Rosenblatt Stadium, Omaha, Nebraska 

Bruce Henrickson sits with his two sons in the left-field bleachers at Rosenblatt Stadium on a beautiful June afternoon.

The three of them sit only 10 rows from the field, drinking in the University of Texas and University of Florida players warming up beneath them. Fans dressed in Longhorn burnt orange and Gator blue and orange fill in the seats around them, cheering on their players and teams.

In a few hours, Game 1 of the Div. I college baseball national championship will begin – and for the fourth time, Henrickson and his family have traveled from Grayslake, Ill., to Omaha, Neb., and paid only $8.50 to attend.

The national championship caps off the two-week event known as the College World Series, an eight-team tournament played every June.

“Rosenblatt comes close to echoing Wrigley Field,” Henrickson said. “The competition, the people and the atmosphere is what makes it great. I would be really upset if they ever moved the tournament from Rosenblatt.”

Over the past few years, Henrickson’s sons have chased batting practice home-run balls, met the 2004 national champion University of California St.-Fullerton players and held the CWS-winning trophy – but this day will yield a new memory.

Hotel Pattee, Perry, Iowa 

A suave young man in a uniform holds the door, inviting visitors to step from rural Iowa into a secret, plush utopia.

Inside the two sets of ornate double doors, a visitor may choose to relax by the roaring double-hearth fireplace or take time for brunch at David’s Milwaukee Diner. A little wandering leads to high-ceilinged ballrooms, elegant meeting chambers and even a fully furnished library. Visitors who choose to explore the basement will discover a bowling alley, a recreational center and a spa.

The experience will not be complete, however, until those visitors have checked into one of the 40 themed rooms on the upper floors of this establishment.
Welcome to the Hotel Pattee.

“It’s an unusual hotel,” said Phil Stone, a resident of Perry, Iowa, the hometown of the Hotel Pattee. “As you travel around the state of Iowa and you say you’re from Perry, people say, ‘Oh, the hotel.’”

Stone and his wife, Cathy, are frequent guests to David’s Milwaukee Diner on the Hotel Pattee’s main floor.

“It’s a really classy place,” Cathy Stone said.

Galena, Illinois 

Tiny shops selling handmade jewelry and coffee mugs dot the winding main street of a gracefully aging downtown. Children tug their parents’ hands as they stroll past the local café and coffee shop.

“You feel like you’re in a little different time, a different place,” said Scott Bishop, a resident of Chicago who visited the town for a weekend.

Known for its art and architecture, Galena, Ill., thrives on tourists who enjoy stepping back in time, watching a potter create a teapot or receiving tips on how to make beaded jewelry.

Galena residents know their town offers more than souvenir shops to visitors. It offers a chance to appreciate many kinds of art.

Building a Foundation

Almost every building along the main street of Galena features a 19th-century Italianate rooftop, flat with scalloped overhangs. Scott Wolfe, historical librarian for the Galena Public Library District and historian at the Desoto House Hotel, said Galena has such well-preserved buildings because the town did not have adequate funding to renovate in the mid-20th century. Town officials opted to keep the old buildings, which still stand today on the aged downtown streets.

Friday Night Jamboree, Rockbridge, Missouri 

A sandstone-colored ’94 GMC backs into the grassy parking lot, muffler growling, checkered race flags adorning the rear window. The blue-jean-clad driver hops out into the cool Ozark dusk, moving swiftly but unhurriedly toward the bed of the pickup. Dropping the tailgate, he reaches into the back and deftly removes a large, black object with an unmistakable shape.

A double bass.

It’s Friday night, and for some Southwest Missourians, that means only one thing: the weekly gathering at Athel Jackson’s barn – the Friday Night Jamboree.

Tucked away in the Ozarks – the definitive region that belongs to itself more than any particular state – jam sessions are a tie that links a rocky history to the rocky terrain.

Somewhere between hardship and dignity, with roots in religion and war, tradition emerges in the form of a distinct and sometimes ancient musical repertoire.

