Prairie life - from the sublime to the ridiculous.

So this is the prairie.

It is beautiful. It is wide open spaces, vast flat and undulating treeless landscape topped with short grasses of lovely varied hues. Grasses which wave in the wind. Grasses which, when silhouetted on hummocks, look like cartoon spiky hair. They are so many subtly rich shades of greens and tans in seemingly random striations.

This is home to the darling little prairie dog. Also to road runners. Once buffalo roamed the prairies.

Now much is left as broad wilderness. The wonderful black Angus cattle graze in some parts. Some areas are cultivated.

We drive through miles and miles of it, revelling in its serenity.

Then, suddenly, indented hills appear and we realise we are on a plateau.

Here are the effects of erosion - gulleys and nubbly trees beneath us, hinting at the Badlands which are to come.

But we need fuel.

We take an exit and find ourselves in the glorious named settlement of Wasta.

We erupt in bad puns. This is no “wasta” time.

But what an odd, eerie little outpost.

Clouds of swallows whirl around.

A roadside motel stands in paint-peeled disrepair, long abandoned.

We find ourselves in a primitive service station entirely unattended. "24 Hours Express Credit Card Only". The little shop is empty but it has clean loos and, heavens, an automated popcorn machine.

As Bruce fills the car, the petrol pump makes weird grinding, groaning and hiccuping noises.

It’s unnerving in this hot and dusty no man’s land.

Oddly, across a gravelly expanse,

there’s a stark building identified as an Armed Forces Military Collection museum. It is flashing a big red electronic sign telling us that it is 10.30am and 95degF and ice is $2 a 10lb bag. An old plane is parked on the grass nearby. In the distance a man is riding on a mower.

But it is the swallows which are the life of Wasta. We discover, as we drive back to the road, that the highway underpass is their home. They have colonised it en masse.

We return to the highway past corn crops, lush little watercourses filled with cottonwood trees.

I adore these trees.

We have been observing and discussing them for days as we drive through this part of the world.

There are several sorts. We had been puzzled. Finally, Bruce took the quandary by the horns and went out to collect leaves for scientific scrutiny and comparison and, finally could identify them.

Wherever there is a stream or river, there they are,

the Fremont or western cottonwood, the black cottonwood, and the longleaf cottonwood. The longleaf has a blue-grey hue and strong, darkly-barked trunk. Some of these trees are old and gnarled. Some are very tall, leafy and proud. Some sprawl. They grow in groves and sometimes alone, stately characters on the landscape.

But here, the landscape is turning to corn crops. It is turning into big, flat blue sky country.

Signs along the road announce Wall Drug. Veterans

are promised free coffee at Wall Drug. There’s free iced water at Wall Drug. Pies are made at Wall Drug...

So many inducements.

We swing off the road and follow the signs to Wall Drug.

It is a giant exercise in highly commercial American kitsch. Oh yes. Didn’t I mention it? I love kitsch.

Wall Drug has a wild west theme

with a big, broad main street. And, heavens above, what’s this? A parade!

A man stands in the street with a microphone, commentating on the cars and trailers going past. They are covered with people. Some are shading themselves under umbrellas. They sit in rows on trailers waving and cheering. The crowd is at one side of the road, in the shade. Much cheering comes from their ranks. Lollies are heaved

in their direction and children dash and dart about collecting them by the bagful. The passing “floats” bear signs identifying them as The Class of 61, The Class of 66, the Sebade Family Reunion or the Pinky Hair Salon…

It is the strangest parade I have ever seen and in some ways the sweetest.

It seems to be a community just loving being a community. The MC chides individuals by name as the trailers go by. It’s all very intimate and family. A big happy fest. These are

the generations of Wall Drug.

As the crowd disperses, we roam into the buildings to discover arcades of ticky tacky western souvenirs and craft. There is some classy leatherwork and lots of traditional garb as well as silly souvenirs and knickknacks of wild diversity. I buy a belt for me and some exquisite little Indian dolls for my grandies. Everyone is very friendly. There are cafes selling donuts and huge slices of fruit pie. There are burger joints. There is a chance to gold pan from a sluice machine. There are playgrounds. There’s a water park with spouting water and kids leaping about. There is the free ice water stand. The water is not icy.

A lot of gnarled old cowboys and gritty grannies

loll about outside the stores, leaning on the wooden sidings, smoking and chatting. There are a lot of smokers in Marlborough Country, I note.

I stop and ask a couple of them where I might find the meat pies I saw advertised on a roadside hoarding. “Ya, wha?” answers one. I repeat myself. They look at each other. “Ya, wha?” Bruce steps in to interpret. It seems my accent is just too alien.

It eventuates that there are no more meat pies made in Wall. “Haven’t had a ground meat pie for years,” muttered one sadly. Oh, well.

We pass a big brass plaque as we leave the main street. It celebrates the founders of Wall, erected by this extremely happy community which is clearly doing very well from the mass of tourist trade it has lured in. Wall, over the years, has become one of the great American institutions of tourist traps. There are motels around it and quite a substantial suburban and commercial sprawl. You have to love its shameless chutzpah.

Its big asset is that it is on the road to the Badlands, one of the great natural wonders of the USA.

Our next stop.