Welcome. “Truckers are the last American cowboys.” Stop laughing. It’s true. A television documentary playing in a truckers’ lounge told me so. So in that spirit I put together this little travel-guide for truckers, neophyte truckers, prospective truckers, relatives-of-truckers, hitchhikers-picked-up-by-truckers, recreational-vehiclers, and anybody else seeking to be misled. Giddyup.
EDITORIAL NOTE: The actual "travel-guide" part is elsewhere. What follows is crap you need to see, read, and possibly commit to memory or else you WILL die! (You'll die regardless in due course, of course.)
EDITORIAL NOTE TO END ALL EDITORIAL NOTES: The author of this fine website has retired from trucking since July of '23. Please assume anything dated after July, no matter how glorious, was done via personal conveyance. Here's to private restrooms!
Post-Retirement
49!
A refrigerator magnet in a Skagway, Alaska souvenir shop reading simply, "49AK," awakened us enough to realize that Alaska was our 49th state to have visited. Couldn't have planned it any more obliviously. One more to go, the 50th (you'll never guess where).
Pacific Ocean somewhere, off Canada maybe.
A flower's backside. Victoria, British Columbia (Canada).
Humpback. Near Juneau, Alaska.
Some tail action.
Spent. Sitka, Alaska.
Sitka, Alaska.
Somewhere on Puget Sound, Washington.
Through the looking glass.
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Trip of a Lifetime
OUR CROSS-COUNTRY ROAD TRIP
Oh, and on the off-chance I write, (or photograph) something profound everything on this site is copyrighted, especially if it's not stolen from someone else.
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April '24
Prolog. Prolog. We saw a lot of America through our 16-year trucking adventure. That was the point. Forty-five states – all but New England. So, we bought a car and retired.
The kids (and their kids, nearly) were grown. Jobs were ditched and we were ready to go, sort of. Dad’s health had been declining, but hospice wasn’t circling just yet. Still, he was frail. Margaret (his wife, in their eyes) had family and friends that checked on them often. So, Laem and mine’s trip across the country was a calculated risk. But that’s what airplanes are for.
The kids (and their kids, nearly) were grown. Jobs were ditched and we were ready to go, sort of. Dad’s health had been declining, but hospice wasn’t circling just yet. Still, he was frail. Margaret (his wife, in their eyes) had family and friends that checked on them often. So, Laem and mine’s trip across the country was a calculated risk. But that’s what airplanes are for.
DAY 1: Departed Seattle, arrived in Missoula, Montana 480 miles later and checked in. Doug was sitting at a picnic table in the middle of the parking lot. He wore a grey felt fedora and had rheumy eyes. His guitar had coins glued onto its face and lay on the table. “What kind of car is that? How many miles a gallon does it get? How much did it cost, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want?” He asked questions faster than I could answer (not an astounding feat, sometimes). I answered as best I could while Laem unloaded the vehicle in question. I had looked for an opening in order to extricate myself, but instead kept moving closer.
He told me he had been a forest ranger/fire fighter and had been married for 47 years. “Do you know where Kalispell is?”
“Sure,” I said.
“One day my wife says she’s ‘moving there, alone.’ ‘Well, OK then,’ I said. At least I don't get hit with whisky bottles anymore." Doug was outside asleep in a chair the following morning when we checked out.
He told me he had been a forest ranger/fire fighter and had been married for 47 years. “Do you know where Kalispell is?”
“Sure,” I said.
“One day my wife says she’s ‘moving there, alone.’ ‘Well, OK then,’ I said. At least I don't get hit with whisky bottles anymore." Doug was outside asleep in a chair the following morning when we checked out.
DAY 2: Departed Missoula, arrived Lead, South Dakota.
660 miles, 1,140 total.
660 miles, 1,140 total.
From the wall of Saloon No. 10. Deadwood, South Dakota.
Calamity Jane (bronzed), Kindred Spirit (unbronzed).
