TRIGGER WARNING: The following description of our vacation may cause intense envy, feelings of inadequacy, paroxysms of anxiety, and a deep longing for the kind of creativity and ingenuity that we possess. We apologize in advance if this story ruins your whole week.
One year, we decided to take a weeklong vacation between Christma— sorry, “the generic holiday that occurs every year on December 25th and has nothing to do with our county’s only forbidden religion”— and New Year’s Day.
Our beloved kitty, Tonto, had just died the day before and we thought a little getaway would help us adjust to the loss.
So, as most people would, we loaded the minivan with our vacation essentials and flipped a coin to see whether we would head east on I-70 or south on I-25. The only criterion for the vacation was that we would be home on New Year’s Day.
That was it. That was the vacation plan.
The flip decided that it would be east, so we hopped in and headed toward the bucolic Kansas plains. Bucolic, as in— boring. Flattish. That said, prairie land has its own kind of quiet beauty with gently rolling hills, sweeping vistas, and swallows deftly navigating the stands of cottonwood crowding the waists of sparkling waterways. What makes it particularly charming are the thousands of giant power-generating windmills, lazily describing perfect roundels in the sky while clobbering raptors, songbirds, and bats into powdered detritus with their speedway-velocity blades.
We decided to see if we could make it to Texas. The plan was to get to Amarillo and engage in some high-quality antiquing. We had done our research and the quantity and quality were said to be excellent. As it turned out, we didn’t make it this trip but did many years later when we were running guns and alcohol out of Miami. But that’s another tale.
Undaunted, we pressed forward through the equally-bucolic eastern Colorado plains.
Little did we know what Kansas and Oklahoma had in store for us.
It takes about 2 hours and 45 minutes to reach Kanorado, Kansas (home of King’s Cafe), nearly straddling the border, but the reward— reaching Kansas, cannot be understated.
Having embarked behind schedule, we only made it to Goodland, about 15 miles past the state line, when we decided to get off the road. The most prominent feature of Goodland is a massive grain elevator. Which makes sense as Kansas is a massive grain producer. The most prominent feature of the Goodland Hotel is that it apparently is no longer there, which also makes sense since it was a bit of a dump. It had an enormous sunken dance floor and a swimming pool that had not seen water for some time.
Antiquing is one of our pastimes and we figured the unsophisticated hayseeds out in the wilderness wouldn’t know what things were worth, unlike we urban sophisticates. Turns out, they do know what stuff is worth, which is a lot less than in Denver Metro, so we captured some great deals.
We stopped in every little town we encountered looking for antique and junk shops and almost invariably came away with nothing other than time wasted. But occasionally, we would find treasure.
Somewhere in the Kansas farmland, on the dirt-paved County roads, we came to a dead end at a riverbank. This waterway traversed in a roughly northeast-to-southwest direction. We turned around and backtracked to the nearest intersection and turned south on the road grid to find another east-west road. Again turning left, we headed back to the river, looking for a bridge only to come up to the same impassable water.
We repeated this maneuver numerous times to the same effect. Backtrack. Find another road. No bridge. Repeat.
I’ve often wondered why no one wants to accompany us on vacation…
The net effect of this process was that we were slowly inching our way toward San Diego but in the most inefficient way possible.
Eventually, we found a crossing, otherwise, you would not be reading this and our desiccated corpses would still be sitting in a minivan full of collectibles somewhere on the Kansas prairie.
Said minivan was gradually filling up with treasures and by the time we reached Oklahoma, we could only use the rearview mirror through a small ravine carved through the accumulation of purchases.
Somehow, after wandering about in the vicinity of Nowata, Vinita, Big Cabin, and Chouteau, we managed to get to Muskogee, if for no other reason than to spot some Okies. Again, good antiquing.
Sadly, time would not allow us to visit Liberal, Hooker, or Beaver.
Despite our burgeoning load, we pulled into Skiatook, Oklahoma, and spotted yet another antique store. This one had a fine selection of high-quality, well-preserved furniture at great prices and we bought two pieces. One, an English dressing table and mirror in museum condition. The second was a huge armoire, nearly seven feet tall and almost as wide festooned with carvings, contrasting wood inlay, and bronze d’ore decorations.
The van was already full and it was New Year’s Eve.
Obviously, we were not going to be in Denver on New Year’s.
It was also obvious that these new acquisitions were not going to fit in our seafoam green Nissan Quest.
It was still early in the day, so we paid for our treasures and schlumped, suspension groaning, to Tulsa where we located a U-Haul and waited while they installed a trailer hitch on the van. Wandering around Tulsa, we happened upon an oil seep- well in the middle of a suburban street. Traffic passed on either side. They take oil seriously around here.
We found a room at a hotel next to the Tulsa Expo Center. Standing proudly at the entrance to the Expo is the Golden Driller, a 76-foot, genderless statue of an oilperson leaning on a derrick. According to the literature, it is a tourist attraction.
After a fine complimentary breakfast, we fetched our merchandise in Skiatook and headed out. The idea was to see how far we could travel west in the Oklahoma panhandle until we ran out of road.
We chugged out of Tulsa on Route 412. Along the route was the lovely Enid, a city of over 50,000 souls and the seat of Garfield County (isn’t this gripping?).
We passed through Lahoma, Meno, Ringworm— sorry, Ringwood, on to Woodward, where 412 takes a northwestern jog through Fort Supply after which it levels off due west through Slapout. Somewhere along here we stopped for lunch in a fruitless quest for restaurant food that was not from a can. It’s tough to be food snobs in western Oklahoma.
We continued west through many small towns that lacked even a gas station. At Guymond, 412 hooks northward to nearly the dead center of the panhandle, then straight-as-piss westward. There is nothing out there. This is where your mind starts to imagine a half-tank of gas will only get you up to that next crest.
We eventually made Boise City, where we stayed the night in one of its two motels. We were fresh out of westbound road— past Boise City, only ranch land. We could have followed 412 to the town of Felt, but we felt it was time to make the dash home, three days past the goal.
Climbing north on 385, we were headed for Pueblo, CO but not in a straight line. Out here, you have to go somewhere else before you can go where you want to. As the Mainers say: “You can’t get theah from heah.”
Somewhere along this leg, we stayed at the Townsman motel (2 begrudging stars) before making the final dash to I-25 and home. The stretch of I-25 between Colorado Springs and Denver is simultaneously crushingly boring and terrifying. But we made it home.
It is worth mentioning that we passed through Swink, CO. You’re not impressed. I can tell from here. Well, here’s a picture of their water tower. Who’s smirking now?
One thing I can say is that we successfully distracted ourselves from grieving Tonto.
The other is that we told all our friends that we got hitched in Tulsa.
Thanks, Anna! I'll keep 'em coming.
You're so hilarious J. C.! I love the smiley water tower. Lead on fearless leader!