kansas

This Land: Kentucky

Alright, alright, alright! Ronnie and Rocinante started this tour from the great state of Kansas, and in the stompin’ rock-n-roll salad days, Kansas was famous for springtime tornadoes. Well, times change, people change, and apparently weather patterns change as well. For instance, here in the Southeastern states, the approach of March and April 2025 subjected Ronnie and Rocinante to three, count ’em, three white knuckle evenings where one eye was on the online tornado trackers and the other on streaming movies. Two of those evenings featured sirens screaming, “take cover people, a funnel has been spotted!!”

Now, being a lifelong Kansas native, Ronnie’s habit is to hightail it outdoors to look for the funnel. But all three of these incidents happened at night, and those are no fun at all. So, there they were, watching for danger funnels on the radar trackers while Ronnie formulated a plan for what to do if the damn thing rolled over them. Once, they had a nearby ditch to duck into, but the other two times, just Cracker Barrel which is closed after 10:00pm. So Ronnie’s idea was to wrap himself in a substantially padded sleeping bag, strap into the passenger seat and ride it out with Rocinante. The good news? They didn’t have to resort to drastic measures on any of these evenings, but the most recent incident did scare Ronnie a bit, and the psychic reverberations are chronicled in the below dream dispatch (embellishments taken by artistic license)..

Buckle up, Buttercup, because we’re driving headfirst into the swirling, screaming maw of a river-riding tornado, a meteorological monstrosity tracing the muddy spine of the Mississippi and Ohio, a psychedelic serpent of wind and chaos, as the Mississippi, usually a languid giant, began to froth. From the trembling neon of Beale Street, a tornado, not of wind, but of memory and distorted reality, spun to life. It didn’t roar, it whispered, a chorus of forgotten river songs, bourbon-soaked laments, and the echoes of civil war battles all the way from the blues-soaked delta of Memphis to the bourbon-soaked hills of Louisville.

It started, as these things often do, with a whisper, a low growl in the humid air above Beale Street, a pregnant pause in the rhythm of the blues. Then, BOOM, a swirling vortex of fury ripped through the neon haze, sucking up stray guitar licks and the lingering scent of barbecue like a cosmic vacuum cleaner. We’re talking a twister with a goddamn attitude, folks, a hell-bent hurricane on a pilgrimage to the heart of bluegrass country.

Upriver it raged, a furious finger pointing towards Kentucky, leaving behind a trail of bewildered catfish and flattened riverboats. The swirling vortex first caught the echoes of Elvis’s ghostly hip swivels, then twisted north, past the slumbering cotton fields. The air shimmered, and we saw a young Jennifer Lawrence, not on a red carpet, but atop a wild-eyed pony, her laughter echoing across the rolling hills of her childhood farm. “Those horses,” she whispered, her voice a phantom breeze, “they knew the secrets of the land, secrets the river whispered too.” The tornado, momentarily calmed, seemed to nod, then resumed its watery ascent.

Next, the phantom funnel roared past Churchill Downs, where the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson, fueled by a lifetime of Wild Turkey and mescaline, materialized in a puff of ganja smoke. He was ranting about the “equine gentry,” their manicured hooves and bloodline arrogance, as the tornado ripped the fancy hats off the heads of bewildered spectators. “Fear and Loathing in Tornado Alley,” he’d scream, his banshee voice lost in the wind, “a goddamn vortex of pure, unadulterated madness!”

The tempest continued its journey, a whirling dervish of destruction, passing over Louisville, where the spirit of Muhammad Ali, light as a butterfly and stinging like a bee, rose to meet it. He was projected into a snowy black & white television screen reliving a defiant response to the military draft, his voice echoing through the storm, “Why should they ask me to put on a uniform and go 10,000 miles from home to drop bombs and bullets on brown people in Vietnam while so-called Negro people in Louisville are treated like dogs?” The audio glitched, he continued through the white noise, “I got no quarrel with them Viet Cong!” he said. The tornado, momentarily stunned by his sheer force of personality, seemed to hesitate, then roared on, a begrudging respect in its howl.

