Getting Back, Fini

Dad and I left Chicago intending to pass through Cincinnati, see the zoo there, and head home. We were waylaid at a Cabela’s store, thanks to my father's outdoorsman tendencies.  The various mounted animal exhibits and wild boar meat at the cafe kept me occupied while he browsed. However, by the time we left Cabela’s we had killed more time than we meant to, to the tune of a couple of hours. Further delayed by rain, we found ourselves about half an hour outside of Cincinnati at the zoo’s closing time.

I called Mom and asked if she could survive without the two best people she knows for an extra night. She booked us a room in Cincinnati, and Dad and I headed for Skyline Chili to try a dish that is, so far as I can discern, the only culinary specialty of the city. Cincinnati-style chili is rather soupy, more of a sauce or elaborate condiment than a dish in its own right. The traditional way of eating it is spooned generously over spaghetti, which is appropriate since its other distinguishing feature is an especially strong tomato flavor. This distinctly un-Italian pasta is then topped with multiple heaping handfuls of shredded American cheese. Eating this in the prescribed manner, which is to cut the dish with the fork like a casserole, I was put in mind of nothing so much as a Krystal chili-cheese pup: greasy, gooey, tasty without being especially remarkable, and satisfying.

The next morning, I headed off to the zoo, with my father in tow. I discovered in the midst of our outing that my father has an intense dislike for zoos, which is paired with a compulsion to voice this at any moment he deems appropriate, whether it is or not. This anti-zooism has a distinctly cynical flair, expressed in his constant mantra, “If you’ve seen one zoo, you’ve seen ‘em all.” However, I’ve known my father for almost twenty-one years, and I knew that if I put him in a room with enough colorful birds, his attitude would improve markedly. Once he had been thoroughly nibbled and squawked at, I was proven correct. We meandered through the impressive Cincinnati zoo for about another hour and a half. Notable were the series of bear exhibits, in which I saw Chinese spectacled bears and a polar bear with a penchant for the backstroke, and a truly impressive nocturnal house, where there resides the only living aardvark I’ve ever known and an interesting but grisly population of vampire bats, complete with a bowl of dark blood.

After the zoo, we made haste for home, stopping only to eat a bit of Chinese food. We arrived shortly before dinner, and I passed the rest of the evening blissfully reacquainting myself with kith and kin.

And now, dear reader, you must look forward to my future descriptions of the lessons I learned in the wider world, as well as the looming adventure of Great Britain. Peace and Grace.

Atop the Tower

This is the view from the Sears Tower. I was enthralled by the clouds around the buildings. As far as I know, I'd never before been above the clouds. It put me in mind of giant's castles in fairy tales, always built up in the sky. Delightful.

The lake was also incredible in its enormity. On sight, there is no way of distinguishing that lake from the ocean.

I also thought of the Tower of Babel while in the Sears Tower. Occasionally, I've heard commentators and professors use the story of Babel to illustrate their idea that the Hebrew God was paranoid and wrathful, constantly afraid of being overthrown by Man. They say that this is why He punishes men and sets His laws in place. Such "scholars" attempt to interpret the stories of Creation and of the wanderings of the Hebrew people in wilderness around Canaan in this light. Yet, considering the technology available to Neolithic Man, this notion is clearly absurd. The Tower of Babel couldn't have been more than a few stories high. Indeed, the Pyramids of Giza, built hundreds of years later, are believed to be about the tallest possible structure that the Ancients could create. Now, we have skyscrapers which are a dozen times the height of the Pyramids, and we have only succeeded in finding out that the atmosphere which rises above them does so for miles yet. To realize this is to know the absurdity of the people of Babel's arrogance, which is in turn a healthy reminder for modern man, who often becomes so impressed with his own accomplishments. The Sears Tower is a study in humility, and provides a perfect object lesson of God's sovereignty.

Get Back, Part II

The next morning, I circled the Chicago airport a dozen times, covering ten or less miles per hour. Of course, I did this for fun, and not because the security guards wouldn't let me stay in the pick-up area for more than two minutes at a time, and dad's plane was over fifteen minutes late.

