The Hundredth Meridianrnby Chilton Williamson, ]r.rnFriends at a DistancernSecond only to prostitution, writing is thernloneliest profession. Because a writer’srnwork is wherever he happens to be, hernhas no real need to be anywhere; becausernwriting is neither a team sport nor a cooperativernenterprise, and because the laboriousrnact of composition is notoriouslyrnprone to distraction, the writer normallyrnperforms his daily stint of four, five, or sixrnhours in a state of isolation as total as herncan manage. Art, Aquinas said, is a fruitrnof the practical intellect—like prayer, tornwhich art is kin. Ever)’ artist, whether hernknows it or not, is in some degree a religiousrn—a monk or a nun —and his work,rnhis cloister from which, mentally at least,rnhe is rarely absent. Also like the religious,rnif he is lucky he has friends outside encouragingrnhim —whether by prayer orrnsome more direct and tangible meansrnsuch as fan mail, including small reekingrnpackages and boxes plastered with PERISHABLErnlabels.rnThough Hemingway complained thatrnany writer incautious enough to mentionrnbooze and wine in his work finds himselfrninstantiy labeled an alcoholic, my ownrnexperiments in this regard have paid offrnhandsomely in a harvest of sin and gluttony.rnIt was about three years ago that thernfirst of a series of packages arrived by U.S.rnmail from Clyde, Kansas. Enclosed werernthree or four bunches of fresh garlic,rnpainstakingly packed and artistically tiedrnoff with woolly ribbon, and a letter fromrnone Ed Detrixhe: a Midwestern farmerrnwith a law degree from Vanderbilt and arnshared taste for garlic and pasta, in additionrnto red wine, bourbon, and the writingsrnof Edward Abbey. A thank-you letterrnprovoked an answering one from Clyde;rnmore garlic; and, at Christmastime, a bottlernof red wine produced from Mr. Detrixhe’srnown vineyard. The first time Irnphoned Ed I pronounced the namern”DEH-trix-ee,” followed by a giggle ofrnself-aware ignorance. Writers, of course,rnare to be read, not seen or heard, but EdrnDetrixhe is a patient man; also he had arnglass of brandy and a cigar with him in hisrnden. (I was drinking red wine or a dryrnMartini, I forget which. The Martinirnwould account for the giggle.) Politely,rnhe explained that the name is “DEEtree”rn—a Belgian one, though Ed isrnSwedish on his mother’s side —thenrnswitched directiy to the latest Washingtonrnatrocit)’, whether Janet Reno’s refusalrnto investigate Asian campaign contributionsrnor the 99 lives of President WilliamrnJefferson Clinton I also can’t remember.rn(It’s Tom Sheeley in Flagstaff, a classicalrnguitarist who sent me a recording hernmade of Mafiuel Ponce’s music when Irnmoved to New Mexico two years ago,rnwho impersonates Maddy Albright whenrnyou answer the telephone.) We woundrnup the conversation an hour and severalrnrefills later, after a discussion rangingrnfrom firearms loads to the writings of Nebraskarnauthor Mari Sandoz, by stickingrnrhetorical pins into Sarah and Jim Brady,rnand a couple of days later another fragrantrnbox was delivered to my house inrnLas Cruces by a postman with wateryrneyes, holding his nose.rnIn the spring Ed invited me to pay himrnand the family a visit at the farm. By consultingrna Rand McNally road map, I estimatedrnthe distance between Las Cruces,rnNew Mexico, and Clyde, Kansas —onrnthe banks of the Republican River tenrnmiles east of Concordia—at 700 to 800rnmiles. As I was obviously failing to establishrna significantiy other (or otheriy significant)rnrelationship with the Land ofrnEnchantment, I proposed to Ed that wernpostpone our meeting until I could getrnback home to Wyoming, within a shorterrnstriking distance of northeastern Kansasrn— a negligible five to six hundred milesrnfrom Laramie, I guessed, or an ordinary’rnday’s journey horseback in the AmericanrnWest. The actual distance, from my frontrndoor to Ed’s, was 542 miles: an easy ninehourrndrive on 1-80 from the lower end ofrnThird Avenue in downtown Laramie tornYork, Nebraska, then south a hundredrnmiles on 81 across the Kansas-Nebraskarnborder. The Pony Express could probablyrnhave made it in six.rnPioneers following the Platte Riverrnwest had to contend with hostile Indians,rnrampaging buffalo herds, rattlesnakes,rnprairie fires, sandstorms, blizzards, lawlessrnlawmen, and acute alcohol deprivation.rnToday, motorized travelers crossingrnthe state of Nebraska between Omaharnand Pine Bluffs, Wyoming, anticipaternmerely tedium. The mileage signs dornbecome discouraging —Lincoln 455,rnKearney 120, North Platte 148, Ogallalarn198—the shortest of these distances beingrna far piece in less expansive regions ofrnthe country. But to say the landscaperndoesn’t “change” over 458 miles is likernclaiming the Atlantic Ocean betweenrnNew York Cit’ and Southhampton, England,rnis a dull uniformit}-. On this Indianrnsummer day in late October, drivingrnfrom dawn until early evening beneathrnthe parabolic arc of the south-travelingrnsun, anyone who cared to look couldrnhave obsen’ed a wonderful progression ofrnlight, shadow, and texture in the LodgepolernRiver valley running to meet thernSouth Platte west of Ogallala, and in thernvalley of the Platte on course acrossrnsouthern Nebraska to join the Missourirnnear Omaha. As the sky changed fromrnmorning yellow through noontimerncobalt to the fierce ultraviolet of afternoon,rnthe fall haze gathered in the riverrnbottom where the braided river gleamedrnbetween golden cottonwood islands scatteringrnleaves like weightiess coins into thernslow backwaters and cutoff meanders ofrnthe Platte. The Sandhills crowdingrndown from the north went from gold tornpink as the widening valley pressed themrnback, while south of the river the pinernbluffs darkened with shadow. From thernbottom of this watery geological creasernthe vast prairie around was hidden, itsrnpresence suggested only by the unbrokenrnsky spreading in all directions toward anrninvisible horizon, but there were har’estingrnfields to see beneath wheeling flocksrnof starlings, and comfortable redbrickrnand clapboard towns shaded by maturerncottonwoods and overshadowed by therntowering grain elevators. At York, 40rnFEBRUARY 2000/49rnrnrn