It’s not really lost.  Gone is more like it. There is a difference. Being one of those nuances of the English language we wallow with on occasion the issue must be wallowed, else I can’t move on. Consider this a divertissement to the rest of the post. So if I lose a ring fighting a 3 lb. trout while flyfishing the Yellowstone River, it’s lost from me, but not gone.  The trout got away too. Bad day. I’d consider the fish to be gone but not lost. If I’d landed him and made streamside ceviche, then he’d be gone. Say I lose my way. Definitely not gone. If it were gone I’d never find it again. I’ve tested that one.  What about lost at sea? Possibly lost and gone. And all for the point Oklahoma once had a sea but now it’s gone. But not lost. And yes I think and write like this stone cold sober.

Sundown. Salt Plains National Wildlife Refuge.

A day hot enough to create mirages on the searing highway provides a vivid imagination the creative force to visualize the sea that once flooded the Great Plains. The tangible remains of the sea are now an expanse of salt flats. The only place in the world where chocolate brown selenite crystals with hourglass sand inclusions are found.  Beats me why the state of Oklahoma hasn’t pounded home that travel destination highlight.

A shallow sea covered western Oklahoma during the Permian Period (200+ million years ago). The mountains worn down, sand and mud eroded from land in the eastern half of the state and were carried by rivers flowing westward. The climate becoming warm and dry resulted in deposits of gypsum and salt from the evaporating sea water. The salt layers still underlie much of the area, but at the Salt Plains National Wildlife Refuge they’re dissolved by natural ground-water flow, the resultant brines drying and crusting on the surface.

One of nine National Wildlife Refuges in Oklahoma, the refuge is designated as the “largest such saline flat in the central lowlands of North America”. As well as being habitat for over 300 species of birds, the refuge has been designated a Globally Important Bird Area, a Member of the Western Hemisphere Shorebird Reserve Network and critical habitat for the endangered whooping crane. Hourglass sand inclusions and whooping cranes. I believe that noteworthy.

A certain area of the 10,000 acre salt flats at the refuge still has gypsum concentrations high enough to continually grow the selenite crystals. From April to October, rotating designated areas allow a free-for-all dig, with a few restrictions on what amount of crystals can be removed. Bring your shovel, sun screen, and plan to get dirty.

The gate leading into the crystal digging area is located six miles west of Jet, Oklahoma on US 64, then north on a dirt road for three miles, then east one mile. Don’t get lost.

Rolling down some back-road cloaked in the bliss of anonymity, one arm in contact with the wheel at the point that encourages my wrist to flop carefree at the end of it, head bobbling to a slow rhythmic beat that doesn’t match my rousing vocal accompaniment to Life is a Highway that’s cranked up so loud it’s oozing from the Yukon like displaced mortar, I come across this.

THIS is temptation.  THIS signifies a certain head toss to the grinding pressure of today’s world, a ballsy show of throwing caution to the wind.  If you look at it with just the right tilt of your head, you’ll get the same glint in your eyes.  Selling everything I own would enable the purchase of a few acres in any number of states, on which I could move or build a small house, delivering my bobbling head into town once a week for provisions in THIS.

I don’t succumb. Others in my life would highly disapprove and I highly value these others.  I photograph the Ford and pull back onto the road with a slow-mo melodrama moving frame by frame through my brain. It conveniently loops from the part that shows me walking up to the house, knocking on the door, engaging the owner in negotiations, taking the keys from them and driving away into the sunset in that truck.  My melodramas never include the pragmatic part about what I’d do with all my crap in the Yukon, the Yukon, the exchange of titles, discussing what oil the Ford uses, insurance, etc.

Not many of us ever throw this degree of caution to the wind. But who among us hasn’t entertained the thought of running away from home, even if it’s for a mere few harmless days?  It’s a bit risque and for the first time in my long history of SRTs I see it for that. You’re out there by the droves sending me emails  about the longing to get out there. I fully understand the longing. Few things in our lives are as liberating, empowering, and rejuvenating as a solo road trip.