After picking dad up, we headed into Chicago. It was readily apparent that the city was enormous, and we would have nothing like enough time to explore all of it. It was just as apparent that the cost of parking was going to require one of us to sell a kidney, so we needed to find a single safe spot and never move the car on pain of death. We checked in to the Hilton Chicago, which my mother had booked at an incredibly discounted rate online, and parked the car in their nice, expensive garage. We spent the day questing about Chicago. Our conclusions: the Art Institute is beautiful, but way too expensive for two men who have little appreciation for modern artwork. Chicago's hot dogs are good, but overrated. Deep-dish pizza is likewise quite good, but does not excel what can be found at a good Pizza hut, and doesn't hold a candle to a Lupi's calzone. Finally, the ride up the Sears' tower is well worth the cost of tickets, especially when the electronic payment system breaks down and your dad gets in free because he only has a debit card, although this does cause you some mental anguish since you already paid with cash. I'd like to post some pictures of the city from above, but I don't have them on this PC, and my flash drive is elsewhere. So, I'll post again with these pictures, and I'll do what I can to describe the enormity of Chicago viewed from above. It is truly staggering.

Getting Back to Where I Once Belonged

Get Back to Where You Once Belonged, Part I

Two weeks ago I left South Dakota. However, this is not the story of my leaving South Dakota, but the story of my coming to Chattanooga.

After saying goodbye to my ministry teammates, I headed out for Sioux City, Iowa. Along the way, I called Uncle Jeff and Aunt Stacy to see if they could get me a place to stay with Stacy’s family in Chicago. They could and did, and I am very grateful for that.

From that Sunday afternoon until 1:30 Monday morning, I drove across South Dakota and Nebraska. The Nebraskan landscape is eerily alien on a clouded night. The road disappears completely beyond the reach of a headlight’s beam, and nothing can be seen in the rearview mirror. Untold thousands of dangers could be waiting in ambush a hundred feet away, and one would never know. Adding to this blindness is the stretch of the invisible fields to either side of the highway. There is nothing but darkness to either side of the car, continuing until the utter darkness of the land meets the infinite darkness of the sky. One wonders, driving through this blackness, whether Columbus’ contemporaries were not correct: perhaps the world is flat, with edges that pull travelers off the face of the earth, leaving them to fall eternally. If they were correct, this flat planet is at its narrowest in Nebraska, where the Earth’s edges draw close to within a few miles of either side of the highway.

Needless to say, it was a thrilling drive, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Driving through oblivion is a delight to the imagination, although it does make one very sleepy. That night, I slept in a hotel in Sioux City, and then rose early the next morning to drive to Chicago.

I looked forward to exploring Chicago, even more so after Sunday afternoon, when Dad suggested that he fly up and meet me there. The day was enjoyable, although thoroughly uneventful. I listened to music and made a few phone calls along the way. I did run upon a wind farm in Iowa, which was terribly exciting. Whenever I see a large renewable energy operation, I feel the same way I feel when I go to buy something, and find out that it’s five dollars cheaper than I thought. It just strikes me that humanity is getting a great deal. I can power my electronics with the wind? And the wind is free, except for the cost of the turbines? Now I can afford a book that I don’t buy used, and theatre tickets, and a dinner some place where I have to wear a tie to get in. Take that, fossil fuels. So, this is what bargain shopping for power sources looks like:

That evening, I arrived in Chicago. I got to Stacy’s cousins’ house just as the sun was setting, making me quite proud of my timing. I liked those folks very much; they had that hospitable quality that makes one feel comfortable enough to be family right away, but with a gracious restraint that prevents any feeling of forced welcome, or of family feuding. My new Chicagoan friends told me all about their big city as they fed me coffee cake. My head was spinning with the hundreds of things I had to do the next day by the time I went to bed.

Take a Hike

While in South Dakota, I took a number of hikes. Two in particular are noteworthy because of the pictures I was able to gather while hiking. This is a fairly typical view of the Black Hills. Granite rock formations, like the ones in the foreground, break through the pine forests everywhere. These create a certain eeriness, since they can cause the landscape to look rather unearthly in places. They often appear to be huge meteors, or, when clustered together over a wide enough space, a piece of lunar terrain that has been terribly misplaced. The pine trees that make up the majority of the area’s vegetation, and the entirety of the arboreal life, give the Black Hills their name. The Hills were originally called Paha Sapa by the Sioux. Meaning, “Hills of Darkness,” it’s derived from the appearance of the Ponderosa-covered Hills across the plains.

Snow! In the Hills, snow lasts in shady places, and even continues to fall, into June. Of course, being from the Land of Snowless Winters, also called Chattanooga, I was quite excited to discover this wonder, and jealous of my Dakotan neighbors.

This is the old firetower atop Harney Peak. From here, where one can see for scores of miles across the Hills, rangers used to watch for forest fires. Now, the tower is vacant, but open to the public.

