Day 71 - Ellis Kansas, to Lamar, Colorado

Today didn't go as planned, and that's an understatement. From the moment we pulled out of camp it became a toss-up as to what exactly was going to happen in the next few minutes or hours. You may remember that we stayed in the municipal camp in the town of Ellis, Kansas, last night, and there was no camp host on site. No problem there. Posted right in front of the camp was a sign that informed campers that a member of the local police "might" be around to collect the fees. If they did not, in fact, show up, the sign requested that the camper search for the police station on Jefferson street and deliver your check in person.

You may also remember that before leaving Ellis this morning I wanted to see the boyhood home of Walter Chrysler, the man for whom the Chrysler Corporation is named. Walter may have spent his boyhood in tiny Ellis, Kansas, but he certainly made his mark on the world. According to Wikipedia: "Chrysler apprenticed in the railroad shops at Ellis as a machinist and railroad mechanic. He then spent a period of years roaming the west, working for various railroads as a roundhouse mechanic with a reputation of being good at valve-setting jobs. Some of his moves were due to restlessness and a too-quick temper, but his roaming was also a way to become more well-rounded in his railroad knowledge. He worked his way up through positions such as foreman, superintendent, division master mechanic, and general master mechanic."

Chrysler's automotive career began in 1911 and he worked his way up in several automotive organizations such as Buick, General Motors, and Willys. When Chrysler left Willys in 1921 after an unsuccessful attempt to wrest control from John Willys, he acquired a controlling interest in the ailing Maxwell Motor Company. Chrysler phased out Maxwell and absorbed it into his new firm, the Chrysler Corporation, in Detroit, Michigan, in 1925. Chrysler went on to acquire Dodge, as well as to create the Plymouth and DeSoto marques. Walter became a very, very successful auto magnate.

Unfortunately, we were less successful in our attempt to see Chrysler's home. As we read on the sign at the front gate, winter hours called for it to open at 11:00 a.m. Since it was only 9:00 a.m. at the time, we decided to move on.

Where we moved was in concentric circles through town as we tried to stumble on the police station. If you read the blog yesterday, you would have thought we would have no trouble finding the police. They certainly didn't have any trouble finding US yesterday! But alas, it took us a full twenty minutes to find Jefferson street. And then, when Concetta appeared with the check book, she couldn't help but notice that the clerk seemed surprised to the point of amusement that we had actually been honest enough to come find them. But hey, that's who we are.

Once out on the highway, we set off at a brisk pace hoping to make up some time. But then I got to thinking about our left front tire. Over the last couple of weeks I've begun to notice that the left front, and to a much smaller extent, the right front tires seem to be wearing unevenly. I didn't think that it posed a hazard, but I really wanted to ask an expert.

So, we started exiting the Interstate as we came to various small towns and driving through hoping to see a tire store that was both open and not too crowded with customers. When we got to the improbably-named town of Wakeeney, we found just such a place. I turned into their drive and stopped in front of the modern-looking shop. Jumping down from the rig, I wandered into the open bay and looked around for the owner or similar decision-maker.

Before long a very amiable chap by the name of Troy came over to me and asked if he could help me. I asked him if he'd come look at my tires if he wasn't in the middle of something, which he instantly agreed to do. Out at the rig, I ran my fingers over the uneven wear and asked him if he thought it might blow on me before I got back to Nevada. Troy studied the tire, then called another man over, who also studied the tire.

"Looks like the camber is off," Troy's co-worker said. He held his hands in front of him, tipped slightly together at the top to indicate that the front tires were leaning in at the top and out at the bottom. "Left wheel more than right," he added.

"It's a problem with these Fords," Troy said. "It's not just your's. They all do it. Probably need a couple of shims to bring it back straight. But you can probably get it home this way."

"What do you think about reversing the tire on the wheel so the worn part is on the outside?" I asked.

Both men studied the tires. "Well, yes, that would give you more rubber where it's wearing the most," Troy said.

"When would you be able to work on it? I asked.

"We could squeeze you in right now," Troy said. "Just pull it up on the apron."

And that was that. In an hour's time Troy had dismounted both tires, reversed them on the wheels, and remounted them. He even used a torque wrench on the lug bolts as a true professional will do, but most garage mechanics seldom bother with. Additionally, when Troy got the right front wheel off, he discovered that the grease cup had fallen off the hub and grease was leaking into the wheel area. Left unattended we'd have eventually run out of grease resulting in rather grave problems.

The hour I spent with Troy this morning was one of the most rewarding conversations I've had with anyone on this vacation. We talked about all things mechanical and about what our Dad's had taught us. At one point he mentioned that he'd been looking for a mechanical tire changer like you normally saw in most gas stations in the 1950s. My dad actually used to install them to make extra income in those days. I told Troy that I had one and would be happy to give it to him. All he had to do was come out to Nevada to collect it. He smiled and said, "well, you just might see me sooner than you think."

