South Dakota 1984/1996/2001
Well, I may as well take this "Freeway" thing and run with it. Writings from the first two dates, photos from 2001.
On the Greyhound from Chicago, over I-80, through Davenport, Iowa City, and Des Moines, Iowa; then through Omaha, Nebraska and onward over the Great Plains, Native America, once teaming with Buffalo, a sea of yellowish grass rippled by the wind. Signs at roadside truck stops now advertise buffalo burgers. Or they are bred with cattle: Beef-alo.
We pass once thriving farming communities, now virtual ghost towns, the rails beside the silos are now rusty. I am reminded of the TV news footage I saw in my youth, of despondent farmers, hands helplessly nestled in pockets, weighing down loose overalls, watching as everything they ever worked for is auctioned off to pay off debts, trying to prevent foreclosure of the family farm that's been a source of income for generations, only to lose it to multi-national agribusiness.
A prairie dog town, advertised by big roadside billboards, nothing more then a small wooden building where they sell souvenirs and peanuts to feed the prairie dogs. There is a fenced in area with mounds of dirt, where some prairie dogs sit up on their haunches, looking out over the prairie, or more likely waiting for handouts. A tourist trap, baited with old wagon wheels and sun-bleached cow skulls.
We roll by more small towns, with paint-stripped, weather-beaten buildings, junked cars in front yards, old rusted appliances in the back. A faded old trailer serves as the local bar.
We continue on I-80, that massive river of asphalt flowing with cars between New York and San Francisco. The bus passes many of the towns without even pulling into them, instead stopping at terminals off the highway at diners and truck stops; MacDonald's and Subways, miles outside of town.
We stop outside of Cheyenne, Wyoming, for over an hour for a "service stop". I wander over to the far side of an adjacent vacant lot, where I discretely light up a joint. I look out over the rolling landscape, brownish tall grass blowing beneath gray, overcast skies, broken by ravines and gullies, revealing the orange dirt beneath. Competing with the wind in my ears is the roar of the highway. The whole scene fills me with a sense of isolation and loneliness, imagining what it would be like to live out here, especially in the dead of winter.
On the Greyhound from Chicago, over I-80, through Davenport, Iowa City, and Des Moines, Iowa; then through Omaha, Nebraska and onward over the Great Plains, Native America, once teaming with Buffalo, a sea of yellowish grass rippled by the wind. Signs at roadside truck stops now advertise buffalo burgers. Or they are bred with cattle: Beef-alo.
We pass once thriving farming communities, now virtual ghost towns, the rails beside the silos are now rusty. I am reminded of the TV news footage I saw in my youth, of despondent farmers, hands helplessly nestled in pockets, weighing down loose overalls, watching as everything they ever worked for is auctioned off to pay off debts, trying to prevent foreclosure of the family farm that's been a source of income for generations, only to lose it to multi-national agribusiness.
A prairie dog town, advertised by big roadside billboards, nothing more then a small wooden building where they sell souvenirs and peanuts to feed the prairie dogs. There is a fenced in area with mounds of dirt, where some prairie dogs sit up on their haunches, looking out over the prairie, or more likely waiting for handouts. A tourist trap, baited with old wagon wheels and sun-bleached cow skulls.
We roll by more small towns, with paint-stripped, weather-beaten buildings, junked cars in front yards, old rusted appliances in the back. A faded old trailer serves as the local bar.
We continue on I-80, that massive river of asphalt flowing with cars between New York and San Francisco. The bus passes many of the towns without even pulling into them, instead stopping at terminals off the highway at diners and truck stops; MacDonald's and Subways, miles outside of town.
We stop outside of Cheyenne, Wyoming, for over an hour for a "service stop". I wander over to the far side of an adjacent vacant lot, where I discretely light up a joint. I look out over the rolling landscape, brownish tall grass blowing beneath gray, overcast skies, broken by ravines and gullies, revealing the orange dirt beneath. Competing with the wind in my ears is the roar of the highway. The whole scene fills me with a sense of isolation and loneliness, imagining what it would be like to live out here, especially in the dead of winter.
love these photos...too much cyan though! we'll talk....
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