Over the past 10 to 20 years, the traditional Ozark jam session, centuries in the making, has experienced an inexplicable revival. Jam sessions fill old schoolhouses, barns and homes five nights a week across southwest Missouri. Yet, the passing of a generation threatens to bring an end or at least a decline in not only the music but also a way of life.

Pee on the right tree, and your life changes.

Detours aren’t planned. Not by us travelers, anyway.

A true detour is a wild card. It takes you somewhere you never planned on going.

So, in the spirit of true “detouring,” I set out on this issue’s road trip with an open mind. No specific destination this time – just a full tank of gas, two cherry limeades, a Red Bull, bottled water and my worn-out travel atlas.

At noon Thursday – exactly when I was supposed to be in English class reading Steinbeck – I was driving to Iowa instead.

“Life is short. Take detours.”

The first thing you notice about Iowa is the absence of restrooms for hundreds of miles at a time. You’ll pass towns with names like “Waterville,” “Tanktown” and “Pedee,” but you won’t see a bathroom in any of them.

The second thing you’ll notice is a lone tree next to the highway whispering “pee on me” because you brought way too much to drink. Forty (or so) road trippers have peed on that tree.

Most of them will tell you there’s something inspiring about that frantic leak. As you’re shifting back and forth in mid-urination to stay hidden from traffic, you stop and enjoy that long overdue relief – nirvana for travelers. At that exact moment, if you listen closely enough, you’ll hear another whisper float down from the branches above you.

Bonne Terre Mine, Bonne Terre, Missouri  

    Deep underground, the Bonne Terre mine awaits a certain kind of explorer. 
Scuba diver Bob Dulay fits the bill—which is lucky considering Dulay drove 400 miles for the experience. 

The billion-gallon underground lake that used to be a working lead mine draws visitors year-round, but its winter temperature of 58 degrees pulls in the real crowds.

“Where else are you gonna go in the center of the nation in the middle of winter without freezing water or ice diving?” Bonne Terre manager Donna Jones asked.

Dulay and more than 60 other divers set off on this underwater adventure in late February in Bonne Terre, Mo. They traveled from cities as far as Indianapolis and Chicago in hope of an unforgettable experience.

And they found it in the Bonne Terre mine.

Osceola Cheese Company, Branson, Missouri

Susie White and her husband, Bill, climb into their late-model white pickup with a paper plate and a knife.

Two hours after they leave their home in Kansas City, Kan., a giant cartoon mouse on a neon purple billboard proclaims, “Six More Miles to the Osceola Cheese Company.”

Their final destination, Branson, Mo., is still more than two hours away, but the highlight of the trip is only five minutes down the road.

Six identical billboards later, Susie and Bill White cross a four-lane highway to turn into a two-acre parking lot. The Osceola Cheese Company rises before them.

Inside, they will find flavors such as chocolate, cranberry and apple cinnamon – varieties one generally finds in cereal aisles where hundreds of glossy box fronts promise sugar highs and cheap prizes.

But at the Osceola Cheese Company in Osceola, Mo., they are flavors of cheese.

The English Shop, St. Charles, Missouri 

A statue of a Buckingham Palace guard, complete with red coat and black bearskin hat, greeted the man at the door. Two shelves protruding from the guard’s stomach displayed a blue box of Jaffa Cakes, shortbread cookies and bottles of ginger beer – just a sample of the many food items The English Shop in downtown St. Charles, Mo., sells. 

The man refused what the guard had to offer. Brian Beardsley, of St. Charles, knew exactly what he needed and so did Eileen Prichard, owner of The English Shop.

“Kippers!” Prichard yelled when she saw Beardsley. She bustled out from behind the register to help him.

Kippers, or smoked herring, are something for which most Americans do not develop a taste, Prichard explained.

Beardsley agreed, but he wanted to buy them anyway for his mother. He said his mother loves kippers, but she is not like most Americans. Beardsley’s mother is from Bath, England.