When you travel by car cross country the milestones are breathtaking. We passed over iconic American rivers. We had crossed the Missouri River at x. We passed Paxton and now were in Mountain Time Zone. Mid afternoon it was hot and sunny, This stretch of Interstate 80 is a necessary passage our farm and cattle expanse .We had never seen anything like this. Signs indicated we were parallel to the Platte River. Imagine doing this in a covered wagon. Lots of intersecting roads, exits going to the horizon, lots of farms. Seven hours of flatness. We were impatient. Where the hell were the Rocky Mountains?
Kenny was pretty quiet, he seemed deep in thought playing with junk in the glove compartment. He snoozed for a while, then awoke and combed out his beard and hair with a black plastic comb. He readjusted his leather sweat band, and went to work finding music on the Sapphire radio. It was dead silent.
Just off Nebraska Interstate 80 is old Route 30. Our college Villanova is on Route 30 just west of Philadelphia. That same Route 30 went from Astoria Oregon through the NJ Pine Barrens right to Atlantic City. .I kept my foot down hard on the gas, pedal to the metal and battled the winds. There was no need to use my left foot on the clutch, I couldn't drive a stick. We moved along at a steady 55 miles an hour. In about 35 minutes, Kenny reconnected the radio to the speakers, and the old Sapphire radio was alive again. He dialed into a few stations, we got into some music, and then some news.
I was expecting an all points bulletin, The police looking for a marriage cucking carpenter and two stooges from Villanova. There wasn't a heck of a lot to listen to in the middle of Nebraska. We were about 20 miles from North Platte, and a radio station announced that there was a freak late spring snow storm up in Yellowstone, and the park had been hit with 2-3 feet of fresh snow.
We all heard it. Kenny had a silly laugh.
"Go figure!" he moaned, then did a drum roll on the passenger dash.
"I come all this way, and the place is snowed in".
Farley was thinking like I was. Bob went to work on him. "Hey Kenny, you're gonna need some snow tires for this next part of your trip." He just smiled, and kept tapping on the dashboard, singing some songs in his head. He went into his pockets, he lit up another of his many little roaches, exhaled a hit, and then finally said, "You know, I think we're all headed to California, F Yellowstone!"
Right On! This couldn't have come at a better time, because the road forked up ahead, and we were going to have to take Route 76 Southwest into Denver, to get on course for southern California. I was cramped and tired, I had driven almost from Omaha to Julesberg, and the Platte River was now on the right side of the Bug, and there still wasn't a dam mountain in sight.
"At the next gas, Old Kenny will take the wheel..."
Before that happened, we procured a handful of candy bars for Bob and I. Like dogs on a roadtrip, we stretched our legs, and sucked down some free fountain water at the station.
It still remained flat around here, but we could figure from the road signs, we were slowly climbing in elevation. We switched drivers, I climbed in the back, Bob drove the beast, while Kenny rode shot gun. Bob and Kenny were talking about Euro girls. Farley was cracking him up about having to pay a Franc every time he did something wrong in his Parisian college class the previous summer.
We finally left Nebraska and entered Colorado. We couldn't see any Rocky Mountains at this point. I couldn't wait to have a Coors! I must been in and out of a backseat nap, when Bob or Kenny muttered: "Oh Shit!". A police car behind us, had just hit his cherry top. We were about to see how calm our Harrisburg host would be. One mile inside the Brush, Colorado city limit, we were stopped on the shoulder, and an older policeman was checking out Farley's license, which was current.
Later, we found out the town was named for Jared L. Brush. Brush came west to mine gold west of Denver in 1858. It was nothing but stockyards for miles and miles.
This Colorado State Trooper was old and slow. He asked us all out the car,
"Which one of you own this vehicle?" "It is mine sir" said Kenny. We were thinking an "Easy Rider" confrontation when Kenny then asked him politely. "Sir, what was I doing wrong?" "Boys, you were going under the speed limit for Route 76." Kenny shook his head and said: "I had to officer, I don't have a spare tire, and the engine is old and tired."So Kenny fessed up, and the cop wrote him a ticket for not having a current registration. The car was in his name, but the registration had expired. The fine was $30 dollars. "If you gentlemen will follow me and Mr. Berger, we are going to head into town to a drop box, where you can pay the fee."
We did just that. Bob had to drive, since I couldn't shift the gears, and we were hoping this was all we had to do. We pulled into a Post Office, and the cop watched him put the cash in a special envelope. Once deposited, the cop handed him his receipt, The cop was pretty cool, he never searched our bags, back packs or the car, and that was that.
Outside the Post Office, the policeman asked where we were headed.
We told him. He mused:
"California, you fellows should be there in a couple of days"
At this point, we realized how fricken horrible it smelled in downtown Brush. It reeked of cattle manure and what cattle make in a zillion pens of cattle in every direction. Kenny couldn't let that go.
He was very pissed at this bullshit infraction that just took most of his cash.
In my judgement, Kenny rather un-diplomatically offered his assessment of Brush.
"This town smells like Shit!""
I realized at this point, the trooper looked like LBJ.
He smiled, He tipped his hat, "That is the smell of Money!"
He got back in his squad car, and we to ours.
"What a bunch of horseshit......or cow shit!!" muttered Kenny.
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