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American Rider
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The Geo. M. Verity was one of the last steam-powered, paddle-wheel pushers ever built. It was retired in 1960 and is now a museum in Keokuk, Iowa.
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We have some big rivers in this big country of ours, and the two of the biggest are the Mississippi and Missouri, both starting up by the Canadian border and flowing south into the Gulf of Mexico. A hundred and fifty years ago these rivers were the Interstate highways of the day, with wood-burning, steam-powered paddle-wheelers carrying passengers and goods.
These two rivers meet up near St. Louis, a fine city I have been through many times—though never to the top of the arch. Missouri, the Show Me State, lies right between the rivers. A fertile land of hills, valleys, forests and plains, Missouri was acquired by the U.S. in the Louisiana Purchase of 1803. It became the 24th state to join the union, back in 1821. Agriculture is its main business.
I was looking for a new road to ride back to California after picking up a Street Glide at the Harley factory in York, Pennsylvania. As I ran a finger over my map I came upon U.S. 136, what looked like a pleasantly rural two-laner that I could pick up in central Illinois and follow well into Nebraska, sort of paralleling the 40th parallel on the north side. Never been on that one.
Just past Farmer City, Illinois, I got off I-74 and onto U.S. 136 and found myself heading west straight as an Algonquin Indian’s arrow. At Havana I crossed the Illinois River, and continued on to Hamilton, on the eastern bank of the Mississippi River. As I crossed the bridge I could see the No. 19 dam just upstream, and the locks that allow barge traffic to go up and down the river; the river still serves as a highway. Also, a big hydroelectric powerplant was keeping a lot of light bulbs lit.
On the far side of the river was Keokuk, Iowa, named for an Algonquin chief if you’re wondering. This was a thriving river town in the mid-1800s, but the coming of the railroads put paid to that, and it turned into more of a manufacturing center. Now it is in an economic slump and waiting for revival. The main street is broad, wide enough to turn a wagon pulled by a dozen mules, and halfway up I saw about 50 bikes parked in front of a saloon; it was Saturday evening. I stopped and asked a rider if there were any old-fashioned one-story motels in the area, where I could park the bike outside my door, and he pointed up the street to the Keokuk Motel. Just what I needed. Right across the street was Ogo’s Buffet, which provided more good food than I really needed—a dozen delicious renditions of fish, chicken, beef, and pork, all for nine bucks. That included dessert.
I slept well, and Sunday morning I saddled up to pray at the church of the open road. Keokuk is just a nubbin of Iowa, created by the fact that the Des Moines River is the state line. In a couple of miles I was over the Des Moines and into the state of Missouri. A look at the map told me I would be going through the nine northernmost counties in Missouri, each one with a county seat, and each county seat a courthouse. Looked like a photo opportunity to me—though the Street Glide would do the posing.
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Clement Salvadori/
American Rider
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This courthouse in Albany, Missouri, seat of Gentry County, is a superb example of 1885 architecture.
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The first town was Kahoka, seat of Clark County, established in 1857, named after one William Clark. I’m not sure just what Billy Clark did to acquire this honor, but I imagine he was an early settler. It was a quiet Sunday morning, with nobody around the courthouse square. One of those metal signs that has a bit of local history tells me that the Honey War of 1839 took place north of here, with Missouri and the Wisconsin Territory, later to become Iowa, squabbling over the border. Turns out that some Missouri revenue agents went to collect taxes from people who thought they lived in Wisconsin Territory, and when the agents couldn’t collect any money they chopped down three trees with bee hives in them and took the honey as part payment of the taxes. No blood was shed, but there may have been a few bee stings. After Iowa became a state in 1846 the case went to the U.S. Supreme Court, which decided in 1851 that the disputed land belonged to Iowa. And that is how history is made.
As I left town I could see a wooded park off to the side—and a café. That was where the few early risers were, having a cuppa. Any Midwest town with enough inhabitants to allow a café to survive always has some early-opening place with dusty pickups outside and hot coffee inside.
The stock exhausts of the Glide rumbled pleasantly along U.S. 136 through fields and woods, coming into Scotland County, presumably named by some homesick Scotsman, and a big courthouse in the seat of Memphis. The railroad arrived here in 1871, and where the railroad went, prosperity followed, because the farmers could get their produce to the important city markets. Back then the locals all had gardens behind the house, but the money was to be found elsewhere. I was told that there are several Mennonite and Amish communities in the area; a peaceable land.
Twenty-three more miles and the Glide and I rolled into Lancaster, seat of Schyler County, with the greeting sign telling me that only 700 people lived around here. I was on the main street, with the courthouse, a relatively new building, off to my right and a boardwalk on my left; that was the center of town. Stopping to take my picture I noted that the place had fallen on hard times, with several of the shops under the boardwalk looking very empty. But there was a gathering of people at one corner, and a storefront sign that read “Church of Faith.”
