Onward to Ogallala

 

Jackie's Place in Big Springs, Nebraska no longer is.....

Chappell was a small but pleasant, not-too-impoverished town with some good sturdy Lincoln markers.

 Onward to Ogallala, and Sam Bass

           Still trekking along on October 10^th, the Mitchell to Ogallala day that seemed to last forever [but in a pretty good way.]  Thought we’d made it all the way to Ogallala in yesterday’s photos, but it turns out I overlooked some spots worth looking over in Chapell and Big Springs.  Lincoln Highway businesses taking their last gasp, and Lincoln markers on main downtown streets.

          We finally arrived in Ogallala in the last few moments of dusk, dining at the Crystal Palace Saloon where Sam Bass had planned one of his train robberies. Sam had a lot of Texas connections, too, with robberies in Allen, and being shot in Round Rock. 

More about Sam in Texas at:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ok-POYLbDNc.    Ron brought this to my attention.

          The cluster of buildings on Ogallala’s main street seems to all merge into one on the inside, somewhat seamlessly connected.  An interesting collection of items held our attention in the small museum. 

          After dinner, we didn’t do a whole lot except look for a place to stay.  We ended up at the Lazy K Motel, a place with pleasant owners but which seemed way overpriced for the services and amenities received.  But the next day we discovered it was pretty standard for Ogallala – you could get a clean but super-simple room with a refrigerator and microwave, but no coffee pot, no coffee in the office, and not even a microwaveable cup to make your own instant.  For folks like us who don’t like to spend $5 or $6 first thing in the morning just to wake up, it’s a real inconvenience.  So if you go to Ogallala as a budget tourist, be sure to take your own mug.  Tomorrow we’ll tell you more stories on the beauty and importance of this town with the funny name.

 Bigger, clearer photos with annotation at 

https://goo.gl/photos/ShuypKYkhwwU73SAA

Logging on to Lodgepole

To Sidney and Beyond!

Continuing east across Nebraska on October 10^th, “The Longest Day,” encountering so many Lincoln landmarks and Lincoln markers.  It meant a lot to us and other Lincoln Highway aficionados; the green of Lodgepole’s park aftereven a short time of shadeless Sidney; the cooling as the day went by and the sky softened.  It’s hard to explain or even for us to understand why there’s such satisfaction in knowing we found the road [though Nebraska’s signage made it relatively simple].  The longing lingers to stay to delve into the details and get to know people [Wouldn’t be hard in Lodgepole, population 318.]     

             The lingering will have to occur on another trip, as the only interaction we remember from that day was seeking low-level tech support at the local Verizon outlet in a hardware store, where the owner was kind enough to give us Verizon’s tech support number, and ten minutes of time on his business line. 

            Sidney, Nebraska, according to Wikipedia, was named for Sidney Dillon, president of the Union Pacific Railroad. It was founded in 1867 by the Union Pacific and grew up around the military base of Fort Sidney (also known as Sidney Barracks), where soldiers were stationed to guard the transcontinental railroad from potential Indian attacks.

             

      Eighteen miles east of Sidney one finds Lodgepole, a city that in land and building size seems too large for the 318 population of the 2010 census.   It was also built by the railroad in 1867.   After romping in the park in Lodgepole and scurrying down to the old Opera House,  we zoomed another ten miles to and through Chappell before darkness set in.  

     According again to Wikipedia, Chappell was platted in 1884 when the railroad was extended to that point. It was named for Charles Henry Chappell, a railroad official.  Lengthy and interesting details on Chappell at

http://www.co.deuel.ne.us/webpages/about/history.html

Caught glimpses of Big Springs and the1885  Phelps Hotel [still operating, but not off season], but missed a few sights and a town or two as we continued on to Ogallala for the night.

This was more of a visual day than a wordy day....so please enjoy the movie below, and turn down the sound if you can't stand to hear  an old-time band singing about beautiful Nebraska cornfields.

My creation:    http://slide.ly/view/92a17e42d13cdc0d7a96751d1917c920

Muddy Ponies and Prairie Schooners

        

                   Left  Chimney Rock to rejoin  the Phantom Road, when what to our wandering eyes should appear but a miniature pony with a rider so dear!  Past Mud Springs!  To Lodgepole! He cried with a cheer.  

The dirt road to Mud Springs Pony Express Station zoomed into view about 5 yards past the only sign.  With an obedient spirit and a whole lot of whining and insisting we were headed nowhere,  Ron drove us several wandering miles on roads one would never expect to take to reach a historic marker, passing a number of daunting “Private Property” signs.  

One of the reasons it's called "Mud Springs." 

 

Did a mighty oak fall because its roots got mudded out?

  

There in a muddy hollow befitting its name, just a hop and a skip from a farmhouse and a sign alerting that those who had $500  would be allowed to hunt , the Mud Springs marker appeared.   No longer a station, but the more remarkable that the spot was still known and designated.

