November 19: San Francisco to Yosemite National Park. Starting mileage: 37,495.
Our drive east across California on a Sunday morning was quiet, sunny, and we were happy. The sun was in our eyes, and the road sparkled. We passed vast grassy flatlands, farms and fields, vineyards, almond trees planted in rows, and pastures where black cows reigned. Today, we’d see Yosemite, THE third National Park, and OUR third National Park.
Ode to Scenic Vistas and Viewing Points
One of our favorite things to do was stop to stretch our legs at scenic vistas and viewing points. Mama Lucy took the opportunity to walk her Fitbit, while I made photographs. Whether they’re called Observation Points, Scenic Turn-outs, Scenic Overlooks, Vista Points–all viewpoints have handsome views. But not all viewpoints are themselves scenic. Amidst the allure of the surrounding area, these viewing spaces are usually paved parking lots, sometimes populated by picnic tables, bathrooms, and overflowing trash cans. But, at this one, I noticed the lovely blonde hair-like grasses and admired the peaceful viewpoint as much as “the view”.
The Rim Wildfire Area
As we passed through Stanislaus National Forest and neared Yosemite National Park, we entered an area blackened by a forest fire. We stopped at another viewpoint, and stood staring at a barren valley full of leafless, toothpick trees. Above us, massive power lines hummed and crackled. A sign directed us to hear more about the Rim Fire.
The Rim Fire broke out in mid-August 2013, caused by a hunter’s illegal campfire. He stupidly lit a fire during a hot, dry, windy time when a fire ban was in place. The fire burned more than 90,000 acres in just a matter of days. Finally, nine weeks later, the fire was contained. But it was a full year before the smoldering fire was declared “out”. In the end, the Rim Fire destroyed more than 100 buildings. Fortunately, no humans died. I can only imagine how much more devastating this was for the wildlife–how many nests or dens destroyed? How many animal deaths? The hunter was charged with a felony, though the charges were later dropped because the only two witnesses against him died.
Yosemite!
Yosemite is the USA’s third National Park, established in 1890. Abraham Lincoln first protected the land in 1864 with the Yosemite Grant. But still development continued. Farm animals grazed in the valley. Hunters poached wildlife. More tourists came. More roads were built. Naturalist and conservationist John Muir argued for greater protection, and in 1890, the Yosemite Act passed. This act protected the trees in Sequoia National Park (the second park, beating Yosemite by about two weeks) and the natural formations and minerals in Yosemite.
Thankfully, passionate John Muir continued to argue for a greater idea to preserve and protect the great wild lands of America. One night in 1903, around a campfire in Yosemite with President Theodore Roosevelt, Muir made his point. The idea for the National Park Service was born. While the Park Service was not officially up and running until 1916, a 1906 Act formally gave Yosemite to the United States for protection. The National Park Service…America’s Best Idea. Thank you John Muir!
On the Valley Floor, Yosemite National Park
At last, we drove down to the Valley Floor and to the foot of El Capitan. There are no words to describe the scale beyond the fields of high grass, where the double-decker Yosemite waterfall fell from a massive granite mountain. Tiny people crossed the field in front of us.
The sun leaves the valley
We left Yosemite’s Valley floor just after the sun did. Driving out of the canyon, we watched the sun ride up the granite cliffs. We’d make it to our hotel in Merced, California after dark. Happy and exhausted, we were delighted to learn that nearby Mountain Mike’s Pizza had a salad bar!
Finally, if you’re going on a road trip, please support your NATIONAL PARKS! The $80 spent on an annual pass was THE BEST $80 spent on our trip. We are lucky that such ardent and influential people moved on an idea to protect such magical and majestic places. Go! See the parks. Appreciate the last remaining wild spaces. And thank your lucky stars that someone had the foresight and passion to care and fight for nature.
November 17: Eureka to San Francisco. Starting mileage: 37,127.
From the quiet majesty of the redwoods, we were now on our way to the hubbub of busy San Francisco. It was once again, a beautiful day for a drive. Remembering our Road Trip Lesson #1–“the road is the trip too”–we took our time. We drove south down US-101, stopping at Redcrest’s tiny post office, Humboldt Redwoods State Park for a few walks along the Avenue of the Giants, and in Willets for a diner lunch at a place called Lumberjack’s. Besides abiding by Road Trip Lesson #6 to always opt to eat at a local diner, who could resist a place with an ax-carrying mannequin out front?
Staying in San Francisco
We got our first glimpse of the Golden Gate Bridge as we passed out of a tunnel, almost at golden hour. The sun’s setting light tinged everything with warmth and welcome. US-101 is the road that goes over the Golden Gate Bridge, and after that and a dramatic left turn through the Presidio, we arrived at our centrally-located hotel, right there on the old highway. So many fantastic old hotel signs, remnants of another era.
In the big cities, I’d looked for hotels where we could park the car, and take public transportation and/or walk. This one was perfectly located, and though not the poshest hotel, it was clean and cozy. And from the balcony, we could see the Golden Gate Bridge…just to the right of a massive billboard touting the coming-soon Apple iPhone X.
November 18: Lombard Street
Lucky us! Our hotel was on US-101, which also turns out to be Lombard Street. After a few blocks walk–or should I say, CLIMB up Lombard–we arrived at the top of the hill. One side is pin-straight, all the way back past the old highway’s hotels. On the other side, Lombard Street becomes the crookedest street in America.
The story goes that this block, with its 27% grade, was just too steep for cars. As a result, property values were lower for residents. Eventually, someone thought of terracing and in 1922, Lombard Street got its curved switchbacks. Originally a two-way street, it became one way, down hill, in 1939. Over the years, hydrangeas were planted to ease erosion. Sometime during the late 1950s-early 1960s, a photograph of a blooming, colorful Lombard Street became popular and was printed on a postcard. Today, it is estimated that more than 300 cars per hour make their way down the narrow turns, and gobs of tourists hoof it down the block’s 250 steps. No wonder the houses have so many gates, ivy, and hedges! As we took our time walking down, we tried not to gawk into resident’s “front yards”, but we did admire their gardening, and their parking skills.
Cable Cars!
Next, we headed for the cable cars. We’d heard the clanging bells and had waved back at the people hanging off the sides, waving and laughing. Our destination was the Powell-Hyde Cable Car turnaround spot in Ghirardelli Square. From there, we’d go to the Powell St. Station at Market Street.
It is said that the San Francisco cable car system came from Andrew Smith Hallidie, who witnessed a horrible accident in 1869. A horse-drawn carriage slipped on the steep-graded, wet, cobblestone street and slid backwards. The heavy vehicle dragged five horses down the hill to their deaths. Hallidie was inspired to do something about it–using wire rope to design a method to pull these cable cars. They were tested and rolled out in 1873.
We were the first riders on the next Powell-Hyde cable car. At this early hour, it wasn’t yet crowded. We marveled at the hills, the clanging of the bell as we passed through intersections, and the pushing/pulling of the conductor’s controls. It was too quick a ride and we were soon at Market Street.
Cable Car, Streetcar, Trolley, or Muni?
Now, who knows the difference between all the trolley cars, cable cars, streetcars, light rail, and subway cars? I find it ridiculously confusing…which made it tricky to figure out how to get the MUNI to go out to see friends and meet their dogs. We got a lot of coaching from friends over text and phone calls, and from some kind strangers in the MUNI station and on the bus…or trolley…or in Chicagoan, “the el”…maybe?
Here’s what I learned:
Cable cars run on steel rails with a slot between the tracks where an underground cable runs at a continuous nine miles per hour. To move forward, the conductor operates what are essentially pliers to grip, or let go of, the moving cable.
Streetcars also run on steel rails, but with no slot between the tracks, and no underground cable. The streetcars have onboard electric motors and require a trolley pole to draw power from an overhead wire. They are sometimes called trolley cars.
Some trolleys have rubber tires and no steel rails, but they are electric and draw power from overhead wires. These are called trolley coaches or trolley buses.
There’s also the Muni Metro Light rail. To this Chicagoan, this resembles a short subway train, but on the ground and attached to overhead wires.
And finally, there’s BART–Bay Area Rapid Transit–which is a traditional elevated and subway rail system all over the Bay area.
Confusing, no?