DAY 3: Full day. Walked Deadwood, had a shot and a beer at Saloon 10, across the street from the former Saloon 10, now the Wild Bill Bar, named for Wild Bill Hickock who was killed in Nuttal & Mann’s which later became the Saloon 10, but not the Saloon 10 I had a shot and a beer in. The drove to Mt. Rushmore and took pictures of giant US President-shaped rocks. The Lead hotel came to their senses and wanted to charge us competitive rates, so we moved on to Rapid City for the night.
46 miles, 1,161 total.
Thunkasila Sakpe (Mountain) to the Lakota (Six Grandfathers Mountain in English). Carved & renamed Mount Rushmore, South Dakota.
DAY 4: A billboard on the way out of Rapid City read, “We don’t want YOUR settlements, we want OUR land.” Tunkasila Sakpe Paha is Lakota for Six Grandfathers Mountain, AKA Mount Rushmore (ironically (keep reading), Charles Rushmore was a New York lawyer). According to www.nationalgeographic.com the Lakota’s sued the US government in the 1920’s for theft, finally winning in 1980. The Lakota declined the $17.1 million compensation, instead demanding the land back.
(Continued below)
Black Hills area, South Dakota.
The World's only CORN PALACE! Mitchell, South Dakota.
DAY 4: (Continued from above)
Finally went to Wall Drug, of the formerly ubiquitous bumper sticker, and enjoyed the kitschy store/mall. A few hours later, after gawking at the world’s only Corn Palace (see photos), our South Dakota pilgrimage was complete. Drove on to Minneapolis where our room was upgraded for some reason to the fifth floor. Nice central downtown location, but then had to find a parking garage.
576 miles, 1752 total
Corn on the Palace.
DAY 5: Laem and I separated. Irreconcilable differences: most museums discriminate against bicycle riding amongst their fine art. Whatever. So, Laem told the Lyft driver to take her to the art museum. He dropped her off at the famous giant spoon & cherry, outdoors, in the rain. Ignoramus. But she diligently perused the sculptures in the garden before successfully making it to the Minneapolis Institute of Art. Meanwhile, I rode along the Mississippi River and onto the University of Minnesota campus. Viewed architect Frank Gehry’s Weisman Art Museum from most angles. Took pictures, but my phone developed them two-dimensionally. Gehry’s also responsible for Seattle’s Museum of Pop Culture (can’t win ‘em all) and other buildings worldwide. A few snowflakes fell, so I aborted riding further on to Minnehaha Falls.
"There is no spoon." (Spoonbridge and Cherry. Claes Oldenburg, artist.) Walker Art Center. Minneapolis, Minnesota.
Weisman Art Museum. Minneapolis, Minnesota (on the campus of U of M).
Beer sign. Minneapolis, Minnesota.
DAY 6: Auspicious start to the day: I rode my bike to the parking garage, while the car keys rested peacefully in our hotel room. Couldn’t leave the garage without repaying. So, Laem delivered keys via Lyft. Made our scheduled appointment to have the car serviced, then left Minneapolis.
Saw an Amish buggy in silhouette, backlit, perfect photo opportunity: missed it. Missed another Amish buggy photo opportunity, this time with a red-faced driver straining in the sunlight, looking for an opening to cross the highway.
It continued raining throughout the rest of Minnesota and into Wisconsin. Arrived Marrinette, Wisconsin.
317 miles, 2,087 total.
DAY 7: Starbucks Wisconsin/Michigan border: Still getting “Carol” written on my cup (birth certificate reads, “Karl”). Should be happy they don’t ask for last names (Kuntz), I guess. Heading up Michigan I start noticing several homes with neatly stacked logs, bark peeled off. Saw logging trucks with logs stacked sideways rather than lengthwise.
In rural Gould City, Michigan (population 430, per Wikipedia) we passed an uninviting motel. I later Googled it to confirm I had read their sign correctly – I had. It read “Bates Motel.” Somewhere along the way we passed through “smoke” clouds and wondered what was burning. Nothing was burning, they were clouds of insects.
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Mackinac Island Road Apples. Mackinac Island.
Pronounced "Mackinaw" just like the city that spelled it correctly.
