The Midwest Passage Cont'd...
I saw no purple mountains, but the amber waves of grain were everywhere as I plunged onward into the heart of the Midwest. Eager to make up for time I had spent at Cuyahoga, I sped indifferently past the landmarks of Ohio and Indiana. Apologies to the birthplaces of Thomas Edison, and Rutherford Hayes. Another highway billboard warned me that Jesus was coming in May 2011. Apparently, I’d missed the boat on that one.
The miracle of the Eisenhower Interstate System is that now you can go anywhere in the nation, but still inhabit leave the sameness of highway signs and rest stops. (Wow! They’re using a different kind of asphalt in Indiana!)
Most truckers have probably discovered that driving though thousands of miles of America can get kind of boring, even with The Best of Kenny Chesney in the tape deck. In Travels With Charlie, John Steinbeck was turned off by the interstate’s flat boredom, and did most of his driving on back roads.
While the great author may have had time to look for America and whatnot, I’d need to take a more efficient route in order to get to Wyoming on time for work. I told myself that it was worth it to economize the sightseeing in the first half of the journey in order to spend quality time in the Dakota Badlands.
Still, I decided I would like to stop east of Gary to see the Indiana Sand Dunes National Lakeshore. There was camping there and I was thinking it would be cool to wake up and run along Lake Michigan.
I think I would have stopped if it had been a sunny, beautiful day. Instead, there was a persistent downpour as I left the interstate and navigated a post-industrial hell of fast-food chains and big box stores. Welcome to Michigan City.
Some poorly marked roads took me outside the city limits to where I thought the park was. Just when I was getting ready to think that the dunes were just a sick joke to sucker tourists, I came upon the shores of the great lake. There was a parking lot nearby, which had flooded from the storm. The harsh wind flung the rain into my eyes. Everything was gray and unpleasant.
I ran down to the beach to the water’s edge where I skipped a rock across the waves. I couldn’t see much further than the last splash. Behind me, expensive beach mansions towered over the lake—likely havens for wealthy Chicagoans. It seemed strange that what was marked as a huge national park on the maps, could actually have so many houses and roads.
I got back in the car and began scrutinizing the map. Hours of driving had made a small dent out of the miles that remained. As I shivered wet in the driver’s seat, I decided that I didn’t really give a damn about this place and would much rather keep driving, get past Chicago, go closer to the goal.
Fine, I thought. Let’s rumble. And I left.
I didn’t get back on 90 right away, but took a parallel road in the direction of Gary. The rain picked up again and cut the visibility to where it was all I could do to drive between the lines. After about fifteen miles, the downpour subsided to where I felt comfortable going 40. Through the fading light, I could make out the Gary exurbs, a disturbing land of gargantuan power-lines and smokestacks. The sun setting from behind the clouds gave the sky the rich color of coagulating blood.
Just as I had left the Sand Dunes for other explorers, I decided that The Windy City could wait for next time. I got on 90 again briefly, and then dumped it for 80, aiming to swing west of the city and cut up towards for Wisconsin along 294. Outside the gates of O’Hare airport, 90 and I would reunite, and stay together for the rest of the way west.
First there was the matter of getting past America’s third largest city alive. I steered my poor, rumbly car through the eight-lane monster highway, taking care to avoid veering semis. Though I wanted to double check my map to make sure I was going the right way, the traffic made it impossible to look down without getting killed. I guided myself through about five different interchanges interpreting a morass of confusing signs and a dim memory of what things looked like on the map. Amazingly, I didn’t screw it up.
I breathed a sigh of relief when the big city fell behind and I was back to driving across the endless fields.
The next relevant of course was where the hell I was going to sleep that night. I decided that if I just kept driving, a campsite would show up eventually. Thinking I would be spending that night in Indiana I hadn’t little research concerning accommodations on the road past Chicago. (Notice how I didn’t even think about getting a hotel?)
There were a couple parks in northern Illinois where I thought there might be tent sites. I swung off the highway to check one out and found it gated up with “no camping signs.” Deciding I’d rather not get a cop rapping on my window looking for conversation, I got back on the road. As I hit the Wisconsin border, I saw a sign for Pearl Lake Campsite. It was after 10:00pm, too late for most desks to stay open. I’d park somewhere and pay in the morning I thought.
The “campsite” turned out to be some kind of RV retail center. Well screw them. The Road Ranger truck stop was right next door. I wasn’t exactly sure how sleeping there was, but I knew I was through with driving and looking. If this was good enough for truckers, it was good enough for me.
I would have to eschew the comforts of my tent for the passenger seat. I yanked some blankets out from under my hiking gear and tried to sleep. The situation was pretty damn uncomfortable for someone who usually sleeps belly down. Meanwhile, sodium vapor lights cast a harsh orange light through the windshield, requiring me to pull a hat down over my eyes. The cold was enough to put frost on the inside of my windows.
Still, I managed to get perhaps five hours of sleep. When I awoke, there was a bathroom and food conveniently close by. Even better, no one had smashed through the glass and slit my throat while I slept.
Perhaps I owed such good fortune to the benevolent presence of the Beefaroo Lady, guardian angel of the Road Ranger station. She even watched out for vegetarians it seems. The miraculously proportioned roadside icon beamed in the early morning sunlight, savior to all men who travel the lonely highways.
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