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As I’ve written, my overarching goal when I set out on this walk was to understand America more deeply. I’ve spent years engaging in long-distance walks, mostly in Europe, and I came to perceive that as a sort of self-indulgent escapism, especially as a teacher who, if not a US History teacher, certainly wanted students to grapple with issues of direct importance to their lives. As I aged, I found myself disengaging from American politics.
It’s hardly an original notion these days to quote Yeats’s “Second Coming,” but the last two lines of the first stanza echo in my mind constantly today: “The best lack all conviction, while the worst / Are full of passionate intensity.” And if you’ll accept my apology up front for the boldness of lumping myself in the category of “the best,” it certainly speaks to the ambivalence that has shaped many of my perceptions as an adult, lacking confidence in any singular course of action, and skepticism about either Party’s capacity to earnestly attend to the needs of the people. That’s a luxury I had, of course–to shake my head ruefully from the sidelines, while only paying nominal attention to the deteriorating dynamics, as I boarded another plane to Spain and turned off the news entirely for another month.
But when I made this decision, to engage with this country at ground level, to have my footprints be one small thing linking this country together from coast to coast, I was clear about one thing. I would walk through the middle of America–the heart of it–twice. The American Discovery Trail splits between Cincinnati and Denver, and that opened a door for me, to not only see Missouri and Kansas, but also Iowa and Nebraska. To take two tours of duty across Indiana and Illinois. To transform flyover country into walk-through land and see the indelible roots of American identity.
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From Joliet, the American Discovery Trail joins the Illinois and Michigan Canal, which today has been transformed into a 100km-long nature park. If you’re looking for crystal clear waters, look south to the Illinois River. (You don’t have to look too far; the walking path often narrowly separates the canal and river, making it feel like you’re following a land bridge.) The canal, by contrast, shines lime green, choking with filamentous algae, curlyleaf pondweed, and Eurasian milfoil. At times, it’s also stuffed with reeds and fallen trees, and in those moments it feels more like you’re skirting the edge of a jungle.
After the canal opened in 1848, towns took root along its route, and their history has been well preserved. While I skipped past the first one, Channahon, as I merrily traipsed along on my first extended stretch of offroad walking on this trip, I was very pleased to spend a half-hour in beautiful Morris on this Saturday afternoon. Shoppers strolled amicably around town, through the immaculately preserved brick downtown core, but I was pulled more directly into the Morris Bakery, for a pastry and a coffee. Apparently, like Muncie, Morris has also been the subject of close academic scrutiny, leading to the publication in 1949 of Democracy in Jonesville: A Study of Quality and Inequality–something I look forward to perusing when I’m back home. Beyond pastries, Morris is also famous for hosting the world’s first electronic telephone switching system. That was my first hint that the midwest, for all its traditionalist connotations, was in reality home to the cutting edge for decades.
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I was initially surprised to learn from Kristin L. Hoganson’s Heartland that the term “heartland” wasn’t coined until 1904, when British Geographer Sir Halford Mackinder applied it to Central Europe, writing that “whoever controlled the Eurasian heartland would control the world.” Upon reflection, I realized that with the idea of nations and nationalism not fully taking root until after the French Revolution in the late 1700s, it would take a while for all the accompanying symbolic language to shake out. Even then, the “heartland” still wouldn’t extend to the US for another half-century, only making landfall after World War II. Initially, even then, Central Europe persisted as the heartland, rallying even Americans to its defense first against the Nazis and then the Soviets. Residents of Illinois saw their efforts on the agricultural front to be a strike in favor of democracy by helping to prop up our European allies. Finally, though, scholars began, however tentatively, to explore the idea of an American Heartland in the midst of North America.
It’s important to remember, when parsing the timeline, that for a large chunk of American history the “midwest” was the outer limit, the frontier, the rugged wilds. Only in 1787 did Illinois become part of the Northwest Territory, earning statehood in 1818. Continued expansion to the coast took us well into the 19th century, with the Oregon Territory not established until 1848. There was nothing “mid” about the Midwest throughout those decades.
What stands out the most in Hoganson’s discussion is that, as the idea of the American Midwest as our Heartland took root, it manifested in two distinctly different ways. On one hand, the Midwest became a symbol of our burgeoning economic power and our accompanying imperial potential. The large-scale transportation networks linking the country together, the booming farms, the factories churning out all manner of supplies–and war materiel. On the other, the Midwest as a dream of security and tradition emerged, encapsulated in the vision of the white picket fence around a tidy clapboard house.
