one way ticket outta here… to find fortune and fame
Well… i don’t know much about livin’ high… never had too much at all… so i really admire that girl who left here… to find fortune and fame.
With a tear in her beer… she tried to explain… how she tried and tried but did not live up to her name… and the deacons… the merchants… the coffee shop congress agreed… that she couldn’t have picked a better time to break free.
One flew over… To see what she could see… One flew over… only… To discover the things you gotta trade… for the dream.
Aren’t we the lucky ones?
Well… there’s a feeling around here… echos of sadness… i can’t seem to trace. One more time at the wishin’ well… a lonely… lovely place.
Well… it seems the American Dream… only boats against the tide… driftin’ shiftin’… always outta reach… like pin-lights cross the great divide.
A public socialite she had come to be… not a soul saw her off… save for me… and the fakers the takers… the singles bar congress agreed… that she couldn’t have picked a better time to leave.
One flew over… To see what she could see… One flew over… only… To discover the things you gotta trade… The things you gotta trade… for the dream.
So… just as things start heating up here in the land of Oz, Rocinante’s lucky stars begin to align. Yesterday the windshield repair was completed and as soon as we pulled away from the repair shop, a FedEx email dropped letting us know the power-link recall parts were enroute to Colorado Springs. All that’s left is scheduling an appointment with the local electrician to complete the install, and we’re back in the saddle, ready to resume the 48-state tour.
Next stop… either Oregon or Minnesota, whichever direction will keep us out of Satan’s armpit. These triple-digit temps are for. the. birds. This was the original aim… to stay away from extreme weather. Here’s an example of a travel route that accomplishes that aim.
So far, this summer has defied conventional wisdom, and as luck would have it, we’ve been in a perfect place this last couple weeks. It has been… glorious. 80s in the day, 60s at night. I’m almost reluctant to get underway, but forecast calls for upper 90s, so i guess it is time to go.
I’m starting to grow accustomed to the slower pace here at home port. I’ve been able to set aside large blocks of time for the kind of guitar practice i should have gotten out of the way as a juvenile delinquent… lol. Oh well, Ronnie Hays always says, “sometimes redemption requires discipline.” Happy to put in the time when i have it, but i fear, once back on the road, there’ll only be time for travel, scoping out viable boondocking sites, personal hygiene and provisions, research and writing This Land posts, sleep, and that’s about it. We’ll see, but that’s kinda how it all rolled before we got hit with repair needs.
Anyway, we’ll probably just head North once Rocinante’s power link is repaired. We’ll decide which direction to choose from there. Washington, Oregon, or Minnesota… we shall see.
Ok… i get it. It was the week of Independence Day. I showed up to home port with a holiday approaching. But i made a point to stress i wasn’t in a hurry, i just wanted to get the process of ordering parts and whatever other rigmarole necessary for the repairs underway in a timely manner.
But when i returned, a week later, seeking a date for the drydock, the shipmaster’s eyes glazed over like a barnacle-encrusted hull. “Oh, we know about yer plight,” he said, voice as flat as the Kansas prairie. “Parts were on back-order. They’re on their way now… Tuesday like clockwork. We’ll have ye shipshape by Wednesday.” A week and a half after dropping anchor.
A likely tale, that. The truth, me bucko, is they’d forgotten me, a speck on the horizon of their regular business rhythm. But the mate had the grace to keep a straight face. “Parts Tuesday, repairs Wednesday,” he repeated, as if reciting a nautical prayer.
Now, i’m a man of modest stature, a captain of a vessel dwarfed by the tour busses of the world. And like any short-legged wayfarer, i’ve weathered the doldrums of indifference. I may be refreshingly charismatic, fit, talented, smart, even at times, kind, but yea… short. Oh well, it is what it is. I refuse to put my body through dubious contortions to compensate for shortcomings. Seriously, who unloads hard-earned cash for corsets to make their belly look flatter, or stealth elevator shoes to add a few inches to their height? “hair transplants?” Seriously? Naw, none of this for me, thank you. If i can’t charm driver’s license examiner or a prairie schooner repair representative with my authentic self, i’m just fine sitting out the delay, hanging out with me and myself. I’m fine. That said, our Hot Springs or Busk tour has taken a mighty wrench in the gears.
In addition, Rocinante hit a rogue wave in the Utah outback. A semi’s kicked-up rock, hurled from the road like so much earned karma, punched a hole in her windshield. So… our choices were, a.) wait for the repair in the Utah outback, all the while perpetually searching for shade in the July inferno, or b.) head back to home base (Hays KS), where friends and family graciously allow shaded parking for Rocinante while we wait for the windshield and power link parts to arrive.
And the topper…? Mother Nature saw fit to provide a sustained string of rainy days in the Hays area, so our moored time was downright pleasant. And what do you think of that? Now i don’t believe in interventionist supernatural forces, and i’ve had my share of bad luck, but also, this. You see, without these setbacks, Rocinante and i would have made our way to Northern California by now. This morning’s weather report mentioned how Northern California was breaking heat records. So, rather than our temporary repose in Western Kansas with 80 temps in the day and 60s at night, we could be baking in 108 temps, there.