Harney Peak, at well over 7,000 feet above see level, is the highest point between the Rockies and the Alps. From here, one can see four states and numerous national landmarks, including the back of Mount Rushmore.

These last two, taken on separate hikes, are shots of granite spires, for which the Black Hills are famous. The unique formations are the subject of numerous Indian legends, and offer rock climbers some of the most challenging climbs available. The original idea for Mount Rushmore came from these spires, when a historian from the Dakotas decided that Americans needed a revival of patriotism. His idea was to carve a few of these spires into sculptures of Wild West heroes like Wild Bill and Annie Oakley. Because the spires were too brittle to be carved, Rushmore was sought out. Once it was decided that presidents were a more appropriate subject, the Mount Rushmore National Memorial was born.

Speaking of…

Mount Rushmore is a pretty incredible Memorial. The carving is impressive, but when one visits the Memorial’s museum and begins to understand the superhuman effort of turning a mountain into a sculpture, it is truly staggering. It is a fantastically successful memorial in that experiencing the sight of it, and understanding the passionate American patriotism that motivated its creation, gives one a strong sense of national pride. More, having this experience in the midst of hundreds of other Americans creates a strong feeling of American unity. It’s remarkable.

These are shots from a drive on Custer’s wilderness loop. Note the young buffalo. Many of these calves are a month or less old, and they seem to me much more cow-like at this stage than as adults.

So that’s a look at South Dakotan wild space, as typical as I could make it. It’s a hiker’s paradise.

Illustrated by Me

These pictures were supposed to accompany the following post. However, I had technical difficulties, so they have to be separate. Chronologically, they are all in order, and they all precede the images posted in "Arrival at Custer." Enjoy.

Arrival at Custer

Day III of the Road Trip was beautiful, if not terribly eventful. I drove the length of South Dakota, and was fairly well surprised by how much the terrain changed as I went. I started out the morning in flat farmland, bid farewell by a couple calves. Soon, the countryside changed to become hilly once more, and I spent a few hours driving through some of the prettiest hill country I’ve ever seen. It reminded me why I like to take back highways instead of interstates when I travel.

Interstates are concerned with very little other than getting you from one large town to the next large town as quickly as possible. They have no concern whatever for the land they cut through. Highways, however, move through the country. They weave between hills, flow alongside rivers, run through the forest, fly to hilltops, and plummet into valleys. They show you how beautiful a place can be.

So, exploring the state by highway, I got to pass through some incredible hillside ranches, with cattle grazing on the slopes. Along the way, I realized that I wanted to get a good picture of the road for this blog. In the top right of the page, you can see a shot of the highway, stretching off into the distance. This was the shot I took. Upon cresting one hill, about midmorning, I knew that I had found the picture I wanted. I took a few pictures, then headed on. A few miles later, I crested another hill, decided that I had been wrong the first time, and knew that this was the shot I wanted. Once more, I got out of the car, took a few pictures, got back in, and prepared to drive on. Then I realized that there was a picture rather better to be had. To really make my shot, I could get a picture with the road stripe in the foreground, and the highway stretching off into the distance. So, boldly daring South Dakota traffic and ignoring everything I had ever been taught about not playing in the road, I walked to the center line, stretched out on my stomach, prayed that I wouldn’t become roadkill for my stupidity, and took a number of pictures. It was frustrating that I couldn’t seem to get the angle or focus right at first, since I was keenly aware of the danger of my position. Finally, I got what I wanted, sprang to my feet, decided that I’d better not stay in the road any longer than necessary, dashed to my car like a frightened child, and headed on.

Early in the afternoon, I experienced one of South Dakota’s less delightful wonders: gravel highways. I decided to drive through the Badlands. I had seen their multi-hued cliffs stretching above the plains for some time, and knew that I’d like to go explore them. I haven’t yet decided whether this was a mistake. When I pulled into the Badlands National Park, the highway which I’d been following all day turned to gravel. How quaint, I though to myself. I snapped some shots of the huge edifices

and headed on my way. Fifteen minutes later, I realized that the highway had no intention of returning to pavement any time soon. I thought this was no big deal, and continued along. After another fifteen minutes, I found myself clutching my steering wheel in terror. I was perched atop the Badlands cliffs, careening down a gravel highway, desperately trying to avoid being blown off the top of the ridge by the winds that were gusting forcefully enough to make the car swerve badly left and right. To make the situation even more delightful, I was passed every few minutes by rangers in large trucks, going in the opposite direction along our less-than-two-lane gravel strip. Rarely have I though of death as such an imminent reality.

