The predawn light found me driving South on I-24, eager to escape the now seemingly endless state of Illinois and get to Kentucky, a place that sounded exotic and Southern to my Yankee ears. As I drove I sang along to John Prine’s “Paradise,” a song about destruction wrought by strip mining in Western Kentucky.
Kentucky sounded like the South to me, and though I claim to have visited every state in the union, it was one of the ones where I felt like I’d cheated. Years ago I’d flown into Cincinnati, Ohio. Its airport is in Kentucky. I won’t count an airport layover as a state visit, but my argument for having been to Kentucky is that I stopped for gas and in-flight snacks while driving from downtown to the airport. Tonight I was not only going to sleep in the state, but try Barbecue mutton, a Western Kentucky delicacy.
But just before the bridge over the Ohio River that meant I had finally reached the end of Illinois, I noticed a road sign announcing “The World’s Largest Superman Statue” in the town of Metropolis, Illinois. I had to make that detour to honor my childhood hero, so I pulled off, drove past a billboard announcing the “Home of Superman” and headed into into Metropolis
I’m sorry to report that Metropolis was a rather sad little town. I drove past all the indicators of a hollowed-out economy: Pawn shops, a huge “riverboat” casino, dollar stores, Trump banners flying more than a year after the election, substance abuse clinics. I also found a new sign of a community in decline: a long line outside the cannabis dispensary half an hour before their opening time.
Metropolis’s “Riverboat Casino” does not look like any boat you’ve seen – it’s a rectangular beige box, like every convention center or shopping mall you’ve ever seen. Though the state of Illinois has never allowed gambling on its soil, in 1990 it legalized gambling on boats cruising the rivers bordering the state. A year later the state dropped the “cruise” requirement. The Metropolis boat was permanently moored. By 2014 the Metropolis casino was owned by the giant Harrah’s. They were eager to move the gambling operation from the barge to big beige convention center next door. The city, by now entirely dependent on gambling income, did what it could to help. Teams of lawyers and engineers went to work, and in 2014, in a move worthy of Casablanca’s Captain Renault, Harrah’s installed water-filled bladders underneath the building. “Like a hot water bottle…” said the Mayor. With all the gambling taking place over water, the convention center is now a legally a riverboat, and the soil of Illinois remains unstained by games of chance.
Up the hill from the casino is the big Superman statue. It’s bright and impressive, and today wearing a rakish Santa hat. The Chamber of Commerce Center told the story of the town’s attempts to revive the economy with Superman-themed tourism. It had some fun exhibits and was worth a brief visit, but I wasn’t feeling much enthusiasm. Maybe it was the dull, cold gray December weather, but the town seemed tattered and worn out. I was trying with all my might not to see this as a metaphor for the decline of my country’s dedication to Truth, Justice and the American Way. The souvenir-cum-comic shop had nothing I really wanted, though I smiled to see a barrel of rocks, painted red and green, being sold as “Kryptonite.” I headed across the Ohio ready for Ol’ Kentuck’.
The Land Between the Lakes was created in the 1930s when the New Deal build dams that turned part of the Tennessee river into lake Lake Barkley and and Cumberland river into Kentucky Lake. The idea was to reduce flooding, generate hydro power, and create the largest inland peninsula in the U.S. It was a lovely drive south through low prairie hills. Looking at the tangle of waterways in my atlas the night before I ached to do some paddling, but my little boat was hanging from the rafters back in Vermont, and none of the rental places were open. I had to settle for a hike. There were hundreds of miles of hiking trails to choose from, and it was warm enough (high 50s to low 60s) to really enjoy them.
One of the things I did not want to miss at Land Between the Lakes was the Elk and Bison prairie. In the 1970s biologists pointed out scraps of pristine tallgrass prairie habitat on the peninsula. A group of what must have been pretty quixotic conservationists decided to try restoring it to something like the prairie that was here before the white settlers arrived. After a few decades there they had preserved close to 700 acres. That was deemed enough land to support small herds of elk and bison which were promptly brought in. By the 1990s they started allowing visitors to drive a three-mile loop through the area. There’s a gate and an admission fee, and signs make it clear that you are not allowed to leave your vehicle for any reason. I like the idea of a zoo where the humans are the ones trapped in cages.
Dawn and dusk are the best viewing times, so I entered the area as the sun was setting. I was thrilled to find my first elk, a huge bull with a improbably huge rack of antlers half-hidden at the edge of a wooded area. Later I saw dozens of them grazing, including adorable little ones hanging close to their mothers. Bison were less visible. I am pretty sure I saw one in the distance, though I did see plenty of signs of their presence: the bowl-like “buffalo wallows” created when they roll around on the ground, and an abundance of bison poop.
I drove East through the dusk to Hopkinsville, KY. Tired of chain hotels, I decided to lodge somewhere that had character and personality. The “room” I booked on Air BnB turned out to be two big bedrooms, sparsely but elegantly furnished in a style that can best be described as a “spooky run-down Southern mansion”. The place had soaring ceilings, gorgeous woodwork, odd knicknacks, and crumbling plaster ornamentation. One of the rooms had an imposing fireplace with marble facing and a massive wooden mantel. The bed in that room was framed by an equally imposing set of tall, dark wooden posts. It really deserved to have a ghost or two.
The doors separating my rooms from the rest of the place weren’t locked, and I had to call my host to confirm which spaces I was renting. I needn’t have worried – the place remained empty and silent as a tomb. I wandered around a bit, admiring the stained glass and sweeping stairways until I started to feel more like an intruder than a guest, then turned my attention to dinner.
One reason I was visiting Hopkinsville was barbecued mutton. Being a big fan of both lamb and barbeque, the paragraph I saw in Jane and Michael Stern’s “Roadfood” made this Western Kentucky delicacy sound like something I shouldn’t miss.
I decided to get take-out at “The Wood Shed B-B-Q & Restaurant.” I entered, ordered, and waited for my meal in the crowded and noisy dining room. For the first time on my trip I felt like a fish out of water. Despite the raging COVID epidemic not a single person in the place was wearing a mask. Tables filled with big families dug into their meals. Fox News was blaring from a TV on one wall. A huge cross served as decoration for another. I felt , I felt uncomfortable and suspected everyone was staring at my masked face as I dodged around the edge of the counter, trying to stay out of the way of the waitress zipping by with trays of food. After what seemed like hours breathing a mixture of delicious smells and dangerous viral aerosols I headed back with my dinner.
I’m sorry to report that BBQ mutton was a disappointment to me. Maybe my own prejudices about the place were part of this, but my pulled mutton sandwich in its Styrofoam clamshell was probably not worth a detour to Hopkinsville. Don’t get me wrong, it was tasty, but if you had told me I was eating pulled pork, I wouldn’t have questioned it. The long smoking, the spice rub, and the barbecue sauce seemed to overwhelm anything distinctive about Mutton. I did indulge in a slice of pecan pie, which was deliciously gooey and sweet enough to nearly send me into an insulin coma with the first forkful.
Amazing the lengths they went though to “float” that casino.