Bunkhouse Grill

It isn't that often I can say I am really proud of myself, but can say it today.  Went to the Bunkhouse Grill in Arthur, Nebraska, pop. 119. 

 

I didn’t want this trip to be nothing but driving, even though it was supposed to be primarily a utility trip, a long haul job to deliver a trailer to a certain Miss Mountain Kimmie.  And since I’m both the owner of the Mountain Kimmie Truck and Transport Company (ltd.) and its primary customer, I usually get by with a slack schedule that would put any other company out of business.  (I’m actually not its only customer.  I’m hauling freight for someone in Illinois, but I’m doing it for free, which may explain why driver K. Brook of the MKT&TC Ltd. does not have privileges in the professional driver lounge.)  Anyway, when I was planning this trip I looked online to try and find some neat things to see or do that were close to my route and sounded like they were worth taking the time for.  When researching the route through Nebraska, I ran across this essentially anonymous recommendation:

“If you have only one hour to spare take this route north from Ogallala to Arthur. This is cowboy country like nowhere else in the States. In Arthur (population 119) stop at the Bunkhouse Bar and Grill. Order a Coors and chat up anybody wearing leather chaps. Doing this and only this would give you a better taste of Nebraska than stoping at every damn attraction off that wretched I-80.”

So I looked up Arthur, Nebraska on Google Maps and found there is a street view for the main street.  I did the virtual drive up and down this tiny town and zoomed in on the Bunkhouse Bar and Grill.  I looked at the bitty post office, and saw the Thunderbolt tornado warning siren, and thought how cool it would be take a picture of that siren, which has legendary status among siren heads (and yes, there are people who are fascinated by and collect sirens and siren sightings).  I thought about what it would be like to drive all that way by myself and go to this tiny, out of the way town and walk in there and order a beer (or a sandwich) and see if I could strike up a conversation.  The idea was alternately terrifying and exhilarating.  I put it on the list, and gave myself permission to bail on the idea if I didn’t want to do it by the time I was approaching the exit for Arthur.

And then this blog started happening, and suddenly I had that much more motivation to meet new people and see new stuff, because my eager readers were waiting for me to report something interesting back to them.  Something more interesting than “had another order of chicken McNuggets at Mickey D’s before gassing up and hitting the road again”.

I’ve gotten in the habit of plugging in the coordinates of my next destination into the GPS before I start another leg.  It makes the whole drive much less intimidating by breaking it up into small chunks.  So when I left Cabela’s in Sidney, I decided I’d go ahead and put the Arthur coordinates in.  I could always bag it and just keep driving on to North Platte if I changed my mind.

But it’s so much easier to just follow the directions of that reassuring voice, and so I took he exit, drove through Ogalala without stopping, and headed out to Lake McConaughy.  Now, the interesting thing (to me, anyway) about this is that just a couple weeks or so ago I was watching as one of the TornadoRaider tornado chasers was live streaming his chase on this exact route, stopping at the dam on the lake, and watching a pregnant thunderstorm in the hopes it would produce a tornado over the water.  It didn’t, and he got back on the road and kept hunting, but as I watched his position on the map move I realized he was at the very turnoff I would take if I were to follow through with my plan to go to Arthur.

And now here I was driving that same route, and the dam and lake looked like somewhere I’d been before.  The TornadoRaiders have helped me without knowing it, by allowing me to drive along with them as they race up the very section of I80 that I’d soon be driving, and thereby show me how green and pretty it was, how open the sky and magnificent the clouds and far reaching vistas.  It was like taking a practice run, in a way.  And they played a lot of Queen while they were driving.  As I head deeper into Tornado Alley, I’m going to put Bohemian Rhapsody on in salute to them.

Anyway, I headed up Route 61, the road grew narrower and rolling green pastures pressed close to the road, filled with good looking horses and sleek cattle.  The horses had shed out their winter coats completely and were glossy with health and good condition, and many of them had very new-looking foals at their sides.  I forgot all proper horse terminology as I pointed out the window and yelled to Baby Bear, “Baby horses!”

The cattle were sleek and fine, and they stood in such lush pasture and looked so perfectly content that it almost seemed a fair trade for their eventual fate.  There were many calves gamboling, and yes they do gambol, because they were doing it as I drove by.

It was very beautiful country, and I could imagine all the fences gone and herds being moved along easily by cowboys on a trail drive.  I saw a pair of whitetail deer standing by the road, and further along, wild turkeys.  Birds were constantly launching from the grass at the side of the road and swooping suicidally close to the truck, but always escaping being struck.

And then I was finally coming into Arthur.  And there was the Bunkhouse Bar and Grill.  Just as in the picture, and just as on Streetview.

I parked diagonally in front of the Bunkhouse next to one or two other cars.  The Open sign was lit, but there was nobody else on the street.  It was quiet.  A dreamy, warm peacefulness, grass scented, and the sound of birdsong.  I climbed out of the truck, gathered my courage, and walked to the door.  What was on the other side of that door? 

This is what I imagined:  a room full of cowboys and ranchers, a few saloon girls for seasoning.  I open the door and step into the dim, smoky room, and all conversation dies into an uneasy silence.  Every head turns, and every eye is fixed on me.  Expressionless faces, closed and unfriendly, regard the hippie fruit loop from California, the self confessed tree-hugger who has intruded on this sanctum of American values, this last bastion of heartland decency and traditional lifeways.  One cowboy leans forward slowly and lets out a stream of brown tobacco juice onto the floor at my feet.

That, of course, is ridiculous.  This is just a bar in a tiny town and my money is as good as anybody else’s, and there are times my imagination is far, far too active for my own good.

I open the door and step in. 

. . . . .to be continued.