Quick visits with good friends
In any case, we found our way out to my friends’ house. It was a nice ride out, through a Saturday afternoon in typical San Francisco neighborhoods. Road Trip Lesson #4 is to seize the moments, so we crammed in this super quick visit. We had a rambunctious welcome from two wiggle-butt mutts and big hugs from good friends. After a short visit, with some much-needed puppy playtime, and a sandwich lunch, we had to be on our way. We got a ride back into town past the Painted Ladies, said our goodbyes, and got in line for another cable car ride back to our neighborhood to meet another friend. Life is short! Make it work!
Another cable car ride, another friend, and another diner
The cable cars were much busier now. Our wait was about an hour. Finally, we boarded–Mama Lucy sitting, and me hanging off the side. What a ride! We stopped in the middle of an intersection for a shift change and traded one loquacious conductor for another. We were told to watch our heels so they didn’t drag on street pylons, and tuck in our butts in traffic. !!! Up and over, up and over. Hills came and went. The bells clanged. People chased the cable car wanting to board and the conductor roared “Next Car!” like a lion song. We were giddy by the time we got back to Ghirardelli Square.
Here, we’d meet another friend for a bit of site-seeing in her car, and later a diner dinner at Mel’s. Genuine chocolate malts and dancing in the booth to YMCA by the Village People at Mel’s, followed by a glass of wine later near the Wharf wrapped up our time in San Francisco. Such great friends, and such a beautiful place to live.
November 19: San Francisco to Yosemite. Starting mileage: 37,495.
We woke the car up early, loading her up to get out of town before San Francisco got busy. According to Road Trip Lesson #5, we asked Siri for help getting out of the city and she directed us calmly across town and out over the Bay Bridge.
Thanks for a great visit San Francisco! Hope to see y’all again soon!
November 15: Portland to the California Redwoods. Starting mileage: 36,776.
We left Portland in a heavy rain. Today, we were headed for the coastal redwood trees in California. I couldn’t wait to see those giant, ancient beings–straight and tall–lining our road.
As we drove along, we saw fields of crops–labeled for city people like us. We called out the names on the signs and admired the plants as we passed: broccoli, hazelnuts, clover, forage, fescue, rye grass, and winter wheat.
Welcome to California
After a little while, we came upon a “Welcome to California” sign, followed by an Agricultural Inspection Point with a sign reading “All vehicles must stop”. We pulled over, and were quickly waved through by the ranger, “Have a good afternoon ladies!” Soon, there was a tunnel, and not long after, the first redwood. Unmistakable…the presence of those surely sentient trees, waiting along the road, welcoming or watching. We were in the Redwood National and State Parks.
November 16: Crescent City to Eureka, California. Starting mileage: 37,113
The next morning, we started out early. We’d drive slowly south, weaving around and through the various parks that make up the Redwood National and State Parks system. What a moody day as we drove into a deep fog cloud, then a misting rain, and a hard rain–driving among the giants.
About the Redwood Tree
Coastal Redwoods are some of the oldest living things on earth, 1,200–1,800 years or more, with one estimated to be 2,200 years old. They are tall–the tallest living things on earth at 375+ feet. Coast redwoods can reproduce from tiny seed cones or by sprouting from a root crown, stump, or even fallen redwoods. Despite their great height, the roots only extend down six to twelve feet. But the roots can extend up to 100 feet from the tree’s base, intertwining with the roots of others, all holding on to each other, which greatly increases their stability. These groves are like families, and for this reason, redwoods are often in a line or fairy-ring circle.
Sequoia sempervirens (redwoods) are only found on the Pacific coast, from southern Oregon through central California. They can not live more than 50 miles inland because they need the fog and precipitation from the incoming moisture off the ocean. The tallest and oldest trees are found in deep valleys and gullies, where rainfall is high, year-round streams flow, and fog is regular. The redwoods drink fog: ~40% of their water intake is condensed fog.
John Steinbeck’s Redwood Encounter in Travels with Charley
“The redwoods, once seen, leave a mark or create a vision that stays with you always. No one has ever successfully painted or photographed a redwood tree. The feeling they produce is not transferable. From them comes silence and awe. It’s not only their unbelievable stature, nor the color which seems to shift and vary under your eyes, no, they are not like any trees we know, they are ambassadors from another time.
They carry their own light and shade. The vainest, most slap-happy and irreverent of men, in the presence of redwoods, goes under a spell of wonder and respect…. One feels the need to bow to unquestioned sovereigns. There’s a cathedral hush here. Perhaps the thick soft bark absorbs sound and creates a silence. The trees rise straight up to zenith; there is no horizon…. The green fernlike foliage so far up strains the sunlight to a green gold and distributes it in shafts or rather in stripes of light and shade. To me, there’s a remote and cloistered feeling here. One holds back speech for fear of disturbing something–what?
And only these few are left—a stunning memory of what the world was like once long ago. Can it be that we do not love to be reminded that we are very young and callow in a world that was old when we came into it?
― John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley: In Search of America, 1962
A few photos to try and show the magic:
Their one-foot thick, soft fibrous bark makes them extremely fire-resistant. They are also extremely resistant to insects and rot. Indeed, it is said that their number one enemy is humankind. Redwoods are listed as endangered because of declining populations due to urban development and logging. Since logging began in the 1850s, 95 percent of old-growth coast redwoods have been cut down (source: Sempervirens Fund). Today, the four parks in the Redwood National and State Parks system, together, protect only 45% of all remaining redwood old-growth forests, totaling about 39,000 acres. Redwoods are listed as Endangered on the IUCN Red List because of decreasing populations.
Reverence
I am not religious. But I do believe in something greater, a spirit bigger than our individual selves. These trees embody that. The stillness, the rain, the very presence of the trees, inspire an awe and reverence that I cannot articulate. We are here now, among these divine spirits. How patient they are with the often greedy, cruel humans who are just a moment in their long lives.
I’m drawn to them, and could happily lose myself walking among their trunks in the fog and rain. We walked in silence around them, on a path through a quiet forest with only the sound of dripping rain. I held one of their tiny seed cones, less than one-inch long. And they held me in their midst, among their groves. I took some silence, some calm, some hope with me that day.
November 12: Roslyn, Washington to Seattle. Starting mileage: 36,363.
Today, we began a three-night whirlwind across the Pacific Northwest. We left Roslyn for one night in Seattle, one night at the Pacific Ocean, and one night in Portland. Despite the overcast skies and the frequent rain squalls, it was not enough time in any one of these places.
Over the Snoqualmie Pass to Seattle
We drove out of Northern Exposure’s Cicely heading west over the Cascade Mountain Range, and passed over Snoqualmie Pass just before a snow storm. First, we would spend a day in Seattle with my step-brother seeing the views from Columbia Center Tower and the Space Needle, riding the Light Rail and Monorail, and catching up over a couple of meals.
November 13: Seattle to Ocean Shores, Washington. Starting mileage: 36,445.
Early the next morning, Mama Lucy and I stopped by Pike’s Place Market for a walk around and a stash of food: savory potato and cheese pirogies from Piroshky Piroshky, light, fluffy and yummy chocolate croissants from Le Panier, and hot coffee from the very first Starbucks. It’s no wonder Starbucks sprouted in Seattle. Hot coffee tastes extra special in that rainy, foggy environment.
We left a partly sunny Seattle. Next, we planned to stay an afternoon and night at the Pacific Ocean. I’d researched carefully to find a hotel as close to the ocean as possible so that we could enjoy a walk on the beach and the sounds of the Pacific at night. However, weather reports told us we were driving into a storm.
Ocean Shores and an angry Pacific Ocean
The further west we drove, the darker the skies became. Soon, the wind and the rain came. By the time we reached the northern peninsula separating Gray’s Harbor from the ocean, the wind gusts were punching the car. We marveled at how much the trees lining the road could bend, and drove cautiously past blue signs noting this was a “Tsunami Hazard Area”, and we were on a “Tsunami Evacuation Route”. The Pacific, sometimes visible between houses and forests, was angry, tossing waves high and hard into the shoreline. We pulled in to an empty parking lot at the Best Western Lighthouse Suites Inn. The wind nearly blew the door off the car when we got out. Thankfully, we were able to check in early and we tucked in to our cozy room to watch the storm.
