The Overpass Exchange Out in the Middle of Nowhere

Update: May 2017. In the last line of this blog post, I wrote, "Things are not the same as they once were." Isn't that the truth. The overpass exchange I wrote about in February 2013 is no longer. It has been torn down and replaced with an intersection.  These pictures are now an archive of what once was an anomaly in the middle of nowhere.

When I was a young lad, I was always in wonderment why the state built an overpass exchange with entrance and exit ramps in the middle of nowhere.  Other highway intersections usually rated only a stop sign and maybe a traffic light.  But not the highway intersection of U.S. 24 and KS 258.

Seemingly in the middle of nowhere, but in the middle of my world at the time, was this intersection for a state highway and a US highway with no town in sight.  And KS 258 ended less than 100 feet to the north and ended a few miles to the south after crossing over the earth-filled dam compounding the South Solomon River and creating Webster Lake.

State Highway 258 ending to the north

I'm guessing one reason for the overpass was that Highway 258 after crossing over the dam was on a high roadbed while Highway 24 was graded to be as flat as possible.  The difference in height was accommodated with the overpass and exchange.  But still to the untrained eye, it looks a little out of place.

Looking to the west from KS 258.

Looking to the east from the overpass bridge

I loved going across this way as a kid because seeing a large body of water in that part of Kansas is not an everyday sight.  Kansas Highway 258, as it crossed over the dam, has no shoulders and is enclosed with guardrails on both sides. The top of the dam is the roadbed.

Webster Lake inundated the town of Webster. The town was relocated to higher land but never survived the move.  When I was very young, the town had a small fish and bait store with a few grocery items. But the town soon faded away. Only the lake kept its name alive.

I'm reminiscing a lot. Therapy for the soul. Things are not the same as they once were.

Building Fences

I wrote a blog post a few months ago about my Aunt Mavis celebrating her life.  Her husband, Uncle Gayle to me, died a few weeks ago.  Both of their urns were transported up to Northwest Kansas a few days ago and were buried in a country cemetery.  This cemetery is quite remote--miles from any little town. Generations of Hunters are buried there.

This picture isn't of the cemetery.  It is a picture of the land that Aunt Mavis and Uncle Gayle owned.

That would be past tense. Not only in death but in land deed reality.  The land was sold after Aunt Mavis died.

When I was 13, my Aunt and Uncle came up from Houston, Texas to build a fence on this land.  I was expected to help, and boy, did I.  My Dad was in seminary training and about ready to become a full-time minister.  But he was home at the time.

You might look at this picture and think this is nothing but straight, run along flat land.  That would be a wrong guess.

A turn to the right would reveal a little country road using switchbacks for trucks to get up a hill.  A turn to the left, a ravine so deep that the sun might not shine on some spots.  Looks are deceiving.

I remember heat, sweat, dust, digging post holes into pure rock, standing at a 45 degree angle to be straight, ticks galore, swinging a hammer, stringing barbed wire, and thirst that seemed to go on for many days straight.  Miles of fence building.

Picking off 10 ticks out of my hair each day was the norm.

But I learned a few lessons.  Hard work, despite a few ticks, creates accomplishment. Working as a team makes a insurmountable task possible.  Muscles you never knew existed became a learned fact.  Learning how to balance a hammer, pliers and yourself all at the same time.  And that looks are deceiving.

Running Up Hills

Back when I was a long-distance runner, I enjoyed the challenge of a hill.  Attacking a hill was so much fun; I passed many runners going uphill.  Unfortunately, a lot of them passed me going downhill. My shorter legs were at a disadvantage downhill.

I'm sure I got my love for challenging hills when I was very young. Back then while my family and I were still living on a farm, we had a rim that followed along part of the creek that ran through the farm.

This rim had a steep drop down to the creek; almost a sheer, straight drop. I remembered many times keeping myself entertained climbing from the creek bottom straight up past the limestone jutting out from the top of the rim.  I would grab any shred of bush or twig to keep from falling back and kept churning my legs.  Not the safest thing to do--one mishap would have sent me backwards.

During the winter I used my saucer sled to try going down the sheer drop--ever seen that scene from National Lampoon Christmas when Clark Griswold greases up his saucer? Well I didn't see any sparks flying but I sure had a lot of air time.

I was always curious what the elevation difference was between the rim and the creek.  Thanks to GIS mapping, I now know.  The rim above the creek is 1902.8 feet while the creek is at 1861.8 feet.

That's 41 feet difference in a short amount of space.

I learned how to climb hills when I was young--always go forward; going back was never a viable option.

Nicodemus

I grew up in Western Kansas on a farm. Well, until my Dad changed careers from a farmer to an ordained Methodist preacher. Then I was thrown from an unknown kid into the proverbial glass bowl that is the life definition of being a preacher's kid.  But that is another story.

Growing up on the homestead back in the sixties and early seventies did not afford me many opportunities to encounter ethnicities beyond different types of Caucasians: French-Canadian, Volga Germans, Irish, and other European descendants.

But there was an exception.

About 15 miles to the southeast of the Hunter homestead was the town of Nicodemus.  Nicodemus back then was a small town with two active churches and the best barbeque I ever tasted at Ernestine’s Bar-B-Que.  What made Nicodemus unique was that it was the only Black Town west of the Mississippi.  So, among an all-white dominated section of the country was this little town that stood for freedom, independence, and resilency. 

Nicodemus was founded by former enslaved African-Americans who traveled from Kentucky with the promise of land.  Some of those early Nicodemus Exodusters who traveled from Kentucky were disappointed in the vast Kansas landscape devoid of trees and humanity.  But many stayed and created a town that is still around today, although now, Nicodemus is a National Historic Site administered by the National Park Service.

I learned a lot from my visits to Nicodemus as a young boy besides enjoying awesome barbeque at Ernestine's. 

The population of Nicodemus explodes each end of July for the Emancipation Homecoming celebration.  Anyone with any type of family relations to the residents of Nicodemus' past came back "home" to celebrate the town.  I learned from these celebrations the importance of family reunions and that jazz was a pretty cool form of music.

When I was no older than five, I went to my first revival week at the Nicodemus First Baptist Church.  At first, I was terrified.  I never witnessed so much active participation by people in the pews during a service.  But I grew to love it.  I learned that celebrating religious beliefs did not fit into a one-size-fits-all category.  I made sure that as a father to my children that they attended their share of church services at African-American churches here in Chattanooga so that they could experience the same thing I did growing up.

Another important lesson I learned from Nicodemus was to persevere.  The early settlers of Nicodemus had few willing to help.  But through adversity, they overcame with resilient independence that no one could take away.  Nicodemus became home for generations of African-Americans on the western plains of Kansas.  I am grateful that it did.

Find out more about Nicodemus at this NPS.gov link.

Western Kansas

I capitalize the "W" in Western Kansas to denote the differences in culture, dialect and honor than in the eastern part of the state.

I like this photo I found of wheat and the sky in Western Kansas.