The Voice to Heed

The decision to continue anything isn't marked with a sign.

It's felt in the friction

between your palms and the rope of tokens along the way

testing till the muscles ache

but the chest expands

whispering: one more mile, one more day.

To continue on is not grit

but a slow erasure of

the wisdom which lives in a pause;

the rustle of omens suggesting

that walking away

can be the bravest step forward you ever take,

and that staying

is only holy if it keeps you whole.

The "Big Trip 2026" may well turn into the "Two Moderately-Long Trips of 2026" as, after only a week and within only 30 miles of reaching North Dakota, I'm back home.

Day One: Weston Bend State Park, Weston, Missouri

I really love Weston Bend State Park, just north of Kansas City, Missouri, and so if I find myself travelling north, it's always my first overnight stay. Along the way, I stopped in Orrick to see cousins and to visit the cemetery east of town that has borne the memories of my mother and our ancestors since 1830, before setting out on a 3-week trip through Missouri, Nebraska, Iowa, South Dakota, North Dakota, Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, and Oklahoma, and then returning home to Arkansas.

Weston Bend is familiar. The park is clean, the spots relatively level, and the camp hosts have always welcomed me with treats for Dakota. The first night out, familiar is always good to ensure we settle in and work out any issues before a long trip. The evening was mild, and my Springerdoodle Dakoka and I slept with the windows open to the chirp of nightbirds and crickets.

Day Two: Ponca State Park, Nebraska

We spent a leisurely morning with oatmeal and nuts, coffee, and several long walks before setting out for our next campground: Ponca State Park in Ponca, Nebraska. I've been through Nebraska before, but that trip was in the early fall, and weather is serious business on the plains. I always check the forecast, and although Weather.com promised winds from the west at 15 to 25 mph and a nice abit breezy day, not ten minutes from my fuel stop in St. Joseph, my weather app issued a gale warning for the next 24 hours. A gale warning. For those of us who sail, your run-of-the-mill gale blows between 34 and 40 knots or 39 to 46 mph. Rear-Admiral Beaufort defined that as a Force 8 wind. There are, of course, windier winds as defined by a Force 9 wind, or "Strong Gale" of between 47-54 mph, as we'll discover shortly.

As the wind began to pick up, I slowed to 50 mph just to maintain control of my 26-year-old Ford 350 Econoline high-topped van. Most of my travelling friends did the same, but there was the occasional 3/4 ton pickup in a hurry that I hoped not to see scattered across the ditch down the road. A half hour later, the weather channel issued another alert for restricted visibility and gusts up to 50 mph. I assumed this to be a fast-moving cold front, meaning I would take my time to the campsite and by morning, the storm would have blown itself out. Not a day to see the sights, but I snapped pics of oddities to mark the day.

By early afternoon, skies turned a muddy brown as topsoil from freshly planted fields blew from one farmer's field on the west side of the Interstate to the farmer's field on the east. I wondered if they all planted the same crops as a year's worth of seed popped and cracked across my windshield en route to the neighboring field.

We reached the site late in the afternoon and promptly called the park ranger to have my camp spot moved from a riverfront location to something nestled as far back into the trees and against a mountain as possible to shield us from any future updates from the weather channel. The wind aside, the sunset across the Missouri River was breathtaking.

Day Three: Pelican Lake State Park, South Dakota

My instincts were right about the frontal system passing in the night, and I set out, fingers crossed for our next stretch and better weather: Pelican Lake in South Dakota. Although Dakota and I stayed just outside Sioux Falls last year (Big Trip 2025) before heading west to the Badlands, we didn't actually go into the city. I really wanted to see the Falls, so we took a little detour. Unfortunately, the downtown area is undergoing a significant renovation, so Dakota and I parked and hiked around barricades for a glimpse of the river and falls. The trees were beginning to bud out, and I was reminded that mid-May is still early on the plains. We headed back to the van and on to Watertown.

Mornings always begin with promise. Even if the skies are dark, there's a residual stillness that invites bird song, and the rustle of rabbits, coyotes, and pheasants on the prairie. I was reminded of stories of the pioneers crossing the land on their way from St. Joseph to California. Each morning, remarking how well they'd endured days of hard roads, weather, and sickness. How a beautiful sunrise can set one's heart full of hope and the urge to press on. And so we did.

Day Four: Roy Lake, Lake City, South Dakota

The dust was everywhere: my windshield was caked with bugs and dirt. My dashboard sparkled with sprinkles of Nebraska, Iowa, and South Dakota. My scalp itched from the grit. The road westbound from Sioux Falls last year was hopeful. Signs for Wall Drugs, aside, I looked forward to the Badlands, to Devil's Tower, and Custer State Park. The highway cut the state in half with fields of sunflowers to the south, and Buffalo grass to the north. The smell was that fresh-washed sheets and sweet grass. I looked for promise in Sisseton and found smoke shops and casinos and figures bracing against the dirt with shopping carts filled with their lives. It made me give thanks for my life. For my family and my 26-year-old campervan and made me wonder why I pressed on. Maybe this wasn't my trip. My throat burned from the dirt and albuterol that kept my lungs hopeful for air and better weather.

The Roy Lake Recreation Area is a beautiful park. Don't go in mid-May as that's when mayflies hatch and breed on everything. Definitely don't disturb the grass.

We stayed in the van the entire trip, save the evening and morning in Weston. I woke at 3 am Friday and asked myself what I'd learned. Was I having fun? Was Dakota having fun? What lies ahead? What would it take for me to determine that I was on the wrong path and turn back? I consulted the weather app. Two more days of high winds and dust, followed by two more days of snow in the high plains and Wyoming.

When I was a flight instructor, we taught students to be mindful of continuing a flight into deteriorating weather, a dangerous practice driven by get-there-itis, or the psychological pressure a pilot feels to reach their destination despite the risks. This phenomenon isn't specific to pilots; we all feel the urge to press on. To rub some dirt on whatever has hurt us, and walk it off. To not mind the voice in our heads telling us that tomorrow will come, and when it does, we have the opportunity to make different choices if we heed today's warnings.

Dakota and I waited until 6 am to call Walt and tell him we were coming home.

I would still like to see Yellowstone this year. Maybe the end of August or the first of September. Till then, I have paintings to finish, a book to write, and untold adventures ahead because:

To continue on is not grit

but a slow erasure of

the wisdom which lives in a pause;

the rustle of omens suggesting

that walking away

can be the bravest step forward you ever take,

and that staying

is only holy if it keeps you whole.