Wind swept the grasses; white caps were visible in the fog and mist. This was not a pacified Pacific, but a wide, wild expanse of fury. We sat in our little living room, picnicking on our Pike’s Place market pirogies and croissants. Despite the storm charge in the air, it was a quiet, relaxing afternoon. We read, did laundry, journaled, talked, and daydreamed. We were two of just eighteen guests at the hotel that day. Later, I’d dreamed of waves and flying over mountains like a bird.
November 14: Ocean Shores, WA to Portland, OR. Starting mileage: 36,596.
The next morning, the rain seemed to have tapered, but the wind was still raging. Regardless, I walked to the beach to pay respects to the Pacific Ocean…and to thank it for not coming for us during the night. The waves were syncopated, nearly constant and loud. The sand skidded and swirled across the beach. Seagulls sat in forlorn groups near dunes, soaked and caked in muddy sand. I took photos and tried to avoid the sand blasting my eyes and my camera. Sand stung my cheeks, stuck to my hair, and blew into my mouth. The seagulls came closer–one in particular looked like he was asking for help. I wished I’d brought bread. As I took a photo of him with our hotel in the background, the rain returned. There was lightning. I couldn’t hear the thunder for the roar of the Pacific. Turning my back on the wind (but not the ocean!), I pushed my camera into a bag and said “Goodbye” to the Pacific and “Good Luck” to the seagull. I was soaked to the skin by the time I got back to the room.
Storm at the Pacific Ocean
Turns out, this windstorm was extremely powerful. Winds were sustained at 30-40 mph and gusted to 60 mph. There was a high surf advisory and “significant beach erosion and wave run-up was possible”. Trees were falling. Power lines were coming down. Heavy rain was coming. We didn’t know all that at the time, and went about packing up and loading out. Mama went down for the luggage cart while I changed into dry clothes. And then, the power went out. A pop, a flicker, then silence.
Oh no, Mama would be in the elevator by now! I grabbed the key and ran out of the room towards the elevator, yelling for her. The place was eerily quiet. I heard no other guests, just the wind whipping the flags and the windows. The hallways were lit only by window light. Doors were closed in places I had not even noticed had doors. The stairwell emergency light was on. Just as I hit the darkened lobby, Mama walked out of the elevator. She’d been stuck in the dark elevator for about two minutes. Thankfully, she’d rung the bell and the receptionist got her out on the ground floor right away. They told us that the power was out because of a lightning strike, and just how bad this storm was. Fortunately, the power was out for only about 30 minutes.
On the road to Portland, Oregon
As we drove out of Ocean Shores, we marveled at the raw power of nature, and the fine line this community lived on there next to the powerful Pacific Ocean.
This area of the country has such a fragrant, fresh, stunning beauty because of the trees, mountains, and the rain. However, the logging of trees provides income to the residents. As a result, it is common to see fresh-cut tree logs piled high on semi-trucks, and logs and lumber stacked high at roadside factories. I wondered if the trees along the roads mourned their fallen kin.
Finally, we were in Portland for one big reason…to see our friend Tonya and eat at her pizza place, Via Chicago. She makes the pizzas from scratch. If you’re in Portland, you won’t regret stopping by for a tasty Chicago pizza pie.
November 10: Nampa, Idaho to Rosyln, Washington. Starting mileage: 35,946.
We trekked across the northeastern corner of Oregon and north into Washington in a misty fog and rainy snow. We passed Christmas tree farms, wind turbines, signs warning of “Severe Sidewinds Ahead”, and so many trucks carrying logs. This is the Great Pacific Northwest or Cascadia–an area known for environmentalism, coffee drinking, grunge music, and weather-induced depression.
We were headed for a mythical town: Cicely, Alaska from Northern Exposure.
In real life, the town is called Roslyn, Washington and it is where the TV series, Northern Exposure, was filmed from 1990-1995. The program was quirky, intelligent, kind, funny, full of special people with astute observations, and had so many wise and magical moments. There was Chris Stevens broadcasting from KBHR, Holling Vincouer and Shelly Tambo at the Brick, Indian filmmaker Ed Chigliak, out-of-place New Yorker Dr. Joel Fleishmann, pilot Maggie O’Connell, retired astronaut Maurice Minnifield, quiet Marilyn Whirlwind, level-headed Ruth-Anne Miller, bombastic Adam and Eve, mysterious One-Who-Waits, Chris’ twin Bernard, The Brick’s Dave, Ruth-Anne’s Walt… These people, their town, and their eccentric ways enchanted us. It was as if we knew them, spent an hour in Cicely with them every week. Even today, putting in a Northern Exposure DVD is like sitting down with dear, old friends. What a profound, exceptional, and beautiful place literally and figuratively. The town of Roslyn was Cicely. And the town exists.
Pilgrimage
We arrived in the late afternoon and checked in to the Huckleberry House on the hill. It was a no frills room–in a no TV, no internet, no breakfast “Bed and Breakfast”. But there was a shared coffee maker and refrigerator and it was just a 3-minute walk to great breakfasts at Rosyln Cafe. We spent our time there walking around the buildings featured in the show. We had meals in the Brick and at Village Pizza. Mama Lucy wasn’t a Northern Exposure viewer and missed having a TV and the internet in the evenings. Regardless, we enjoyed the time to walk, reflect, and get some of that fresh mountain air.
Let go of that cow, and fling something
As I walked around Cicely/Roslyn, I imagined seeing Chris sitting in the KBHR booth, or that I’d see Shelly running across the street to Ruth-Anne’s, or maybe Ed would come around the corner with a smile. And I fell in love with the cozy colorful homes, with the plumes of smoke coming from chimneys over tin roofs. I imagined tucking in to a sweet little house with books and a dog or two. Maybe things would be different here. More creatively stimulating. More thoughtful. More there in the moment. Maybe just more life.
It’s been such a strange few years. We’ve felt a little lost. And while some changes may be good for us, some changes just suck. There is no map to figure it out, to see how long the bad roads will last, or which way to go to smooth it out. We wander around until we wander out. Or maybe I just need to fling something.
The Fling…From the episode “Burning Down the House”
Chris:“I’ve been here now for some days, groping my way along, trying to realize my vision here. I started concentrating so hard on my vision that I lost sight. I’ve come to find out that it’s not the vision, it’s not the vision at all. It’s the groping. It’s the groping, it’s the yearning, it’s the moving forward. I was so fixated on that flying cow that when Ed told me Monty Python already painted that picture, I thought I was through. I had to let go of that cow so I could see all the other possibilities.
Anyway, I want to thank Maurice for helping me to let go of that cow. Thank you Maurice for playing Apollo to my Dionysus in art’s Cartesian dialectic. And thanks to you, Ed, cause the truth shall set us free! And Maggie, thank you for sharing in the destruction of your house so that today we could have something to fling.
I think Kierkegaard said it oh so well, ‘The self is only that which it’s in the process of becoming.’ Art? Same thing. James Joyce had something to say about it too. ‘Welcome, Oh Life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience, and to forge in the smythe of my soul the uncreated conscious of my race.’
We’re here today to fling something that bubbled up from the collective unconsciousness of our community. Ed, you about ready? The thing I learned folks, this is absolutely key: It’s not the thing you fling. It’s the fling itself. Let’s fling something, Cicely!”
If you are a Northern Exposure fan, you’ll probably like these links.
First, put on some music. Because of music rights issues, the original tunes didn’t always make it to the DVDs. But some good soul has pulled together a lot of the music into a Spotify Playlist.
Read more about each episode at Moosechick. Really, a fantastic resource.
Also, there’s recent news that a return to Cicely is in the works. Will they really reboot it? Will it be great, like the original?
My mom and I were on a seven-week road trip across the USA. We were now headed north from the desolate, high desert of Utah, and west into the lush area known as Cascadia and the Pacific Northwest.
November 8: Moab to Ogden, Utah. Starting mileage: 35,334.
When we left our brand new hotel in Moab, workers were finally hanging the sign. It was windy, and red sand scattered across the road like snow. We were so happy about seeing Arches National Park yesterday. And though the poor car was still a dusty mess, we were leaving Moab with clean clothes and great memories.