Finally, I made it down off the ridge and onto pavement. As I did so, I was confronted by this sign

Great. The Badlands had tried to kill me, but now marauding animals were apparently going to finish the job. I began to imagine the herds which were terrorizing the plains, armed at “at large.” Now and again, I passed by herds of cattle. I knew I was in their neighborhood, and tried to fit in, hoping that they wouldn’t take advantage of this poor, lonely traveler.

Eventually, I made it out of the territory of the dangerous wildlife, and back onto a large state highway. I drove for another hour or so, and finally arrived in Custer State Park. There, I was met by a welcoming committee of buffalo, strewn all across the road to celebrate my arrival. Weaving my way through these one ton well-wishers, I headed for Sylvan Lake Lodge. Along the way, I got numerous view of the Black Hills which made me excited to get hiking.

Finally, I arrived at the lodge, reported for duty, and was given a room in the dorms. These rooms seemed to be old hotel cabins, with two twin beds, a sink, a bathroom, a nice view, and little else. They were small but sufficient, and I unpacked, went to get some dinner in the employee dining room, and set about my work at Sylvan Lake Lodge.

The Boy is Back in Town

I’m back in Chattanooga. Surprised? Me too. But, I had to make a choice, and I think I chose well.

I was gone from home a month. I learned at least as much in that month as in the entire year preceding it. What exactly those lessons were is a subject for another post. For now, you will have to content yourselves with the story of how I got back here. To be precise, it is the story of how I arrived at the decision to return.

This story must begin with an understanding of my intentions in going to South Dakota. From exploring the ACMNP site, speaking with representatives on the phone, and attending the training conference, I gathered that ACMNP is a two-fold ministry, divided into relational and formal aspects. The formal ministry is the Sunday morning services, put on for the rangers, staff, and visitors in the parks. The relational ministry takes place through the constant interaction with coworkers, in which relationships are fostered and, through these, faith is shared. This second aspect was my primary reason for going to Custer. I wanted to spend a summer getting to know other people from all over the country, hanging out with them and discussing the meaning of life, as well as whatever else came to mind.

I was mistaken about this second aspect of the ministry. In point of fact, the relational ministry is much secondary to the first, and any significant interaction with fellow staff members is usually rare, if it happens at all, outside of the work environment. But I was not to find this out for weeks. In the meantime, I just tried to cope.

After a little more than two weeks at Custer, I felt nothing so strongly as a feeling of complete isolation. In truth, there was a support committee in the area, and they were wonderful, but all of them lived about an hour away. Thus, my only hope for daily human interaction was my fellow employees at Sylvan. This would have been fine with me; actually, it’s the very reason I came. However, it didn’t exist. Between extensive langauge barriers, conflicting work schedules, and the absentee commuter population, I was rarely able to spend even an hour with anyone outside of work.  So, I spent three weeks wandering the park, the common areas, and the lodge by myself. It was a great time for introspection, but I was thoroughly 'spected by the end of the first week, and going out of my mind by the end of the third.

So, I realized that all I wanted was to leave. But I wasn't about to leave until I tried to fix things first, so I started a campaign of sitting down with people who had more experience than myself with the ministry. First, I went to the head of my support committee. There, I got my first inkling that perhaps I had been quite mistaken in coming to Sylvan. My leader told me two particularly helpful things. She told me that Sylvan was one of the most difficult sites in the ministry, and that she herself often questioned the ministry’s decision to put anyone there. Secondly, and more helpfully, she said that I had completely misunderstood the focus of the ministry. Later, she told me that she had never met anyone with such a huge misconception of what ACMNP did. In point of fact, the ministry was not focused on the staff and coworkers. Rather, the primary work of ACMNP is putting on the worship services on Sundays for the traveling public. In fact, the staff rarely, if ever, has much of anything to do with the ministry, although the volunteers in the parks are encouraged to do as much as they can to engage the staff.

Now that I knew that my reasons for coming to the park had all been wrong, I set about finding out why I was supposed to be there. More than anything else, the ministry is something like a worship internship, in which students are given the opportunity to try their hand at planning and leading formal worship services. These services are attended almost exclusively by devout Christians, who are “uncomfortable missing a service,” according to my leader. I asked around, and found out from those who have been there that the ministry rarely brings in non-Christians, and that the services are almost never what you might call “life changing.” Now don’t get me wrong, I still think that they’re wonderful, and a valuable service to Christians across the nation. It’s a fantastic opportunity for anyone who wants to explore formal ministry, or needs a summer job and likes outdoor living. However, it isn’t the ministry that I came for, and, after trying to work it out for a few weeks, I found that it also isn’t a ministry that really utilizes my talents.

