A Long Way Home
Copyright© 2026 by Asa Strong
Chapter 2
The journey from North Carolina was made in a leisurely manner; there really was no hurry in reaching my destination. This had given me the opportunity and time to evaluate everything that had happened up to this point. While traveling west, my mind often wandered, recalling times spent with Uncle Cecil. Eventually, I reached Hays, Kansas, and found lodging for the night in a motel close to an off-ramp from the interstate.
The next morning, I was still stewing over the whole situation with my family but couldn’t come to any real resolution. I had decided to take this trip without giving it a lot of thought. The reaction of my family to Uncle Cecil’s will had upset me more than I cared to admit, and the decision to come to Denver had been made in haste, mostly affected by my anger. The trip had given me the time to think about things in a more rational manner. After many discussions with myself in the cab of the truck, my conclusion was that I didn’t know any more about what to do than when I started. It seemed this journey had taken on a life of its own, and I was just along for the trip.
The sun was peaking over the eastern horizon when I had left Hays, headed west on Interstate 70 for Denver. I needed to close up some loose ends with the lawyer no matter what my final decision was about the property, and also, I could determine how and where I was going to live after meeting with him.
According to the documents the lawyer had left me, the property Uncle Cecil had purchased was a farm. It consisted of four adjacent sections and had no structures of any kind on the property. It was unclear in my mind if I really wanted to take the advice Uncle Cecil had given me in his letter. I put the thoughts on the subject somewhere in the back of my mind, to be addressed later.
Somewhere between Hays and Goodland, I realized that the farm was probably not far off I-70. I pulled over on the side of the road and spread out the Colorado map across the steering wheel. There was no harm in taking a look at where it was located. I knew from the documents the lawyer had given me that the farm was near a small town by the name of Cope. It took me a few minutes to locate the town on the map, and it appeared to be about forty miles north of I-70. For no reason at all that made sense, I decided to take a detour and at least try to find the farm before going on to Denver. At least I would have a better idea of what the land looked like. According to the map, the quickest route would be to take state road 27 north from Goodland and pick up US 36 west, which ran through Cope. I put the truck back in gear and pulled back into traffic, the decision made.
It was a beautiful morning to travel; the truck seemed to purr as it sped along the highway, the sound of the tires on the roadway creating a hypnotic hum. When I glanced at the speedometer, the needle was hovering over the 80 MPH mark. I hadn’t realized I was moving that fast. Thinking about it, there was really nothing out here to give a reference to how fast I was going. The landscape around me was nothing but grain fields in all directions; every so often, you could see a farmhouse, usually located quite a distance from the roadway. I slowed the truck down to a safer 65 MPH and also noticed that the gas gauge was closing in on the quarter tank mark. I had crossed the Kansas/Colorado state line about thirty miles back and had seen only a few farmhouses off in the distance. The last town I could remember seeing was St. Francis back in Kansas, and that had been a while ago. I was somewhat concerned. The grain fields were getting to be fewer and fewer while what looked like native prairie was becoming more prevalent. About that time, I came upon a sign announcing that Idalia was two miles ahead. I sure hoped they had a gas station, or I might be in trouble.
Thankfully, there was a station in Idalia, and I pulled in to fill up. An older woman stepped out of the station door as I pulled up to the pump and started walking towards me.
As I was getting ready to pop the filler cap, she said, “Morning there, this is a full-service station.”
Looking at the prices on the pump display, I could see why. I smiled and said to the lady, “Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t realize this isn’t self-serve.”
She took the hose from me and with a dry laugh said, “Mister, there ain’t much business along the highway these days; we need every extra cent we can get.”
Looking around at the town, I could see why. There might have been ten buildings I could see; all of them looked like they’d seen better days. It looked like the streets I could see had been paved at one time. Now, they were mostly covered with sand, blown across the road by the prairie winds. As I stood there, I had to wonder, just what these people did for a living!
Turning back to the lady, I answered her question. “I can understand that. I wonder if you could tell me how much further before I reach Cope?”
She swatted a fly away from her face. “Damn flies! Oh, not too much further, ‘bout forty miles, give or take a few.”
“There sure don’t seem to be much out here.”
“Nope, mostly jackrabbits, coyotes, and antelope nowadays.”
“I would think that there would be quite a few farms, since there is so much land.”
She had finished filling the tank and hung up the nozzle, turned to me, and said, “Used to be quite a few, but we don’t get enough rain out here, and running cattle takes a lot of land. Most folks used to live here couldn’t make a living at farming, had to go into the city to make enough to live on. North of here, up near Wray, they do pretty well with wheat. That’ll be $18.75 for the gas.”
I paid the lady and headed back out on the highway.
I thought about what the lady at the gas station had said. This was pretty desolate country from what I could see from the cab of my truck. The only thing I could remember seeing of any interest since I had left Kansas was a few antelope just before I stopped for gas.
I reached Cope about thirty minutes later. I had passed through only one other town since Idalia. The sign identified it as Joes; it didn’t look like there was anything there besides a beer joint and a house or two. Not much there to call it a town.
It was a bit after noon as I pulled into Cope. As I drove through the town, it looked like a bigger edition of Idalia. There were a few more houses and what looked like several businesses, but other than that, it was very similar. There was a restaurant on the west side of town, and my stomach was telling me it needed some exercise. I had passed the restaurant by this time and made a horseshoe and pulled into the parking lot. The restaurant was not all that large and looked like it had been there for a very long time. There was an old Ford sedan and three dusty pickup trucks in the parking lot. When I got out of the truck and started walking towards the restaurant, you could tell the building had seen better times. The white paint was faded and peeling in spots.
When I entered the door, a tall, slim man greeted me from behind the counter. “Hi there, take a seat anywhere, and I’ll get to you in a minute.”
The room had six stools at the counter and six tables placed alongside the wall, one of which was occupied by three older men. The furniture looked like it had been there since the building was erected.
I walked to the back and sat down at the furthest table, next to the three men, and picked up a menu.
“You want coffee or iced tea?” The man behind the counter hollered at me.
“Coffee will be fine,” I replied back.
A few minutes later, the man sat my coffee on the table. “Sugar and cream are on the table. You figured out what you want yet?”
“Well, how’s the fried chicken?”
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