I’d say we’re right where we need to be, and like Joe Walsh once sang… “Life’s been good to me so far.” By gawd, the universe has been fairly good to me, all things considered. And we’ll leave it at that. Whatever the case, i’m moored at home port, but content, a solitary sailor in a sea of prairie grass. If you are somewhere in the extreme northwest USofA, and you were waiting for me to arrive, i offer humble apologies. I am detained by the random rock-kicks of fate. I will get there when i get there… and i’m looking forward to experiencing your slice of This Land.
So here we are, a new “This Land” tour motto ringing in our ears: “Ever thus to the best laid plans,” like some cosmic Rodney Dangerfield whispering sweet nothings of misfortune. Or, as Iron Mike Tyson would say, “everyone has a plan till they get punched in the face.”
Yessir, Rocinante, our mostly-trusty mount, decided to throw a wobbly right in the heart of Big Sky Country. Talk about a plot twist worthy of a pulp novel! Forget the quaint plan to hug along the northern border till autumn’s cool embrace washes over the central states. We were in Bismarck, North Dakota, staring down the barrel of a Northeast heat wave that could roast a side of beef, when Montana beckoned like a siren song. First stop: Billings. A strip mall Mecca, with Wal Mart to the left and Planet Fitness to the right, and a gloriously semi-shady parking spot (complete with a complimentary grass carpet for Rocinante).
But as the Bard himself might have quipped, a rolling stone gathers no moss, and the siren song of geothermal bliss in Chico lured us onward. The journey was a technicolor blur – us, the befuddled tourists, waltzing through a funhouse of wrong turns, misplaced tickets, and a staff that looked at us like extras from a particularly bizarre reality TV show. But hey, all’s well that ends well, and the mineral pool? Pure, unadulterated bliss.
Bozeman is where we scribbled this dispatch with the ghosts of cowboys and prospectors whispering in our ears. “Oro y Plata,” they rasp, that dusty state motto – a gold-rush relic that speaks of Montana’s glittering past. But Montana’s more than just a bygone era. Here, Native American oral traditions echo through the canyons, while literary giants like Norman Maclean and James Welch spin tales that capture the rugged soul of the place. Forget your fancy bookstores, loopers. The real stories are whispered by the wind and etched in the faces of the locals.
Yellowstone? Sure, it might be Wyoming’s crown jewel, but Montana holds the key to the back door – a secret stash of less-crowded wonderlands for those who know where to look. As for famous Montanans? Think beyond Hollywood. Charles M. Russell, the cowboy artist, paints a truer picture, and Jeannette Rankin, the first woman in Congress, is a testament to Montana’s maverick spirit.
This state’s lifeblood? It pumps to the rhythm of ranching and agriculture, a slow, steady beat that some might find intoxicating, others isolating. Tourism throws a splashy cymbal crash into the mix, a double-edged sword for these close-knit communities. But for the everyday worker? Montana’s a symphony of affordability, a chorus of friendly faces, and an entire concerto dedicated to wide-open spaces and the thrill of self-reliance.
The locals? They’re a rugged bunch, fiercely independent, possessing a deep connection to the land that borders on the spiritual. But don’t be fooled by the gruff exterior. Hospitality here is as vast as the sky, and looking out for one another is the unwritten melody that binds them all.
Of course, no symphony is complete without a discordant note. Isolation can be a haunting melody, opportunities a little thin on the ground, and change? Well, let’s just say some folks prefer the classics. There’s a whisper of a lack of diversity too, and a tension between those who’ve always known this land and those just discovering its charm.
But hey, that’s the beauty of Montana – a land of contradictions, a place where the unexpected throws a monkey wrench into your meticulously planned itinerary, and the soundtrack of your journey is a wild, unpredictable jazz riff played out against a backdrop of breathtaking beauty. Strap in, loopers, because in This Land, you never quite know what the next verse will hold.
And speaking of verses (again, apologies to Woody Guthrie):
It might be cozy… In Big Sky country… Sharing campsites… With tourists bluntly… And if you can’t swing… Winter’s fury… You might want to go ahead… And move along.
OH BOY. Project 2025… This is where i have to crawl out of the closet:
THIS RESPONSE ADDRESSED TO: Kevin Roberts (Heritage Foundation’s Poobah) See below, a few high points i am compelled to address… Otherwise… this could be a sleepless, nightmare, Hellscape of a year. OR… go HERE for a less angry synopsis (pro & con).
History teaches that a President’s power to implement an agenda is at its apex during the administration’s opening days. To execute requires a well-conceived, coordinated, unified plan and a trained and committed cadre of personnel to implement it. (xiii)
Ummm… ok… organized political action, kudos.
In the winter of 1980, the fledging Heritage Foundation handed to President-elect Ronald Reagan the inaugural Mandate for Leadership. (xiv)
So… in effect, giving POTUS marching orders? You go on to say, for Project 2025, you need to go “back to the future…” ??? LOL… love this wordsmithing, so subtle. I’m starting to warm up to these loopers… 😉
The long march of cultural Marxism through our institutions has come to pass. (xvi)
Ok… seriously… what are you talking about, here? “Cultural Marxism”… what the hell does that even mean? This? -or- This? For now, let’s just put it in the “straw man” category, that way we can get on with it, as Monty Python would say.
The federal government is a behemoth… (xiv).