Having discovered these things, I called the national head of the ministry.  I asked whether we could rearrange things: if he could get me moved to one of the other nearby sites, so that I would have fellow volunteers to work with me, or help to get my work schedule changed. He confirmed what I had learned, and had a few good reasons for staying to offer me, but he also told me that there really wasn’t anything he could do to improve my situation. So, without the possibility of moving to another lodge or somehow getting another volunteer to work with at my site, my decision was simplified to two alternatives. I could either stay and hope things improved, waiting to see what would happen, or I could go home and try to engage myself elsewhere.

With this in mind, I came to grips with the fact that staying would mean an altogether different ministry than I had expected, and one that I wasn’t sure I wanted. I’ve no intention of becoming a worship leader, and an internship along those lines wasn’t, in my own eyes, at all worth my misery. Of course, God’s intentions and my own can be vastly different, so I was determined to wait out the week before deciding anything. I prayed a lot, examined my options, and continued, with no success, trying to engage anybody I could find to hang out for a while.

So it was that, after working for a month, I decided to call it quits.  And now,  here I am. I’m trying now to find something else that will utilize my gifts. You may be wondering if I have any regrets. Of course, I wish things had worked out, because it was a beautiful place and I’m sure I could have grown to like it there. However, I feel better now than I have in a month, and I’m sure that I made a wise choice. No, I do not regret my decision.

I must say that I do not wish to disparage ACMNP. It is a unique ministry which fulfills its purpose well, and if I’m ever passing through a park on a Sunday, I will certainly try to attend their services. It simply wasn’t a ministry for me.

Yet fear not. This is not the end of my blog. I still have to finish recounting my trip to South Dakota, as well a few hikes I took while there, and my trip home. And, best of all, Europe still awaits. So stay tuned.

I Hear Tell, You're Doin' Well, Good Things Have Come to You

I was hoping to be able to get the story of my road trip finished, but I’ve had to work too late for that. A long evening of good solid work it was, and now that I’m sitting in the loft of a rather lovely summer lodge, overlooking a crackling fire and a room full of pleasantly inebriated guests, I am happily exhausted. And, as I type out a few thoughts while sitting in an easy chair with a mug of tea and a pot of hot water, I think myself a proper English scholar.

I’ve begun to regard this place as a good temporary home. I’ll be glad to leave it behind as soon as I reasonably can, but for now, it is a beautiful place and I am resolved to explore and enjoy it to the fullest possible extent.

Much of my newfound contentment has come about as a result of the encouragement that I receive daily, almost hourly, from all of you back home. I’ve also been helped along by the knowledge of your prayers. The words, “I’ll pray for you,” have never been much more to me than a nice, but truly pithy, bit of consolation. One may as well have said, “Hang in there, sport;” or “keep a stiff upper lip.” Now, though, I hold those words as real truth, and take them as a promise of real, holy encouragement. Does the phrase “holy encouragement” seem odd? It did to me, until I read the first chapter of Paul’s epistle to the Romans. There, I found that Paul longed to share a spiritual gift with the Roman church, a church which he had desired to visit more than any other for years. What great gift could the Apostle to the Gentiles be so eager to share with the single most powerful church of the Western world? Encouragement, plain, simple, and life-sustaining.

In addition to the fortitude I’ve taken from your collective support, I’ve been able to settle in a bit over the last two weeks, and life here has taken on a certain sort of normalcy. As my father promised, a few days with a solid routine allowed me to adjust to the point of determination. Because of some successful time spent here, I could contemplate a bit more, and knew that I could endure the summer.

However, endurance alone might make for a miserable time. Instead, God saw my paltry wager of grudging endurance and raised me true joy. I remembered that I am to be content in all things, because of the marvelous gift of salvation and righteousness that I’ve been given. If, as the prophet Micah wrote, the righteous are to live by faith, then surely I can exercise faith in the hope I have. I mean both hope for a spiritual transformation, as well as hope for an enjoyable summer, and while these two may exist on entirely different planes of consequence, I want both very much. Finally, I live in the hope that one day this time away from home will end, and I can look back on it as a time of growth and peace, and spiritual discipline, and then move forward without a single regret. So, I can be content in the place I have found myself, and I can press onward and upward.

