Northern Trials: The Great Plains of Iowa and Nebraska

The same refrain has been ringing in my ears for hundreds, going on thousands, of miles: “I got here on foot!”  As I write this evening, I’m currently sitting under a picnic shelter in the, almost too small to register on a modern map, town of Crook, Colorado.  I am days away from the next major junction point on the American Discovery Trail, Denver, where I will have many decisions to make.  For a typical westbound hiker (though let’s be honest, there is nothing “typical” about anyone who takes on the ADT!), there is no decision to make at this point…“head west my friend, head west!”  But even in the realm of the truly bizarre, I have chosen to occupy a different kind of space, to wander beyond reason towards the full 6800 mile course.

As such, I have decisions to make, fall arriving fast with winter nipping at the heel.  The mountain peaks before me loom large yet, for now, the curvature of the Earth still obscures from me their sight.  My pace has quickened in the north, adding options I never really expected to have, though the clock ticks fast, I must decide.  I originally planned to either loop south in Denver, heading back to Cincinnati or, if I arrived too late (the peaks already piling on with snow), to ride a train or bus and hike the southern route westbound to Denver as I have the north.  


The crux of every choice remains the same: I must cross the peaks in the Rockies and the Sierra Nevadas either before or after the snow renders their passing either impossible or a far too specialized task for the equipment I carry.  Since I walked into Colorado yesterday afternoon at Julesburg, I have done the math every which way.  I have ample time to loop south, but I’ll arrive in Cincinnati late fall at my current pace, that is, even if I slow down a bit.  That leaves the West in the dead of winter, making a simple unidirectional thru hike impossible. 

Fortunately, the full ADT alleviates the burden of “purity” or simple definitions of “continuity.”  Simply put, the trail cannot be hiked along an uninterrupted footpath without repeating either the northern or southern routes.  I enjoyed the north, but not twice.  I expect to enjoy the south, but not twice.  Beyond that, the ADT is already not a continuous alpine hike; the highways and byways are as much our home as the single track.  To worry about my feet leaving one path for another, to worry about directionality when I have already wandered north and south almost as much (so it seems at times!) as I have managed west (I have lost track of all the kind hearted locals who have informed me, “but you know you’re headed north, right?!”)…to worry about and to define a “trail” in such terms after all I have already navigated and struggled through, seems to me an absurdity.  To understand the decision I have already made, as always, I return to where I have already been…

Iowa

Mosquitos, floods, cops and storms; Iowa at times left me reeling.  I equally found a beauty I could not resist as the land stretched long, the sky spoke with strength and certainty, though the message I would not always want to hear.  At times I could hardly walk, my camera leaping from its bag demanding my attention as much as this land.

“Trail Closed,” a familiar sight.  “Warning, trail may be slippery or under water”…I chuckle and continue on, having waded through the flood waters of the Mississippi on day one, having just waded through the swollen and rushing overflow of the Cedar River in George Wyth Memorial State Park, the entire park closed as I quickly found myself waist high, the mosquitos swarming their kill.

As I hike into evening, I hear a rumble.  I look over my shoulder to see the apocalypse raging towards me at “lightning” speed.  I look around…corn!  The ominous sky bears down as I quicken my pace, hoping to find anything, a clearing to pitch my tent…the ditch along the highway won’t suffice!  I turn at an intersection to find a rocky pullout…perfect!  I pitch my tent as cars whizz by…success!  But the rain has yet to bear down, so I grab my camera and film what could be my demise…such strength, such beauty!  I feel the first drop, fat and heavy.  I retreat to my dwelling to cozy up and ride the wave.  My house would shake and sway, but sturdy and sure we weathered another Iowa storm.

“You’re not dreamin,’ you’re in Beaman.”  A long day, a hard push to get within reach of the next town with a Casey’s gas station, my refuge as I hop from small town to small town, packing little to keep my weight down, my nerves frayed and energy waning from such constant assault, each storm stirring and exciting the blood sucking vampires that hover about me in thick clouds.  At times I throw in the towel, this “nature trail” not worth the poisoning of my blood.  I reroute to a sun exposed road—relief!—the hot sun beats down, my skin begins to bake.  

I pitch my tent at the gas-only station across from that sign welcoming me to Beaman, Iowa.  I crawl up inside and begin to remove my socks…I nearly bite my lip, my heels too hot to touch, the tendons on fire.  I grab some anti-inflammatory medication and pop a couple, honestly not sure if I’d be able to walk in the morning.  I do my best to rest and surely come morning, a little stretching and I’m on my way…a relief once more, my dream nearly turned nightmare.