Truedat… like anything else… there are good and bad aspects. Reform should be a regular feature. As well, some attempt to keep communication and information management capabilities up to date would be nice.
The federal government is weaponized against American citizens and conservative values… (xvi)
Bullshit… bullshit… straight-up bullshit! But even if it were true, no part of the weaponized librul gub’mnt is gonna murder conservative standard-bearers like when the flip was on the other flop. Remember… when America was great, in the 1960s?? Please? Can we just skip over the breathless hyperbole?
…with freedom and liberty under siege as never before. (xvi)
What the hell does this even mean?? Seriously… c’mon… skip the hyperbole…
Ok… now, a quick summary of the four pillars of the… plan… manifesto? Can we call it a manifesto? Sure… let’s do that.
Pillar I: With the help of partisan consultants, each president gets to decide how each federal agency is run. (xiv)
Intriguing, but won’t this lead to a counterproductive level of chaos? Oh… that’s right… you don’t plan to cede power to pedophilic cultural Marxists ever again, am i reading this right? Sure. Got it.
Pillar II: Populate federal agencies with partisan activists only… (xiv)
So… anyone see Stalinist overtones, here… Buhler… Buhler…?
Pillar III: Presidential Administration Academy, an online educational system taught by experts from our coalition. (xvi)
READ => Political indoctrination/grooming… hello…! WAIT…! Isn’t this what conservatives accuse leftists of doing all the time? Isn’t this some classic Freudian Projection? Is every accusation gonna end up, after the receipts come in, freaking confessions? Hey… i’m just asking questions here.
Pillar IV (the playbook): …we are forming agency teams and drafting transition plans to move out upon the President’s utterance of ‘so help me God.’ (xiv)
Ok… you’re ready to rumble as soon as you get your emperor installed. I wonder if anyone saw this coming? Hmmmmmm…
Forty-four years ago, the United States and the conservative movement were in dire straits. Both had been betrayed by the Washington establishment and were uncertain whom to trust. (1)
Still sore about Nixon’s fall from grace?
Now, as then (1970s), our political class has been discredited by wholesale dishonesty and corruption. (1)
Couldn’t agree more… but… to lay it all at the feet of your political opponents is disingenuous at best, political expedience at second best, willful deceit in fact.
Contemporary elites have even repurposed the worst ingredients of 1970s ‘radical chic’ to build the totalitarian cult known today as ‘The Great Awokening.’ (1)
Totalitarian cult? Again… disingenuous treatment. You see, in the wake of the ‘summer of racial reckoning’ there was an academic movement scrutinizing the plague of institutional racism. The media bubble Jon Stewart calls “Bullshit Mountain” and others, latched onto this moniker (The Great Awokening). They identified a convenient boogyman, and are now furiously tilting at it while the rest of us stand back and marvel at the energy expelled by these Errant Knights of Christendom.
Most alarming of all, the very moral foundations of our society are in peril. (1)
Please explain yourself… cos, to me, this sounds like desperation. Your churches are losing their cultural dominance, and you want to call this “moral decline” as if your moral compass is the only one worth considering? I know this might sound harsh, but bless you, bless you, and by all means, bless all the way off. Yours is not the only worthy moral code out there. In fact, it’s not even the most beneficial. Please take a look at your ten commandments… four out of the ten are no better than tossing glitter to the sky for all the benefit they provide. Again… bless you, and the unicorn you rode in on!
We brought together hundreds of conservative scholars and academics across the conservative movement. Together, this team created a 20-volume, 3,000-page governing handbook containing more than 2,000 conservative policies to reform the federal government and rescue the American people from Washington dysfunction. (2)
Admirable collective effort, no knock there. Unfortunately, your policies are not popular with the one-person-one-vote world. You know… democracy? I suspect you had picked up on this, and so now, you want to keep Mr. Trump’s 2025 campaign platform mum till such time as it is too late for voters to thoughtfully consider the implications. You employ subterfuge and obfuscation to slip your plan into a place that can’t be easily dislodged? Hey… i get it, your pragmatism is admirable, but i think i’d rather see a federal government reflect the actual will of the governed… you know the kind of government Lincoln dedicated his life to preserve. Ah shucks, i know… that’s just me… me and 81,283,500 others.
As Ronald Reagan put it: (2)
Seriously… i. don’t. care! The only thing i’ll remember about Mr. Reagan, other than that whole Bed Time for Bonzo business, is his VooDoo economic plan gutting the US middle-class, turning them into the “working poor.” Congratulations Conservatives (in name only), you’ve made billionaires very happy. all the while slowly deleting the very thing that made America Great in the first place (a thriving middle-class).
The bad news today is that our political establishment and cultural elite have once again driven America toward decline. (2)
Unfortunately, it’s hard to mount a counter argument here, but again with your disingenuousness. The blame does not simply lie at the feet of your political opponents. I know that kind of talk gives your base a swell of righteous pride, and gives your opponents a rallying cry against zero-sum zealots, but to the rest of us (non-affiliated independents), it just makes you look like playground simpletons, and thanks a lot, you’ve allowed the neighborhood bully into your “cool kids” clique… tsk tsk.
