The next morning I set off early again. Another motorway heading south. Straight as a die again. Over 30 degrees. The landscape changes. From Nebraska onwards, it’s all corn and cattle. The radio landscape changes too: only country fiddle tunes. Flanked on the right by Jesus news, on the left by neo-apostolic God rock. Every quarter of an hour, neatly structured by the most bizarre adverts against abortion and drugs. The holy trinity of brain puree, hallelujah!
Nebraska really is a funny place. Super costs significantly less than normal. One mile too fast costs $100. I arrive at my new host Kim’s in Kearney. In the evening we go to a really fine steakhouse with an adjoining home brewery.
We drink award-winning honey beer at over 9%. And I eat one of the best steaks of my life. They should just give their piano players more money for lessons. They need it.
After 8 hours, I’m totally exhausted from the day trip. I count the hour waiting for more wind at nearby Sherman Lake. Kim is a big jazz fan and has a lot of good old records. We go through my MP3s for another hour, then I fall into bed.
Kim’s coffee the next morning is by far the best I’ve had in a month here. And it’s strong enough to keep me awake until well after midday. And it’s necessary. I set off before eight and head west on Highway 2 through the Sand Hills, a 200-mile-long sea of grassy sand hills. The western end of the Great Plains.
The landscape is breathtakingly surreal. Nothing but a sea of sand for 5 hours. Actually even more monotonous than North Dakota, but so beautiful that I never get tired. Every half hour there’s a car, then a small settlement. The map and the radio tell me that the end of the world is near. No roads, no radio stations. Just wind, grass and 1.5-mile-long coal trains.
I drive and drive. But there are more farms to the west. But the end of the world must be uncultivated. After some searching, I’m sure that I haven’t found the end of the world, but at least I’ve just missed it. I drive on to Scotts Bluff.
Scotts Bluff is nothing but a big rock. But it’s the first after 1000 miles of Great Plains and 200 miles of sand hills. After just three days, it already looks majestic to me. How must the settlers of the Oregon Trail of 1840-1860 have felt after not seeing a rock for months and being buried in sand for 200 miles?
I turn south towards Dallas. Unfortunately, the first two villages in Colorado don’t have a petrol station and my indicator is already flashing. At the third, I cheer at the sight of a petrol pump. And curse as I get closer: closed, no petrol tap. I drive very slowly southwards through the Pawnee grasslands. I put my ears to the ground, close the windows, switch off the lights, radio and air conditioning. Downhill only idling. 30 miles to go. That will be close.
A huge thunderstorm is brewing in the west. The wheat in front of it glows golden in the sun. I don’t dare stop to take any more photos. After 440 miles, I arrive at a petrol station in Fort Morgan on my last legs. The thunderstorm is approaching. Unbelievable gusts of wind sweep across the interstate at crazy speed. Then it starts. Rain so heavy that I experience aquaplaning at 60 km/h for the first time. It’s gone again just as quickly as it arrived.
I quickly find my way around Denver. I have to wait another two hours for my next host. I was three hours too fast and had forgotten about the extra hour due to the next time zone. I don’t feel like I’ve been travelling for 11 hours at all today.
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.