Today, the plan was to drive north, mosey through Salt Lake City, and then drive over the seven-mile causeway out to Antelope Island in the Great Salt Lake for a meal before going to our hotel in Ogden.
Leaving Moab’s Desert
The day started on a high desert, two-lane road with frequent turn-outs near Arches and Canyonlands National Parks. Red cliffs surrounded us on this otherwise empty desert plateau. We saw a raven dive down and carry off what looked like a squirrel. We started keeping a weather eye open for cows on the road after seeing a sign warning drivers of “Free Range Cattle”. And when we saw a sign that Green River would be the last services for 110 miles, we pulled over there for gas.
Americana in the Book Cliffs
The landscape became scrub grass on hills, sometimes with mountains like wrinkled grey elephant legs standing in the background. Empty land stretched for miles, with a high ridge of cliffs running beside the road. In a few hours, we passed through Wellington. The 50 & 6 Diner was closed, a school bus sat “for sale” on the roadside, several shops had “for rent” signs, service stations were boarded up, and ragged houses sat close to the road like they were about to thumb rides out of town.
Later we’d pass through Helper, Utah: a railroad / mining town with modest little houses stuffed into the land between the railroad tracks and the road. The traditional main street was empty. The playground was empty. Stores were closed. Old-fashioned Christmas decorations hung from light poles on Main Street. Were they recently hung, or had they been hanging for since the 1950s? A town fading into a ghost town. Or was it? The delightfully-named Pick and Rail Supermarket was open. What must it be like to live in this small, old town? How I’d love to spend some time in these old towns, exploring the buildings, the history, and what once was.
Salt Lake City and the Great Salt Lake
Our plan was to do a slow, scenic drive through Salt Lake City before having a late lunch at a restaurant on Antelope Island in the Great Salt Lake. We drove around Temple Square and the Mormon Tabernacle, the Utah State Capitol, and stumbled upon the Family History Library where FamilySearch.org lives. I’ve done a good bit of family research, and this is another place I would love to park for a few days to explore.
The Great Salt Lake is big…75 miles by 35 miles. I’ve seen it from the air, an awesome size, at the foot of the mountains and outlined in white and green brine. The lake is similar to the Dead Sea, so salty that swimming is like floating. While fish can’t live in the lake, the surrounding wetlands support thousands of migratory and nesting birds. We wanted to stand on the shores of the lake and see it’s expanse. Antelope Island was the place to do that.
We turned left at Syracuse, and headed towards the causeway out to the island. Antelope Island State Park has dry, native grasses that support herds of bison and bighorn sheep. The island has limited facilities, and is accessible via a seven-mile causeway into the lake. We were the only car on the road to the toll booth, and learned that “everything out there is closed for the season.” Before paying the $10 toll or park entrance fee, we pulled over to consider our options. We were hungry. While we had a few snacks in the car, we were running low on water. It would be at least a two, maybe three, hour excursion–driving out there, site-seeing around the deserted and desolate island, and driving back. We decided to skip it in favor of getting to our Ogden hotel before dark.
November 9: Ogden, Utah to Nampa, Idaho. Starting mileage: 35,623.
In the morning, we drove out of Ogden, Utah past the top part of the Great Salt Lake. Today’s road would take us kitty-corner across the bottom of Idaho’s L towards Boise. It was a day of driving through land that looked uninhabited. But the roadside signs suggested times could get interesting around here:
“Dust storm area”
“Game Crossing”
“Deer Migration Area”
“Report Wildfire”
“Frequent High Winds”
“Blinding Blowing Snow”
“Drowsy drivers – Pull off ahead”
Hey Idaho, where are the taters?!
Now, I’m a big fan of potatoes–perhaps their biggest cheerleader. I love potatoes any way they’re prepared and swear I could eat them day-in and day-out, morning, noon, and night. Add a little cheese and a cup of coffee, and well, that’s about all I need to survive. So I was pretty excited about having a few potato dishes when we passed through Idaho. Unbelievably, this was not to be.
We pulled over for a diner lunch after seeing a sign for the Fudge Factory Cafe in Glenn’s Ferry. My mouth was already watering, as my brain vividly imagined a homemade cheesy hash brown casserole or a twice-baked potato loaded with cheese and veggies. This was another of those quiet, ghosted little towns sitting along railroad tracks. We drove around empty streets until we found the Fudge Factory Cafe, which also looked eerily empty. Nope. We kept moving.
Just about an hour later, we pulled into the Black Bear Diner in Boise, Idaho for a late lunch. Would you believe they didn’t serve baked potatoes until after 5 p.m.? In IDAHO?! We sadly went to bed that night…potato-less…in Idaho.
November 10: Nampa, Idaho, through the northeast corner of Oregon, and on to Washington state. Starting mileage: 35,946.
We got back on the road in the morning in a dense fog, or maybe it was smog from the Ore-Ida factory near the border of Oregon. Silly me, only then did I realize where the frozen hash brown king gets the name! On this 39 degree morning, four people sat smoking on a front porch of a tumbling down house near the border, a tiny neighborhood street stuck there amidst the factory setting. Like so many places we’d see on this trip, we relished seeing the different landscapes–sometimes empty land for miles with hard rocks and ridges for textures, or soft, colorful fields cloaking the hillsides and valleys. And sprinkled throughout, these old houses and old Main Streets sit, with old ways of life slowly fading away.
Soon, we’d pass through a beautiful pass with blonde grass in Oregon, high above the valley and high above the clouds. We could have stayed up there for hours watching the wind ruffle the grass and listening to the silence.
November 6: Grand Junction, CO to Moab, UT. Starting mileage 35,144.
Back in Denver, we’d gotten advice on places to see and things to do. One strong recommendation was to fill up the gas tank as often as possible once we got out into the more remote areas of the wild west. Like the possibility of snow in Rocky Mountain Novembers, this wasn’t something I’d thought about, but of course, it made sense. So, near the turn-off for Moab, we pulled into Papa Joe’s for gas…and quickly pulled out again. $4.99 a gallon! That was more than $2.00 a gallon higher than anywhere else we’d seen so far. Outrageous!
No worries, we soon found a reasonably-priced filling station and continued on into Moab. We stopped first thing in Arches National Park Guest Center to get familiar with what to see and how to see it. We decided that given the time and our hunger, we’d save the park for tomorrow. But we did whet our appetite by pouring over the postcards, picking up park maps, and watching the introductory video. This place was going to be amazing!
Finding our Brand New Hotel
After dinner at the Moab Grill, we went to check-in at our second Springhill Suites by Marriott Hotel. We had an address for Siri, but she never said a word. We drove out of Moab. Where was the hotel? It was supposed to be the closest hotel to Arches National Park. We drove back in to Moab. Nothing. We turned around and drove more slowly back the other way, out of Moab. And, back in again. What the heck? We pulled in to a parking lot and made a phone call for directions. The lady on the phone described the building, and the turn off just past the river. The hotel had only been open for four days, and they hadn’t put the sign up yet.
A few minutes later, we pulled into the right parking lot and drove around the unmarked building looking for a lobby door. Lucky for us, check-in was easier than finding the place, or the door to get in. The fireplace was lit in the lobby, and we lingered there for a minute before finding a luggage cart to take our bags up. We’ve never stayed in such a new place! Our room had never been slept in. Everything smelled new and clean–from the woodwork, dry wall construction and fresh paint, to the brand new sheets and towels, and spotless carpeting. What a treat!
Doing Laundry on the Road
We had left Chicago and Nashville about 10 days ago and we were running out of clean clothes. Thankfully, the hotel had a coin-operated laundry room for guests. For $10.00, we did two loads of laundry, while catching up on journals and photo downloads. Not a bad way to spend an evening, considering the crazy days of driving we’d had recently.
November 7: Arches National Park. Starting mileage 35,264.
We were up and out early the next morning. Today, we were using our National Park Annual Pass for the first time. Arches would be the first of many national parks we’d see on our road trip.
National Parks
In 1872, President Ulysses S. Grant signed a bill that created our first national park, Yellowstone. The National Park System was established 44 years later by The Organic Act of 1916: “to conserve the scenery and the natural and historic objects and wildlife therein, and to provide for the enjoyment of the same in such manner and by such means as will leave them unimpaired for the enjoyment of future generations.” Today, the U.S. National Park system contains 60 National Parks and a number of national monuments and historical sites.