Hay-fueled transport. Mackinac Island, Michigan.
DAY 7: (Continued from above).
Got gouged taking the ferry to Mackinac Island, Michigan, then gouged again for taking my bike. Tourist woes. Rode the perimeter of the Island while Laem procured their world-famous fudge. I saw a cool statue of turtles standing atop each other somewhere, so I Googled the exact location and rode there. Couldn’t find the damn statue. So, I asked a lady who appeared to be a local, "Where is it?"
“You’re standing next to it.” Powers of observation.
Checked into our hotel, beachfront, very good rates. Off-season, but kind of spooky being the third car in a four-story hotel. “We should move the couch in front of the door,” Laem said.
307 miles, 2394 total
Arch Rock. Mackinac Island (in Great Lake Huron, between the UP* and the top of the mitten), Michigan.
*Upper Peninsula.
DAY 8: Made a concerted effort to stand on the beachside balcony before leaving. Beautiful view of the beach and Lake Huron. Temperature climbed from mid-40s yesterday in Mackinaw City to low 80’s today in Toledo, Ohio, the Glass City. Glass was a huge industry for Toledo in bygone days. Glass art abounds, though we didn’t attempt to verify their claims. Instead, we ate fish. Best I’ve had in a long while…Toledo, Ohio.
Meanwhile, back home, it’s day 4 of the hunt for the escaped zebra. He’s shown his face on a few game cameras.
330 miles, 2,724 total.
View from the hotel balcony. Off-season, the rates low and the town ghostly. Mackinaw City, Michigan.
May '24
DAY 9: Clipped off a piece of Pennsylvania on the way to Niagara Falls and dodged a sideswipe somewhere on I-90 in New York (state). Checked in, took a nap.
Woke up, got something from the car, returned and juggled our belongings to dig out my key card. I was surprised at how much I tossed and turned during my nap. The strange underwear on the bed led me to believe I’d entered the wrong room. Backed out quickly, and silently shut the door. Weird how unsettling it is knowing your neighbors can enter your room (as easily as I could enter theirs).
Oh, visited the falls. It was spectacular, of course. It was the golden hour, so got some good pics.
325 miles, 3,049 total.
Niagara River just before the plunge. Niagara Falls, New York.
American Falls. Niagara Falls, New York.
DAY 10: Awoke early and rode bike to the falls, Horseshoe specifically. Left our passports at home thinking we were taking the US side to the falls. Didn’t occur to me that full-frontal viewing of the falls, especially Horseshoe, is from the Canadian side. Live and learn and forget. Beautiful rainbow from the falls, thus the bridge’s name.
(Continued below)
Horseshoe Falls, Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada.
Some people laugh at my apparel. (Purchased from www.libertymaniacs.com)
DAY 10: (Continued from above)
Took the scenic route through the Finger Lake region heading for Albany, New York. Suddenly out of nowhere, we hit rush hour in Canandaigua, New York (a city pronounceable only after Google’s repeated help, and then only for the span of a minute, or so). The town is only a few blocks long, one real street, population 10,545 per Wikipedia. So, we parked and walked the town. A hot dog vendor thanked me for wearing my “LMAO” shirt depicting a laughing Mao Tse-Tung, “I appreciate when people use humor.”
Shoved off, and drove to Albany, New York area.
388 miles, 3,437 total.
DAY 11: Discovered a large bulge on rear bike tire the size of my thumb (from top joint up), and another smaller one. Excellent timing as I was planning to mountain bike in Stowe, Vermont the next day. Instead, searched frantically for a bike shop that could do something before closing for the weekend. Luckily, I found a place. Unfortunately, he didn’t carry tubeless tires and ordering them would have taken longer (4 days) than our schedule allowed. But he did have a tire and innertube that would keep me riding. Deal. I left his shop to pick up Laem and 2 hours and 37 minutes later he called saying my bike was done (he had to finish up another was his unnecessarily offered excuse). Upstate Bicycle Works. Troy, New York. www.upstatebicycleworks.com
Interesting kid (thirty-something). He’d worked for a non-profit in Africa and was tasked to scout out a tourist-friendly cycling route. The company would pay to hire local motorcyclists to transport him from place to place. Having observed their safety practices firsthand, he counter proposed that he just bicycle the prospective routes himself. So, he did. I told him about our friend from Yakima, Washington, Wendy Steere, who had trekked all over, she’d even trekked across one of the Stans (Kyrgyzstan) and he’d done the same on one of the equally unpronounceable Stans. (Phew! Thought I was mildly xenophobic, but if so, so is the internet and associated informational sites.) People can be interesting.
