Travel & Adventure

Posted in: Travel & Adventure
In Search of Iowa: The Magic of Nowhere
By Mitch Traphagen
Jul 17, 2008 - 11:47:39 PM

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The Modernaire Cafe just outside of the Iowa-Missouri border makes for an interesting stop on a ride to nowhere. The burgers are good, at least. Mitch Traphagen Photo

The pavement ends at Farson.  Main Street is a gravel road that ends at someone’s driveway.  There was a school here once - the building remains, now a home for ghosts and memories.  The air streams through the broken windows. It is quiet.

The July day dawned clear and bright with a sky so impossibly blue that it seeped into my soul and convinced me that anything was possible.  This was a day for adventures, a day when ships were launched and the first steps towards dreams were realized.  Somewhere in my mind, in a place not completely muffled by the din of everyday life, I heard a call:  “Go!  Go now.  Go while you can and live for this day.”

My wife and I answered that call - we strapped on our motorcycle helmets, kicked up the kickstands and headed out down the street.  We had no destination in mind, we had no idea where we were going - rather, we were just following the day.  And that is how we came across Farson.

If you’ve ever dreamed of living on a remote, tropical island, you don’t have to go far to find out what your life would be like - simply move to Farson, Iowa.  Having visited my share of remote tropical islands, Farson is exactly it, minus the palm trees and beaches, of course.  Gravel roads with homes in varying degrees of condition dot the little town, people clustered together almost as if in a show of force against… nature?  The outside world?  Perhaps nothing more than the comfort of simply knowing that someone else is out there.

The school closed in 1960.  Echoes of the past blow through the broken windows with the breeze.  Yet somehow, the little town still has a pulse.  It is quiet and peaceful and, for some, home.

From Farson, we continued down a lonely country road until we landed into history.
Fewer than 1,000 people call Eldon, Iowa home but home it is to a very special scene in American history.  In Eldon, down a winding street, lies the American Gothic House.  The couple that Grant Wood painted in 1930 didn’t actually live in Eldon - the woman was modeled after his sister; the man was Wood’s dentist from Cedar Rapids.  The image he created, however, struck a deep chord in the American Spirit.  It is an image of steadfast resolve - of truth, honesty and the hard day’s work that made America what it is.  Today, the house remains much as it appears in Wood’s painting.  At the nearby welcome center, visitors are invited to don dresses and overalls and grab a pitchfork to put themselves into the scene for photographs, happily taken by the considerate employees of the visitor center.

From Eldon, there is what must certainly be one of the best motorcycle roads this side of the North Carolina mountains.  The 15-mile county road rises and falls and it winds hither and yon through communities that time seems to have forgotten.  It appears as though the South begins here.  The accents soften into a slight drawl, the buildings take on a welcoming yet tired look that characterizes much of what normally would exist below the Mason-Dixon line.  Somewhere in this area, the people lose some of the Northern formality and exhibit the warmth of the genteel South.

Also somewhere in this area, there is a time portal to another century.

Bloomfield, Iowa is a town that was built for a different era.  The city Fathers certainly had high hopes - the elaborate courthouse in the center of town contains a courtroom capable of seating 300.  Outside is a bronze Statue of Liberty erected by a local Boy Scout Troop in 1950.  There are no remnants of the failed attempt by Henry Roland, aka “The Human Fly,” to climb the tower in 1924.  He was badly injured in that attempt yet demonstrating the American Spirit immortalized by Grant Wood, he returned eight years later, this time to succeed.

The tachometer of my 1000cc motorcycle was steady at just above 3,000 rpms.  On my helmet was a communicator that allowed me to speak at will with my wife, riding a quarter of a mile or so behind.  The bike was equipped for satellite radio and satellite navigation through a GPS.  It was at 3,000 rpms that I blew by the first horse and buggy.  To the rider inside the buggy, my face was obscured by my helmet but I raised a gloved hand in greeting.  I smiled in the realization that few people in America were as prepared to deal with an impending fuel crisis than the Amish population outside of Bloomfield.

The Davis County Courthouse in Bloomfield, Iowa, is a striking building - a remnant of a different age. In front is a bronze Statue of Liberty - erected by the Boy Scouts in 1950. Mitch Traphagen Photo

Seeing a handmade sign advertising a bake sale, we pulled off the road to visit the roadside stand.  A middle aged man, perhaps younger, perhaps older, was working inside as a young woman in a full length dress and bonnet mowed the lawn.  One customer was already there - a woman from FEMA who had found a home away from home.  She raved about the cinnamon rolls.  We took her advice and purchase an entire plate for three dollars.  The first bite made me realize the value of faith and simplicity.  The rolls were indeed heaven - there was none of the processed chemicals with which we now live, it was not something spewed from a factory and wrapped in plastic in a distant state or land.  That single bite redefined what food could be.  Technology, at least as found in processed food, ain’t all that.

From Bloomfield we soon found ourselves at the Missouri state line.  We stopped for lunch at a roadside diner that, like much of everything else we saw that day, harkened back to a past age.  I’m certain that some of my city friends would take pass with one look at the place but that would be their loss - the cheeseburgers were as those made at home and they were delicious.

But then, it was time to turn around.

The first hour or so on a motorcycle can be difficult.  The comforts of a couch and home would appear to appeal much more than the increasing discomfort of the saddle.  But after an hour, the body becomes in tune with the machine.  The pulse races with a flick of the throttle, the heart and the timing of the engine work in synchronicity.  The rider and the machine become one, the bike responding to the slightest push on the handlebars or the most insignificant shift in weight.  A motorcycle at speed is an amazing thing - remarkably stable, one would have to work to make it fall.  It is also amazing in that you don’t simply pass through - you are literally immersed in the environment through which you ride.  The sun, the smells, the feel of the pavement all come together in a near religious experience.  Riding is magical.

Iowa is magical, too.  We left our home without a direction or destination - we returned 240 miles later having seen the wonder of our unsung state.  Movies have portrayed it into a cliche but there is magic here and we found it without even looking.  As we turned down our street I felt the urge to continue on, to find what wonders may lie down the next road.

Someday I will.



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