By Doug Kirby and Ken Smith

updated 2:48 p.m. ET July 10, 2006

It's hard to explain why America is filling up with replica Stonehenges. Thousands of miles from England, on solitary vistas in places such as Alliance, Neb., and Fortine, Mont., citizens have taken it upon themselves to build their own Stonehenges, sometimes true to the original, sometimes merely inspired by it. It's an obsession as mysterious and primal as the original circle of rock slabs.

To give you an idea of Stonehenge’s power to bewitch, a professional stoneworker who worked on a nearly full-sized replica that went up in 2004 at the University of Texas, Permian Basin (in Odessa) said that he would be happy if he just built Stonehenges for the rest of his life. It's as if everyone has an inner Druid that yearns to be free.

At RoadsideAmerica.com, we have our own theories -- and our own obsession. For the past 20 years, in our books and Web site, we've catalogued hundreds of Old World landmarks rebuilt to American standards. But Stonehenge is special. We figure that the ancient megaliths must emit an invisible energy field powerful enough to enslave sculptors, builders, and the odd guy with too much time on his hands.

Sam Hill’s Stonehenge: Maryhill, Wash.
The first American replica Stonehenge, and still one of the most dramatic, was actually erected in error. Sam Hill, a wealthy railroad executive, known to history principally as an "advocate of good roads," built his Stonehenge in Maryhill, Wash., on a lonely bluff overlooking the Columbia River south of Goldendale. A pacifist, Hill mistakenly believed that Stonehenge had been a site of human sacrifice. By building a replica, he intended to memorialize the soldiers of Klickitat County who had lost their lives in World War I, a reminder that "humanity is still being sacrificed to the god of war."

roadsideamerica.com Stonehenge II, Kerrville, Texas

Sam Hill's Stonehenge, built to scale out of reinforced concrete, was dedicated in 1918 -- the first World War I monument in America -- but it wasn't finished until twelve years later. By then, Maryhill, an experimental Quaker community, had been abandoned, and Sam Hill, who was known for his erratic bursts of manic energy, was in a deep depression. He died in 1931, living just long enough to see his Stonehenge completed, and is buried in a lone grave at the base of the bluff.

America’s Stonehenge: North Salem, N.H.
Actually, whether or not Sam Hill’s Stonehenge is the first in America depends on how one defines a Stonehenge: do appearances matter most, or do spooky powers? If it's the latter, then the enigmatic "America's Stonehenge" in North Salem, N.H., wins the prize. It doesn't look anything like its namesake -- in fact, it looks like a wooded hillside of tumble-down rocks -- but it is the only American Stonehenge with an "oracle chamber," a "sacrificial stone," and other ominously named features.

America's Stonehenge claims to be the oldest megalithic site in America, but it's a boast that has been disputed, and the meaning of the place is open to anyone's interpretation. Was it built by ancient Greeks or Phoenicians? By wayward Irish monks, centuries before Columbus? Or by a New England farmer who just wanted a quiet spot to make soap and store roots? The curious are encouraged to ponder the mysteries here year-round, and in the winter the attraction thoughtfully rents snowshoes to its visitors.

The Georgia Guidestones: Nuberg, Ga.
After Sam Hill's Stonehenge was completed, none were built stateside for almost 50 years. Then a granite company outside of Nuberg, Ga., was approached by a mysterious stranger who called himself "R.C. Christian," which he admitted was a fake name. The stranger wanted a Stonehenge built -- he had a model of it in a shoe box -- and had selected Nuberg because it was remote and because it offered good granite. Mr. Christian reportedly left $50,000 in a local bank, told the locals that they would never see him again, and vanished forever.

The citizens of Nuberg, following Mr. Christian's detailed instructions, erected what are now known as the Georgia Guidestones on a windswept hilltop -- six granite monoliths, each nineteen feet tall. On the upright slabs, carved in eight different languages (including Swahili and Sanskrit), are Ten Commandments for the coming "Age of Reason," encouraging visitors to "unite humanity," "guide reproduction wisely," and "avoid useless officials." The Guidestones warn, "Be not a cancer on the earth."

Carhenge: Alliance, Neb.
A family reunion in 1987 produced what has become America's best-known quirky Stonehenge: "Carhenge," built in a dusty field outside of Alliance, Neb., under the supervision of farmer Jim Reinders, who meant it as a memorial to his dad. What made Carhenge unique was that it was made of, well, cars -- 38 of them, rescued from nearby farms and dumps. The Reinders family spray-painted the cars a flat gray to make the monument more accurate. Two foreign vehicles were originally part of Carhenge, but they were subsequently dragged away and buried, replaced by models from Detroit. The "heel stone" is a 1962 Caddy.

roadsideamerica.com At Carhenge, celebrants conduct a modern pagan ritual involving a weiner car.

The residents of Alliance at first wanted to tear down Carhenge. The Nebraska Department of Highways wanted to label it a "junkyard" and erect a big fence around it. But the animosity has long since passed, and signs on the outskirts of town now proudly identify Alliance as the "Home of Carhenge." Postcards are readily available and a visitors’ center is being built at the site. Carhenge has even spawned its own adjacent car-art sculpture park with local visionaries contributing such works as "The Fourd Seasons" (a tribute to wheat) and "The Carnastoga Wagon."

Carhenge may have finally gone mainstream, appearing in car commercials, and every road-culture photo book -- like its predecessor (and arguably its inspiration), the Cadillac Ranch.

Stonehenge II: Kerrville, Texas
Two years after Carhenge went up, the Stonehenge bug bit an eccentric, retired oilman named Al Shepperd of Kerrville, Texas. Al was given a large slab of limestone for his birthday, and he set it on end in a roadside pasture. To his dismay, no one noticed his rock. Convinced that drivers needed to pay attention, Al at first thought of filling the pasture with a pyramid, then a Polynesian temple, then a fake flying saucer crash site. He settled for a couple of Easter Island heads and "Stonehenge II," which claims to be 60 percent as large as the original.

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