West Kansas

As we continued east through Colorado, still on Old Highway 50, the landscape quickly blunted. The peaks and forests of the west had now been replaced by a wide and flat expanse of rurality. Farms increasingly dominated every perspective and numerous concrete granaries stood, like huge cathedrals that dominated the land. Looking out at endless fields in every direction, the common description that this area is the Breadbasket of America seemed appropriate. It felt like we had arrived in another country, so different was the landscape from what we had seen up until now.

Kansas State Border

After we crossed the Kansas state border we crossed another timezone and headed to Holcomb, the setting of a tragedy that went on to inspire Truman Capote to combine journalism and literature in 1966, the year that he published the first 'non-fiction novel'. 'In Cold Blood' (the book that he wrote) is a favourite of mine. It was the product of over 6 years of intense local research and it captured (to my eyes at least) the impact of the murders that took place in this small town, with both sympathy and poetry. It's legacy with regard to literature is obvious. By contrast, its legacy with regard to this small town is definitely more muted. Holcomb now seems like a sombre place that is imprisoned by its past. It appears concious not to cash in on the memory of the victims of that terrible crime (the Clutter family) and it does this with a dignity that I know would not be reflected had this event occurred elsewhere.

A Huge Granary and Holcomb (setting of 'In Cold Blood')

After a quick picnic in Holcomb, we jumped back in the Beast and continued east toward Dodge City, a former frontier town immortalised in countless wild-west stories. This town used to mark the boundary between the lawlessness of an untamed west and the more established settlements of the east. It prospered up until the late 1800's when Kansas officials decided to curb the activities of the countless saloon's and brothels that existed within its boundaries. Thankfully, or not, depending on your perspective, nothing of this wild history remains today. The town is aware of its past and has various references to its former glory emblazoned on bill boards, contrived historical recreations and on street signs; but the truth is that modern day Dodge is not the place that it should be given its history. How very disappointing.

So out of boredom rather due to some argument picked with a filthy gunman in a whisky swilling saloon, we got the hell out of Dodge. We were approaching the halfway point of our journey across to the Atlantic and so wanted to mark this achievement by visiting one of the handful of places that claims to be at the centre of middle America. We chose Kinsley, a town which has unofficially renamed itself 'Midway' to do this. It sits at the exact midpoint between New York and San Francisco, and offered little apart from a sleepy Main Street and some fantastically rustic wooden homes that clung to small dirt roads.

I have to admit that I liked this place because it represented something truly and authentically American. It was a remote functioning town, geographically separated by a large distance from everything other then wide sun baked fields. For a man from the comparatively small and congested island of Britain, it felt like another planet.

Kinsley Sign

© All Images By Paul