Our National Parks are treasures. They are sweeping and majestic scenery preserved for us, and native animals. They are history saved and remembered for us. And as Ken Burns and PBS say, they are America’s Best Idea. An annual pass is just $80 and allows a carful of people to enter any of our national parks. I cannot recommend the parks or the pass enough.
Arches National Park
We proudly showed our National Park Annual Pass to the Park Ranger at the entry gate that morning. I smiled and stared at his Smokey the Bear hat as he handed down a newspaper map with the formations, roads, and trails. And then we began our drive into the park…up, up, up. The road twisted and turned, doubling back on the mountain’s ridge as we climbed into the park and the Ranger’s station got smaller and smaller below us.
Originally named a national monument in 1929, Arches was re-designated a full-on National Park in November 1971. In its 76,000 acres, Arches National Park contains more than 2,000 natural sandstone arches and unique rock formations with descriptive names like Balanced Rock, the 3 Gossips, and Sheep Rock.
On the morning we entered, the sun turned the rocks orange against a blue, blue sky and a full white moon lingered in the horizon just above the rocks. Arches was a complete surprise to us. We hadn’t planned to be here and we were blown away by the place. Just a few minutes into the drive, Mama Lucy asked that we stop to clean the windows for better viewing opportunities.
A Day in Arches National Park
It appeared that we were the first car into the park that morning, because when we pulled over at La Sal Mountains Viewpoint, all we heard was the wind in the desert. The sun warmed us as we looked out at stone formations called the 3 Gossips, Sheep Rock, The Tower of Babel, and The Organ. My-oh-my, what an astonishing view!
We spent the day like this…driving a little way, hopping out to walk a bit and photograph a lot, and gawking and expressing our happiness that our changed plans had allowed us to see this place. The park is easily accessible and you can see a lot from the car, or from short, easy walks. There are longer and more intense hikes for people who can do it. Overall, we were thrilled that Mama Lucy could experience so much without very long or too strenuous walks. Another reminder of what the National Parks System has done to preserve and to share the nation’s great beauty for all of us to see and enjoy.
Walks, Lunch, and Taking Care of the Parks
We took short, easy trails to sit beneath Balanced Rock, to walk on the eyelids of the windows that form the Double Arch, to see the sand dunes arch, and to have a picnic lunch among the scrub jays, crows, and tiny chipmunk-like critters near The Devil’s Garden.
I was glad we’d packed lunch and could sit in the sun to eat. We had left over croissants and fruit from breakfast, plus salty snacks, and fresh water in our own Rubbermaid water vessels filled up at the Park’s visitor center. We were very careful to dispose of trash in the ample trash bins along the park’s main road. The parks are a brilliant reminder of how pristine the land can be when humans take care.
At the end of the day
As the day wore on, we wore out. We crammed in as many of the short trails as we could muster. The temperature warmed up and the light changed so that the formations we’d seen in the morning looked different by afternoon. And of course, we had to stop again for more, different photographs.
Late in the afternoon, we stopped back by the Visitors Center to buy, write, and mail postcards from Arches while we were still in the park. We’d decided on a car wash and dinner at McStiff’s –both seemed an appropriate splurge given our and the car’s busy and physically exhausting day. Alas, neither was available…no car wash to be found in all of Moab, and McStiff’s was closed “for 2 days for Rest and Projects”. We ended up at Moab Diner, and not long afterward, fell into our brand new bedsheets to sleep like babies.
November 5: The Rocky Mountains. Starting mileage 34,885.
Seeing friends in Denver
We arrived in Denver in a fever, desperate to get the oil changed before the Chevy dealer closed for the weekend. And we did. The car was happy and cared for. We, on the other hand, were still a little antsy from the worry adrenaline when we met up with Denver friends. As we told the story, we started laughing about it–the oil warning light fright, the speedy three hours of driving, and the unexpected encounter with wild-west tumbleweeds. Our first telling was over a home-cooked dinner at Denice’s house, then a late-night evening and breakfast at Lew and Ann’s, and followed by telling the tale over a mid-morning coffee with Jen before we left town,
Snowing on the roads ahead / Change of plans
With our friends, we also highlighted our travels so far and discussed plans to head north to South Dakota’s Badlands before turning west through Wyoming’s Yellowstone, and on to the Pacific coast. We had a National Parks Annual Pass burning a hole in its envelope, just waiting to be used.
I’d been checking the weather. It was snowing in both South Dakota and Wyoming. The forecast called for more snow too. Despite all my destination and route planning, I had not planned on snow. I brought this up with my Colorado friends. Should we try it or re-route?
“Wyoming is 80 mph and usually clear enough…well, except that stretch around Cheyenne.”
“Up there, it’s the wind you have to worry about. But they’ll close the roads if conditions get too bad.”
“You should be ok when you put on chains. You have chains, right?”
Chains!? Mama and I are Southern girls by birth and I have to say I hadn’t ever even considered the need for tire chains. Sure, I live in Chicago now, but I don’t own a car and it’s flat land anyway. As our Denver hours passed, I grew more nervous as another realization sunk in. Crap. Not only do we have to cut out The Badlands, Mt. Rushmore, and Yellowstone, we have to cross the Rockies…in November, maybe in snow. THE Rocky Mountains. The Continental Divide. IN NOVEMBER. What was I thinking?
Making new plans
By the time we met Jen for coffee, a re-route was firming up. The first step was getting over the Rockies. Today. In Colorado. We shouldn’t wait any longer, or go any further north before crossing. I made a reservation at a hotel in Grand Junction, Colorado. It was about four hours away, on the western slope of the Rocky Mountains. Once we got there, we’d assess our options.
After a milky, hot coffee at a jam-packed, nook-and-cranny-cozy Stella’s Coffee Haus, we walked slowly back to the car. It was still fall here. Orange, red, and yellow leaves dotted the ground and were still clinging to the trees in this delightful old neighborhood. The sun was out. “It’s going to be a fine day for crossing the Rocky Mountains”, I repeated to myself, “Just fine.”
Getting over the Rockies
We headed out of Denver on I-70 West just before noon. After a little way, we stopped to fuel up in Georgetown. The air was a bit cooler, the trees more of the evergreen variety here. And some clouds were gathering in front of us.
Near Loveland Pass (elevation 11,990) we passed through the mountains. The Eisenhower Tunnel (elevation 11,158) is nearly two miles of unnerving white concrete and freaky yellow lights entered through a mouse hole. When we exited, the clouds were dense and low, and snow patched the mountainsides around us. Skiers were on the mountain slopes.
It started spitting snow and sleet. We saw signs cautioning “Icy Roads”, and just before Silverthorne, one sign read “Trucks, you are not down yet. One more mile of steep grade.” Runaway truck ramps appeared frequently.
We stopped for a scenic overlook after Frisco. Actually, it was a pull-out place designated for putting on tire chains. But it was pretty here by a creek in the cool, fresh alpine air. The road curved onwards around and under mountains. We saw signs for ski towns–Vail (elevation 10,666), Breckenridge, Steamboat Springs, and Independence Pass. Towns included their elevation. The snow sprinkled down, sometimes turning parts of the road white as it blew across. Slow and steady, slow and steady.
And then, the road plateaued. The snow became drizzling rain. We breathed again, and I loosened my grip on the steering wheel. We just crossed the Rockies, in November!
The Rocky Mountains’ Western Slopes
We stopped for lunch in Eagle, Colorado, elevation 6,600. In keeping with our road trip lessons, we went for diner food. The Eagle Diner was warm and welcoming with its pink and blue 1950s-themed decor, and the rock-around-the-clock music pumping into the parking lot. Tasty comfort food grilled cheese and tuna-melt sandwiches go so well with hot fries and relief and joy! We’d made it over the Rocky Mountains!
Back on the westbound road, towns’ elevations were in the 5,000-6,000 range now. Still a mile high, but the threat of poor weather started to fall away. Mama got back to making notes in our travel log as we passed through more tunnels, and saw an exit called “No Name.” As it neared the hour of sunset, we entered Glenwood Canyon as I-70 ran alongside the Colorado River. In the dimming light of a cloudy day, this mighty canyon land was spectacular to see. What beautiful country the mountains are.