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I certainly didn’t set myself up to enjoy this as much as I might have, with three very long days through canal country. On this first leg, I arrived in Seneca, my nominal destination for the day, later in the afternoon, and as often happens when I’m camping, I decided to push on. First, though, I grabbed a sandwich at Subway on the far end of town, and the timing was ideal. The skies burst open shortly after my arrival, dumping what must have been an inch of rain, as thunder rolled overhead.
It was a Saturday spent on the river for many in this area, and I watched as one boat-towing-truck after another pulled through the accompanying gas station, loading up in equal measures on fuel and beer. I had spotted one rainbow trout, maybe two feet long, skimming the canal’s surface at one point in the walk–during a rare break in the green epidermis.
Above the water line, though, fauna was abundant. Turtles sunned themselves on fallen trees. Lone herons stoically monitored their private stretch of water, ready to pounce. Deer munched on grasses on the trail’s edge, lazily tracking my progress, before bounding off once I passed an invisible line. (Why do deer run normally for five steps and then suddenly spring several feet into the air, before repeating the pattern? Are they just showing off their hops?) Several snakes, all mercifully small, happily sunned themselves on the trail, utterly unconcerned with my passage until I circled back for a close-up. Camera-shy, I suppose. Canadian geese fouled certain stretches of the trail, hissing aggressively as I skirted past. Felt like home.
Water was everywhere. At times, the canal to my right or river to my left opened wide, leaving me to marvel at the impetuousness of the engineers who carved out this path, while also feeling not a little vulnerable should flash flooding rip through the area. Just how firm is my footing?
Fortunately, the storm that passed through Seneca was a short one, and with two hours of walking onward to Marseilles, there was still sufficient daylight for the worst of the wetness to burn off, leaving me with dry-enough ground for the bivy. Not much was happening in Marseilles. Three older folks were out drinking, already deep into their bag. “Oh no, what’s he doing?” one asked, as a haggard fellow with a lot of miles on his odometer stumbled towards the intersection. “He’s directing traffic,” replied her friend confidently, though I have to note that there were no cars moving through town on this Saturday night. After a failed attempt at finding public wifi–what could possibly be happening on this quiet, summer Saturday, anyway?–I carried on, to a nice grassy plot, just outside of Marseilles, and jumped in the bivy, trying like hell to keep the mosquitoes out.
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One of the positive spins on the Heartland is that it’s a place of purity, tradition, constancy. It is as it was, and it’s incumbent upon all of us to protect it, preserve it, to celebrate it as the bulwark of our identity.
And yet, as Hoganson explains, the heartland was never isolated and always changing. Just ask the Kickapoo, who once called it home until, like the beaver, they were shoved westward. Far from a backwater, 19th-century Illinois was a cosmopolitan marketplace, with trade ties not only linking it to Canada and Mexico, but all across Europe. Benefiting from agricultural research in Europe–and then expanding it, with the University of Illinois becoming a world leader–Midwestern farmers dramatically transformed the landscape, from boggy swampland to solid ground. The canal I’m following was a smaller transformation, a small, focused nod to the marshy past, and then it, too, was supplanted by railroads. And those railroads were badly needed, to transport the corn-fed pigs back to England and beyond, as American pork flooded global markets.
Of course, if the reality dampens the purity myth of the midwest, it also pushes back on the less savory stereotype, of the ignorant backwater, left behind in the wake of modernity. The Midwest pushed modernity forward, full steam ahead.
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I packed my bivy before dawn and lumbered onward before the mosquitoes had completed their night shift. If the previous day’s walk had been enjoyable, today’s was an absolute delight, with even more regularly distributed towns offering breaks along the canal. Up first was Ottawa, with a large Catholic church announcing my arrival in the town center. With apologies, I opted on this Sunday morning for McDonald’s, for a quick coffee with a side of free wifi. My mom emailed, noting that she wished there were something to watch on TV other than the Trump stuff. “Sounds like every other day,” I thought, and moved on. A man caught me as I headed out, asking “how far are you headed?” I answered, and he made a big fist pump, and wished me well.
Up next was North Utica, a delightful little town dressed up for a party, with ample outdoor seating lining the single-block Main Street. Closer to the trail, I was happy to stumble into a Sunday Market, complete with all the traditional stuff you might expect–antiques, handicrafts, baked goods–and some more contemporary delights, like boba. The place seemed oddly subdued; I was one of just a few people passing through the converted barn, happy to be there but hardly adding much to the local economy. Still, it was early yet, and I suspected that I just happened to be there closer to opening time than closing.
