For all the attention that Route 66 receives as the great American highway, perhaps more should be directed towards the Lincoln Highway, a transcontinental route (connecting Times Square, NYC with Lincoln Park, San Francisco) that preceded the 66 by more than a decade. In this stretch of Nebraska, the Lincoln Highway has supplanted the Oregon Trail, and my walk over these two days followed it almost exclusively. Alas, the Lincoln was designed for the automobile age, linking together the country at ever-higher speeds, but even the pedestrian can benefit from the ample shoulder and occasional services.
Departing Cozad, my walk was oriented around one main sight–the town of Gothenburg and its pristinely preserved Pony Express station. The town’s claim to fame, the Pony Express is everywhere–on the “welcome to” posts all across the town, a recently repainted mural in the center, and in statues throughout the center.
My march into Gothenburg was halted, though, by an old man in a truck heading back towards Cozad. Pulling up alongside me, he asked if I needed a ride. After that, he advised me not to drink the water in town, and he began gesturing as though he was preparing to give me his own bottle. I demurred, thanking him and assuring him that I’d be able to get something in Gothenburg.
I thought that was it, but perhaps an hour later, just before I crossed the town limits, his truck reappeared, pulling up behind me. He hopped out–surprisingly spry, given his age–and looped around to the bed. Two cases of bottled water sat within. “This one’s for you,” he said, though he quickly recognized that perhaps that was biting off more than I could drink. In the end, I gratefully snagged three bottles.
“I appreciate that you’re walking across America,” he told me. “I don’t know if there will still be an America after the election.” He paused, and I suddenly worried that this old man was going to break down in front of me, right on the side of the highway. “We just keep going more to the extremes.” I tried to offer some consolation. “We’re a resilient country,” I said, “and there are a lot more people in the middle than are being heard right now.” He nodded halfheartedly, but then shifted back to the water. “Always remember,” he told me, “that there’s someone out there, looking out for you.”
I later learned that Gothenburg has a boil water order in effect, due to the detection of E. coli bacteria in the town water supply. As I moved through the day, other people–in Gothenburg and even in the next town over, Brady–went out of their way to make sure I was aware.
Gothenburg is a well-manicured town with some quaint old houses surrounding the park with the Pony Express station. I was caught off guard when I encountered consecutive houses with Trump signs, but ultimately they were the only two that I noticed in the whole town. I’ve been thinking a lot about the dearth of campaign materials; there are a score of Husker-related signs, posters, and flags for every political statement. The majority of the Trump paraphernalia that I see (because, admittedly, there’s precious little on the Democratic end of things) are the basic blue signs. I’ve only seen a single truck waving a MAGA flag, and the more colorful Trump signage (Rambo Trump, Felon Trump, Jesus Trump) has been exceedingly rare.
It’s a far cry from four years ago. The enthusiasm, the zest for public displays of political affiliation seems to have dissipated. That’s not to suggest that people who voted Trump in 2016 and 2020 won’t vote for him in 2024, but rather that the thrill, perhaps, is gone for many of them.
The Pony Express station, alas, is more of a gift shop than a historical site. The building itself is nicely preserved, and I was quite pleased to be able to enter, but I wish they would have concentrated more of the trinkets elsewhere. My thoughts clustered more, though, on the historical legacy of the Pony Express. Given how prominent and vivid a position it holds in American history, I suspect most people would be shocked to learn that it only existed for 18 months. Eighteen months! It was a case of bad timing and creative destruction, as the transcontinental telegraph line was finalized a year later, rendering the Pony Express irrelevant.
So what makes the Pony Express so memorable? The audacious vision? Covering 1800 miles in ten days is incredible. The physical demands–for horse and rider alike–are difficult to fathom. Maybe it was the noble goal, of connecting the country, bringing Americans together, even across great distances? Or maybe we cling to the memory today as the last gasp of the premodern, the point at which technology supplanted human labor. Each wave of modern conveniences made the world a lot easier, but also a little less Romantic. Regardless, I’m struck by the cheap price of historic immortality. Sustained impact is hardly a requirement.
I camped next to an informational placard, telling the story of Fort McPherson, formerly situated near Maxwell, Nebraska. Today, the fort has been transformed into a cemetery. After a blustery night, my bivy bearing the brunt of almost constant windy slaps, I woke suddenly to a strobe effect going off to the north. A powerful electrical storm seemed to be blasting the hills. I packed everything up with some urgency, but the hustle proved unnecessary, as the storm never moved southward.
The deeply overcast skies meant that dark held sway until nearly 7am, but on this Sunday morning the Lincoln Highway was held in a deep state of slumber. The lone interruptions came from the periodic trains that went rumbling past, in both directions. And appropriately so, given that my destination–North Platte–has the largest rail yard in the world. Originally known as “Hell on Wheels,” North Platte was targeted originally by Grenville Dodge as a desirable strategic location, and in time Union Pacific established it as a division point–a bit like an airline hub today. With both East-West and North-South lines converging here, extra space was needed, and so dozens of additional tracks were laid in 1948, 1968, and 1980. All told, the rail yard has 315 miles of track, and more than 9000 locomotives pass through monthly. I heard a lot of them last night.
On foot, on horseback, by telegraph, on rails and highways. This oversized country has been stitched together through physical labor and technological innovation, and as I sit here at the middle of it, I’m struck by the basic decency and concern for others demonstrated by so many of the people I encounter along the way–and how little confidence they have in the capacity of their fellow Americans to be decent. At the same time, though, if some of that skepticism manifested as suspicion and hostility when I walked four years ago, today it smacks more of exhaustion and grief. As though something has been indelibly lost. I don’t see any reason why that has to be true. Far too many people devoted their lives to connecting this country together to concede its demise so passively.
It’s exhausting to walk a bunch of miles in a day, but it’s even more exhausting to be angry. Many of us are finally completing that stage. Where does the next one lead?