…this book is the work of the entire conservative movement. As such, the authors express consensus recommendations already forged, especially along four broad fronts that will decide America’s future: 1) Restore the family as the centerpiece of American life and protect our children, 2) Dismantle the administrative state and return self-governance to the American people, 3) Defend our nation’s sovereignty, borders, and bounty against global threats, and 4) Secure our God-given individual rights to live freely—what our Constitution calls ‘the Blessings of Liberty.’ (3)
Right… to have our kids raised with loving, stable families is super important, but restoring the “nuclear family?” … yea… no thanks… this is an outmoded bankrupt system of determining a man’s “chattel property” … it’s no longer a sustainable model… let’s go back to the drawing board, shall we?
Yes, there have been difficult and dysfunctional periods in the regulatory movements and agencies in the past. But these agencies have also done much to mitigate dangers inherent with laissez-faire capitalism. Example… Denver’s “brown cloud“… in the 70s… damn… very bad… by the time the Clinton Admin was finished, much improvement. I imagine this story isn’t uncommon among industrial centers of the USofA.
Yes… agree, but immigrants aren’t the enemy. The real question should be whether the USofA still has carrying capacity for more of the world’s “tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free”? If not, then we should start restricting immigration to emergency cases? I don’t know… and i wouldn’t want to be responsible for making these damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t decisions.
Just what are you referring to with this “blessings of liberty” thing? I suspect this is just an excuse for “predatory acquisitive individualism” because, founding fathers, baseball, apple pie, Mom… Jesus? And though i have given over to the logic of markets, i’m not sold on the current trend of rendering individual votes subordinate to the almighty dollar. See, the gap between those obscenely rich and merely getting by, those millions of “working poor,” is so wide now as to be unimaginable for anyone not trained in exponential mathematics. Democracy is at stake, but not due to the straw man right-wingers have constructed (the deep state), but rather the corrosive influence of filthy rich donors manipulating power in their favor, against the interests of the working poor, and the doomed. Yea… in other universes, this might be known as institutionalized corruption.
This was one of the secrets of conservatives’ success in the Reagan Era, one our generation should emulate. (3)
Again… we have a fundamental disagreement on the matter of Reagan’s legacy… and i would be fine if we never brought it up again. I’ll make an exception if you want to discuss Mr. Reagan in the context of the relative merits of “Supply Side” economics.
…conservatives should gratefully celebrate the greatest pro-family win in a generation: overturning Roe v. Wade, a decision that for five decades made a mockery of our Constitution and facilitated the deaths of tens of millions of unborn children. (6)
So… first, let’s take a look at the premise of this longstanding argument. That advocates for female agency and bodily autonomy do not “value human life”? Again, with the disingenuousness… you KNOW your political opponents value life, and their children. Yet, your bald-faced lie persists. In my view, the cruxt of the disagreement is where we can logically recognize a sentient human life. The Roe standard is at the point of “fetal viability,” that is the point where a NICU could keep a baby healthy and vital outside the confines of the mother’s womb. You profess to believe a dignified, ensouled human life is created as soon as the egg accepts a sperm and begins cell division. But… this is at odds with your own holy book. Genesis 2:7 says life begins with the first breath. Not deterred, you declare, your conception of Pro-Life to be the ultimate moral stand, and with self-righteous pomposity, you say it out loud between bites of a pulled pork sandwich, then proudly assert yourself occupier of the high ground, like Donald J. Trump at a NATO summit, all the while cheering the latest state-sanctioned execution… “Pro-Life”? Please…?? I’ve read Orwell… i’m on to your jam.
Listen: You KNOW there have been instances of unjust capital punishment, but you rationalize it as a deterrent anyway. Living, dreaming, self-aware human beings? In my view, one unjust execution is too many and should trigger YOUR “right to life” instinct far more than the abortion of a 12-week-old fetus. Astounding hypocrisy! And then there’s the exercise of geo-political power in the form of war. We willingly kill those we perceive as enemies… living, dreaming self-aware human beings? No problem. But… abort an unplanned, unwanted, pre-viability pregnancy, even IF it’s the product of rape or incest, and oh boy do we have a problem! In my view, it’s none of your business what goes on with Shelly down the street’s rape baby, or Patty’s oops. Medically reversing these mistakes engenders more outrage in you than the execution of an innocent person… especially when that innocent person doesn’t look like you or any of your neighbors? Tsk tsk… shame on you!
Want to hear an alternative vision for where humanness begins? Yea, i know, you don’t. You think your view is backed by the creator of the universe. Wow! News flash! Your view of the source of “ultimate authority” isn’t universally embraced. In fact, the fastest growing religious affiliation in the US is “none of the above,” a group to which i belong after a reasonably normal childhood of indoctrination, groomed in the Christian bosom (baptized Mennonite). So, that said, i’ll throw it out there, cos i can. What if true humanness requires self-awareness? You know, that point when a baby starts recognizing Mom or Dad. When the baby starts looking at items around them, like toes, and toys, and crib bars, etc. Two months or so after trauma of birth? Does anyone actually want to draw the line there? No one i know of, but you could put the logic to the test. And what if that logic was put to the test, and what if it were determined the baby isn’t really self-aware until weeks after the trauma of birth, would that justify infanticide for unwanted or defective pregnancies as Mr. Tumpty Dumpty repeatedly alleges? Hell to the no! But drawing the line needs to address all concerned parties. Yes, even the pearl-clutching church crowd. In my view, Roe got it about as right as it can be got. Listen, if we could interview everyone approaching legitimate medical practitioners for abortion services, i believe we’d find an ocean of remorse and mourning for the life that could have been, and the means for reversing the course nature was on. Again… none of my, or your, business.
