Highway 83, Thedford or bust...

Out of Stapleton, and back on the 83 on our way to Thedford, 35 miles  to the north, we were enjoying the monotony of the Sand Hills and the fields surrounded by millions of miles of barbed wire...

when we came upon a sign for a turnoff to a scenic overlook.  Along the road you see many such signs announcing historic markers half a mile ahead, authentic pioneer homesteads two mile in on route 92, scenic overlook, half a mile ahead, etc.  After one or two disappointing experiences you tend to overlook these enticements at 65 mph, but as fate would have it, Jackie and I looked at each other and said lets check it out.

Don't know what's going on with the exposure here, maybe its the altitude, but this overlook afforded us a birds eye view of Highway 83 overpassing the Dismal River which runs about 10 miles south of Thedford and converges with the Loup River soon after that.  Did a lot of googling and looked into a guidebook or two, but could find no real explanation of why the river is called Dismal.  It is certainly nice enough and the surrounding landscape is lush and fertile.  Maybe it was just how the pioneers were feeling after traveling in broken down wagons for a thousand miles and they were still in the middle of nowhere, but then again that could describe just about everything they experienced on the westward journey back then, and that's if they were lucky, and certainly there are a lot more dismal places that this along the prairies, so there goes that theory.  Anyway, on to Thedford.

Not sure why, but the only picture I have of Thedford is this sign welcoming us.  I know we stopped in town, as we did last year while doing Route 2 before turning north to the Dakotas, but no picture then either, except the sign.  Don't know why, but there is a pattern here that needs to be checked out next time around.

I'm no cowboy poet, but I do write when the spirit moves me, and I mean that literally.   All that heat, it averaged over 90 for most of our visit, quite unusual for early June, all that barbed wire, the pervasive smell of the prairie air, maybe some sense of disappointment regarding Thedford, whatever...

                                               Even here, in the midst of these

                                                       soft rolling waves of indecision,

                                               punctuated by barbed wire and

                                                       menacing signs of exclusion,

                                               it was the silence, above all

                                                       that prevailed

                                               and the warm persistent hum

                                                       of curried air

                                               hanging soft and heavy in the hypnotic 

                                                       shimmer of that midwest afternoon

                                               that induced a reluctance to be even

                                                       a small part of those whispered remnants

                                               of old conversations.

                                                                           Pablo