Great guy, that Troy. And if you're ever traveling route 70 through Kansas and need help with your tires and wheels, or, I suspect, with whatever automotive problems you happen to be having, be sure and stop in and see him at Wakeeney Tire and Service. You'll be glad you did.

Leaving Wakeeney with a new sense of elation now that I knew my tires were more trustworthy, we transitioned from Interstate 70 to Interstate 40. My intent was to drop a little south as we entered the state of Colorado so that we might visit several points of interest I had seen on the map. The first was the Flick fossil museum in Oakley, Kansas. The second was the Butterfield Trail Museum in Russell Springs, Kansas. And finally, I wanted to finish up the day by camping somewhere near the Sand Creek massacre site in Colorado so we could visit it tomorrow before we head west.

Well, the fossil museum was a bust since it was closed for refurbishment or something. We did end up eating lunch in their parking lot since we'd already spent the time finding the place and it was nearly noon. The trip to Russell Springs after lunch was a little more adventuresome. First of all, the wind in western Kansas today was nothing to take lightly. In buffeted us from all four sides, it seemed and, combined with the gusts of passing eighteen-wheelers, made it difficult to keep the rig on the road. In addition, great black storm clouds circulated on all four sides of us, interspersed with blue sky and fluffy white clouds. It was like Kansas just couldn't decide what sort of weather it wanted today and just wanted to prepare itself to clobber us if it felt like it.

Now Russell Springs was twelve miles south of Interstate 40, which made Concetta roll her eyes a bit, but I convinced her that the history of the Butterfield Stage Lines would be very interesting indeed. But once we arrived in Russell Springs, we began to feel a bit uneasy, since the "springs" looked largely deserted except for an imposing three story court house which, it turned out, housed the museum, and darn little else in any direction. Still, the sun was shinning around that time, the welcoming "Open" sign was in the window, and that size of building did promise enough room to display whatever stagecoach days materials that your heart desired.

Well, that's not entirely how it turned out. Once inside, Concetta and I saw immediately that the Russell Springs Butterfield Trail Museum was more of a depository for anything and everything the neighbors for fifty miles around had no longer wanted to continue storing in their barns and attics. It was also plain to see that no professional curator had ever set foot in the place. Still, to be fair, I'm always game to see what interesting artifacts and memorabilia I can turn up that I've never seen before. With a shrug, we began our search for just such entertainment.

Now we must hasten to tell you that the resident docent who chatted with us, brought us up to date on local history, and explained some of the displays, was the most charming woman you could ever want as your host. We enjoyed interacting with her very much. But most of the displays were rather sad and faded and dusty, and the whole place was in desperate need of reorganization.

One of the items that I came across that stopped me in my tracks was the property listings and tax rolls showing who had owned what farm or piece of property going back to the 1800s. I was simply floored. No care was being taken to preserve these priceless documents and they simply were stacked on shelves getting progressively more and more dusty. I suggested to the docent, whose name I should have learned but didn't, that she should contact the folks at Ancestry.com and ask them to come out and digitize those records before something happened to them. I hope she does that because they are an extremely valuable resource for genealogists.

Wandering upstairs, Concetta and I found the remnants of the local library, evidently, which contained books going back to the 1800s, National Geographic magazines going back a hundred years, and stacks and stacks of just about any library-oriented material you could imagine. One book I pulled off the shelf was Benjamin Franklin's autobiography from sometime in the 1890s. Wow! All the stuff was so old it just amazed us.

We spent about an hour at the museum, though we didn't really encounter much in the way of Butterfield material. Russell Springs had been a stage stop for Butterfield on its line that ran from Fort Riley, Kansas, to Denver, Colorado. You will probably remember that we stopped yesterday at Fort Riley, which is a nice tie-in with today's visit to Russell Springs. And they did have a stagecoach out in the barn behind the museum, but I would have liked to have seen more material devoted to the stage line.

Once we left Russell Springs the storm grew worse and rain began to fall in concert with the buffeting of the winds as we headed west toward Colorado. Our goal was to spend the night in Cheyenne Wells, Colorado, which purportedly had camping of sorts. But once at the camp ground, we discovered that only 50amp service was available. We are carrying no 50amp to 30amp converter, so we had to move on.

Since my intent for tomorrow is to visit the Sand Creek Massacre site, we decided to drop south out of Cheyenne Wells, and find a camp closer to the battlefield. This we did in the town of Lamar (photo left). Although it was perhaps a seventy-mile drive to get to Lamar, the camp is very nice, has full hookups, and the price was extremely reasonable (for Good Sam members) at $18.00.

So that's it. Some things clicked. Some things didn't. But that's life on the road. Tomorrow we'll be back for more, and hopefully get to spend some time communing with the spirits of the Cheyenne Indians who, exactly 150 years ago, didn't fare so well when they came up against the Colorado 100-days Cavalry, one member of which was my distant relative, Benajah P. Stubbs.

Until tomorrow, I bid you a good night.