After the debacle in Missouri on election night, I needed a win. Outside of Kansas City, I got one. The following night – my first night in Nebraska – I got another. The night after that… well, in any case, two out of three is a fine win rate.
Watkin’s Woolen Mill: Road-trip-Brand Luxury
From Finn’s Motel, I shot west across Missouri towards a campground outside of Kansas City; Watkin’s Woolen Mill. It was a state park, $12 a night. The lawless wasteland of Mark Twain National Forest made me wary of free-to-camp National Forests. The fee felt akin to membership dues in a gated community.
Upon arrival at the park, the sun had not yet set and its long, golden rays smoldered in the lake just beyond the gates. Apparently early November is peak leaf season in Missouri because the trees were ablaze with reds, and yellows, and golden browns. A paved walking path encompassed the lake, and branching pathways took visitors to the preserved mid 1800’s Mill, schoolhouse, and church which once belonged to a homesteader community. After parking at a paved, drive up campsite complete with picnic table, I was welcomed by a kindly old bearded man. (You know, the one that works at every state park in America – big brimmed hat, half a limp, smile that melts your heart; the one bursting with giddy, youthful, wonderment at all things historic and natural – yes, that gentleman.) He said there was no need to fret over campground fee’s that night (I could pay in the morning) and I was to “come a knockin” at his trailer if I had any questions or problems. I had made it, Chateau de la Watkin’s: gated community for the road-trippin wanderer, and, for me, a much needed win.
The next day, feeling rested and refreshed, I fancied some culture. And thanks to a rare stroke of foresight, I had already booked a hotel for that night. (No need to arrive before dark.) When consulting my map, I saw that the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, in Kansas City, was only a half hour drive from the Watkin’s estate. So off I went, listening to a classical music on Spotify. Yes, I was really leaning into the high-brow travel lifestyle.
The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art: Gem of the Midwest
Even from the main road the Nelson-Atkin’s Museum of Art is breathtaking. Rows of bright yellow trees line a vast green lawn adorned with giant shuttlecocks. The mall leads up to the large stone steps and Greek-style pillars of the main building. I nearly rear ended the car ahead of me as I bent my neck and peered out the passenger window trying to catch a longer glimpse.
And the brilliance of the building’s exterior is not some hollow promise of grandeur. No, the museum’s interior is just as, if not more so, enchanting. It’s so spectacular in fact that when trying to describe the experience here, I quickly realized it would require its own post. So if you want to know more about the museum, check out the article HERE.
West and North
After hours of wandering from room to room role playing as an educated art critic, I heard a now familiar call; the road beckoned. Soon I was hurtling towards the Husker Inn in North Platte, Nebraska.
Along the barren highway west of Kansas City, lights came and went in the night. My only companions were the 18 wheelers, and I moved in between them like a small suckerfish swimming below the bellies of sharks. I came to the inn just after nine. I slept like a rock: win number two.
The next day, I shot due north and found a very different landscape than the one I’d left in Kansas City. Gone were the skyscrapers and gone were the trees. The northern plains of Nebraska are vast oceans frozen in time; rolling golden hills stretching to the horizon in every direction, barren save for browning grass and grazing cattle: lands otherworldly to an easterner. Hours and hours of vast nothing went by, and as I drove a strange sensation of isolation came over me, the seeds of something I imagined moonwalkers experiencing. It was then that I came to the turnoff for Cottonwood Lake State Park.
The Loneliest Campground in America
It was not so much the total absence of people which gave Cottonwood Lake its eerie aura, rather it was the jumble of unused amenities which littered the park. Along the dirt roads, rows of picnic tables rusted. Small tin shelters played host to empty birds’ nests. Swings on a playground were unmoving. And as the sun set, two street lights remained light up, somehow adding to the loneliness. The whole park seemed imported from Chernobyl.
Later, as I crawled into the back of the wagon and into my sleeping bag I knew any sound, benign or otherwise, would have kept me up till morning. So I stuffed earplugs in my ears and liquor in my gut, and, for that night at least, it worked. But it was an unsettled sleep; I only dreamt of dawn.
Like I said, two nights out of three is a decent win rate, right?
On States
So not all State Parks are luxurious, gated villas. And since my night at America’s loneliest campground, it’s dawned on me that state parks are unique to each state. And perhaps more to the point; states often differ greatly from one another. This is both wonderful and wearisome.
But if our country is a patchwork of different lands, then what would happen if all the states came together and decided that some land was so spectacular that is ought to belong to all states? I was about to find out. I was headed to Badlands National Park.
Wrap Up
Thanks for reading and happy New Years! As you may have noticed, these Weekly Wagon posts have not kept up with the normal passage of time. Forgive me; it’s tough to leech WiFi when you’re not allowed indoors at coffee shops. To try and correct for this, I’ll be covering a greater stretch of my trip in next week’s post. I’ve got a steady supply of Wifi now so I shouldn’t be slipping behind any further.
Until next week, be kind to yourself, be kind to others, and safe travels out there.
Dylan
