The greening of the highway

SOMEWHERE in Kansas—The farther away we traveled from New Mexico, the greener it became.

Weeds taking over a highway

Our route out of the Land of Enchantment took us through Clayton, where we stopped briefly for a bite to eat at the old Hotel Eklund. Our former neighbors had taken ownership of the place a few years earlier, and they were surprised to see us stroll through the lobby. New Mexico legislator Sen. Tim Keller had scheduled a pre-election campaign stop there as well, so we enjoyed a final taste of New Mexico red chile as the Senator was courted by lobbyists seeking to change the economic development fortunes of the depressed and dry region.

A while later we traveled a stretch of some of the most decrepit and lonely road we’d ever seen in New Mexico. Despite the lack of moisture, healthy green weeds were encroaching on the shoulder of the highway as Mother Nature struggled to wrestle back what mankind had stolen from her. Soon the cardboard colored landscape began to soften somewhat. Wisps of green began to take hold among the stalks of dry brown failure, and we knew we had reached Kansas.

The house of the old Dalton Gang

Our travels in the Sunflower State took us along the path of the old Santa Fe Trail, the Mormon Trail and then later, the Lewis and Clark Trail. Out here in Meade, Kansas, we stumbled upon a fine little  barbecue joint called the Smoke Hoss.  With bellies full of smoked pig, we searched for the hideout of the old Dalton Gang—the fearsome train and bank robbers who swore they’d outdo Jesse James. Though the Dalton escape tunnel was closed for the day, we still managed to get a picture of the outlaw gang's house.

A little ways past that blood-streaked landmark, we came across a town unlike any other we had seen in Kansas so far.

Instead of being dotted with small square farm houses and a strip of drab main street, Greensburg, Kansas, was punctuated with new hip-looking houses with solar panels and energy producing windmills. The town’s main street was a redeveloped strip of tasteful shops and buildings. The modern stone-and-glass architecture was easy on the eyes and definitely incongruous to the rest of the Midwest.

We drove down the refurbished area with awe and wonder as we searched for the Big Well—the community’s tourist draw, and reportedly the largest hand-dug well in the United States. Across the street from the Big Well, we encountered a marvelous building made entirely of glass. The panes surrounded huge wooden timbers.

The Big Well, left, seen though sculpture

“What kind of place is this?” I wondered. “Is it some funky community that was taken over by artists?”

We would learn a day later that Greensburg had literally been wiped off the map in 2007 by a giant tornado. The mile-wide funnel cloud had obliterated every structure except the grain elevator and killed more than a dozen people. The former community of 1,600 was transformed to rubble in an afternoon. Many of the residents fled and never came back.

But the 700 people who now live in the community decided to rebuild Greensburg as a “Green” community. Modern houses capitalize on alternative energy sources and everything in town makes a nod toward sustainability. Like that strip of land in New Mexico that had been asphalted over, Greensburg is slowly sprouting out of catastrophe to rise again from the fertile dirt.

There are surprises and wonders to be found everywhere.

See you on down the road.

For amber waves of grain

Junction City, Kansas—We were saved from an expensive speeding ticket by an Atomic Cannon.

Gluten free ain't heard around here.

Driving on back roads through golden fields of waving wheat and emerald stalks of ripening corn, it's easy to become mesmerized by the comforting hum of tires on old asphalt. Just as the speedometer needle crept past 70 miles an hour on the long, straight stretch of rural road we were traveling just west of Junction City, Caroline saw the state trooper. We could feel the radar waves penetrate the windshield and slam into our chests, elevating our heatbeats. We were busted!

The amiable cop introduced himself and asked Caroline if she knew why he had pulled her over.

"Yes," she said unambiguously.

"You were speeding," the cop said. Caroline nodded. "Do you know by how much?"

"No," Caroline said honestly. "What is the speed limit around here anyway?"

"55," the cop answered with a slight smirk. "You were going 71. Pretty fast. Where are you headed, anyway?"

"Junction City," Caroline said solemnly.

"And you didn't take the Interstate?" he asked.

The Atomic Cannon at Freedom Park in Junction City

"We're on our way to see the Atomic Cannon," I piped up, handing the proof of insurance card over to Caroline.

"You folks really are from out of town, aren't you?" the cop asked.

We both nodded in unison.

"Well, sit tight and I'll write this up and get you back on your way in a few minutes."

The cop reappeared sometime later with a yellow slip of paper in hand. Caroline and I had been taking bets during his absence of how big the fine would be. $100? $250? More? Who knew? It had been 25 years since either of us had gotten a ticket.

He handed Caroline a warning and asked her to slow down from now on.

"Wow! Thanks!" we both said brightly.

"Enjoy your visit," the cop said with a smile.

About 15 minutes later we were in Junction city staring up at the top of a huge hill. The Atomic Cannon sat overlooking the highway as a testament to the utter insanity of a bygone era.

Atomic Cannons had been deployed across Europe during the Cold War. They were designed to deliver an artillery round about one-foot in diameter to a target 20 miles away. The big difference between this gun and other giant artillery installations, however, was that the Atomic Cannon was designed to hurl a nuclear warhead with a 15-kiloton yield—a payload about equal to what was dropped on Hiroshima at the end of World War II. 

Atomic Cannon, Grable shot, May 25, 1953

The gun was fired only once—in Nevada on May 25, 1953, as part of the Upshot-Knothole test series. The Grable shot proved that devastating nuclear weapons could be delivered effectively from the battlefield if needed. I suppose someone, somewhere can take comfort in that fact.

Fort Riley—the home of the Big Red 1, the Army's 1st Infantry Division—is custodian of the Atomic Cannon. There are just three of them left in the world. The others reside in Oklahoma and Maryland [Editor's Note: I am told that there are more than three still in existence, with one more residing at the National Atomic Museum in Albuquerque, N.M.].

As we scrambled up the steep hill, my knees screamed like an incoming artillery round. I squinted with my one good eye toward the summit, which was still a good distance away. When we finally reached the top, the seriousness of the relic at hand was juxtaposed with the excited chatter of two young boys who were clambering all over the stern steel beast. Their father patiently answered questions about how the weapon worked, as the boys made explosion noises. For a generation that never got to see a mushroom cloud or feel the dread of protracted conflict, the sight of the cannon must have been as exciting as it was to the handful of military Top Brass who gathered at Frenchman's Flat in Nevada to watch the weapon unleash its uncompromising promise of mass destruction.

Road trips allow us to get back in touch with our nation's journey through history so we can better understand how we arrived at our current destination. The Atomic Cannon reminds us of the lengths humans will go to when they feel threatened. Perhaps that Kansas State Police officer knew this when he let us go on our way unhindered.

See you on down the road!