Pierre pressure

Kadoka.

I kept seeing this name as Kokoda.

But, no, it is a South Dakota town amid plains of wheat and corn.

Kadoka, Dakota.

Try saying that a few times in a row.

This exercise keeps us much amused as we approach little Kodoka.

It is an old farming town

which had a population of 654 in 2010. Driving down the main street, it would seem to be an optimistic number. Big, wide country road - but heartbreakingly desolate. Nothing moves. One solitary ute is parked in the street.

We abandon hope of a little country cafe for the hungry traveller and drive out to the interchange where we had spotted a service station and a big Subway sign. I became

desperately ill after eating at Subway in Norwood some years ago and have not been able to look at Subways since, so lunch is a bleak proposition for me. But, lo, there is another sign saying Sunset Grill.

We step into Sunset Grill and step back in time.

A couple of welcoming young girls are running the show. There’s a mass of fried chicken under glass at the counter. Special of the day is on

a blackboard - sloppy Joe.

Other dishes are fish and chips and hamburgers and tuna melts - old-fashioned, classic American diner fare. The place is busy. The service is cheery and snappy. Unsweetened iced tea is delivered and we order Sloppy Joe for me and chicken with coleslaw for Bruce.

As we wait, our attention is drawn to an old codger ordering a burger in the corner. He’s clearly a bit deaf and speaking loudly, asking the young waitress which Kadoka family she is from. Who is her father? Bob. Isn’t it Bill?

No, Bill is her grandfather. He asks if she is related to Dawn. She says Dawn is her grandmother. And the conversation goes on, as the old chap sorts out the village genealogy. Seems his wife was friends with Dawn. He’s been a trucker all his life. He’s hauled coal and steel and grain from one end of the country to the other. Now he’s back in Kadoka. A bit deaf. This is a great hamburger, by the way.

The other waitress does not escape his attention. Same questions. “I’m Missy’s daughter,” says the waitress. Our food comes. I’ve read a lot about sloppy Joes and this is my first. It is tasty savoury mince served in a bun. Bruce purrs over his chicken.

And we’re back on the road, humming along in a landscape of green and gold. Fields of crops as far as the eye can see. Low corn crops and low wheat crops.

Here and there groups of black Angus cattle.

The odd roadside hoarding. There’s a Pioneer Auto Show in Murdo. See Elvis Presley’s motorcycle. Exit now.

We don’t.

We head steadily north on 83. The road is deserted. Vast pastures surround us. Occasional collections of bee hives. Big sky.

And then we are in Pierre, our destination

for the night.

The first thing we have to learn is that it is not Pierre as in the French name. It is Pierre as in “Pia” or even “Pier”. This is the capital of South Dakota and it brags a handsome capitol building and some salubrious back streets. It has the usual strip of box stores, car yards, and service stations.

It also has the Missouri River.

We check in to our Club House Hotel which would be fabulous if the pool was not designed exclusively for children. It is just a couple of feet deep and equipped with water slide and giant toadstool fountain in the middle. There’s a kids’ party going on in it when we arrive. It is really sweet. But it means I will not be getting any aqua on this stop. Oh, well.

We’re given a nice top floor room

with a courtyard view whence we are able to see wedding celebrations and dog exercising. Yes, this hotel like almost all of them, is pet friendly. Hospitality is altogether family friendly. America is now emphatically kid-friendly and it also is as fecund as hell. There are droves of kids and many restaurants offer free meals for children as well as playgrounds.

After unpacking, we wander out to stretch the legs and check out the river.

It is close to the hotel which is just as well, as weather suddenly is closing in and it looks like rain.

There are boats and people at play on the river. I take some snaps.

And then we hear the siren.

It is a big, long wailing siren. It is not an ambulance. It is not a cop car. It is not a fire engine. It is an alarm.

It goes on for quite a long time and finally murmurs out, as if exhausted by the effort.

Bruce is sure it is a weather warning, maybe for a tornado. There are tornadoes around right now. We were on tornado watch in Rapid City.

A group of three teenagers are walking on the river path and we stop and ask them what the siren means. They don’t know. Just a practise warning, says the big lad with shiny black hair atop that odd shaven sides hairdo some kids are wearing. They all have the odd piercing.

The girl asks where I am from. She says she dreams to come to Australia.

I ask what she wants to do with her life. She does not really know. She would love to go to Australia. But it will never happen.

It seems that these kids are American Indian. They have dreams but little hope.

Bruce still thinks it is a serious warning and we return to the hotel to ask reception about it.

The receptionist has not heard it and dismisses it. Nah, they haven’t had a tornado in “Pia” for years.

He checks the radar. Oh, yes, there are storms but far from here.

No, the siren is nothing to worry about.

We repair to the room and see a different story on the radar.

The sky is closing in. The wind is rising. It is nasty out there.

Bruce surfs up the American warning networks and confirms that this was an official major storm warning siren.

We are perplexed that no one in town seems to know it.

Ah, well, the hotel has a huge and busy Italian restaurant. We’ll stay safe and dine in. Good move. The food is lovely. I won’t forget that seafood diabolo pasta in a while.

Storms rage through the night.

In the morning, they have moved east - which is the way we are going.

But at least we are behind them.