or, “Adventures and Great Undertakings in West Branch, IA”
We tumble through the Iowa border at half past two, Rachel and I, blasting Led Zeppelin IV out of tinny Macbook speakers in sweltering 99-degree heat. Oceans of cornfields swell up on either side. “Fields of Opportunities,” according to the goofy Iowa welcome sign. “The shorter crops are beans, actually,” my Iowan host Kathy later corrects. “When we have guests, we often point out the sites in West Branch: corn, corn, beans, corn, beans, beans, corn . . .”
To us, the Great Unknown. Iowa marks the westernmost reach of our Great Midwestern Odyssey, and that feels somehow momentous, like we’re the early settlers of the twenty-ninth state—before we circle back and start cruising east.