Pastor Sonny Smyser came over to say hello, and asked if I’d like to join his flock, which was arriving in dusty pickups and beat-up old Sedans. I sort of would, as he was an appealing sort, but I had places to go, so I declined. But we chatted a bit. He grew up in Lancaster and gave me a brief history of the place, which used to be known for mutton and wool. But the sheep business had long vanished, and the place was struggling along, waiting for better times. I wished the pastor and his congregation well.
Two blocks up I passed a brick-and-mortar church, with well-washed Buicks and Oldsmobiles parked outside, but none of Smyser’s welcome.
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Clement Salvadori/
American Rider
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U.S. 136 between Lancaster and Unionville, Missouri, goes due west, undulating through the wooded landscape.
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It was 25 miles to Unionville, seat of Putnam County, founded in 1853; 25 or so miles was the distance that a rider or a good horse and carriage could cover in a day, which is how these towns got to be where they are. On the Harley it was a half-hour trip. In the north of the county coal was mined, which served to fire the boilers in the steam engines that pulled the railroad cars that took the cows and corn to market in far-off cities.
This is rolling country, heavily wooded, though it is second growth. The original trees were all cut to build houses and barns, cook food, keep a house warm. Now the young people are leaving, depressed by the lack of meaningful employment, lured to the bright lights of some big city, and maybe a good job.
Princeton, Mercer County, was 32 miles on, and then another 27 miles to Bethany, in Harrison County, which lies alongside I-35. The Bethany courthouse was a pretty boring structure, built in 1939 in the architectural style then deemed Modern, square, grey and dull. The barber shop across the street advertised $6 haircuts—there are some advantages to living here. I moved on.
Twenty-four miles later I was descending into the shallow valley that houses Albany, seat of Gentry County, and crossed the East, Middle and West forks of the Grand River, which becomes a pretty big river when they all meet downstream. Back in 1823 the U.S. Army marched through here, creating a trace, as such an early road was called, all the way to Council Bluffs, northwest up in Iowa. The town has the best-looking courthouse I had seen that day, a tall red-brick structure with a proper clock tower on top, built in 1885. I imagine that the original courthouses in this part of the United States were made of wood, and when a town prospered, the citizens wanted a structure they could be proud of. The Albanites can be proud of this one.
It was lunch-time, and a little hamburger hut by the side of the road had half a dozen cars outside. This was the only eating place in town, and if you wanted to go out for Sunday lunch, you came here. A cheeseburger and a glass of lemonade set me back $4.91. No fast-food emporiums in a town this small. I ordered at the counter, and a cheerful, attractive girl brought me the order. I could see heads turn in my direction, wondering who this motorcyclist was. My moment of anonymous fame.
Next on the road was Nodaway county and the seat of Maryville, as well as the oddly named One Hundred and Two River. Who knows? Outside of town I saw large brick buildings, and found out that it was a Benedictine monastery and abbey, founded back in 1873 to give solace to the thousands of Irishman who came to this country to help build the railroads. Nearby the nuns lived in the Convent of Perpetual Adoration. The land here is quite open, what the geologists call glacial plains, which are the result of glaciers that froze and melted a million years ago, give or take a few hundred thousand. Fertile land, great for growing crops.
Finally I came to Rock Port, alongside I-29, seat of Atchison County, on the bluffs overlooking the Missouri Valley. Back in the 1880s it had not one but two railroads and was booming, shipping food to the hungry urbanites. Today its claim to fame is that its power is entirely generated by the wind mills at the Loess Hills Wind Farm. It is 100 percent energy self-sufficient, and the excess gets sold to the local grid.
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Clement Salvadori/
American Rider
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This old girder bridge carries U.S. 136 across the Missouri River to Brownville, Nebraska.
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Eight miles later I was crossing a two-lane girder bridge going over the Missouri River, headed into Brownville, Nebraska, population 148. I looked downstream and saw two big boats on the west bank, one an old dredge, the other all shiny and recently painted red and white. I rode down to the dredge, named the Captain Meriwether Lewis, which is now a museum, and the custodian said that shiny new boat is a floating hotel called the River Inn Resort; it’s not open yet, but I should go take a look.
I did, and the owner was there; Randel Smith introduced himself. This was a barge that had casino offices on it, which he has altered into 18 cabins. The cabins were all finished, and very comfy. The remaining work was all on the decks. I could stay if I’d like, but I would be all alone. You bet I wanted to stay. He and his wife Jane then invited me to dinner in town, which was a delightful place with 19th-century brick structures lining an old main street, a good restaurant, a winery, and three big used-book stores housed in old buildings. After dinner we went to the Antiquarium, an old school and gymnasium that is packed with tens of thousands of books; I loved it! This town is well on its way to becoming Book Town U.S.A.
Good food, good company, and the night at the River Inn made this stop the best night of my cross-country trip. I’ll be back to Brownville.
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