Five State Roundup: Part III: Oklahoma, Kansas, and Nebraska

After driving down out of Taos Ski Valley, and making my roundabout way to head east of Wheeler Peak, I found myself on a twisting hilly two-lane road. I passed Eagle Nest Lake State Park and Cimarron Canyon State Park. But not before some punk in a behemoth bright red pickup truck came squealing around a hairpin curve easily two feet over the center line. I had an escape route picked out, but he jerked the wheel at the last second and missed me.

Nothing like an adrenaline rush to keep you awake for the rest of the drive.

I was headed for Clayton, NM, and once I drove down to the Plains, it was a very straight drive due east. For a few hours, this was my view. I was on the Santa Fe Scenic Byway. I kept trying to remember what characters in US history blazed the Santa Fe Trail. The only name that came to mind was Kit Carson.

I saw a highway sign to Las Vegas and was confused, but apparently there is one in New Mexico.

One of the many farms I passed displayed an Alien Exhibit roadside advertisement! Roswell was 250 miles away, they were really milking it.

It was at about this point (flat, straight highway) that I started to study the crack in the windshield. Remember my drive out of Elbert Campground and the rock that hit my car? Way at the bottom and very centered on the window was a crack that looked like a small spider. I first noticed it driving to Taos which probably partly accounted for my black mood there. I began to worry because I hadn't opted for any rental insurance. And what if the crack got noticeably bigger before I turned in the car?

I arrived at Clayton in late afternoon, checking in at the Super 8. I noticed driving into town the restaurant pickings were slim and included the western states magical three: Dairy Queen, Subway, and Pizza Hut. Oh, please, please, don't make me eat in those places! I asked at the desk for suggestions, hoping that restaurants weren't closed due to it being Sunday evening. As things turned out, they directed me to a restaurant that was closed. So I drove around a bit and looked down some side streets and Bingo! I see a blinking "Eat and Drink" sign under an awning. It turned out to be the Hotel Eklund where you can "experience the Real Old West."

The Eklund is an interesting historic hotel with nice people and good food; a lifeline to a hungry woman in a strange town. And nobody looked askance at me when I walked into the bar. Some of the locals were in there just to have a beer or two and watch the Sunday football game.

The next morning at 8 am, I scooted out of the Super 8 after my obligatory waffle and headed for Oklahoma. I was looking for Black Mesa, Oklahoma's high point at 4,973 ft. Despite not being very high and having a trail with a vertical gain of only 800 feet, it was still an 8.4 mile round trip hike.

I arrived around 9 am, since I only had to drive over the state line into the Oklahoma panhandle. Here is the trail head. To my surprise, there were two cars there already, maybe because it was Labor Day. I debated sleeveless shirt or not, sunscreen or not, definitely hat and sunglasses, a bandana to shield my neck from the sun (or swivel it around to the front in case of a dust storm) and plenty of water and a snack. The sun was already hot at 9 am and there could be snakes. I had hiking pants on, but was certain they wouldn't protect me from a rattler's bite. I went with the sleeveless shirt, slathered sunscreen on my arms and took off.

This was one of my first sights as I headed down the dusty trail, and I think it is the prettiest picture that I captured the entire trip with the bright sunflowers in the foreground. I still have it as wallpaper in my iPhone.

Every now and then I spied these green metal arrow signs that they put along the trail, lest you lose your way on the dirt wagon wheel track. It is most probably a jeep track, but I liked to think wagon wheels made those ruts. I was in the Real Old West, after all.

As I walked, the sun baked the grasses, the cactus, and the ground under my feet. It baked the scrubby pines, and their scent wafted on the warm air. My boots were layered with the dry reddish dirt. The earth seemed to sizzle as grasshoppers the color of straw flicked and leapt about and crackled and popped in the longer brush at the sides of the trail. It sounded like they were snapping and popping with the heat, like popcorn.

Do you know the sound of a few drops of water hitting hot oil in a frying pan? That's exactly how some of the insects sounded -- making it seem as though the sun was even more searing than it was.

There are also these friendly benches that tell you how far you've come. I suppose this is so you can sit a spell and contemplate how much farther you have to go. And also which one of those mesas is the highest.