And if we can just drop all the subterfuge surrounding this issue, we’d have to acknowledge this full-court press to stop abortion as a means of birth-control is more about a fear of brown people outbreeding whites than anything else. With the white grievance crowd fearing browns might exact a similar sort of oppression that they (whites) exercised and continue to exercise over non-whites now. If we can drop the obfuscation and subterfuge, we can confess this “Project 2025” is all about control. But i suspect this control, if applied, is going to be no more effective than the legend of the Dutch boy holding back the dam with his finger. I learned from my civil-engineering friends, water always finds its way “downhill.” This whole Project 2025 swagger has got desperate fear written all over it. And you, Kevin Roberts, when you say the quiet part out loud, when you threaten your political opponents with violence, you will answer to the government of, by, and for the people when the people finally prevail. It may not be this time around, but it will happen. You will lose in a truly democratic contest. And when you do, you will have to account for your authoritarian aspirations.
The people will out… “From many, One. E’Pluribus Unum.” “One Nation, Indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for All.”
There’s a certain breed of American, bless their star-spangled hearts, convinced they hold the exclusive lease on the Almighty’s ear canal. Like a toddler throwing a tantrum in a supermarket checkout, they believe their brand of piety is the only gateway to a decent life or the ticket to a glorious afterlife. To them, faith is less a comfort and more a cudgel to whack everyone else into submission.
Now, listen up, Bible thumpers and incense-waving gurus of every persuasion. If blind faith brings you existential relief, knock yourselves out. But the second you try shoving your dogma down our throats louder than a carnival barker with a megaphone, well, there’s gonna be trouble. This isn’t some backwater church social, loopers. This is the United States of freaking Everything, a kaleidoscope of cultures clashing in a glorious, messy mosh pit of individuality.
We built this nation with the blood, sweat, and tears of those fleeing religious persecution, remember? We’re a nation conceived in liberty, not some divinely ordained daycare center. This whole “one size fits all” piety might fly in some homogenous, beige part of the multiverse, but here in this cosmic bubble, in this vibrant, cacophonous land of the free and the home of the brave, it sticks out like a polka-dotted clown suit at a funeral.
Think about it. You got loopers praying to eight-armed deities in India, chanting to ancestors in China, and down here in the good ol’ US of A, we have a smorgasbord of salvation schemes, from the hallelujah hollering Baptists to the crystal-clutching New Agers. It’s beautiful, in a completely batty way, like a fireworks display gone rogue, illuminating the sky with a thousand different colors.
Sure, some might say this multiplicity makes for a messy democracy. Like herding cats on roller skates, right? But here’s the thing, loopers: forcing everyone into the same drab uniform of belief is a recipe for disaster. Look at history, it’s littered with the wreckage of holy wars and inquisitions, all fueled by the delusion that one brand of faith is the One True Path. Bunk! It’s a celestial cul-de-sac, leading nowhere but to resentment and bloodshed.
The beauty of America is the glorious, chaotic cacophony, remember? We tolerate, we debate, we argue like drunken sailors on shore leave, but somehow, someway, this messy gumbo keeps bubblin’ along. It’s not perfect, hell no, but it’s a damn sight better than some theocratic theme park where everyone wears the same itchy robes and sings the same hymns.
So, to those monoculture missionaries, those who dream of a beige, homogenous America where everyone worships at the same altar, i say this: be careful what you wish for. Because the line for religious dominance is a lot longer than you think, and it winds all the way back to the days of inquisitions and witch trials. In the meantime, the rest of us will be here, celebrating the glorious mess that is the USofA, a multicolored mosh pit with a divine soundtrack blaring from a thousand different speakers. Now, who wants to crowd surf?
Ah, North Dakota. Land of horizon-chugging grass-land and enough sky to make a claustrophobic traveler weep with joy. The stretch from Rapid City to Bismarck looked so much like the above image, it’s uncanny. No way could we get driver’s fatigue because it was straight up pastoral… beautiful! The state motto, in classic radio voice, declares “Liberty and union, now and forever, one and inseparable!” But hold your horses, loopers, because North Dakota liberty isn’t exactly Park Avenue window shopping. It’s more like strapping yourself to a goddamn rocket and blasting off into the great, howling void.
The ongoing search for hot springs? Asking around, we learned about Mineral Springs, tucked away in the Sheyenne River State Forest like a secret whispered by the wind. One measly waterfall, that’s all you get. But hey, at least it’s free – the water, that is. You might have to wrestle a badger for a decent towel. Unfortunately, it’s roughly a couple hundred miles out of the way so we took a pass. You see, nighttime temp in Bismarck dipped into the low 40s, and we were prepared for a late spring heat wave. So… we paid a quick personal hygiene visit to the local Planet Fitness, shivering at 5:30am, but then hightailed out of there, lickity-split.
Busking? No, but we did send some practice numbers into the Planet Fitness dressing room.