Reassessing in Grand Junction
We arrived not long after dark to our hotel, Springhill Suites in Grand Junction. Our plan was to take a little time to re-plan the next few days. And really, we needed time to just slow down. I think we both slept like babies that night in our comfy, quiet room.
November 6: Grand Junction, CO to Moab, UT. Starting mileage 35,144.
The next morning, we enjoyed the free breakfast buffet at the hotel. Great coffee, and Mama’s favorite–a waffle machine! We ate our fill, and took coffee refills back to relax in our suite. Unlike most days on our trip, we weren’t in a hurry to hit the road today. Mama settled in with her iPad and I got busy making some new plans online. We liked our hotel so much, that we stayed until the noon check-out time, and booked another Springhill Suites in our new, next destination: Moab, Utah.
Utah…Life Elevated!
And we headed out into a beautiful, crisp day. This Colorado-into-Utah part of I-70 is big sky country. Clouds look painted into the bluest-of-blue skies. Roads go on forever. Desolate land. Big land. Roadrunner beep-beep land. This was going to be all right after all.
And thus, Road Trip Lesson #9: Changes happen. Don’t stress, just adjust and go. Every road has something to see.
Our new plan was to break-in the National Parks Annual Pass at Arches National Park. A previously unplanned stop. But hey, we were in the neighborhood. We were over the Rockies. And life is good.
November 2: New Orleans to Dallas. Starting mileage 33,391.
Today, our plan was to drive across Louisiana into Texas, and spend the night near Dallas. We pulled out of New Orleans just before 9 a.m., weaving our way out of the city past the SuperDome, Lake Ponchartrain, and into a landscape of bayou swamps punctuated with stick trees. By the time we turned off I-10 West onto I-49 North the view had changed to pine trees and miles and miles of sugarcane fields.
Any day beginning with Cafe du Monde’s fresh hot beignets and coffee in New Orleans is a good day. Add a lunch stop for Louisiana home-cooked veggies and pie, and well, it’s a grand day! In keeping with our Road Trip lesson #6, we wanted a diner lunch. Now, this is not always easy to do when traveling on the U.S. interstate system. Sure, Cracker Barrels and McDonalds are everywhere. But how often do you find a local diner when on the interstate? Lucky for us, as we were nearing Alexandria, we saw Lea’s Diner listed on one of those blue services sign. The exit took us far into a rural area. Was the sign old? Was Lea’s gone? Just as we were thinking of turning back, we saw Lea’s–a large white building with a huge–and nearly full–parking lot. Turns out that Lea’s in Lecompte is “The Pie Capital of Louisiana”. So, in addition to a wholesomely delicious vegetable-plate lunch, we left with two pieces of pecan pie to go.
Texas, sassy Siri, and the Grackles
We crossed into Texas around 3 p.m. Everyone knows that Texas is a big state, but we were a little overwhelmed to see an exit numbered 635!
Sassy Siri
Since Washington D.C., we’d been using Siri for directions. Always a reserved travel companion, her calm voice gave us 10-mile and 2-mile exit reminders, and advised us on the lane we’d need to be in to make needed turns. About the time we were thinking of stopping for gas, she suggested a detour off the highway because of an unnamed hazard ahead, helpfully telling us the alternate route would save us six minutes. We took it.
We were driving along a back road, chatting about who-knows-what, when Siri interrupted with a sharper-than-normal voice, “I don’t know who your mother is. In fact, I don’t know who you are.” Well. Hello Siri! Mama and I laughed until we cried, amused and shocked that she had chimed into our conversation with such sass!
Only in Texas
We pulled over at an Exxon near Longview, to dry our eyes and fuel up. I stepped out of the car, surprised by the number of black birds walking around the busy fuel pump area. My chosen pump was broken and I had to go inside to prepay. Waiting in line, I noticed a tiger posed in a display case–dead and stuffed. Other majestic wild animals–now dead and stuffed–ringed the room. Sickened, and filled with growing fury that someone had hunted and killed these animals, it was, all of a sudden, my turn at the counter. I was not going to spend a penny to support this place. Nearly tongue-tied with sadness and anger, I think I said something along the lines of “Nevermind. I’m not shopping here because of the dead animals,” and left.
Grackles
Back in the parking lot, more black birds had gathered. They flocked around the cars, hopping between the pumps and making the strangest, loudest sounds I’ve ever heard from birds. Two sat by the driver-side door as I came around. They stared without moving–maybe they were looking to see what they could grab out of my hands, or how easy it would be to peck my eyes out. They–and their parking-lot gang–sounded off like slide whistles or car alarms as I jumped in the car slamming the door. One bold and steely-eyed bird flew up to stand on the hood of the car as I put the key in the ignition. I didn’t want to run over his friends who might follow me now, and possibly into the afterlife, so I started moving very, very slowly. He sat there on the hood, staring back at me as if I was car-jacking his ride. It was only when I reached the street that he flew away, thankfully leaving us with the windshield wiper.
Later in the safety of our hotel room, I did a little research and found out these brazen birds are Great Tail Grackles, notorious for their array of “songs” and likelihood to be found hanging out at restaurants and convenience stores.
Until the cows come home?
We drove and drove and drove that day, through a surreal Texas landscape of smiling brown cows in fields, oil derricks shading picnic tables, and a sad truck carrying live chickens. A truck blew a tire right beside us. The sun went down and we were still on the road. Siri once again advised a detour to save three minutes. We declined, and ended up waiting in traffic to pass through an accident area with multiple fire truck and police car lights. Policemen motioned a single file of cars to drive with care through a mass of gravel on the highway. As we neared our hotel for the night, Siri took us off the highway onto backroads lit by the moon and bordered by golden fields and cows still grazing. Apparently, the cows don’t come home at night.
November 3: Dallas to Kansas. Starting mileage 33,911.
We were up early for the hotel’s free breakfast buffet and drove into Dallas just after the Friday morning rush hour.
Dealey Plaza
Back in D.C., we had visited John F. Kennedy’s grave. Today, our first stop was Dealey Plaza, where JFK was assassinated in November 1963. Like 9/11 or Pearl Harbor, “the day Kennedy was shot” is one of those days people remember. They remember exactly where they were, and what they were doing when they heard the news that he’d been shot in Dallas and had died. And today, almost 54 years later, we were standing at the scene of the crime.
There it all was, just like we’ve seen in movies and in the Zapruder film–the grassy knoll, the book depository, the turn on to Elm Street, the overpass. A green X on Elm Street marks the spot where Kennedy was hit. Signs tell us where Zapruder stood to make his infamous film, and where witnesses heard noises and saw smoke. Anyone can stand in that plaza and look at the X, and the 6th-floor window of the Book Depository behind it, and see for themselves what an impossibility it was. Plus, Zapruder’s film shows Kennedy’s head going back–as if a bullet had come from in front of his car, from the grassy knoll. Call it what you will. But having stood there, there’s no way there was just one shooter. I’m not the only non-believer. Other people were there too, most photographing, and one measuring and making notes. Mama and I walked around slowly, looking more than talking. Absorbing.
Oklahoma
We drove north out of Dallas, headed through Oklahoma to see Alex in Kansas. Wind farms, cows, birds gathered on bleachers and wires, and flat land for miles. Later, fog. Siri took us off the interstate as the sun was going down. We drove backroads that changed names, directions, and included a 3-mile stretch of gravel before returning to streets that, at least, looked inhabited. We found Alex’s house just inside the Kansas state line and enjoyed dinner with him.
November 4: Kansas to Denver. Starting mileage: 34,308.
There’s nothing like a thick fog to start a day of driving. And my-oh-my what a day this one would turn out to be. After breakfast at the hotel, we wound our way north on little roads until we caught up with I-35 just before Wichita. The fog was heavy for a long while. There still wasn’t much to see when it lifted beyond Kansas’ crop fields, windmills, cows, and an occasional flock of birds murmuring.
Warning Light
Hours later, somewhere around Colby, Kansas, the change oil light came on. We’d driven the car 5,000 miles in just over two-weeks. Of course, it deserved an oil change. We pulled into a truck service station and they kindly told us they could change it for us, but we’d have to go to another place to buy the filter and oil. At the other place, they told us that if a Chevy dealer didn’t change the oil, it could void Mama Lucy’s warranty. I searched on the phone. The nearest dealer was in Denver. It was Saturday and the dealer would close at 4 p.m. MST. It was 1 p.m. MST now, and we were three hours from Denver. The race was on.