Then I came around a bend and saw this mesa with a trail spiraling up its cone. This must be it! My trail must somehow connect and the summit is at the top!

My trail did connect, but when I reached the top, 800 vertical feet later, I looked out upon a vast table of grassland. And this sign.

The summit was to have a large obelisk on it. I didn't see any obelisk on the wide horizon.

So I marched ahead keeping an eye out for the marker. Fifteen minutes or so later, I saw it, and as I drew close, I noticed there was another couple there getting ready to leave. If I hurried, I could get them to take my picture first.

Which they did. But I can't find it now. Good thing I snapped this self portrait after they left. I asked if they were high pointers. Surely they were, who else would come out here on this hot and dusty day when they could be having a Labor Day cookout at home by the pool? THEY WEREN'T! They didn't even know what high pointers were. Hmmph.

This obelisk, made of native granite, very impressively lists the adjoining states to Oklahoma's panhandle and posts how far away they are:

New Mexico: 1,299 ft. due west
Texas: 31 miles due south
Kansas: 53 miles northeast
Colorado: 4.7 miles due north

It is noteworthy how many high points are near state borders. I have noticed this all along.

I sat in the narrow shade of the obelisk and drank a gatorade and had a snack. Better than sitting in the shade of that shrub and getting bit in the arse by a rattle snake!

The temperature rose as I sat there in the simmering heat. It was like being in a warming oven. I didn't want to linger too long, so I zipped up my pack and looked for the log book. It was inside of this antique metal ammo box that was sitting by the obelisk. It reminded me of GI Joe paraphernalia that I played with as a child. So much more fun than Barbies.


High Point #33, Labor Day, September 2, 2013.

This is the view from the top of the table land on my way out. I wouldn't want to live here, but these mesas are very pretty and I'm glad I got to see them.

I hiked back out as fast as I could walk and when I got back to the car I took off as many clothes as I could and got going. My plan was to find a gas station, wash up with the coldest water possible, and get an icy drink. Time to head to Kansas!

My drive out of Oklahoma and up through Eastern Colorado was the stuff road trips are made of! Almost five hours of long straight road with a few dips and hills and very little traffic. I kicked off my shoes and used cruise control off and on. I played with my satellite radio, switching it up from 40's music to 50's, 60's, 70's and 80's. I crunched on the ice in my drink. I tried various flavors of gum I had bought. I was obsessed and worried about the spider-shaped crack in my windshield and imagined it was spreading slowly out. I reduced my speed as I passed through the small towns, having spotted them first by the group of tall silos on the horizon. I looked curiously about as I drove through town. The farmers here wore cowboy boots and cowboy hats. The midwest farmers just wear work boots and baseball hats. Cowboy boots, I think, help men to walk with a swagger! Then I would speed back up as I headed out to farm country again. The farms were huge! How do these people ever get to know their neighbors? How far do they have to drive for school, church, or a community spaghetti supper, or BBQ and pinto bean supper, or whatever they have? I stopped in one friendly-looking town with a diner to get some lunch. Everyone turned and looked at me when I came in. There was a table to one side with a hot pot of pinto beans that you could apparently help yourself to, no matter what you ordered. My lunch was served in a plastic basket with plastic paper liner. I got an iced water to go (heavy on the ice) and continued on my way.

My route wandered in and out of the Mountain and Central time zones. It confused me once or twice when I thought I was making good time, and then not! When I spotted the sign for US 40, I checked my directions to the Kansas high point. I soon realized that I forgot to include the detailed directions, so I had to pull over and get my iPhone out. I googled my high point website and jotted down a few directions, then headed east on Rt. 40 toward Kansas.


Shortly after crossing the border into Kansas, I was to turn left on a gravel road, then look for this sign. Then go until I saw another sign for Mt. Sunflower. The gravel roads were good so I was clipping along at a fair pace. At mile 10 I came over a hill and noticed that the road at the bottom of the dip was covered in water.  I skidded to a stop in the gravel.



Panic! What if I can't cross it? My paper map just didn't include these small roads. How would I know how to go around this obstacle to get to the high point? I got out to inspect the water and found it wasn't that deep. I could cross through it and be okay. So I got back in the car and plunged into the water, hoping that nothing stupid would happen to get me stuck. Luckily nothing did and I crossed easily and was soon on my way again, breathing a sigh of relief. Lucky too that the road was packed gravel and not just dirt.