Further up the Ohio, the ghost of Abe Lincoln, his lanky frame emerging from the mist, pointed a spectral finger towards his “sinking spring” childhood home. “Even the land weeps,” he intoned, his voice deep and resonant, “when the balance is disturbed.” The tornado, perhaps sensing a kindred spirit in the rail-splitter’s melancholic wisdom, seemed to soften its destructive touch, leaving the old homestead relatively unscathed.

Then, the storm reached the heart of bluegrass country, where Chris Stapleton, his voice a whiskey-soaked lament, stood defiant against the swirling chaos, his trademark cowboy hat firmly planted on his head. “They told me my style was too raw, too real,” he growled, a plume of smoke curling from a phantom stem, “but the wind knows the truth.” The tornado, impressed by his gritty authenticity, seemed to bow in deference, whipping his long hair into a frenzy.

Dwight Yoakam, his voice echoing the Bakersfield sound, tipped his hat to the storm, a knowing grin on his face. “Even the Bluegrass wind respects the Bakersfield Sound,” he drawled, his voice cutting through the roar. The tornado, perhaps drawn to the twang of his soul, seemed to sway in time with the rhythm.

Finally, as the storm reached its crescendo, a spectral banjo echoed through the chaos. Bill Monroe, the father of bluegrass, materialized, a red clan robed image straight from the Coen Brothers’ movie, his eyes glowing with an otherworldly light. He plucked a haunting melody, a lament for the ravaged land, and the tornado, as if listening to a divine command, began to dissipate, its fury spent, leaving behind a trail of eerie calm and the lingering echo of the high, lonesome sound.

And so, the river-riding tornado, a psychedelic fever dream of wind and chaos, faded into the Kentucky hills, leaving behind a trail of twisted jangled nerves, tall tales, and the lingering scent of bourbon and bluegrass. Nothing like a good existential scare to bring out the vivid dreams.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

In Kentucky…
Old Man River…
Has marked the boundaries…
Has been the giver…
Deep and wide…
The greatness flows…
All this and bourbon whisky too.

This Land: Phase IV (coastal south)

Ok, you filthy animals. It’s time to step back and regroup. Hot Springs or Busk (HSoB) phases I, II, and III covered the West and the Midwest. Now, with winter bearing down, i find myself learning some lessons here in the deep south (HSoB Phase IV), starting with Arkansas and Georgia. The lesson? It gets cold here too. Granted, we most likely won’t see any snow, let alone a bomb-cyclone blizzard in the Savannah area, but, it’s not what i had imagined. Specifically, i expected nighttime temps between 40 and 60 and day temps between 50 and 70. Apparently i brought the 20s and 30s from Kansas along with me for the ride… lol.

Anyway, i’m waiting for a response from a couple applications associated with solo-acoustic road dawg gigs. Both responses should come in some time in December, but definitely before the 1st of the year. So, we’re taking it easy in Georgia for a spell. The HSoB Phase IV itinerary will be determined by these results. We’ll either hit the road for the Coastal South states, or we’ll postpone Phase IV till March after the 2025 South by Southwest confab has concluded.

Either way, Phase IV will cover the Coastal South states. starting with South Carolina, the Palmetto State. Specifically Charleston, a city trapped in a time warp, a ghost town of antebellum mansions and haunted history. We’ll dive into the murky depths of the past, where the ghosts of Confederate generals and plantation owners still roam. We’ll take a midnight stroll down the cobblestone streets, with the chilly night air seeping into our bones.

Next stop, Florida, the Sunshine State. Specifically St. Augustine by way of Waycross, GA. St. Augustine is Near Daytona Beach and it is quintessential Florida. It’s a place steeped in early US history. Founded in 1565, St. Augustine is the oldest continuously occupied settlement of European and African-American origin in the United States. Forty-two years before the English colonized Jamestown and fifty-five years before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock.

From there, it’s off to Alabama, The Heart of Dixie. Specifically Mobile, a sleepy port city with a pirate past. We’ll wander the historic district, feeling the weight of history in the air thick with the scent of decay and the promise of adventure. If Mother Nature cooperates, we’ll swing by Gulf Shores and Orange Beach, a place where time stands still. Maybe take some zen time just getting lost in the rhythm of the waves, the salty air, and the endless expanse of the Gulf Coast. I’ve been warned about snowbird season, that finding places to light might be a bit of a challenge… we shall see.