All this is to say that I’m doing better. The things that you’ve all said or written to me have been moments of home to me while I’ve been far off; while bound to this place, and not entirely thrilled about that bondage, your thoughts and prayers have allowed me to return to a faraway place of joy and love somewhere in East Tennessee for brief moments, and for those brief respites I cannot sufficiently express to any of you my gratitude. I only hope that when this is all over, I can manage to somehow express the love I have for you all, which has been made so much more apparent to me in this difficult time.

If any of you should see another one of you, tell that other one thanks for me.

My Life in Miniature

I’ve now been away from home for ten days. In case you’re wondering, that puts me ten percent of the way through the time until I can go home. That sentence is perhaps a bit revealing. Yes, I’m dying to go home. It’s not that it isn’t beautiful here, nor that there’s any job or activity awaiting me at home. It isn’t even that I don’t think this summer is worthwhile anymore. I just miss everything in Chattanooga, and I’m already tired of being here.

But that makes all of this seem much worse than it is. To be honest, I’m no more bored up here than I would be at home. Actually, were I at home, there would be less things to do and I would have less money with which to do them, since I quite my job to come here. Still, I miss the old place, and with business so slow up here and my ministry not yet really begun, I’m ready to leave.

Thankfully, I have hope. Alexander Pope said, “Hope springs eternal in the human breast.” Brave Saint Saturn said that it’s the bravest thing of all. I think they’re both right. My hope specifically is that this time will be worthwhile. No matter how much I want to bail out, I truly believe that, whether or not God led me here, He allowed me to come here and can do something great with me in this place. I may not like being here, but if I stay here, I can learn perseverance, patience, commitment, and hopefully something new of God. Already I’m learning how much I love my family, and how much I need the support of those who love me.

All of this thinking built into a bit of a revelation today while I was praying. I realized that this is in some way my life in miniature. I have no idea what the rest of my life is going to be like, and I often wonder whether I’m going to be able to handle it. However, I know that I can handle each passing day with my hope in God. Here at Custer, each day is all that I can even think of, yet I’m not spending my days trying to go home because, more than anything else, I want to learn the lessons God wants to teach me, even the hard ones that feel something like a season in Hell. Maybe that last bit was melodramatic, but you get my point.

Now I’m here, trying with everything I have to be patient and to enjoy the good times. I’m glad that there are good times. I’m getting to talk more deeply and for greater lengths of time with my family, and occasionally I get to spend some time exploring a beautiful place with other Christians. They tell me that when we get busy, the time will pass quickly. I hope so.

So already I’m learning. I said when I started all this that I was prepared to wrestle with God. As I learned in seventh grade, wrestling is really difficult, and you usually hate it while doing it. However, it makes you stronger, and you learn from it. If the cost is any indicator, these lessons should be quite valuable, and I’m glad that I’m learning new things. I’m glad that I’m being forced to depend more on God, even if I don’t like the process. Now if only I can get to the conclusion and get out of here, it will all be glorious. Paul told me to count it all joy; considering that he was trapped in filthy Roman dungeons for months at a time, I suppose I can follow his advice. As I press onward toward the completion of this time, I am strengthened by my hope, and I am glad to find that even when my life looks both terrifying and impossible, now and for the rest of my days, I can hold to hope and try to flourish in each day, leaving all that makes me collapse in tears in the hands of my loving Father.

Road Trip, Day 2

I woke up early and headed out for Kansas City. On the way, I listened to a compilation of songs by The Cardigans that Nathan made for me. I must say, I enjoyed them immensely and highly recommend their work to you all. After two hours, I saw Kansas City looming on the horizon.

I decided that I wanted to spend some time in Kansas, so I drove through to the other side of the state line. I saw the Kansas City National Guard Armory. Mistakenly, I thought that my father had done his National Guard training in Kansas, so I snapped a few pictures of the Armory and savored my newfound connection to his past. I was somewhat disappointed to learn later that he had spent his time in Oklahoma. Oh well.

After my misguided photography trip, I went to a nearby grocery store to buy a Thank-You card for my hosts in South Dakota. There, I realized that Kansas City has a very large Hispanic population. There was a gigantic tortilla machine, buckets of dried shrimp (apparently a common Mexican ingredient), shelves full of spices and dried peppers, and a large case of Mexican pastries, a few of which I bought. They were good, but not particularly impressive.