So I ask all of you with latent and repressed open road wanderlust sitting at home fantasizing about the cloak of anonymity, arm draped over the wheel, or resting lightly on handle bars, aren’t you late, for nowhere in particular?

Moorcroft, Wyoming emerged out of the black just as my desperate quest to find a place to sleep birthed the recollection of Peter Fonda’s movie Race With The Devil.  My adamancy to never own an RV is derived solely from the impact this movie made on my pre-teen brain.

I’m still searching for a place to safely catch some ZZZ’s because according to the map, Devils Tower is “nearby”. If you should decide to see Devils Tower, take a peek at the map of Wyoming, realize there’s only 400,000 people in the entirety of the square vastness and don’t make the same assumption about lodging I did. And don’t worry about the movie and the whole Devils Tower thing; it was filmed in South Texas.

Beautiful until you think about those poor schmucks in the RV.

The Cozy Motel’s sign was half lit but the gravel parking area was packed with good ole boy pickup trucks – a sight that put me at ease. At least if some creepy-motel-located-in-the-middle-of-nowhere-Jason-scene occurred, my screams would be heard.

I walked into the “office”, rang the bell and an older lady and a boy about 5 came out of a back room (they’ve recently become fodder in my novel plotting mind). “Looks like you’re busy tonight, do you have a room?” “Got one left,,,,,,, railroaders”. To which I didn’t bother replying as I didn’t feel any reply required. But the humorous thought, “railroad convention?” ran through my mind. “We only take cash. The room is $40″. Not a problem. My husband had threatened my future solo road trip privileges if I went below $200 cash at any point of the trip. I had been compliant and pulled out the cash. “You’re in number 11 on the end. We only got 11 rooms. The railroaders don’t like number 11.”

The boy’s face had been marble the whole while but I was certain some reaction to the woman’s statement had caused something to twitch. Did his upper lip move or was it some shift in those shifty little eyes? I checked up just as I opened my mouth to ask why. Too late. Again my imagination was off like horses out the gate of the Kentucky Derby.

The Cozy Motel at sunrise the next day. See the "No" vacancy? I had indeed taken the last room the night before.

I pulled the truck over to number 11 and began unloading. I’d just walked through the door and dropped the first of my loads of crap that I faithfully hauled out of the truck every night, when a train went by. Thunder, whistle, thunder, whistle, shhchhshhchh on the tracks. I laughed out loud and ran back outside to see it swishing by on the track parallel to the motel, close enough to touch. Okay, well, not close enough to touch, but close enough. I hadn’t crossed the track since it ran parallel – stay with me here, and since it was pitch black, I hadn’t seen it. The resting railroaders didn’t like ole number 11 because it was the closest room to the track!

By the time the 3rd train came by the unloading was complete. I called my husband howling laughter at the 4th train passing, holding the phone up so he could hear the whistle. He predicted a total of 6 trains for the evening and I went to shower. I counted 2 while in the shower and over the course of the rest of the restless night, 10 of them jingled my weird and wacky dreams. I was up and out of there just before sunrise and had a fantastic day despite the lingering lack-of-sleep dreams. Devils Tower was stunning in the morning light.

Devils Tower National Monument, Wyoming.

Before you read on, I must add the Cozy Motel is one of the reasons I love seeing what lies in-between the sterile and stamped out larger cities and towns on the American map. Motels are still worthy considerations for lodging if you want an experience. Then again, I have nothing against the knowns the chains offer. I stay at both.

Post Script from Journal: “Other than the trains, the room has been my favorite; the extremely low cost of course being a factor along with the story worthiness of my experience here. In addition to that the room was large as there was only one bed and the tiny bathroom was all white and brand new, and the carpet was clean. The railroaders were a quiet bunch; most of them were gone when I walked out to the truck at sunrise. The heat didn’t work well but after a sprint to the truck in the middle of the night for my emergency quilt, that problem was solved. It was 14 degrees this morning.  Ahhhh…. WYOMING.”