After Alabama, it’s on to Mississippi, the Magnolia State. Specifically Biloxi, a city of contradictions, where the glitz and glamour of the casinos clash with the gritty reality of the working class. I might check out the neon-lit gambling halls, but knowing me, the local libraries are more my speed. Who woulda thunk i’d be so “booky”? Either way, i need to find a way to soak in local flavor and/or convene with ghosts in Natchez, a city steeped in history… the grand plantations… the lives of wealthy planters and their enslaved laborers.

After that, Louisiana, the Bayou State. Specifically New Orleans, The Big Easy, a city of sin and salvation. We’ll check with a former colleague, a one-time NOLA native. She’ll help me navigate the vibrant jazz scene, the Creole cuisine, and the endless supply of cheap booze. We’ll explore the French Quarter, the Garden District, and the mysterious swamps, where the line between reality and fantasy blurs. I’ve always wanted to experience NOLA, and here’s my opportunity.

So… those are the broad strokes. I’m sure there’ll be hitches and wrenches in the works, but Rocinante has proven resilient, and by replacing her tires and brake pads we’ve added a layer of assurance. In addition, we have solar and shore power installed and tested. We’re ready as ever to venture outside familiar territory. With the West and Midwest being my stomping grounds, the easy part is over and so very grateful to have family in Savannah to serve as home base for Phase IV.

DAMN THE TORPEDOES… the Deep South and Eastern Seaboard states are mostly unfamiliar territory. I’ve been to Manhattan, and i’ve been to Daytona Beach and Nova Scotia. Otherwise, Phase IV and V will be, how did Willy Nelson put it? Oh yea, “…goin’ places that i’ve never been… seeing things i may never see again.” And that’s why, “…i can’t wait to get on the road again.”

Onward through the fog… Ron, Rohlfie, & Ronnie Hays

This Land: Kansas

Howdy, loopers, gather ’round the camp fire for a full-tilt rodeo of a tale! This ain’t your typical travel brochure drivel, mind you. No sir, this is a slapstick eulogy wrapped in a fever dream, seasoned with a dash of sand and color. Strap in, because we’re headed straight for the heartland, a place some folks derisively call “flyover country.”

First things first: full disclosure. I was hatched in Goodland, Kansas, a town so small it probably has its own tumbleweed support group. My parents, bless their tragically mismatched hearts, shuffled me between this so-called “good” land and Denver as regular as school seasons. But hey, summers were spent traipsing around the glorious front range with my outdoorsy step-mom and the old man – a nature enthusiast packing enough ordinance to battle a Russian platoon. Point being, Kansas (and Colorado) are in my blood, even if it’s a tad thin on account of all shuffling.

SIDE NOTE: hereafter, we’ll refer to my stomping grounds as “Kanorado” as, in addition to all that Front Range camping, i’ve spent time schooling or gigging in almost every Western Kansas town with a school or Opera House.

Now, some city slickers will tell you Kansas is nothing but a barren wasteland devoid of entertainment. Those sorry souls clearly haven’t bathed in the crystal-clear waters of Wilson Lake. Nestled snug against I-70 in good ol’ Bob Dole country, Wilson boasts the most transparent reservoir this side of the Missouri River, likely due to all that golden limestone chilling at the bottom. Speaking of limestone, the Rocktown trail is a naturalist’s technicolor dream – a geological wonderland teeming with flora, fauna, and rock formations that’d make Moab, Utah smile.

But hold on to your cover, loopers, because there’s more to Kansas than meets the eye. The Flint Hills, once a stomping ground for John Brown and his gorilla raiders, roll on like a never ending emerald wave. Tall tails of outlaw chicanery featuring such familiar names as Buffalo Bill Cody, Wild Bill Hickok, and Calamity Jane to name a few did at least some of their stompin’ right here in the flyover. General Dwight D., “Beware of the Military Industrial Complex,” Eisenhower from Abilene went on to kick some Nazi arse, and hey, music lovers, get this: Joe Walsh, that guitar-slingin’ jester himself, hails from Wichita!