After milling about a bit in the store, I left with my pastries and card. From there, I drove around Kansas City a bit. I liked it better than St. Louis. Where St. Louis is a typical large city with a few famous sites, Kansas City feels like a real metropolitan center. The architecture was varied and unique, showing a lot of Hispanic influence as well as some attempts at old European emulation in the chic districts. There are sculptures and murals throughout the city, as well as well-maintained parks. A number of museums and universities dot the cityscape, and even the roads themselves are winding and unusual without being frustratingly twisted. I took a short walk in a peaceful little park, then head out for some good Kansas City Barbeque.

Pastor Tamerius, my host from the previous evening, had recommended that I try a local place called Fiarella’s Jack Stack BBQ. The Fiarella family started it some time before 1950, on a date that I can’t quite remember. Their legacy is well worth experiencing. I had been told that the Kansas City specialty is a cut of barbeque called Burnt Ends. They are the meat cut from the end of the rib, served with a little sauce. They have a rich smoky flavor, very much like chopped barbeque meet, but far more moist. For my lunch, I ordered a combination plate of these as well as an order of barbequed lamb ribs. Yes, it sounded odd to me as well, but I’m always up for odd food. I was not disappointed.

The burnt ends were tasty, but they were essentially just another but of barbeque. The lamb ribs, however, were unlike anything I have ever had. They were incredibly moist, and simply touching the bone was enough to dislodge the meat. Their flavor was distinctly barbequed, but with a unique character that was both buttery and salty. I will not rest until I have had lamb ribs once again in my life.

Also a pleasant surprise was the Southwestern barbeque sauce. If a normal, molasses-filled barbeque sauce were to fall in love with a genuine, chunky, onion-and-pepper-laden salsa, and the child of their union were raised by a bottle of ketchup, this Southwestern sauce would be the result. It was delightful, and altogether unusual, which I consider a great virtue.

After lunch, I drove north to Sioux City. On the way, I detoured briefly into Nebraska. There, I found a peculiar house.

Obviously, this place is deserted and has been for some time. Just as obviously, it is horribly haunted by the spirits of some vengeful Nebraskan farmers. I was sure of this the moment I laid eyes on the place. Thus, I set out immediately to find some evidence of malicious spirits. It was not long before I happened upon the beast who must surely lead the ghosts of the farmhouse. His eyes burned with cold fire, and the darkness of his shaggy coat can only reflect an evil disposition to wreak havoc on the countryside. He looked up at me with baleful eyes, and I knew that I must leave before I was beset by his wicked minions.

Look on and tremble with fear, oh mortal.

Driving through the countryside of Nebraska and Iowa, I was delighted by the cultivated beauty of the farms. The fields were far more sprawling than they had been in Illinois or Missouri, and the land was flat enough that one could see for miles from any low rise in the road. A storm came on, and the brooding clouds and occasional lightning flashes only served to enhance the impression of endless strength and splendor on the open plains. It was truly majestic.

When I arrived in Sioux City, I found that the kind people of the city had erected a sign in my honor.

They seem to be intent on assuring everyone that I am eating well out on my own. After passing through Sioux City, I continued to marvel at the grandeur of the fields stretching out to every horizon. As I entered South Dakota, the horizons receded until it seemed that I was looking at the ends of the earth in each direction, across thousands of acres of open land. I loved it. I wish that I could have captured it on film, but every picture I took seemed to confine the world I meant to preserve until it lost its power. I can only say that the land was beautiful, and that it is a kind of beauty that you must gaze at with your own eye to understand.

After another long day of driving, I arrived at Lennox, South Dakota. I got to the town just as the sun was setting. Unfortunately, my directions failed me, and I quickly learned that the extensive majesty of the plains turns to an immense openness at night that can be quite disconcerting when one is lost. I called my hosts, and after another half hour of searching, I made it to their farm. After a chocolate cupcake and a glass of milk from the generous farmer and his wife, I collapsed into bed in the house that his grandfather had built over a hundred years ago.

Road Trip, Day 1, Part 2

Parking by the Jefferson Westward Expansion Memorial, the site of the St. Louis Arch, I exited my car and spent a few minutes wandering around the park. It’s placed immediately beside the Mississippi River, and I was now farther West than I had ever been before. Pretty exciting stuff. The arch itself is wider than I’d imagined; actually, I later learned that it is exactly as wide as it is tall. Underneath the arch is a museum dedicated to the Westward Expansion in general, and Louis and Clarke in specific. I looked at some stuffed wildlife and read a few plaques before getting my ticket to ride the tram to the top of the arch.