A little while later, I reached the end of the Illinois and Michigan Canal in LaSalle, which neighbors Peru, another sizable town. I grabbed a drink, plopped down on a bench in the shade, and capitalized on some free wifi. And discovered that the Trump news was anything but the normal fare.
The ADT loses its charm after LaSalle, being roadbound for a long, hot stretch. Small towns–Spring Valley, Depue, and finally Bureau Junction–continue to add welcome variety, but it’s only after the latter that the route finally finds its footing once more.
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I’ve been listening to Barbara Kingsolver’s Demon Copperhead, and while I wouldn’t want to conflate Appalachia and the Midwest, it speaks to some similar themes. (A very vague spoiler follows in this paragraph, though I don’t think they’d significantly impact your reading of the novel.) What stands out to me the most is Demon’s recognition later in the novel that a homeland can be so dear, so beloved, so inextricably woven into one’s soul, and yet it can be toxic as well–a paradise that has to be escaped to survive.
Coincidentally enough, after a day’s march along the Hennepin Canal, trying not to die from heat exhaustion, and carried forward in no small part by Kingsolver, I found myself reflecting on another Appalachian story I previously read, Hillbilly Elegy by JD Vance. His book made an impression on me, one so positive that I ultimately used it in a class I taught called Divided States of America.
Vance earned widespread praise for his accounting of a region widely overlooked by coastal Americans, as he managed to balance an unflinching description of its challenges with a deep sense of affection. He wrote like a man who knew he was lucky to get out and saw himself as a cultural translator, hoping to achieve some measure of shared understanding as a first step towards repairing Appalachia. It felt like an earnest book. Of course, the backlash quickly followed, and it veered towards a condemnatory tone at times. Vance, the critics said, wasn’t a real Appalachian. He spent most of his childhood in Ohio, in a middle class city. He went to Yale! Other Appalachian voices were being marginalized, while this well-networked lawyer capitalized on a sob story, steeped in pro-capitalist ideology. I recognized, of course, that Vance was hardly a typical Appalachian, but the criticism seemed over the top. Given how quick liberals, in particular, are to assert the importance of a person’s lived experience, the critics seemed all too willing to dismiss Vance’s.
And yet, the Vance of today is utterly unrecognizable in comparison to the author of Hillbilly Elegy. Like the Midwest, the man has been transformed, from Trump’s fiercest critic to his latest willing doormat. The book was non-fiction, but was the author a work of fiction? Is today’s Vance a strategic recasting, from the Peter Thiel School of Realpolitik, in pursuit of the speediest path to power?
Does he care about Appalachia today? Did he ever?
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The walk to Annawan on Monday was my hardest day. Around mid-day, I suddenly felt as though my feet were on fire, as though I’d set foot in a furnace, and gradually the heat bellowed up through my pants. I learned later that the temperature, at least as measured by the “feels like” metric, hit around 110 degrees at that point, so I suppose the feelings were well-earned.
That night, my phone shrieked, announcing a tornado warning. Those things don’t mess around: “TAKE COVER NOW! Move to a basement or an interior room on the lowest floor of a sturdy building. Avoid windows. If you are outdoors, in a mobile home, or in a vehicle, move to the closest substantial shelter and protect yourself from flying debris. This storm has a history of producing tornadoes. Seek shelter now! Heavy rainfall may hide this tornado. Do not wait to see or hear the tornado. TAKE COVER NOW!” I’ve never seen such lightning as that which erupted outside my windows throughout the night.
By contrast, my last day on the Hennepin Canal, from Annawan to East Moline, was a mellow stroll. The temperature must have dropped 20 degrees. A handful of bicyclists were out on the trail, enjoying the day.
Life goes on in the heartland. There is something profoundly beautiful here, something that speaks to one of the endearing qualities of America. Well-manicured homes, community gatherings, living side-by-side with nature in seemingly harmonious ways. There’s something to be protected here, to want to preserve for the generations to come. If the center can hold, then nothing will fall apart.
And yet that more complicated side of the heartland remains present as well. A land that was transformed at great cost, with little regard for those who were displaced. Understanding of environmental consequences that only emerged with time. That distinctly American drive for exceptionalism, for greatness, that sometimes pushes us away–away from that beloved home, away from those cherished traditions, away, perhaps, from our core values.