Famous musicians? Sure… those of a certain age might remember Bobby Vee, Peggy Lee, and Mary Osborne to name a few.
Colleges? Sure, there are a few universities scattered around, public and private, dispensing knowledge like seed corn. But don’t expect any Harvard Yard elitism here. These are institutions built with calloused hands and a no-nonsense spirit. Think less tweed jackets, more Carhartt overalls.
Literary landmarks? Well… North Dakota didn’t raise any Prousts. But there’s a certain stark beauty to the landscape that’s inspired its fair share of poets and novelists (Louis L’Amour anyone?). It’s the kind of place that makes you want to pound out a story on your typewriter with the fury of a possessed prairie dog.
Now, about those North Dakotans… they’re a hardy bunch, shaped by the relentless, brutal winters. They may give you the shirt off their backs (after peeling off a layer or two), but they won’t hesitate to tell you where to shove it if you cross them. We’re told it’s a land of salt-of-the-earth honesty and a deep respect for tradition.
Let’s get down to cases… you’ve seen the Coen Brother’s Oscar-winning movie, Fargo, right? North Dakota winters are enough to make a penguin question life choices. And if you’re looking for excitement, well, you might be better off watching paint dry. But there there is a certain peace to this place, a vast emptiness that allows you to breathe and maybe even hear yourself think. We know… we experienced it first hand on the drive to Bismarck from Rapid City.
Famous figures? You might not recognize their names, but North Dakota’s churned out its fair share of tough hombres and pioneering women (Louis L’Amour anyone?). Farmers who coaxed life from the stubborn earth, politicians who fought for what they believed in, everyday heroes who faced down blizzards and droughts with grit.
Lifestyle? For visitors, it’s a chance to disconnect, to shed the city slicker facade and embrace the raw beauty of the Great Plains. For natives, it’s a life built on hard work, community, and a fierce independence. It’s not for everyone, this North Dakota. But for those who find solace in the howl of the wind and the endless expanse of sky, it’s a place to call home.
As for that state motto, well, you can imagine North Dakotans appreciating their liberty as the freedom to leave their porchlight on all night without anyone bothering to steal it. We had to imagine it, because the wet, frigid night and morning made us hot to trot to get the hell outta Bismarck.
Once again… apologies to Woody Guthrie:
In North Dakota… You got your liberty… But don’t forget… Responsibility… To help each other… In the face of nature’s wrath… Now and forever… We are one!
Greetings, loopers! We find ourselves in the state where the wind whispers secrets through endless fields of corn – Nebraska. A land where the motto, emblazoned on their flag with all the subtlety of a neon sign advertising a discount root canal, screams “Equality Before the Law!” Just like a drunken carnival barker promising a live unicorn.
Our intrepid reportorial team (R.H. and a belly full of cheesy blueberry grits) tracked down Carl Spicher, a librarian in Chadron with the patience of a saint and a reference desk powered by spread-spectrum WiFi. Turns out, Nebraska’s motto stemmed from a bygone era – the Civil War, to be precise – when they removed their “whites only” voting restrictions and welcomed newly emancipated African Americans. Now, emancipation long relegated to the dusty corners of the Dewy Decimal system… Nebraska these days spends more time extolling the virtues of “The Good Life” in their state ads than acknowledging their, shall we say, reluctant progressive past.
Hot Springs: Nebraska’s geothermal spas were recognized by Pawnee and Sioux tribes who used them for healing ceremonies and relaxation. European settlers in the 19th century recognized their therapeutic potential setting up various popular resorts. Victoria Springs State Recreation Area (established in 1925) operates to this day.
Arts: High? More like high school cafeteria food. Low? Now we’re talkin’! Dive bars with murals that would make a sailor blush and performance art that’ll leave you wondering if you accidentally stumbled into a psych ward… glorious!
Colleges: You got your pick of public and private institutions, churning out everything from future astronauts to rodeo champions (because Nebraska, baby!).
Literary Landmarks: Slim pickings here, folks. Unless you consider endless cornfields a metaphor for the crushing emptiness of existence, which some might argue is a valid point.
The Nebraskan Character: A Portrait in Contradictions: – The Good: Friendly, fiercely independent, and with a work ethic that could shame a pack mule. They’ll give you the shirt off their backs, as long as you don’t mess with their corn or their college football team. – The Bad: Stubborn as a Missouri mule (apologies to Missouri), suspicious of outsiders, and with a penchant for casserole concoctions that would make a health inspector weep.
Famous Figures: Not exactly a who’s who of Hollywood royalty. But you got Marlon Brando, who chilled in Omaha for a bit, and Johnny Carson, the gold standard for late night TV.
Lifestyle: Visitors? Brace yourself for wide-open spaces, small-town charm (read: everyone knows your business), and enough fried food to clog your arteries faster than you can say “Go Big Red!” Nebraskans themselves? They live the simple life, content with their land, their families, and their Huskers.
Vox Populi: As for that whole “Equality Before the Law” shtick? Let’s just say the opinions range from polite chuckles to outright guffaws. But hey, at least they have an aspirational motto, right?
