Life, for the most part, is lived off the interstate. But experiencing it requires that you release yourself from the near-universal urge to get from Point A to Point B ASAP. If you can do this, you can open yourself to the world.
I rarely do this, alas. I need to do it more often. But I did recently, oddly en route from my Oklahoma deer hunt back home to St. Paul. Normally when I have meat in the car, I do a banzai run to the house, sometimes stopping only for gas and, if the drive is long enough, a few minutes’ shut-eye at a rest stop. I am known as an ironman road warrior, too, able to bomb 1000-plus miles in a day.
But the morning I left Oklahoma, I found myself receptive to a suggestion from a friend to set that aside for once and enjoy the drive north in leisure. Maybe I’d find some cool sights or tastes along the way? The temperature would drop below freezing each night, so the meat would be fine. OK, let’s do it, I thought to myself.
I did start my trip on the interstate, I-35 to be specific. As it happens, I can take I-35 from Oklahoma to within 2 miles of my house in St. Paul. But that highway, for the most part, skirts the eastern edge of the Great Plains. And I wanted to drive right through its heart.
I have a growing love affair with the Great Plains, and the people who live there. Most are very different from me: More reserved, stolid, capable in ways I am not. Their language is as unspoken as it is spoken, and when they do speak, it’s often in a code I have to translate the way I do Spanish.
If someone asks me how I am and I say OK, I am, for the most part, OK. Not fantastic, but not horrible, either. In many parts of the plains, however, saying you’re OK is code for being very much not OK. Similarly, “interesting” when I say it is largely positive; I am genuinely interested in whatever it is that I find interesting. But it can be code for “gross,” or unacceptable, in some parts of the Midwest.
And then there’s the Midwest vs. Great Plains split, which is real. The greater culture of the Midwest extends into the eastern reaches of the plains, all the way into places like Bismarck and Lincoln and Wichita. But cross the Missouri into Mandan, or visit North Platte or Rapid City and you’re culturally in the West, yet physically in the plains.
My route would run right up this gut, through Tonkawa, Oklahoma; Lindsborg, Kansas; Grand Island and O’Neill, Nebraska; Chamberlain and Hoven; South Dakota, all the way up to Interstate 94, where US 83 dumped me out east of Bismarck. As I turned toward home, I finally stopped to see the Great Bison in Jamestown, North Dakota — a sight I’d seen from the interstate many, many times, but had never bothered to stop at before.
I took my time, even driving the speed limit in some places. I savored the stark beauty of the Great Plains, the grassy sea, the vast stretches of farms and cows, grain elevators and literal mountains of corn, the little cafes that serve brown water in Styrofoam cups, the little hamlets withering as their children leave, never to return.
Most modern writing about the Great Plains has this elegaic tone, and it is, in part, earned: There are a great many towns whose populations have shrunk dramatically since the middle of the last century. If you know where to look, you can indeed find homes abandoned as if overnight, plates still on tables.
If you look at a map of the plains, the only places significant to the current American conversation on a national scale would be Amarillo, Oklahoma City, Wichita, Rapid City and Bismarck; you might add North Dakota’s Bakken range as the nation’s most recent boomtown.
That doesn’t mean that there aren’t good and important and yes vital things going on there. And one area happens to be food. This was a main focus of my little journey.
One pro tip for traveling in the South is to get off the interstate at one of those larger places, the one with many blue signs before the exit, and do a search for “barbecue near me.” Almost always there will be a locally owned BBQ joint just outside the halo of national chains. If you take the time, you will be rewarded with great food made by humans, not corporations.
This trick is harder in the Great Plains because there is no one dish that symbolizes the region. But if I had to pin one down, it would be the pie.
Not just pies in the way you think of them, although there are those. Oh no. Hand pies of all varieties, some of which are pie-like, some bready.
I didn’t even need to leave Oklahoma for the first revelation. As I neared the border with Kansas, I saw a little sign for Arbuckle Mountain Fried Pies. Fried pies? Um, yes please. Right off I-35.
No one was there when I walked in, so I perused a wall of preserved things. Spying muscadine grape jelly, I set a jar on the counter alongside a jar of hot okra pickles. By then a woman wandered in and asked me how long I’d been waiting. Not terribly, long, I said. I asked for a pair of pies, pumpkin and pecan. Pecan was her favorite, apparently. She heated up the pumpkin one for me, I paid and hit the road.
Fried crisp, slightly greasy, soft, sweet, with a rolled edge of dough that was vital to the integrity of the whole: You eat a bit from the belly of the pie, realize it’s all rather sweet and soft, then anchor the bite with a nibble of that firm, fried rolled edge. Heaven. I gobbled that pie before I even reached the next exit.
A good start to the tour. Once I got to northern Kansas, I started seeing signs for Scandinavian things in a place called Lindsborg. The Swedes seem to like recreating Swedish towns here in the United States; there are many dotted all over the national map. Since I happen to live in a Scando State now, why not stop by?
Turns out Lindsborg is cute. I bought some bowls and plates at a Scandinavian store, then wandered around. Nice restaurants, coffee shops, stores, and a good bakery. It felt like a place I could live. I bought a Swedish almond cake, and then looked for something for lunch. Mmmm… kolaches, maybe?
Then, behold! A real Kansas bierock! I bought several. I have a recipe for bierocks on Hunter Angler Gardener Cook, so I always want to eat them in situ. Ground checking, you know… (I think mine are better, but I am biased.)
Driving on, I stopped for the night in Grand Island, a town I’d heard of but had never visited. Again, lots going on. This will be obvious for those who live in and around the place, but I didn’t know what to expect. Lots of decent restaurants and brewpubs. And a real-deal Mexican community I did not expect. I scuttled my plans for a brewpub meal and ate tacos de lengua at a stand, speaking only Spanish. An unexpected little joy!
The next morning, I may have drunk the worst cup of coffee ever in O’Neill, Nebraska, so not a great beginning to the day, but I stopped at a Runza nearby for the eponymous meat-filled pie. Runza is a rectangular version of the round Kansas bierock: both are meat-and-onion filled bready things, sometimes with sauerkraut, too. I didn’t get a picture of the runza from Runza, and it’s not the prettiest thing, but it is dirty delicious.
Interesting road food slowed down from there, largely because I didn’t really want to stop for beer and chislic in South Dakota — chislic, deep fried steak chunks, is basically their state dish. But it’s really best with beer, and I had miles to go before I got home.
Tiredness started setting in, so I admit I did bomb back home once I hit I-94, but not before stopping at Jamestown to see that big bison.
If you’re still with me this far, the point of all this is to wander sometimes.
Wandering, even a little, triggers your inner curiosity, opening you up to new experiences and new sights, tastes, points of view. You can do it at home by walking a different route to and from wherever it is you are walking. You can take a walk, letting your dog lead you. You can do what I did and build in extra time to get off the sterile interstates and see a part of America you may not have before.
And you can even wander within your relationships. Be curious. Ask someone you care about if they’ve learned something about themselves recently. Or just let a conversation flow as it wants to, without a set agenda. You might be surprised at what you learn.
I used to be the same way. Now I enjoy taking some extra time and have discovered some unexpected treasures and more than a few laughs and stories along the way. Great read 👍🏼
You ever read the book Blue Highways by William least heat moon? Great book a little like travels with Charlie.