Flint Hills: Like Ireland, sans sheep

Getting to Wichita is as far from complicated as one can get. Shoot straight through Missouri on 70, catch 470 down to Lee’s Summit and then hop on 35 south to Emporia which will take you to the Kansas Turnpike. I expected it to be a little complicated, perhaps some unmarked construction detours or something, but it was smooth sailing and not quite as boring as expected considering it’s Kansas.

Turnpike, it turns out, is a fancy word for toll road, but it is nothing like the toll road of Illinois. The only commonality is a fee. In Illinois, you pay the fee at certain points on, say 294, and if you have an I-PASS, you just zip through without a thought. If you’re careful, you’ll obey the speed limit and slow down while passing through lest you get a speeding ticket, but I have yet to see someone slow down when passing through the “open toll.” The Kansas Turnpike, on the other hand, requires you take a ticket at the beginning, in a manner similar to taking a ticket at the entry to the short term parking garage at O’Hare airport.

The Kansas Turnpike takes you through an area called Flint Hills, which reminded me of my trip to Ireland. Rolling hills of lush, green pasture punctuated by random groups of cattle. Sky is that beautiful soft blue, with wisps of clouds that stretch out across the landscape. Picturesque.

The Turnpike is not a good place to have an accident, or problems with the car. I remember the term “limited access” highway from Driver’s Ed, way back when, but did not fully comprehend the meaning until I was on the Turnpike. In Illinois, there are “limited access” highways, like 294, which basically means that you can only enter and exit at certain points. And until you get closer to the southern part of the state, past Plainfield, you can reasonably expect to find civilization in case of trouble. The Turnpike completely discards that notion and takes the term “limited access” to an extreme I had not experienced. I highly suggest filling your gas tank in Emporia before getting on the Turnpike. There are oasis’s, mind you, but few and far between. I’m not exactly sure how troopers find out about accidents, but they do. There was a minivan that swerved way off the road and into the pasture. A trooper came zooming past me, and raced ahead. I came upon the incident a few minutes later. Hard to tell what happened, but it looked like there were no injuries, which was good. I think they’d have to use a helicopter to get seriously injured people out.

I wondered how one would report an accident. In Illinois, there are mile markers, and on a couple of occasions, especially during the winter, my dad has called in accidents or stranded motorists and used the mile marker as a reference point. There aren’t mile markers on the Turnpike, though. Instead, the bridges are numbered. It’s ingenious, actually. In big, white paint, each bridge has a number stenciled on it so you can’t miss it. How’s that for safety?

There were also signs about pulling over and waiting for smoke to clear. I learned later that they do brush burning, or something like it, to clear parts of the pasture. The smoke can get very thick, so they encourage motorists to pull over and wait for it to clear. Makes sense. There was no smoke on my trip, so that experience will have to wait.

I arrived in Wichita while it was still light, weaved my way through street parking for a Little League game and found the house after realizing I was looking on the wrong side of the street. I needed to look on the even side, not the odd. And yay for cars in the driveway.

And now I am in Wichita, Kansas. For the second time this year, as a matter of fact, and staying a week instead of 4 days. Curious to see what Wichita has to offer…