That night, tired and hungry, we waited 45 minutes for terribly prepared food at a chain restaurant. Laem, former cook for hire, was not pleased. Me neither.
DAY 12: Took the most scenic route of our trip through Adirondack State Park and along Lake George’s shoreline. The area reminded me of the Northern Idaho lake areas (Coeur d’ Alene, Twin, Hayden), but different. Lots of islands, interesting shorelines, beautiful rock formations.
Eventually crossed over into Vermont, the first of the three states we hadn’t been to. We wound our way through hilly, green landscape with few people. It reminded us of the Palouse and its rolling hills and lack of inhabitants. Burlington, the biggest city, has a population of 45,000 (rounded up) according to Wikipedia.
It was raining most of the day and was still raining when we checked into our hotel in Stowe. Manager warned of bears having an affinity for the hotel dumpster, “Just shoo them,” he advised.
Dined at Rimrock’s Mountain Tavern where Laem asked the waiter/bartender/manager/(owner?), “Can I steal this glass?”
“No. You may have it.” He took it from her but returned it shortly, washed and dried.
171 miles, 3,608 total.
Stowe, Vermont.
DAY 13: Stowe, Vermont! Stoked because I woke up to dry weather. Cady mountain bike trail was closed, but I had viable tires and ready to roll. Quickly did the things people do upon waking and then dressed. Getting dressed did the trick – the clouds wept copiously. Fine then. I checked for wet bears then pedaled off to get thoroughly soaked.
Rode a nice paved trail for awhile then returned for a shower, with soap. Packed up, checked out, and while loading the car a couple exited the lobby, nothing unusual, except the woman had the gall to wear a shirt bearing a purple W. I was left no other choice but to yell out, “GO COUGS!”
She smiled warmly, and patiently replied, “No, that’s the wrong school.” I took a deep breath, intending to correct HER, but she continued, “Unless you’re from Washington State.”
“Yup,” I grinned. We shared that we retired from trucking and Vermont was one of three states we hadn’t gotten to, until now. Turns out they also were on a mission to visit all 50 states and could now cross off Vermont.
“Fifty by sixty,” she said. (We’re behind the rhyming curve.) “West Virginia’s next. You’ve been there, what is in West Virginia?” The only thing the comes to mind when I think of West Virginia is my prodigiously thirsty barracks roommate (and his lovely ex-wife).
“Moonshine,” I said feebly. It was a pretty state, but dispatch didn’t always route us past the tourist attractions. Had a good visit.
We drove a short distance to Montpelier, the least populated state capital in the United States (population 8,023 per Wikipedia). Quaint, touristy. The river area is reminiscent of Bamberg, West Germany (my sentimentally favorite version. Seems like they kept things conspicuously nicer, rubbed the evil empire’s nose in gaiety, and having nice things). Rode around the city a bit, then met Laem for lunch. Had fish again, and again it was great. So, Laem bought their shirt.
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Mutually assured photo bombing
at our country's smallest state capital (Pop. 8,000+ according to www.montpelier-vt.org) Montpelier, Vermont.
DAY 13: (Continued from above)
Moved on and into New Hampshire (47th out of 50). I kind of know what a shire is, but a “hamp” Google has no answers for. A “hampshire,” of the other hand, is a large hornless, black-faced mutton-producing sheep according to Merriam Webster. Interesting choice for a state name. Anyhoo, stopped at the visitor center/rest area and chatted up the greeter. He was very knowledgeable about Mt. Washington and we geeked out about geology (Mt. Washington is the windiest, and nearly the coldest place in the lower 48 states). He asked where we came from, and I told him. “No way!”
