July 13, 2004

• I mentioned the bus stories that would flow from my recent travels, but I haven't told any. Here's one:

  The way my travels went, I took the train from Seattle, WA to Sacramento, CA, and there transfered to an east-bound train headed for Denver, CO. In Denver, I caught a transit bus from the train station to a park-and-ride about ten blocks from my friends' house. I spent some time there, and then it was time to go to Houston, TX, where I grew up and where my family is.

  If there had been a train connection, I would have taken it instead. But if you look at Amtrak's route map, there's a huge gap in connections across the southern half of the midwest, all the way from Nebraksa to Texas. It's like there's a huge impassable canyon they can't build a railroad bridge over, except the canyon is just a bunch of wheat fields. In order to go by rail from Denver to Houston, I'd have to ride either to Chicago or LA for a transfer.

  Anyway. So Greyhound told me they'd convey me across this vast field of wheat for $69 (without tax), which is pretty freakin' cheap. And I took them up on it.

  The first leg was pretty reasonable. I had two seats to myself. Denver to Colorado Springs to Pueblo and then out across the plains to US 287, across the panhandles of both Oklahoma and Texas, to Amarillo. "Amarillo by midnight..." I sat across from a guy who had planned to ride his bicycle from Pueblo to a tiny town in Oklahoma, but someone stole it. He said it was going to take him a day (which I doubt). He asked me if I partied, and asked me if they party down on the Gulf coast. I guess if you live in the panhandle of Oklahoma, there's not much to concern yourself with other than getting shitfaced.

  Right around the northern Oklahoma border, we went through a huge wind farm. More than a hundred wind turbines spinning gracefully on the Oklahoma plains, and the road went right through the middle of them. The guy across the aisle told me that this land was owned by a farmer who hadn't been able to make it work farming or ranching, so he set up the windmills. Yay sustainable energy.

  He also told me about sink-holes in the area, and how one time he and some buddies climbed down one that was out in the middle of nowhere, and when they got to the bottom, they found a smashed-up car, rotting away.

  He got off in his tiny town, barely more than a gas station and grocery store. He kept wondering out loud about who he'd run into first; he apparently hadn't told anyone he was returning to this little town after spending a couple years in Pueblo.

  Next installment: Amarillo (or: The Road To Hell Is US Highway 287)

  • 4:49 pm
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