Now, this tram bears mentioning. Because it travels through a curved structure, it needs a peculiar design to keep the guests sitting upright. To do this, it takes the basic principle of an elevator and combines this with a suspended tram, the seven cars being suspended from a set of rails above. Then, a Ferris Wheel design is introduced, with the cars all swiveling to maintain an appropriate level. Finally, out of what I can only guess is the imagination of an eccentric engineer who has read too much science fiction for his own good, the cars are designed as something like spaceship escape pods. They are small, white, spherical parabolas, somewhat rounder than eggs. They are no wider than six feet across at any point, and one must enter crouching and sit leaning forward on a stool to ride them. Five people are crammed into this ridiculous, but amusing, contraption. Sadly, in the rush to board and depart, I was unable to get a picture that does the cars justice.

Upon departing, I found myself at the top of the Gateway Arch. I snapped a series of pictures.

This is the general direction of home, far away across the Mississippi, miles of farmland, and so many small cities. I bid it farewell, not knowing how much I would soon miss it, and turned boldly toward the West.

This, of course, is the mighty city of Saint Louis. The old courthouse is apparent in the foreground, as well as the Annheiser Busch stadium and a few other historic sites to which I can’t put names. The Busch Stadium itself amused me quite a lot, due to hours spent playing Command & Conquer: Red Alert 2, an extraordinary PC game. In one mission of the Yuri’s Revenge expansion pack, the player has to liberate St. Louis from Yuri’s evil mind control. To do so, one has to make his way across the city, sneaking past Soviet patrols, and then plant C4 on the Busch Stadium, where Yuri’s mind-controlling device is being kept. After doing so, you get to pretty well level the city in the process of weeding out the Soviets. Obviously, I’ve done a great deal of scholarly work in my life, since the Gateway to the West now reminds me primarily of a fictional, futuristic Cold War.

After the arch, I went to the Saint Louis Cathedral Basilica, which, I learned, has been revered by various Popes as the greatest American cathedral. I still prefer the National Cathedral myself, but I must say that Saint Louis has a fine church.

At first I thought the art was somewhat under impressive, until I realized that virtually all of the walls and ceilings of the Basilica, including the great dome, are covered in detailed mosaics. These were handcrafted by a particular family of artists, and are quite beautiful. It was staggering to realize the years it must have taken to cover the sanctuary alone in murals made from tiny bits of stone. I wandered through the Basilica taking pictures of these mosaics. It was interesting to note that, intertwined with the geometric patterns and Bible stories were images of the Basilica’s construction, such as this one:

I also found a number of Latin transcriptions. This one

was the first that I was able to translate. It means, “Lord, Grant to Them Eternal Rest.”

After a prayer in the Basilica’s chapel, I went to the visitor’s desk and inquired as to where I could find something tasty and local for dinner. The clerk recommended “The Majestic,” telling me that they serve both great local food and wonderful Greek. The restaurant has been on a street in St. Louis since the 1930’s, and has contributed to making the area the standard for local cuisine.

The Majestic is an interesting restaurant, very much a family diner.

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The booths particularly caught my eye, as they were clearly church pews which had been sawed up and made to fit a single table. I liked it.

I had some of the most amazing Greek food I have ever eaten. All the dishes I had were things I’d eaten before, but were without exception superior to any form of them I’d eaten.

The gyros, tsatsiki, and spanakopita were all good. The grape leaves were unusual, both for the hollandaise sauce that was poured over them, and because they are the only stuffed grape leaves that I have managed to swallow and, even more shockingly, somewhat enjoy. The true pinnacle of the meal was the pita, which was perfect in every way. It was grilled, and had a rich but not overwhelming flavor of butter which made it so much more than a device for conveying the gyros to my mouth. Delightful.

Shortly after dinner, I left St. Louis and headed to Columbia, Missouri, two hours West. There, I planned to spend the night with Pastor Travis Tamerius, of Christ Our King Presbyterian Church. He gave me the address, and I arrived at the house about ten minutes early. Noting the basketball goal and white exterior that he described in his directions, I went to the door and knocked. I received a “Who is it?” through the closed door. Upon responding, I got a “Why are you here?” Thinking that Pastor Tamerius was joking, I laughingly responded that I was looking for a bed for the night. After a short exchange, the door opened, and I was confronted with two large, African American college students. Perhaps, I thought, I have made a mistake. I apologized, retreated to my car, and called Pastor Tamerius. As it turns out, there is a house one street up from his which has the same street number and exterior description. Eventually, I passed a pleasant evening of conversation with my host, had a good night’s rest in a thoroughly un-masculine room, and headed out once more.