“Way!”
“I hiked the Cascades with some friends in the ‘70’s. Beautiful area,” etc., blah, blah. So, I spewed what geological wonders I believed to be true about Washington. Good time.
Saw some reasonable gas prices, $3.49 Circle K Easy Pay, or Irving Debit Pay. Bait and switch - .10cents more without linking gas company to your checking account.
Checked into Bangor, Maine hotel thus having been to all lower 48 states.
276 miles, 3,884 total.
Uh, New Hampshire. Pretty sure. We'll get back to NH.
Hotel Hallway. Hallowed Hometown of Horror-Writer. (Bangor, Maine)
The reddish rocks surprised me. Reminded me of the Southwest, Utah particularly, except more jagged. Acadia National Park, Maine.
DAY 14: Acadia National Park was beautiful, as promised. The most gorgeous shoreline I’ve ever seen, with wave after blue-green wave impaling themselves on the sharp blockish red rocks. Walked about the rocks, took pictures, and forgot my bag on a rock. I found the bag a lot quicker than I would have thanks to a seagull that had not left it’s spot.
Circumnavigated the park and was excited to get out and ride on the carriage roads. While not mountain bike trails, they are off limits to cars. And, still off limits to bicycles for the season I learned.
(Continued below)
Acadia National Park, Maine.
(DAY 14: Continued from above)
Stopped at Ellsworth Goodwill on the way back. Sat in the car waiting. An elderly gentleman seemed fascinated with my bike, or bike rack, as he looked at them for quite a while. Finally, he approached. His 82-year-old New England accent was aged to perfection. “I have a front fork you might be interested in,” he said, or words to that effect. I walked to his car, “I’m giving up mountain biking, too hard on the body now. So, I’m getting rid of stuff.” I kicked myself all the way back to Bangor for not buying his fork. Didn’t need it, but what would it have hurt. Inspirational, regardless – impressive longevity.
Passed a wholesale food purveyor on the road to Bangor: “Chow Maine."
Ate at the Bangor Grand Hotel where Laem pilfered another glass, without asking for permission. Smooth criminal.
106 miles, 3,990 total.
The Stephen King family residence (until relatively recently). Bangor, Maine.
DAY 15: Visited Stephen King’s place in Bangor, Maine. Spied a Little Free Library stand, so I was curious. I took an old, battered copy of “The Agony and the Ecstasy,” because it seemed like the most Kingsian souvenir to take. There’d be a more apt keepsake it turned out.
There was yellow “caution” tape in front of the King residence; stonemasons were adding cobblestones to the walkway. Learned from the foreman that the Stephen and Tabitha King Foundation had bought the house next door for their purposes.
Laem and I took turns posing in front of the house and its whimsical black iron fence (three-headed dragons, spider webs, sharp points). I walked around the caution tape, workers and under the tree to get a better shot of Laem. Another car pulled up, but we were finished with our celebrity stalking and so got back in the car. When I scratched at a slight itch on my scalp a black spider jumped onto my finger. I brushed at him, murderously, but he leapt off. He disappeared somewhere in the car. I never found him. “Stephen King’s spider lives in your head,” said Laem. For quite a while he lived in my head. Nice touch Mr. King.
Still no moose sightings despite many, many posted warnings in the last three states. Checked in to Saco, Maine hotel. In line at grocery store we got into a conversation with a young man whose Dad and Stepmother live in Blaine, Washington. Been there.
146 miles, 4,136 total.
Expertly trimmed tree. King estate, Bangor, Maine.
The last stop on our celebrity stalking tour. (Kidding, Secret Service - just gawking from a safe distance) President George (Herbert Walker) Bush's place. Kennebunkport, Maine.
