On the eve of his departure for a months-long backpacking road trip through the Great Plains, Patrick Dobson attempts to reassure his friends, who consider him foolhardy for setting off without the protection of a gun. “I want to meet people, not shoot them,” he declares, coining a phrase that, as his journey progresses, comes to represent a manifesto for open-hearted travel.
Propelled by leg power and the kindness of passing drivers, whose vehicles provide timely solace from hailstorms, dangerous stretches of highway, and bouts of exhaustion, Dobson meanders from Kansas City, MO to Helena, MT, hoping to meld with the landscape in a way that only slow travel can achieve. As Dobson explains, “I wanted to move slower, to feel the distance and lose myself in it. I wanted to know the plains more deeply than from conversations with strangers filling the gas tank or coffee thermos. With decent shoes and a backpack I would become familiar with the scenery and its people. I wouldn’t hitchhike. I would need no gas stations or interstates. I offered a ride, I would take it, but no further than the distance of a day’s walk. That was enough.”
The motive for Dobson’s wanderlust-- the frustration of working a dead-end job and growing complacent in a robotic routine—will resonate with anyone stuck in, numbed by, or otherwise dispirited with the workaday treadmill. Throughout the book, the quest to find the soul of the prairie, and belief in the redemptive power of that soul, raises a hopeful counterpoint to the decaying towns and hardscrabble lives (i.e., the “Seldom Seen”) that dot the grasslands. We root for the author because we want to believe in the merits of his journey, and verify the idea escaping drudgery requires only courage and an open heart for the open road. At its core, the narrative underscores this idea; each new chapter brings a catharsis as, like flowers waiting to bloom, the people and places Dobson encounters open up to him, as if his desire to break free catalyzes their own spirit potential. Additionally, we root for Dobson because his vulnerabilities remind us of our own struggles. Hints of backstory reveal humanizing angst: though highly educated, Dobson works a job unsuited to his skillset; a recovering alcoholic, he fights the demons that cost him time and relationships; a caring father, he seeks greater involvement in the life of his little girl, but his ex and his wanderlust thwart a closer connection. Ultimately, the psychological dimensions of the journey rival the physical dimensions, immersing the reader in a man-vs.-self conflict that, by the end of the book, brings the recognition that embracing humanity means relishing its dichotomies—“its mediocrity and beauty and ugliness, meanness and generosity, sadness and pain and joy.”
Rich with detail, the narrative proceeds quickly, with crisp descriptions (“Casper looked like a town that need a bath and a shave”) and deft use of storytelling tactics—active voice phrasings, appeal to the senses, and three-dimensional characters. Though limited to cameo appearances that rarely last more than a chapter, the characters Dobson encounters display quirks and attributes that infuse the tale with intrigue, making the prairie’s flat horizon come alive with multi-dimensional possibilities. At times, these characters serve as foils, conversational counterpoints by which Dobson refines and articulates his road-trip philosophy. In other instances, they show that behind small town facades lurk interesting oddities: a frustrated housewife who attempts to seduce the author while her husband sleeps in the other room; a misanthropic van-dweller who prefers the companionship of cats to the injustices (whether real or imagined) of people; a front desk clerk who moonlights as philosopher, dispensing enlightened commentary about human nature.
In a travelogue that spans a range of places and people, some experiences inevitably leave Dobson with a bitter taste. At a rodeo in touristy Jackson, Wyoming, an accident inflicts grave injuries on a contestant. The incident makes Dobson lament the random cruelties that society tolerates for the sake of profit. As disparaging thoughts about the rodeo owners and their tourist customers loop through his mind, Dobson feels a sense of guilt that inspires a longing for loving connections: “I hated myself for my part in putting that kid in danger. I had bought the ticket and been one of the spectators. I had been part of it. . .I wanted to go home and be with my daughter. Who was I kidding? Traveling across the country? To do what? To do what?” Such moments of self-doubt not only render Dobson a more authentic narrator but remind us that setting out on the road sometimes results in a more cherished notion of home.
Travel literature, like travel itself, impacts us most when it opens the door to discovery. Though set in America’s backyard, Seldom Seen takes the reader on a journey that encourages a fresh view of the Heartland. Along the way, it inspires us to open our hearts to the open road, and find what curiosities await in the geographies we call home.