Mama called ahead. “Of course we can change your oil if you arrive by 4 p.m.,” the dealer in Denver said. Meanwhile, I drove fast–let’s just say it was a little over the speed limit. The interstate was practically empty, and though it was getting windy, the sun had come out.
It was a fine day for a drive….until the tumbleweeds
We were humming along. A little tense, but confident we’d make it to Denver in time. The Kansas fields were golden, cows grazed by windmills–bucolic, pastoral, bread-basket land. Around the Kansas/Colorado state line, I began noticing tufts of straw balls gathered in little piles along the road side fences. “Ah! They must be tumbleweeds that got stopped by the fences,” I said as I noted to myself that the piles seemed to be stacking higher. And then…crossing the road just in front of us was a tumbleweed on the move! It was about the size of a basketball and bounced across the road and off to the shoulder to join others in the fence pile. We chuckled that we’d gotten to see a real, live tumbleweed. Neat! They’re not just in Texas or Arizona or where the Westerns and the ghost towns are!
And then, here comes another one. This one was closer, and more like the size of a suitcase. We missed it. And another one, two, three backpack-sized ones–now tumbling diagonally across the road toward the car. We hit one and heard the sound of brittle sticks breaking beneath the car. A minute later, a large one–about the size of an ottoman–rolled right between the wheels. We heard dings and scraping just before the stick-breaking sounds. This went on for several miles. I felt like I was in a video game–trying to avoid the tumbleweed obstacles, while staying in my lane with my swerving and the wind pushing, and still hauling because of the time limit.
Denver and the Oil Change
This story has a happy ending. We arrived at Bozarth Chevrolet in Aurora right at 4 p.m. It was the whitest, cleanest mechanic shop I’ve ever seen. They welcomed us and got started. A mere 25-minutes later, they had finished changing the oil. We barely had time to use their facilities and got some snacks in the waiting room. I think they even gave Mama’s Chevy a car wash and must have picked the tumbleweed straws out of the grill. Lesson #8 of the trip: Always take care of your ride.
October 30: Memphis to Tupelo and Louisiana. Starting mileage 32,852.
On the Natchez Trace
We left Tupelo on the Natchez Trace, a 444-mile highway that follows old Indian trails from Nashville, TN to the Mississippi River in Natchez, MS. Since we are Nashvillians, we know about Natchez Trace. Years ago, my father was obsessed with the building of its bridge over Highway 96 at Birdsong Hollow. And I’ve had many meals at the Loveless Cafe not far from where Natchez Trace starts. I’ve driven short distances on the two-lane road, always feeling reluctant to exit it, and wondering if I might still see Indians or settlers passing by in the thick woods along the road. It is protected land: a living history of what the American “West” looked like in the early 1800s. You’ll see no gas stations, McDonalds, Walgreens, or strip malls on it.
High Cotton
Instead, Mama and I saw deer, and a coyote. Cedar, cypress and pine trees lined the quiet road, and in the distance, fields of cotton stretched for miles. We left Natchez Trace to get fuel and cut over to I-55 via a small road through farms and acres of high cotton. White bits of fluffy cotton balls lined the road. When we pulled over for photos, I picked up a bit of cotton from the road. Mama and I sat in the car for a few minutes feeling the incredible softness of this little piece of cotton, amazed that ages ago someone, somehow, figured out how to take this little miracle from a puff, to thread, to clothing.
October 31: LaPlace to New Orleans. Starting Mileage 33,303.
After a night in LaPlace, Louisiana, we were ready to go see some plantations before driving into New Orleans for a two-night stay. These Louisiana parishes are known for growing sugarcane. In its heyday, The Mississippi River used to be a grand boulevard through here, when more than 300 plantations radiated out from every bit of river shoreline from Baton Rouge all the way down to New Orleans. Today, few of the grand old houses remain. Many of those that survived are open to tours and/or have restaurants and bed and breakfast accommodations. But for me, this was all about those magnificent trees.
Louisiana Plantations: Oak Alley
For years, I’ve seen photos of the ancient oaks at Oak Alley Plantation and it was our first stop. As we drove down River Road, we heard the church bells of St. James Parish. Suddenly, there they were, 28 massive oak trees partnered as if for a reel and lined up back to a big house.
Southern Hospitality
We had lunch at Oak Alley, an old four-square building with one fireplace in the center of the building and shared via corner openings into each room. Genius design. They served a delicious Po-boy fish sandwich with rice and beans, and sweet mint tea, made even better by the location among those old oaks.
The Mississippi River Levee
Later, we walked over to see the Mississippi River from atop the levee. These levees were built after the 1927 floods, and are nothing more than ridges topped with dirt and concrete. I don’t know what I expected of a levee, but this wasn’t it. We did enjoy a few minutes of breezes at that height and the view of the wide, muddy Mississippi.
Louisiana Plantations: Evergreen
Next, we stopped at Evergreen Plantation, about 15 minutes from Oak Alley, towards New Orleans. This Creole farmhouse was built in 1790 before the Louisiana Purchase brought them and their land into the USA. It is the most intact plantation in the South with 37 buildings (including 22 slave cabins) on the National Register of Historic Places, and also holds landmark status for its agricultural acreage. Today, Evergreen Plantation is still a privately-owned, working sugarcane plantation. In fact, trucks were busy harvesting and trucking cane from the fields while we visited.
October 31 – November 2: New Orleans, Louisiana.
After the plantations, we spent two days in extraordinary New Orleans, mostly wandering the French Quarter and eating–Po-boy sandwiches with seasoned fries, beignets and chicory coffee at Cafe du Monde, and red beans and rice and a Pimm’s Cup at the Napoleon House. We saw the Mississippi River at Jackson Square, mules in horses’ harnesses, saxophone players on the streets, wrought iron balconies dripping with ferns and decked out for Halloween (or Mardi Gras?). Of course, we saw beads in trees, beads on balconies, beads on the streets.
October 27: Niagara Falls to Chicago. Starting mileage 31,534.
There were a few really long days of driving in our trip. And today was one of them. The plan was now to head west, but we needed to reposition ourselves. Oh, and we needed to pass through our homes, and go see Elvis. 🙂
We left Niagara Falls just before sunrise. We rode along the bottom shore of Lake Erie, through New York state to a corner of Pennsylvania, and through the top edge of Ohio, then made our way across Indiana near the Michigan border, and pulling into Chicago by 6:15 p.m.
Bryan! Laundry! Tacos! A night in my own bed! And after 10 days gone, a little repacking since I’d had a bit of time to reconsider some of the items in my suitcase. I wasn’t going to be back this way for another six weeks, so it was a hectic 14 hours at home.
October 28: Chicago to Nashville. Starting mileage 32,102.
Chicago to Nashville (and vice versa) is a drive I’ve done hundreds of times. I know where to find cheap gas, clean bathrooms, fast Starbucks, and all the Long John Silvers restaurants. As far as scenery, there’s a wind farm, a solar farm, a few horse farms, and dozens of farm farms, and as you get closer to the bowl that holds Nashville, rolling green valleys and high hills and ridges topped by radio and cell phone towers.
We arrived at Mama’s house around 6:30 p.m., after 9 hours of driving and a stop at Krogers for a food restock. Another 14 hours of home life: more laundry, Mama’s repack moment, and a good night’s sleep in a familiar bed.
October 29: Nashville to Memphis. Starting mileage 32,599.
On Sunday, October 29, we set out on the second leg of our USA road trip. This part of the trip would take us to see Elvis, then south to New Orleans, and then we’d begin motoring west.
Tennessee is a long skinny state. The drive from Music City (in the middle of the state), to the Home of the Blues (on the western edge of Tennessee at the Mississippi River) is a four-hour trip on I-40. We left just before 8 a.m. so that we could make it to Graceland and Sun Studios before they closed. Apart from a truck’s blown tire scaring the crap out of us, the trip was easy-peasy.
Elvis!