DAY 16: Backtracked into Portland, Maine. My morning intake of coffee had me dancing so bad I couldn’t do parking meter math. A gentleman patiently explained my missteps and I eventually plugged the meter. Meanwhile, he quietly went back to his spot on the sidewalk and resumed reading, “Good Omens.” He had a small stack of books in front of him, and I pointed out that I had read one, Olive Kitteredge. “I think she’s from here, the author anyway,” he said. I gave him a few dollars for his timely help.
Down the block we met Mackenzie Holmes Mom in a local store. Mackenzie, a 6’3” Hoosier hoopster, was recently drafted by the Seattle Storm (weak, generic name*, but at least it’s not a sock, or color I guess) of the WNBA. Had a nice visit. Then went down the street and had potato donuts at Holy Donuts before leaving.
Visited the lighthouse at Fort Williams. Nice, so Laem took pictures (see picture). From there, traveled US 1 and then exited for Kennebunk, and then further to Kennebunkport. Took a picture of the president Bush’s (H.W.) place, then a few blocks down entered St. Ann’s by-the-Sea church. Quaint stone church with beautiful stained-glass windows.
* I nominate Seattle Subduction Zone.
(Continued below)
Portland Head Light, Fort Williams Park. Portland, Maine.
DAY 16: (Continued from above)
Stopped in Portsmouth, New Hampshire for a bite and a stroll. Walked down to the Piscataqua River and looked across at Maine (it looked about the same as when we were last there a few hours earlier). Strolled back to downtown and a 20-something man asked for help for food. “Sorry, I don’t have small bills.”
“C’mon, man. I’m homeless and I need 20 bucks for a room,” pause, “and some food.”
“Here,” I said offering him our substantial leftovers.
“C’mon, man, just 10 bucks for a room, I don’t have nowhere to stay, I’m homeless.” The conversation then looped circularly, so I called a homeless shelter and asked if they had available beds. They did, he maintained they didn’t and repeated his demands. Finally, he shoved his bike hard, and it rolled impressively balanced upending only when it hit a curb. Driving by minutes later I saw he was having an animated conversation with someone else.
Checked in a hotel near Boston, and later the hotel bar. Karaoke turned out to be dance lessons tailored to older folk. Enjoyed visiting with the bartender and an apparent regular who was an IT guy at Tufts but was originally from Portland – our Portland. Good time.
88 miles, 4,224 total.
Portsmouth, New Hampshire. North Congregational Church. Noted members: Daniel Webster, William Whipple (Declaration of Independence signer), John Langdon (US Constitution signer), & on November 1, 1789, President George Washington worshipped there.
DAY 17: Drove into Boston and noticed lots of pedestrian traffic. Guessed there was some sports game as there was a firetruck sporting a stylized “B” on its grill. (Hockey, Google says they lost that day.) Dropped Laem at the museum then I rode around looking for Paul Revere’s statue and the North Church of “One if by land, two if by sea,” fame. Found them and took quick pics. I had walked the Freedom Trail last time in Boston (pictures on this very website!), so I continued in a different direction, timewise, protest-wise: I went looking for pro Palestine, or antisemitic protests (depending on your leanings).
MIT had six or seven young adults standing looking at tent-sized patches of yellowed grass. A pair of Boston police were nearby monitoring the area. Having missed the excitement by at least a day, I continued through campus until I stumbled upon another Frank Gehry edifice, the Stata Center. Took pictures which again failed to capture Gehry’s twisted three dimensions.
Rode along the Charles River, admiring the crews and their graceful movements. Seeing all the boathouses and crews reminded me that I needed to invite myself to my brother’s new place. He rows and has a two-seater shell – I’d make him take me out, teach me.
(Continued below)
I know, "His face is in total darkness," you say. Of course it is! He was riding at night!
Boathouse, crews. Charles River. Boston, Massachusetts.
DAY 17: (Continued from above)
Got hungry, and thirsty, but couldn’t find an outside establishment where I could watch my bike. Looking for food I ran into Harvard, where they hadn’t run off the protesters. The gates were locked, security turning away all-comers (looked like students & staff). A few professional news cameras and reporters were trying to get what meager drama was available. Snapped a few disappointing pics and rode off.
