Kansas, Where Have You Been?

Campground along the Cimarron River (which actually flows underground)

Kansas, I have a whole new appreciation for you. Don’t take this wrong, but I used to think you were kind of boring — the hardest part of the drive, flat, lonely, mile after mile of Interstate with nothing much to look at. Whenever I crossed over the state line and saw the sign “Leaving Kansas” I would quote Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, “Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore,” and then add, “Thank God.” But this time was different. We took the road less traveled, the two-lane Highway 54. It took us longer, but we made the time and I’ve already started a list of things to see next time I’m in Kansas. 

For several miles, Highway 54 followed along the original Santa Fe Trail. When we got to Garden City, we found a lovely park on the outskirts of town to stop for the night. However, after searching for the perfect, flat campsite, we discovered that the park seemed to be a place local teenagers went to party. There were no envelopes to register at the pay station and the sites were littered with trash and empty beer cans. Apparently the Trip Advisor ratings were a bit outdated and the park was not maintained as it once was. So instead, we drove back to the highway, and pulled in next to an 18-wheeler at a truck stop. About 3 am I woke up wondering, what is that sound? I looked out the window and saw that another semi truck had pulled in next to us. Apparently, the driver had no plans of turning off the engine or the running lights. We decided if we were going to listen to an engine run, it might as well be ours, so we headed back out on the highway. 

At 4 a.m. we aired up a low tire at a gas station that wasn’t open yet in the town of Cimarron. Suddenly, the song Rose of Cimarron, one of my favorite songs by POCO in the 70s, was playing on repeat in my head. I thought about the pioneers that had traveled this same route before us. The rugged and proud people who had met daily challenges and adversity. Instead of airing up a low tire, they had to repair a busted wagon wheel. I guess things haven’t changed all that much. Even though their lives were hard, I wondered about the little things that brought them joy? Was it the wildflowers in all colors that dotted the landscape, the brilliant sun coloring the sky in shades of oranges and reds as it melted into the horizon, or the sight of hawks soaring on the wind, searching for their next meal. I had seen all of those things in the past 24 hours and each time, I was struck with awe at the beauty. 

As we drove through Dodge City, I saw a signs for the OK Corral, Wyatt Earp Boulevard, and Boot Hill. If it had been a couple of hours later, we would have stopped and gone to the museum, but waiting four hours for it to open didn’t seem like the best use of our time since the temperature was supposed to be in the high nineties and we were trying keep the van running as cool as possible.

As we continued driving east, we passed through Quivira National Wildlife Refuge that provides habitat for over 340 species of birds (there are approximately 800 in the United States). I learned more about this on signs at a rest stop where two resident cats welcomed us. Someone had provided them a kennel placed in the bushes with food and water bowls. They acted like they owned the place, and I guess in a way they did. Veering off our route about twenty miles, down a narrow dirt road, we found a campsite at a beautiful lake — thank you GPS.  

So, Kansas, my apologies, I had no idea you held such beauty. I know one thing for sure. Next time I come through, I won’t be taking I-70, I would miss out on too much. Until we meet again.