KCFreePress.com

Happening upon Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary at 1:00 AM—during a thunderstorm—is interesting. If it is fall rather than summer, and the wind is arriving from more than one direction, it is even more interesting.

The facade of Leavenworth’s 114-year-old prison is assailed by a pack of fierce, throbbing lights. I arrived at the front lawn of the prison cautiously, from the south, by taking cagey turns through the quiet streets that sit ominously dark beneath the white glow that beckons, and warns, from the north. I was on Metropolitan Avenue, a few hundred yards from where the prison’s thick block sits, before I was ready. I drove past the entrance and the long, menacing prison exterior with watchful anxiety. The halogen bulbs that shine outside that prison are, without exception, the brightest light available at night.

Our cars offer a certain sense of protection from the world we hastily observe. In that slight cocoon, we are able to embrace our wonderments. To peek and glance at places and people that we want to know more about. The trade-off is that we must keep moving. Rarely does someone park to observe a car crash in total. Likewise, my fascination with the overwhelming nature of a federal prison at night is conflicted by my honest fear of all that it represents. To my right, watchful law enforcement officers heightened my discomfort with their parked and hidden cruisers, huddled beside a car-wash and sidelong to the street. This bizarre moment offered so much to see, and yet a healthy sense of fear kept me from driving too slow, or veering from my lane.

Moving east down Metropolitan Avenue, keeping the glaring prison entrance in my mirror’s view, I was soon distracted by lights nearly as bright as the prison’s. Directly east of the prison, the entrance to Fort Leavenworth invites patriots and wanderers with its over-sized Star-Spangled Banner and a cluster of over-lit gate stations. Consultation with a map reveals that in truth, the sprawling prison grounds are only a pocket within the greater fort territory that wrap it in three directions. The prison is the baleful child in the arms of a large, warm, and benevolent fort mother. At the colorful 7-Eleven across the street from the fort’s entrance, men in uniform buy Slurpees like they’re contraband, and run with open-mouthed smiles in the heavy rain. It is unsettling to so quickly experience fear, wonder, and finally comfort at the hand of a few illuminated structures at night.

Again, before I was ready, and with no turns left to take, I was eastbound over a bulging and loud bridge. All was dark beneath, and rain-pelted fog declared the river below. The Missouri River is a thread that ties itself through so many places, and yet it is a place unto itself. As is the case with many river towns—especially those that cross state lines—the other side of the river offered no sign of life save for the towering black trees. Metropolitan Avenue needs only a bridge to become Missouri Route 92. I drove for two miles before I had an opportunity to turn around. I idled there for a few minutes, staring across the road and pondering the hour. It was late, and I was wary to invite suspicion outside the entrances to both a federal prison and a fort. Fear and fatigue made the case for returning home. But my first visit to Leavenworth had made an impression, and I wanted to take a second pass.

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