        After pausing for our usual moments of awe over the marker and respect for the riders, we headed back to the Lincoln on more ‘roads’ past a few more remote houses, marveling but rejoicing that such trails were accessible to passersby.

         After pausing for our usual moments of awe over the marker and respect for the riders and amazement that the locations are still known and visible, we headed back to the Lincoln on more ‘roads’ past a few more remote houses, marveling but rejoicing that such trails were accessible to passersby.

The 'road' through this land really wasn't.....

On to Dalton for a nice picnic at the closed  Prairie Schooner Museum, taking snapshots of a pioneer cabin  

HALLUCINATING ON THE LINCOLN HIGHWAY, or "Is it okay to use this word on the internet?"

HALLUCINATING ON THE NON-EXISTENT HIGHWAY
On our last night in Mitchell, NE, our [quite possibly drunk] host asked about our plans upon departure; told him we’d be going back south to the Lincoln Highway, presenting the guidebook for more details.  Long story short, our book was just a con, “because people will do things like that.”  Our host knew all about the Oregon Trail and Mormon Trail and everything there was to know about the railroad, but he had never heard of the Lincoln Highway, and since he  had not heard of it, it could not possibly exist. We moaned that this was the type of man whose candidate would soon win the Presidency.          Undaunted,  we started off my first officially-retired day leaving Far Eastern Wyoming heading for Chimney Rock on the nonexistent Lincoln Highway.    [Nebraska had the best Lincoln Highway signage to date, so apparently the government is in on the conspiracy.]                Near the town of Scottsbluff we came upon a diner and gas station on Highway 26, which was a Route 66 wannabe.  Classic convertible on top of the gas station roof, enchanting décor, music memories and cookie jars of famous folks of the 1950s and 1960s.  “American Pie”  wafted through the air.

                First tourist stop of the day was Elk Penis, or Chimney Rock as the settlers and explorers called it.  Visible for some humongous number of miles,  it was entertainment and encouragement for the average wagon train member heading west, and figured in the visits and passings of many famous people.   Chimney Rock was formed from natural deposition and erosion [see, I was right about those bluffs coming from a flat state where the bluffs were what was left after the rest wore away.  J]  The rock looks different today than it did 150 years ago.

Some of the Rock’s historical highlights:

1812:  Robert Stuart’s party of fur traders become the first white men to travel the route through the Platte Valley.

1824:  Jedediah Smith, who we Californians claim as our own [oops – just revealed an identity change]rediscovered the south path through the Rockies.  [Dear ol’ Jed needs an entire book, and probably someone has already written it.]

1828:  Wretched, evil, traitor-to-the-Cherokees Andrew Jackson became the first President from the west, and Hiram Scott died near the bluff described in yesterday’s post.

1835:  Samuel Parker, middle-aged Presbyterian who decided to join Marcus Whitman as a missionary, wrote “encamped at noon of the 22d, near another of nature’s wonders.  It has been called the chimney; but I say it ought to be called Beacon Hill, from its resemblance to what was Beacon Hill in Boston.”  Marcus Whitman also took to the trail as a missionary that year.

1836:  Eliza Hart Spalding  and Narcissa Prentiss Whitman became the first white women to see Chimney Rock, and the first white women to travel overland to Oregon.  The women were too ill from eating an all-meat diet to write about what they saw.

1838:  Myra Fairbanks Eells, another missionary headed for Oregon, wrote briefly about the Rock but was more concerned with her husband’s failing health.  She gave him a piece of gingerbread she had stored for quite some time, and two days later he was well enough to get a mule out of the mud. The story of the westward movement really is gripping and fascinating, thinking of what people went through to get there.  Now and then it hits us that the stories of the beginning overlook the stories of the millions who inhabited the land before the White Man, and who and what got destroyed to fulfill our Manifest Destiny – but then, these museums are labeled to be the story of the U.S. westward migration, and that’s what they are, with brief displays on Native Americans.            

    Ezra Meeker went west in 1852; he created a national sensation when he returned by wagon over the same route in 1906.  His calling for route preservation led to the formation of the Oregon Trail Memorial Association.

Scaling Scotts Bluff

       On October 8^th we left the Lincoln behind at Kimball, Nebraska, heading 50 miles north to  Airbnb lodgings  out in the country near Mitchell, NE.

 Planned to rest up for 3 days and get caught up on our blogging.

   As proof of how well that theory worked out, it’s January 1, 2017, half an hour into the New Year, and still no end in sight.  Been trying to write a description of one day’s travels in ever-surprising Nebraska, but there was so much material it’d have taken a week to read it.  One or two days will turn into a week's posting.

The stunning, unexpected thing upon crossing into Nebraska was bluffs.  More and more of them.  HOW COULD THERE BE BLUFFS IN A FLAT, CORN-GROWING KIND OF PLACE?  In a place that’s part of the Great Plains, no less!   [Maybe they don’t grow corn after all?]  But there were.  More bluffs than you could shake a stick at.  In fact, the nearby town of Scottsbluff has – well, lots of bluffs, too.