It’s a land of contradictions, cornfields, and a healthy dose of absurdity. So come on down, y’all! Just don’t expect a Pulitzer Prize-winning literary scene or a red carpet welcome. But if you’re looking for authenticity, a soak in a hot spring, and a chance to experience Americana, uncut and unfiltered, then Nebraska might just surprise the hell out of you.
So… here we go… apologies to Woody Guthrie:
Onward through the fog… R.H.
In the dive bars… And Nebraska murals… Creative spirit… Leans toward surreal… But in the depth of… Our nation’s history… These folks made room… For the newly free.
Ah, the siren song of the open road! Trading the work-a-day cage for a rolling studio apartment, a veritable steel dinghy sailing the asphalt seas. Freedom beckons, middle fingers extended at the tyranny of the treadmill. But hold onto your bucket hats, loopers, for this isn’t all fair weather and calm seas. There’s a choppier side to this self-imposed exile, a truth the #vanlife Instagram influencers won’t tell you. It’s a truth as vast and tangible as the Montana sky – solitude is a many-splendored beast, with teeth that can chomp down on your sanity faster than a hammerhead on a sea snake.
Now, before you dismiss me as some hayseed landlubber, hear me out. For weeks, nay, months, you’ll be traversing landscapes both majestic and mundane – from the sun-bleached skeletons of forgotten gas stations in the Mojave to the soul-crushing suburban sprawl of Anytown, USA. You’ll be Jack Sparrow, with your 20-foot Ford Sprinter, a tin can on wheels holding the weight of your dreams and melting ice supply. This solitude, if you aren’t careful, can be an overfilled helium balloon waiting to pop.
Think of those iron-willed bastards sailing the briny blue alone. They stare into the abyss, and the abyss, stares right back. There are times where fear, a primordial ooze, will rise from the depths of your psyche. It’ll start as a whisper, a nagging doubt about the wisdom of this whole escapade. Then, it’ll morph into a full-blown symphony of anxieties, a heavy metal concert conducted by the maestro of self-doubt.
But here’s the rub, loopers: Don’t be a damn ostrich with its head shoved in the oblivious sand! Embrace the fear! Like that over-ripe orange in the back corner of the crisper drawer – peel and all, it can be a sweet and zesty kick to your morning smoothie.
Here’s a recipe for fear management, courtesy of those masters of isolation, those solo seafaring circumnavigators: First, confess your anxieties to the universe, shout them from the top of the mast (in this case, a post on your blog). Then, list those fears in a tattered notebook, like some crazed Dostoevsky scribbling his next masterpiece. Next, develop a personal risk-assessment routine, a daily dance with the what-ifs. Analyze the situation, eyeball the worst-case scenarios, and if taking action beats the paralysis of analysis, then for God’s sake, take action!
Finally, soak up every freakin’ experience, the good, the bad, and the utterly bizarre. Let it all marinate in your soul, because when you finally crawl out of your metal cocoon and rejoin civilization, you’ll have a treasure trove of stories to share with anyone inclined to listen. Just remember, loopers, van life isn’t all sunshine and hashtags. In fact Mike Tyson’s “everyone has a plan…” comment makes more sense with every passing day out here in “This Land.” It’s an exercise in self-discovery, a confrontation with inner demons, and hopefully, a chance to emerge, blinking in the light, a stronger, slightly less neurotic version of yourself.
So, we may have to rename this tour… something like, “everyone has a plan…” Chadron, our intended stop for the Nebraska lowdown, turned out to be a charming little berg with a primo park perfect for cranking out the Colorado post. Unfortunately, the town isn’t big enough to hold a Planet Fitness, which meant no cleansing shower for Ronnie Hays. And to top it all off, the rotation appointment we snagged at the local tire emporium wasn’t until the following Monday (this being a lazy Thursday).
Consulting the oracle of Google Maps (Siri’s drunk sister), we discovered that salvation, in the form of a steaming hot shower and a decent workout, resided just over an hour north in Rapid City, South Dakota. Packing up Rocinante, our trusty mount, we pointed her bug-splattered nose towards the promised land.
Rapid City itself is a San Francisco analog, all rolling green hills juxtaposed with crumbling infrastructure and a smattering of contemporary steel and glass. The pièce de résistance? A giant grain elevator, the kind you’d find crumbling away in every Kansas town, sticking out like a sore thumb. But hey, that’s the beauty of the road, right? You gotta roll with the punches, surf ’em like tasty waves.
Speaking of waves, the drive from Chadron to Rapid City was a technicolor dreamscape. Yellow wood-sorrel rippled across the Nebraska/SD rolling plains like a giant, undulating welcome mat, punctuated by a playful thunderstorm that kept teasing us with glimpses of blueberry sky between cotton candy clouds generously leaking a steady stream of nature’s universal solvent. Our initial plan was to hit a car wash in Rapid City to scrub the bugs off Rocinante’s snout, but Mother Nature, in all her benevolence, had already taken care of that with her pre-dawn car wash special.
Now, Chadron beckoned us back on Monday, June 17th, for that all-important tire appointment at 9:00 AM sharp. From there, who knows? North Dakota awaits, then west to Montana or East to Minnesota. One thing’s for sure, though: we’re sticking to the northern border until the prairie convection oven quits treating Rocinante like a sardine can in a microwave.
