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Imagine a flood stranding you in some stranger’s house for 16 days in Montana or Wyoming. It’s the early 20th century and your goal–if you are A.L. Westgard–is to drive around America exploring the routes of future highways, but what makes your story interesting is not the dirt tracks you’re following. It’s the people, most of whom seem to be on the verge of death in one way or another.

Deserts are unforgiving places.

There’s the starving guy wandering around in the desert, the Kansas farmer tending crops laid waste by grasshoppers, and the Montana couple whose house is threatened by a rising river carrying trees, wagons and small houses. It’s enough to make you wonder about the people who settled this country.

But there is an even deeper mystery. Why did pathfinders like Westgard and William Warwick never bother to name their wives? Westgard even dedicates his book to his unnamed spouse:

To my wife, who has shared with me the hardships as well as the pleasures of the trail, ever a cheerful comrade and a trusty advisor.

I imagine Lewis had something similar to say about Clark, though I do wonder about those pleasures, especially in the days before hotel showers. It’s ┬ánot like Westgard denies his wife’s existence. He goes into some detail describing her reaction to the prairie dog meat served in the house where they were stranded for 16 days (Her facial expression indicated that she did not like it).

Names go down in history as heroic leaders of great movements bringing about social changes, political reforms and major infrastructure projects. Facial expressions, no matter how cheerful, crumble into dust. So I’ll end here on the name of Westgard’s wife: Helen.

 

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My goal is to headline all posts with song titles from the Grateful Dead. Mission accomplished so far.

Yesterday I achieved a giant technological breakthrough: I read a downloaded PDF file on my Kindle. Yes, not much of a reveal, I know. But here’s the kicker.

It was a book by the guy to the right. His name is A.L. Westgard and he, like our buddy William Warwick, spent the early part of the 20th century criss-crossing the United States in an effort to find and map the best routes for future highways. He’s obviously progressive because, as Roland Barthes once noted, progressive thinkers look into the distance when photographed. He appears also to be looking into the sun.

Westgard’s book, Tales of a Pathfinder, published in 1920, is essentially a collection of anecdotes from his cross-country trips. The first anecdote involves his coming across a man nearly dying of hunger and thirst in the desert near Yuma. It’s a gripping start, and a fine way for Westgard to earn the reader’s respect as a good man and kind. But can he keep it for the next 240 pages? Stay tuned.

So here is what I learned yesterday about William Warwick, the man who drove with his wife across country in 1916 in a GMC truck: It was not his first trip. According to a 1915 article in the Aberdeen Daily-American (of South Dakota), he also drove across country in one of these, a Metz:

"Just for two" is legally binding advice from the manufacturer, as evidenced by the double quotation marks.

Perhaps Warwick was some kind of hired gun who drove across country testing the viability of various wheeled machines. If he did, it was in the service of some sinister organization called the “good roads movement.”

Maybe you think it was bankrolled by the cynical group “people who hate trains.” But think again. Support came from the fans of all things bicycle.

Obviously, we did get better roads somewhere along the line-except in Pennsylvania. But we didn’t get as many bikes as, I’m sure, the manufacturers hoped. Yet another victory for the unintended consequence.

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