Pawnee City, Nebraska

 

Two mornings in a row I began the day with a mystery clicking sound coming from my front wheel.  I figured it was a twig I had snagged pushing my bike out of the brush where I had been camping.  I stopped to extricate it, but none was to be found.  Nor was there a clicking sound when I raised the front end of my bike and gave the wheel a spin.  

Sometimes such a sound can come from my rear wheel, though it sounds as if it is coming from the front of the bike. But there was nothing rubbing there either.  I resumed riding hoping it would go away.  When it didn’t I feared the ball bearings in my generator hub were grating.  That could be a tricky operation if I needed to overhaul it.  As I fretted the noise vanished.

But it reappeared the next morning.  Could the cold possibly be effecting the hub with it getting down near freezing at night?  Once again I checked if a twig had been caught in my spokes and once again I could spin the wheel freely without it creating a noise.  Maybe my pedaling motion was clicking on my lock or derailleur.  But the noise persisted even when I wasn’t pedaling.  It didn’t care to go away this morning.  Twenty minutes later when I stopped to shed a layer and opened my pannier I glimpsed a twig that had been caught in it and was scraping the road.  Mystery solved and a testament to another fine rustic campsite.

I’ve been taking advantage of clusters of tightly packed, bushy pine trees lately that I sometimes have to break dead lower limbs off of to make space for my tent or to force my way into.  They form a great protective shield from the wind and from wandering eyes.

I have yet to be forced into a desperate campsite.  They have been turning up within minutes of when I have reached my set stopping point thirty minutes before sunset.  I have had to resist abandoned farmsteads several nights when I have not quite been ready to quit, though I did settle on one when I needed a substantial wind block from a strong cold wind and didn’t think nature would provide it.  Ordinarily I like to keep riding until I’m within thirty miles of the next library, Carnegie or otherwise.

My return to Nebraska brought with it my first three Carnegie day of these travels, edging my average up over one a day with thirteen in eleven days in 816 miles.  The day was also highlighted by the first license plate I’ve come upon.  I had warned Charlie that I stop for license plates and neckerchiefs and bungee chords and whatever might be interesting, but I came upon nothing in our four days of cycling together.

The first of my Carnegie three-pack came in Fairbury.  I didn’t notice the sizeable addition to its rear, so was a bit perplexed when I walked in and to the left and right was given up to children’s books.  The librarian explained the adult section of the library was in the addition and the Carnegie portion of the library had become the children’s library, greatly expanded from the basement section it had had before the addition.  There was a sign at the entry to the library that I’m accustomed to seeing forbidding food and drink, accompanied by a not so common explanation that crumbs would attract ants and be a detriment to the books.  I wasn’t admonished about bringing in my water bottle, possibly because the librarian was holding a cup of coffee. 

I had to push into the strongest headwind of these travels to Beatrice.  It took me over four hours to cover the twenty-seven miles, greatly relieved whenever trees or a hillside deflected the wind and I could up my speed or relax my legs.

Beatrix was a big enough town to warrant a $20,000 grant from Carnegie, two or three times the normal.  It was the first of these travels with a dome.  The beautiful building was now home to the Chamber of Commerce and Tourist Office and an economic development company.  The Tourist Office had a large display on the Homestead National Historical Park, administered by the National Parks system, north of the city. 

It was past five, so I would have to save that for another day, which I know there most certainly will be with all the sites I have come upon in this region that I would like to share with Janina.  The new library was on the outskirts of the city and was huge.  Among its features was a table of seeds free for the taking with a limit of three packs of any individual seed.

It was fifteen miles south to the third Carnegie of the day, dealing with a side wind, which was much less of a strain than heading directly into it.  Wymore was a much smaller town with a much more modest library, but it continued as one with an addition to its side.  

I didn’t have to go far out of town before coming upon a pasture with thick firs on a ridge and a dirt road leading to them that showed no fresh tire  prints.  It was another pristine spot to pitch my tent, as fine as sleeping under a dome, such as the stars provided. 

I had a slight wind assist the next morning from a strong southerly wind as I was heading northwest to Tecumseh.  I could see from several miles away its towering city hall.  Usually the first indication that I’m closing in on a town is the site of its water tower poking up in the distance. It’s tiny, rather plain, but still attractive Carnegie was now a resale shop.  The new truly plain library wasn’t open on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so I had to sit outside for my rest and internet time.  Luckily there was an outlet for recharging.

Then it was another battle directly into a twenty mile per hour wind for the next three hours to Pawnee City, twenty miles south.  The strong wind from the south rocketed the temperature to 88 degrees, thirty degrees warmer than the day before.  It was the third time I’d been able to wear shorts and search for ice.

Pawnee City’s distinguished Classical Revival Carnegie had been replaced ten years ago and had had several owners since.  Its present owner was a local who had grown up with it and used it as a “man cave” according to the librarian in the new library.  He wished to maintain its heritage with a colorful, homemade sign on the door identifying it as “Old Library” even though “Carnegie Library” stood out boldly above the double columns and just below 1907.

It is one of fourteen places in the county that are on the National Register of Historic Places.  Another is the birthplace of Harold Lloyd, silent film star.