Now, speaking of Kansas loopers, let’s get one thing straight: they’ve heard every “Wizard of Oz” joke you may have in your quiver. They won’t laugh, but they’ll wear those ruby-red kicks like a badge of honor. Now, about sports – Rock Chalk Jayhawks? Sure, they bleed crimson and blue, but they also have a healthy respect for the KCMO pro teams (GO Chiefs!). West of Wichita, however, Jayhawk fandom gets met with raised eyebrows. Many Western Kansas peeps are more partial to the Denver Donkeys. Can you believe the audacity?

Kansas City itself is a tale of two quarreling siblings. The Kansas-Missouri border rivalry stretches all the way back to the Civil War, when things got downright bloody (look up “Bloody Kansas” if you have a strong stomach). Politically, Kansas loopers tend to lean conservative, but mess with their personal liberties and you’ll see a realpolitik “don’t tread on me” spirit rise faster than a prairie dust storm. Remember that ballot initiative to control women’s bodies? Kansas loopers saw through that religious mumbo jumbo faster than a jackrabbit on a hot tin roof.

Here’s the thing about Kansas: everyone wants to claim their little town as Superman’s birthplace (Smallville), but Clark has yet to release the birth certificate so the mystery… persists. There may not be any Clark Kents out there, but there is a cause to pause, vis a vis the particular vein of grit these people exhibit. Kansas loopers are a tough lot. Most of them can drive a stick shift and have probably piloted a tractor at some point in their lives. “Home on the Range” ain’t just a song, it’s a way of life. Before corporate greed gobbled up family farms, everyone either pitched in as hired help or knew a farmer by name. Minnesota nice? Pah! Those loopers are downright chatty compared to the almost painfully polite Kansas loopers. Being the literal “heartland” of the country has its perks – neighbors here look out for each other. Need to borrow a chainsaw? No sweat. Dog gone rogue? The whole town will be on the hunt. Need a cup of sugar, or a smoky coffin nail? If they got it, you got it. Kansas loopers have a fierce sense of loyalty, that is, until karma comes knocking. They believe in what goes around comes around, faster than a tumbleweed in a tornado.

Ah, Kansas… flatter than a Baptist hymn board and about as exciting as watching paint dry? Newsflash, chuckleheads: Kansas loopers know their state’s a canvas painted in shades of endless prairie. West of Wichita, some would vote to make the telephone pole the state tree. But here’s the thing – pick a quiet spot out in the country at the “golden hour,” and you’ll be met with a spectacle that would make even God herself tip the sun bonnet. Sunsets in Kansas, loopers, are like a knife fight between angels – a Technicolor brawl that leaves the sky bruised with purples, oranges, and a fiery red that would make a MAGA hat look downright pale.

So, on to the point of this screed. To write a verse for Kansas to add to Woody Guthrie’s classic, “This Land.” I decided to dig a little deeper than a prairie pothole and get the lowdown on our state motto, “Ad Astra per Aspera” – that’s Latin for “To the stars through difficulties,” you heathens. I cornered a “student success coach” at the Kansas Wesleyan University library, and a Kansas history whiz at the Hays Public Library. Both of them, bless their unoffensive coffee mugs, talked about the state’s rough-and-tumble beginnings – the dust storms that could choke a billy goat, the grasshopper plagues that made the Bible look like a picnic. But here’s the thing: these scrappers, these pioneers with callouses on their souls, they persevered. They looked up at that endless Kansas sky, saw the Milky Way sprawled out like a cosmic wheat field, and said, “You know what? We’re going to reach for those stars, even if it means clawing our way through a mountain of misery first.”

And that, my friends, is the Kansas spirit. It’s in the way the wheat sways in the wind, a silent symphony of resilience. It’s in the way a small town pulls together after a tornado, stronger than ever. It’s in the way a Kansan, with a twinkle in their eye and a calloused hand extended, welcomes you to their state, even if you are, ahem, flyover challenged.

So, the next time you think about taking a potshot at Kansas, take a long look at a map, friend. Because out here, under skies that put on a nightly light show that would shame the Vegas Sphere, we’re reaching for the stars, one sunset at a time. And that, folks, is a beautiful thing.

And so… without further adieu, combining my personal experience, some light research queries, and my conversations with the above librarians, here’s a Kansas verse for This Land, by Woody Guthrie.

Onward through the fog… R.H.

