On its beeline to Texas, US-83 doesn’t just cross Oklahoma; it forsakes it, merely nipping the panhandle for a 37-mile dash. When crossing the border three miles south of Liberal, among the first things you see are a trailer park, a couple of bars, and a bingo hot-spot. They’re inauspicious sights at best. And that’s not even mentioning the slate-flat, wicked badlands, with temperatures high enough in summer to occlude your vision of the blistering pavement, and preclude a drive at top speeds. After a while, you’re unable to conjure up synonyms for “endless,” though there’s plenty of time for it. Even the historical marker you think you eventually see winds up being in Texas.
The first town you come up to is diminutive Turpin, comprising a Phillips filling station now usurped by a Shamrock, farm equipment places, and a motel or two sans signs. Oh yes—there’s a stop sign at Balko, where US-83 crosses US-412.
And that’s it. Finito. You keep stretching the atlas over the steering wheel (no danger in these parts), wondering where the hell Gray is, and why you care. It’s supposed to be on this highway. You’re sure of it. But for some reason it never appears. Before you know it, Texas looms outside the windshield, and suddenly, there are lots of trees, and hills, and that historical marker you’ve been dreaming of.