Obviously "Mount" Sunflower is a misnomer. Although the altitude is fairly high, these are the high plains and we are on flat ground here.

Kansas has a very whimsical high point

Now I know what "the wind comes sweeping down the plain" really means.

Yes, that's right! 4,039 ft! Nearly as high as KY's high point, and that's up on a mountaintop.

High Point #34, Labor Day, September 2, 2013. Thank you to the good people who own this land and readily allow complete strangers like me to drive onto it like they own the place, and get out of their cars and start snapping pictures.

I saw no one and didn't spend much time there. I signed the log in the mailbox, got back in the car, and headed for Goodland, Kansas and my motel for the night.

Which was another Super 8. I find Super 8s inexpensive but clean. I don't need a pool, or spa, or workout room or cookies in the lobby. I just want a clean bed and bath room and coffee in the morning.

It wasn't far to Goodland and I found the Super 8 easily. I checked in, then got back in my car to park near my room when I first heard the Mexican music. The parking lot was packed and I drove slowly along until I spied an empty space right next to where my room should be! But as I drew near, I saw it wasn't empty. There was a big charcoal grill parked in it smoking away with a dozen or so Mexican construction workers standing or sitting around on coolers and drinking beer. The music streamed from one of their big pickup trucks. The party spilled up onto the sidewalk as well. They all watched me drive by and smiled at me. I tried to smile back but they probably saw a not so happy woman with a look of consternation staring back at them. I continued my circle around the motel and in the end had to settle for a spot up front near the office.

I got stiffly out of the car (lots of hiking, lots of driving) and grabbed my pack and purse and wheeled my suitcase down the walk. Still scantily clothed, hair all disheveled, feeling sweaty, I made my way to my room. With as much poise as possible, I strolled through the middle of their party smiling at one or two of them. 12 pairs of eyes watched as I stepped up to my door, keyed it open, disappeared inside and firmly shut it.

I cleaned up my pack and hiking clothes to the sound of the Mariachi. I showered and dressed to guitars, trumpets, and violins. I left to go to dinner and the men were now chowing down on their grilled corn on the cob, Mexican lyrics blaring loudly, the intricate rhythms accompanied by tambourine and maracas.

As I drove through the now dark town to find dinner, I spied a gigantic and colorful Van Gogh painting hovering in the air! I drove closer and found this enlarged replica of one of his Sunflower paintings on a huge easel. I came back in the morning to take this picture before heading out. How apropos: Mt. Sunflower high point, the Sunflower state, and Sunflowers by Van Gogh.

Panorama Point, Nebraska, was my final destination. I passed straight through the northwest corner of Kansas. I was in Nebraska for only moments before I entered Colorado. Then west in Nebraska again. I even dabbled in Pine Bluffs, Wyoming before getting on the gravel tracts that would take me to Nebraska's high point, another privately owned farm.






Once out of town, the directions were fairly clear, the "good dirt roads" were labelled with numbers, but it said they may not be marked, so use your trip meter. I must have done well because I finally found this marker with no wrong turns.

Then on past the owner's farm house and up to this sign. They asked for a donation of $3 which I was happy to pay.

The high point, called Panorama Point, is in the middle of a bison ranch.

Here is the marker. It is caged in because you can drive straight up to it, and I suppose they don't want anyone accidentally backing into it in the dark or something (yes, some people do high point in the middle of the night).

See all those little black dots? Bison!

And here I am. High Point #35, September 3, 2013. This one has an altitude of 5,424 feet. It was hard for me to imagine driving up flat land to an altitude slightly higher than the formidable Mt. Marcy in New York State.

I went into the little town of Pine Bluffs to mail my backpack knife back home. Tomorrow I was flying to Maine, and I wasn't going to check my bag.

I had accomplished all five high points. It was time to drive to Denver, say goodbye to the Rockies and stop pretending I was a cowgirl.

Instead, I would pretend I was a New Englander with their clipped short words and their stern ways, their sense of survival and do it yourself resourcefulness, and their quiet but wicked sense of humor. In my heart of hearts, though, I know that I am a New Englander (temporarily displaced in Kentucky) and that I was going home.