Ah, South Dakota. Land of majestic, perpetually bored bison and presidents’ faces etched into granite like a celestial dentist appointment gone horribly wrong. The state motto, “Under God the People Rule,” smacks you in the face like a rogue hailstone in a prairie squall – a paradox as clear as a whiskey-induced hallucination. On the one hand, it’s a middle finger salute to the nanny state, a boot-stomping declaration of rugged individualism. On the other, it’s about as subtle as a neon JESUS IS COMING sign plastered across a casino marquee.
Our initial quest for hot springs, fueled by enthusiastic Googling, promised a plethora of public geothermal paradises. However, Siri’s drunk sister, bless her malfunctioning circuits, led us down a path more suited for a scene straight out of “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” Unmaintained roads, dilapidated farm equipment – the whole shebang. Needless to say, Ronnie Hays decided hightailing it out of there seemed like the most prudent course of action at the time. However, on the return trip, alleluia, the Town of “Hot Springs,” SD was a mere 5-mile diversion. Did we take it…? Derp, waddya think, home slice? Even’s Plunge brought back childhood memories. It seems R.H.’s parents had a similar attraction to these sacred waters. He (R.H.) spent the rest of the morning shuttling between the mineral pool and the bubbling hot baths…!! Voila! Hot Springs beat the busk, and now the busk better get in gear.
You meet the most interesting people in mineral baths, no? We met “Chico Scotty (not his real name),” a retired rescue ranger from the U.S. Forest Service and he described a scene straight out of a fever dream brewed on moonshine and monster movie marathons. Nestled amongst the Pondarosa pines, trapped in a rock tangle after a particularly nasty stumble, he thought he might be in a situation similar to that one where a climber had to cut his own hand off to escape, he (Chico) encountered a creature that defied every ranger handbook he’s ever thumbed through. More on Chico’s adventures later.
Forget the literary landmarks, loopers. This is Laura Ingalls Wilder country, and for some loopers, that’s good enough. Who doesn’t love a good tale of pioneering grit and sunbonnets, right?
And what about that South Dakota character? The good? Friendly folks, as sturdy and dependable as a John Deere tractor. The not-so-good? Let’s just say some mindsets can be a tad… well, stuck in the past.
Lifestyle? For tourists, it’s all about the wide-open spaces, the kitschy attractions (dinosaur and pheasant statues, anyone?), and the feeling of being a million miles from anywhere (which, depending on your perspective, can be a good thing or a bad thing). For natives, it’s a land of self-reliance, hard work, and a fierce sense of community. Sure, the winters can be brutal, but the sunsets are enough to make a preacher slap his mama.
Vox populi: What do South Dakotans say about their state motto? Most chuckle, then offer some variation of “it ain’t perfect, but it’s ours.” There’s a grudging respect for the spirit of self-sufficiency it embodies, even if the government’s idea of “empowerment” sometimes feels more like being shoved headfirst into a vat of scalding hot mineral water. And speaking of mineral water, back to Chico Scotty’s reverse Rescue Ranger forest debacle. This wasn’t your run-of-the-mill grizzly with a bad case of the Mondays. This was a lumbering, buxom rug with a coat of hair rendering clothing unnecessary. Chico thought he had encountered a female wookie, all 6’10” of her, reeking like a gym sock left in a swamp. Chico, a man who wouldn’t blink at a rogue moose on PCP, felt a primal tremor shimmy down his spine. But forced himself to push the silly sasquatch thoughts aside. He was delirious, desperate to escape the rock tangle, and this strange creature seemed willing to help.
With the grace of a drunken tap dancer on a greased skillet, and with the help of the creature, Chico wrestled with the rock tangle, muttering curses that would make a sailor blush. Finally, with an audible thunk, and sending electric pain all the way up his spine, the rock fell away. The hairy maiden straight out of an R.Crumb sketch book lumbered to her feet, with a graceful waltz of power and surprising elegance. This unusual savior let out a sound that could have been a growl, a yodel, or maybe the mating call of a particularly disgruntled walrus. Chico, ever the pragmatist, took it as a giant, hairy “good luck, human.”
The big gal then did something that cemented Chico’s belief in the whole “myth must persist” philosophy. She melted back into the woods like a particularly large, pungent shadow. Now, Chico did remember one thing clearly (it was a stressful ordeal, and well, he wasn’t completely lucid): The big gal moved with a stealth that would make a ninja weep with envy.
Back at the ranger station, showered, slightly less ripe, he dressed the flesh wounds, and nursed a brace of coffee. The encounter with the big gal sat heavy in his gut. He knew the official channels would have him hunting the poor thing down with a posse and a platoon of tranquilizer darts. But Chico, in a moment of rebellion, decided to keep his trap shut. The big gal deserved her peace, and her myths. Besides, who was Chico to deny the world a little bit of magic, even if it came wrapped in a giant, smelly package? The legend of Bigfoot lives on, thanks to a ranger with a heart as big as the Crazy Horse monument, and a mouth that, thankfully, knew when to stay shut.
So now… the point. Here’s this Hot Springs or Busk tour appended verse to Woody Guthrie’s timeless classic “This Land”:
From the Black Hills… To the rolling prairie… South Dakota… Extraordinary… Pull your boots up… And leave the legends lie… These folks are strong… As mountain stone.
Loopcircus 