Nebraska

Nebraska I found a liminal space, its reputation for corn masking a diverse beauty, the land itself straining to break free, to return to its roots long ago plowed asunder by ever expanding corporate interest.  I walked this land drenched in sweat, my eyes stinging, my skin burning, my pace defined, not by desire, but by the resource I must reach, clean water always in too short supply.

I stumbled into Prosser at mile 18 of a much longer day.  The sun had been leeching strength off my shoulders all day, a day that had been sluggish from the beginning.  It would be days before I reached a town with so much as a gas station or vending machine, days of unforgiving heat and scant water besides a spigot I might borrow or an irrigation well I might pump from.  My filter would soon clog on this 280 mile stretch of 30 plus mile days just to get to another corn field and a little closer to some place I’d be assured a clean and cold drink, maybe a bite to eat beyond what stuffs in my pack on these ultra weight conscious slogs, weight that seems to multiply instead of shrink as the water in my bottles too quickly disappears.

Prosser would be an oasis of sorts, a town too small to even be measured by horses.  All you’ll find here is a collection of houses, one or two used-to-be store fronts, a fire station and a small little park with a picnic table, a rusted but totally functional merry-go-round, a little basketball court with rusted and sagging rims, and two spigots with running water.  Yet I found such joy and relief during the hour and a half I spent here boiling some corn I plundered from the road, filling my bottles and drinking my fill, and of course taking a merry round or two as I travelled deliriously through time, almost forgetting I would be sleeping in another cornfield unsure if my water would last until I found some more.

In Nebraska I found myself traveling through time a lot as I hiked along the Oregon, California and Pony Express trails, a fitting way to experience a history rarely told in fairness or full, the monuments and markers along the path copy and pasted from the text books that formed my childhood “de” education.  But in this place, struggling for my own survival; beaten, burned and fatigued; I need only close my eyes and listen for the songs of tears wailing in the very same wind that now cools my baked and broken skin.

One day I turned a corner, a sharp left, and there it was, the prairie I had only seen glimpses of along the edges of crops, now so free and fair, a diversity of color and form, the rolling hills, the sandy dunes—my God!—such beauty could never be contained nor destroyed, such freedom I could only hope to carve out in my own life, resilience beyond anything I could ever fathom.

The Colorado Rockies

Yesterday I walked out of the McDonald’s in Brush, Colorado where I sat to finish this writing.  As I hiked the highway towards Fort Morgan, I finally caught the glimpse I’d been scanning the horizon for since I crossed the border into “the mountain state” at Julesburg some days earlier…

At long last, that “Rocky Mountain High!” (look close, beyond the tree line and the silos, such a beautiful silhouette!)

I’ll be there some days from now, having arrived on foot from the Atlantic Ocean in Delaware, having traversed some 3,000 miles strapped to a pack…

At Denver my hike gets more complicated than just heading west along a blue line.  To complete the 6800 miles of the American Discovery Trail continuously, at this point, I need to clear the Rockies to the west and south of Denver before snow piles high.  I’ll also need to clear the Sierra Nevadas in California.  I still have the southern route to hike between Denver and Cincinnati, as well as the western states of Utah, Nevada and California.  “Continuous but not linear” now becomes the mantra.  I’ll hike west to Grand Junction, then hop back to Denver and hike south to Pueblo, followed by a leap forward to briefly hike the Sierra Nevadas between Auburn, California and Virginia City, Nevada.  I’ll then return to Pueblo, Colorado to continue eastbound along the southern route to Cincinnati (Elizabethtown) and finally back to Grand Junction, Colorado to continue westbound through Utah, Nevada and finishing California to the Pacific Ocean.

I’m dizzy, and there’s much I can’t account for except to hike alert and flexible to the demands of unpredictable weather as my summer rapidly comes to a close.  It’s been fun to just hike west and not think about such things.  I equally look forward to the new and ever shifting challenges before me.

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Comments 3

  • Judith E Johnson : Aug 11th

    Wow! That’s a lot! You are amazing!

    Reply
  • Bob Palin : Aug 11th

    So will it be spring before you hike Utah? It’s not possible to follow the ADT across Utah in the winter, the LaSal Mountains, Bears Ears, Henry Mountains and Boulder Mountain all get buried in snow.

    Reply
  • Holly : Aug 12th

    WOW. You’ve been a hiking through some freakish weather, historic heat, floods, storms. I had no idea this trail had so much road walking. I just read the last few of your posts, since I live near the c&o canal, it blows my mind to think about how far you’ve come.
    I followed so many people on Trek. I’ve never heard of anyone having such problems with their feet. I wonder if it’s because of road walking? Or needing a firmer thicker longer lasting cushion. Our bodies were definitely not designed for road walking.
    It’s great to hear details about Iowa and Nebraska, part of the country that very few people will ever see.

    Reply

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