This part of the trip will make more sense if you know that Lucy has a thing for Elvis. She got to see him in concert three times before he died in 1977. And it is for Elvis alone that she subscribes to Sirius Radio. The Elvis Channel is ALWAYS on in her car. ALWAYS. Even on these long rides…Elvis, Elvis, Elvis. We marvel at his voice, we know the words by heart, and of course, we have our favorite songs.
To put you in the spirit for the rest of this blog post, I put together a 62-minute playlist on Spotify of some of our Elvis favorites from the trip. You can listen to the playlist in full by logging in to Spotify, or hear a 30-second sample of each song here:
Graceland
The first time I came to Graceland in 1989, there was a strip mall across the street selling trinkets. Back then, my friends and I didn’t have the time or the money to go in, so we walked along the property’s stone fence reading all the inscriptions grafitti’d to Elvis. Lucy had been in Graceland before, and had described the extravagant and quirky Elvis style. All these years, I’ve kept those vivid images in my head.
Today, an Elvis complex is across the street from Graceland. There, the Sirius radio show broadcasts, the Lisa Marie TCB plane sits, and all visitors park. We arrived just after lunch, paid our $10 for parking, locked the car, crossed the street, and started to walk up the driveway to Graceland. It was a beautiful Fall day in Tennessee–the trees were still mostly green, but the air was crisp and the skies clear. Mama was excited and I was humming Paul Simon’s Graceland in my head, wondering if indeed “we all will be received” when a guard yelled at us, “You can’t just walk in!”
Turns out, visitors have to pay across the street, pick up their very own iPad tour guide, and get on a shuttle bus to ride across the street. Is it any wonder the tickets are ~$40 each?
The house is not big by today’s standards. But it was a mansion to Elvis and his family in 1957. We entered through the front door, just as if we were invited guests. And like that, we were standing in Elvis’ home. There was the living room to the right, the dining room to the left, and the stairs to the off-limits second floor where he died in August 1977.
Our group of about 15-20 people clustered by the velvet ropes looking into the white living room. Everyone was trying to get to the front for a good photo, and each one of us seemed to be struggling with his/her iPad tour guide. I’m sure there was a lot of content in that thing, but what a pain! Accessing it and all the layers of content, keeping up with its pace and timing, hanging on to the cords and headphones…all while trying to stick close with Mama, stay out of other guests’ way, and actually be in the moment to see, appreciate, and absorb what we were standing in front of was all too much. I abandoned my headset so I could just walk and look.
Graceland remains decorated just as he had it when Priscilla and Lisa Marie lived there (his last girlfriends’ decor changes were changed back after his death.) We spent over two hours at Graceland wandering through the rooms and around the grounds– looking at exhibits that included his wallet, Priscilla’s wedding dress, old photos and videos, and letters. We walked around by the pool, heard about his last day, and stood in line to walk by his backyard grave. In death, as in life, Elvis gave us a show. He was only 42 years old when he died.
Sun Studios
After Graceland, we drove over to Sun Studios. What a different experience! Free parking in the back. Tickets were about $14 each, and we got a real live tour guide named Lana who made Sam Phillips’ place come alive with her stories.
Mama stood behind the microphone Elvis sang into and I got to sit at Larry Mullen Jr.’s drum kit. We gawked at old photos and heard original scratchy recordings of some of the greatest moments in rock-and-roll…this place is also what makes Memphis “The Birthplace of Rock-and-Roll”.
October 30: Memphis to Tupelo and eventually to Louisiana. Starting mileage 32,852.
Tupelo
After a night in Memphis, we headed into Mississippi. We’d drive over the Tallahatchie Bridge made famous by Bobbie Gentry’s song before arriving in Tupelo.
Now, if you’re an Elvis fan, you might know that he was born a twin in Tupelo. His parents lived in a two-room shotgun house and made do like many people did during the depression. At one point, his dad, Vernon Presley, spent some time in jail for adding a zero to a check…”He made a $40 check $400…or maybe it was $4 into $40,” said the attendant, as she unlocked the back door of the tiny house for us. We were the first guests of the day. Mama and I stepped into the kitchen and that old house smell. We had Elvis’ childhood home all to ourselves on that early Monday morning.
And that was Elvis…from the end, back to the beginning.
October 25: Autumn drive across New York to Niagara Falls. Starting mileage: 31,117.
You have to wonder about a weekday that starts with a drive through Manhattan at 8:00 a.m. But we were following Siri to Niagara Falls, and that’s what she said we should do.
We eased out of the skinny Best Western parking spot and hit the streets of New York. Our hotel was in Long Island City, Queens, and we could see the crowns of the Queensboro Bridge from our room. Thankfully though, Siri guided us to the hidden foothills of the bridge. We passed over the East River with a herd of food trucks and entered Manhattan at the Silver Cup Studio sign. As we drove north on FDR Drive, through Harlem and the Bronx, and past Yankee Stadium, Siri told us about detours and the lanes we needed to be in. Eventually, we crossed over the Hudson and into New Jersey on the George Washington Bridge.
The Palisades
We drove north with the Hudson to our right. The trees were in full autumn blaze and we stopped for a stroll in the Palisades Scenic Overlook. The wide Hudson River shined below, and Yonkers looked so far away across the water. We walked separately, and together–basking in the fresh air and the flaming reds and oranges of the trees. It was a surprisingly peaceful place for being so close to the chaos of the city.
Pilgrimage: Finding Mark Twain in Elmira
Somewhere along the way, we entered New York again and were now headed northwest across the state. As we skirted past the colorful Catskills, we stopped for lunch at the Roscoe Diner. Lesson #6 of our trip…whenever possible, eat at a local diner. For the next couple of hours, we rode near the Pennsylvania border, passing in and out of New York until we curved north towards Elmira.
Back when we were plotting the trip, I realized we would pass through Elmira, a little town that was so special to Samuel Langhorne Clemens, aka Mark Twain. And since he’s special to me, we paused there to find traces of the man who dreamed up Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn.
Mark Twain’s Study
First, we found his study on the campus of Elmira College. His in-laws built this cozy room for him on their Quarry Farm hill overlooking Elmira in 1874. Samuel and Olivia and their girls came to visit her sister here every summer and this was where Twain went to write. I’ve seen pictures of him at the window of this study when it was covered in summer vines. Now, here it was–alone in the midst of a busy campus.
I believe he would have mocked the “progress” that necessitated moving his study here among young adults, today with noses glued to cell phones. I smiled, imagining what sardonic thing he’d say about cell phones. The building was closed, so I just held the door knob and peeked in at the small room. A stone fireplace, wooden floor, and walls of windows surrounded a round table. I tried to imagine him sitting and writing, but instead a fleeting image of him pacing and pipe puffing crossed my mind.
Mark Twain’s Grave
Within fifteen minutes of touching his study’s doorknob, I was standing at Samuel Clemens’ grave in Woodlawn Cemetery. Mama walked with me as I read and made photographs of each grave, and then she returned to the car for a rest.
Meanwhile, I sat down on the cold stone stoop at Mark Twain’s headstone. I thanked him for writing by hand the stories that mean so much and for taking the time to find the right word to give us lightning and not a lightning bug. You know that game about who you’d have at an imaginary dinner party? After family, he’s always my first invitation. I told him that too.
An old dime laid on his grave among acorn bits and leaves and twigs. I picked up a maple’s “helicopter” to keep. I thought of his sarcastic tales of souvenir seekers in The Innocents Abroad and how many bits of “the one true cross” there must be. Of course, he would have laughed at me. And I would have hugged him.
October 25-26: Niagara Falls
We drove into the rain and the dark. As we neared the town of Niagara, Siri rerouted us because of an accident. We checked in to the Quality Hotel well after sunset, not realizing just how close we were to Niagara Falls.
A lot of people have described Niagara Falls. I should have been prepared. I was not. Mama Lucy and I were shocked and wowed by Niagara Falls…by the scale of it, the mighty sound, the urgent rushing river, the new clouds, the soaking mist, so many rainbows, precarious islands, and those massive falls that drop the river down, down, down. We spent the day there, walking and sitting–taking photos, getting soaked in mist, and admiring the rainbows.
Finally, it was on this day that we began making souvenir pennies. Let’s just call that the 7th lesson of the trip: Always stop at the penny press machine!