As i was rolling…
Through the Kansas wheat fields…
I saw the Milky Way…
As a quantum field…
And though the way is…
Fraught with trouble… peril…
These folks…
Have made it to the stars!

Hot Springs or Busk (chapter VII): Rocinante’s Maiden Voyage

And so, our mongrel of the rueful countenance takes another step closer to his post-retirement vision quest (hot springs or busk). Unlike Don Quixote’s rusty armor, helmet, and spear, he dons camo shorts, Tevas, and Hawaiian shirts blending gloriously with the avocado floor of his newly outfitted camper van. He christened her “Rocinante,” a nod to the famous 17th century novel and a little inside joke to himself. Seemed fitting for a slightly unhinged adventure like this. Luckily he’s traveling with a couple equally bent family members, we’ll call them Dawnareeno and Crazy Carter.

The first stop on Rocinante’s maiden voyage was Colorado Springs, where some savvy outfitters promised to turn Rocinante’s insides into a rolling studio apartment. Ronnie threw caution to the wind and was not disappointed, the outfitters turned the van into a true vagabond sanctuary. While waiting for the workers to finish the job, Ronnie, Dawnareeno, and Crazy Carter took in a few of the local attractions, and while exploring, stumbled upon a vintage motorcycle shop… you know, the one with the cryptic “help wanted” sign in the window. It was practically tailor-made for a gearhead like Crazy Carter, and we all got a chuckle from the words on the sign: “Wanted… mechanic to work on vintage motorcycles. Prefer a retiree with their own tools and plenty of time on their hands.”

Right on time, Ronnie, Dawnareeno, Crazy Carter, and Rocinante tilted towards the plains, bound for their home town where mom still lives (call her Sassy Salgal). Visiting that tiny windswept Western Kansas town made these intrepid travelers feel nostalgic for their flaming youth. But if the wind didn’t shake the vans to pieces that night, well, that would be a minor miracle. It howled like a banshee on a bender, giving their rolling domiciles an unnerving sway that had them contemplating the merits of Dramamine pills.

One more overnight. This time somewhere near the Choctaw Nation, they boondocked in a nearly empty truck stop parking lot, nearly empty because the place had closed for the night in order to upgrade their IT setup. Dinner under the golden arches, then up bright and early for the final stretch to Savannah with its sweet tea, Spanish moss, and symphonies of croaking frogs like drunken choirs of mutant crickets. It was Mother Nature’s lullaby and that night our intrepid travelers slept the sleep of the dead. The frog chorus was as loud as those relentless Kansas winds, which is saying something. Savannah has a ghostly charm, and Ronnie’s travel companions, back in their element, served up a delicious bowl of eggs, grits, and salsa. Just the rib-sticking ticket for the long journey back to Hays America.

A stopping point on the return trip, Nashville, very nearly did him in. The traffic was a biblical swarm of 18-wheelers and urban assault vehicles piloted by rage-filled maniacs who seemed personally offended by the very existence of camper vans. Our hero sweated bullets, the beginnings of a stress ulcer gnawing away in his gut as he navigated potholes big enough to swallow Rocinante whole. Between the craters and the belligerent rat race, he was about ready to cash in his chips and take up residence in a roadside ditch.

But like all things, even Nashville’s particular circle of hell came to an end. St. Louis passed in a blur, then a welcomed ice cream break with his two boys and a special friend in Kansas City, and then… the long, lonely expanse of I-70. The wind returned for one last hurrah, a farewell slap to remind him who was really in charge out on the prairie. Ronnie gritted his teeth, visions of sugar-coated mood gummies and his home bed the only thing keeping him sane.

And then, just like that, there was Hays America again. Rocinante, despite the indignities suffered, pulled into the parking lot with a weary sigh. Ronnie, a little grayer, a little more wrinkled, and sporting a newfound respect for the sheer chaotic power of the American highway, stumbled out. He was home, and damn, if it didn’t feel good. He might not be the world’s greatest adventurer yet, but as he patted Rocinante’s battered side, he grinned. “We’ve only just begun,” he said. There are 50 states in the good ol’ USofA, and Ronnie with Rocinante plans to busk them all then relax in their natural hot springs along the way.

Onward… through the fog!

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