Road Trip Locator: Devils Tower is in Northeastern Wyoming between Gillette and Sundance, approximately 35 miles North of Interstate 90 (from Moorcroft which is where you’ll exit and turn North of I-90).

Tumbleweeds the size of boulders streak past in all directions causing me to involuntarily close my eyes and make darts to the left or right behind the safety of the windshield. One sticks on the hood ornament and I lurch back with enough force to strike the head rest and then bounce back to an upright position. My motions would appear silly to anyone watching, but there isn’t anyone. I’m lost.

Travel writers and guides never fail to recommend getting lost in such places as Marrakesh or Seville. All those twisty narrow lanes of mystery lead to experiences that fully engage the senses. Maybe not always gently; sometimes “onslaught” is a more accurate description. Onslaught or not, a memory is etched. THAT is the essence of travel.

Getting lost gives the experience an “edge”, an emotional jump start. And road trip travel in places like Kansas is no different. Really. Those twisty narrow lanes of mystery in places with exotic names have nothing on what you can stumble across in Kansas.

The first time through Mullinville was a mistake.  If you read that sentence carefully, it’ll tell you that a second time was on purpose because the first trip was rewarding enough to go back.

Careful of my speed limit through the small town, I’d just begun picking up speed when I see this:

“What the?!” The wind is doing its best to alter the footing of the 5,000 lb. Yukon as I pull off the road. The sun is full-on but the barren landscape broken by the freaky signs, the desperate squeak of whirling buckets suspended as high into the Kansas atmosphere as the strength of a metal pole will support, the flags flapping out of unison, all screechingly collide into one perfectly produced Twilight Zone scene.

It’s October so I pull on a jacket before picking up camera gear, zip it completely (I’ve learned a few things about Kansas wind), and get jerked out of the truck onto my side because I’ve learned a lot about jackets and Kansas wind, but I’m still learning about the wind powering open a truck door. I don’t bother looking around. There’s no one to have seen me.

After gawking for sometime and taking in all the symbolism and dark humor, I begin taking photographs. A local barrels by on the highway and honks (he obviously knows the local law enforcement). His intrusion confirms I’ve not really landed in a Twilight Zone episode.

One year later…

There will be a 3rd trip. I still don’t have the shot I really want. Maybe a Fisheye?

Want to see all this for yourself? Head west on 54/400 out of Wichita, through Pratt. Mullinville is 41 miles west of Pratt, 120 miles west of Wichita.

The Black & White photo taken during my March 2009 solo road trip, didn’t place in the Top 3 of the public voting (as you can imagine, the competition was top-notch). I’ve known about this for several days and while slightly disappointed, was grateful and humbled to have been given the Top 10 nod by the professional judges who sorted through the thousands of submissions.

Having moved on to other projects, like writing, the contest was behind me. Until today. John Batdorff, a professional photographer with whom I’ve recently connected alerted me to the fact the 10 Finalists were posted on the USA Today website, with comments from the three professional judges [who initially narrowed the submissions down to the Top 10.]

My consolation for not having garnered enough public support for a top 3 finish are these comments from the judges:

“Finalist: Walkway to the West in the American High Plains by Tammie Dooley of Tulsa, Okla. The judges, who would have picked this as the second-place winner, were struck by its “great mood – stormy, majestic, dramatic – emphasized by the drama of black and white. It draws you in and pushes you away at the same time, challenging you intellectually.” The found it emblematic of the high plains and prairies so unique to the American landscape. “The whole middle of the country is represented here,” they said.”

Good enough for me!

The photo is a winner thanks to all of your comments, encouragement, support and for slogging through the not-so-user-friendly USAToday website to log votes.

**Thank you for your votes and kind words! And congratulations to the winners!!  The Top 3 photos are stunning and deserve the win.**

P.S. abcnews.com has asked for permission to reprint the photo (as a member of the 10 Finalists).  Will keep you posted!! Nothing like getting a lot of mileage from one click of the shutter. LOL

Walkway to the West - The American High Plains