Since our hosts couldn’t grasp the concept of ‘we’re just going to sit around the house for a few days’ and kept asking us what our plans were, and because we had to see and understand these bluffs, and because we needed exercise, the afternoon of Sunday, October 9^th had us heading out for a modest hike, when we could no longer procrastinate any longer. 

Oddly enough, Scotts Bluff National Monument is in Gering.  The nearby town of Scottsbluff and the County of Scottsbluff prefer to write their names with no spaces in between.  Huh?  And why SCOTT’S bluff as opposed to a bluff named after any other country on the face of God’s green earth?

The life and legends of Hiram Scott – well, most versions say he fell ill [one says he was injured in an encounter with Blackfeet Indians],  and then he got abandoned by two guys who took him in their canoe for a while and then put him on land, or maybe it was a whole group of people who were fearing starvation.  Naw, it was because of foul play.  Or maybe he nobly insisted on staying behind so his comrades wouldn’t suffer the same illness or fate.  Even Washington Irving weighed in with a story on Hiram.  At any rate, there are records that a Hiram Scott was literate and held an important clerical position for the American Fur Company in 1827, but no further data.  Likely Hiram was out there participating in one of the giant annual fur trade jamborees.  He’s believed to have been traveling back to St. Louis when he died near the bluff that bears his name today.  [Find more details of various versions and theories –https://www.nps.gov/scbl/learn/historyculture/hscott.htm    ]

The namesake Scotts Bluff towers 800 feet over the North Platte River, an epic river on the trails west.  [If I ever get around to telling you more about the town of North Platte, you may join the circle of those who tear up whenever it’s mentioned.] A climb along the North Overlook Trail to the summit of the bluff that bears his name, with a plaque that also bears his name, is a most rewarding, most pleasant experience and nostalgic, honoring moment.  [By ‘climb,’ I mean drive a few miles to the parking lot at the top and ascend another 15 feet or so till you reach the viewpoint. And exercise caution, as it looks like one could go another fifteen feet or so, but the soft rock is eroding away and you'll find that next step to be a very steep one with a LOOOOOONNNNGGG drop]

 Scotts Bluff was an important landmark to those on the Mormon, California, and Oregon Trails. At the base of the bluff, the wagon ruts run through Mitchell Pass, named after Brigadier General  Robert Mitchell of the Union Army.  Several minutes of arduous internet research leave one unclear as to why the pass was named after him, since the pass had, to my understanding, already been in use for several years before he came along.  But it was.   https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mitchell_Pass

We couldn't see it in the old black-and-white movies, but many families preferred a colorful wagon.  "Paint your wagon, and come along," was more than fiction.

 

It's not terribly imporant to know exactly what happened to Hiram Scott, or why this pass along the Emigrant Trail was named after Robert Mitchell. But a walk literally in the footsteps of countless emigrants, in the tracks of the wagons packed to capacity and beyond,  pondering what it was like to walk across America with your babies and your animals and no toilets and frequently no water, sadly tossing out more prized items along the way to lighten the load on the oxen, and having to cook without stopping at the supermarket, and no disposable diapers nor always ready water, never sure what awaited at trail’s end …it’s a sobering experience.  And a highly recommended one.

[Oh, and as for how/why there are so many bluffs in flat Nebraska -- I figured it out.  Nebraska WAS all flat; the bluffs didn't rise from anywhere, but the rest of the land dropped low as it eroded, leaving these shapes that change with the years as the soft rocks wears away/]

DeKalb All Over Again

We've been off the Lincoln Highway for a while now but I become more and more amazed whenever I think back and remember all we saw in one month, what a living history lesson it was. We really enjoyed our time in history-rich DeKalb, Illinois, where barbed wire was invented.  When we reached DeKalb, Texas, in late November 2016 -- a state where a lot of that barbed wire was probably used and cut during those cattle wars, we stopped in just for a picture of the sign to show we'd been in two "DeKalbs" on our trip.

Looking for a potty break, we turned into the parking lot at the Williams House Museum just hoping they'd be open on a Saturday afternoon in December..  Found the docent for the afternoon playing cards with her friends while waiting for visitors.  [Good way to keep volunteers volunteering!]
 

Turns out DeKalb displays several items worthy of note at a national level.   Leadbelly lived in DeKalb, Texas.  We'd never realized he wrote "Good Night, Irene"  "Cottonfields Back Home,"and "The Midnight Special.

Dan Blocker grew up not far from DeKalb.  He won the hearts of all those who loved the Ponderosa.

Ron and I were pleased to get to spend a moment with Dan.  The museum also houses a very tiny portion of the items that were sold at the Ponderosa Ranch for years after the show closed.

Those of us of the Bonanza era also grew up adoring Ricky Nelson and waited eagerly each week for "The Ozzie and Harriet Show."  Ricky had been off our radar for years till he began to make a comeback, and planned to perform in Dallas on New Year's Eve, 1985.  His plane crashed not far from DeKalb en route to the extravaganza.  We still miss you, Ricky, and wish you were around to grow old with us.