Finally ate, at Longhorn Steakhouse. From Laem’s travelogue: “I order T-bone (22 oz) and share with Karl. And crunchy Brussel sprout, but now I have to share the aftermath of Brussels power from Karl (smelly) :)
32 miles, 4256
Harvard Israel/Hamas war protests. Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts.
DAY 18: Stephen King’s spider lives! In my head. Maybe in the car.
Traffic from Boston to Hackensack was horrific most of the way. When it wasn’t, drivers played high-speed Super Mario Kart. Twice I had to brake when someone slid into the “space” in front of us. Saw someone pull over immediately after such a driver had passed. I assume they were clipped.
Our kid met us for dinner in New Jersey that night. My entrée was pretty good, but Laem’s scallops were sliced up. She theorized that the kitchen was running out of scallops but went ahead anyway. 228 miles, 4,484 total.
DAY 19: May 12th: Graduation & Mother’s Day. Drove into New York and promptly made a few wrong turns. Drivers are just as aggressive in the city. Pulled into the garage, and sat there. I finally got out and approached the valet standing a few feet away, ignoring me. “What do you want?” he asks. In a garage? Valet only parking? The possibilities, where do I begin?
“Uh, I have a reservation.”
“Down there to the booth, get a ticket,” he says and maybe bothers to shrug in that direction, I don’t remember. The booth is unattended, of course. I figured out the ticket-spitting machine and split, comforted that New York’s finest have my car’s best interest at heart.
Met up with James (Son, Masters Grad). Hunger overcame us, so went into a deli. Upon ordering discover the staff was just as abrupt as on TV but weren’t acting. Before food was served and transactions finalized, they had won over each customer (that I observed), often with their wry humor. Great encounter. Sated, we headed to the soccer field, site of graduation ceremonies for Masters and Doctoral candidates.
Graduation ceremonies looked dubious just days before the scheduled event. Columbia was at the forefront of news stories regarding the Palestinian protests. But on May 1st NYPD arrested 109 protesters according to the New York Times.
(Continued below)
Mother & Son. Columbia, University. New York, New York. Plenty of sirens and shouting into bullhorns to control parents, family, and graduates.
DAY 19: (Continued from above)
Two endless lines flowed in opposing directions. Bull-horned minders were of little help, busy keeping lines flowing orderly. We picked the line going away from our destination and eventually it turned 180 degrees toward the graduation site. Inside the soccer stadium the grandstands were blocked off. An extremely large “tent” was set up covering the stage, and hundreds of folding chairs.
Eventually, the speeches came, some worth staying awake for. Next, graduate students were doted on and eventually left the stage. Master’s candidates, on the other hand, were herded across the stage as fast as their names could be read. There were always four candidates walking briskly across the stage, moo.
“You need to exit the field,” security ordered via bullhorns, repeatedly. The last candidate was barely off stage. Sure thing, right after pictures. “You need to exit the field. You can take your pictures outside the complex.” Exasperated by our very civil family-picture-taking disobedience, “If you don’t exit the field we will use the sirens,” they threatened, again repeatedly. And finally, they used their bullhorn sirens on us. Eventually, the crowd moved toward the exit where barricades kept us from exiting quickly (onto a blocked off street). Sirens and orders kept up ‘til the end.
26 miles, 4,510 total
Grand Central Terminal, Empire State Building. New York, New York.
DAY 20: Visited a Goodwill store somewhere in New Jersey by the Passaic River. Clothing was sorted by color. Weeks earlier I had capitulated to a phone solicitation and agreed to stay at the storied New Yorker Hotel. It would be greatly discounted if I would only listen to a “120 minute” presentation. It was a great deal and being in New York, virtually on top of the subway, it would be convenient for visiting our kid, James. I agreed, in part so I could get off the phone, but then had to stay on the line to finalize the details (no capitulation goes unpunished). But now here we were, reaping the rewards.
Valet parking was much easier this time. Being across the street from Madison Square Garden, the New Yorker has had many famous guests, such as Muhammed Ali, Barrack Obama (Sr., the president maker), JFK, his nemesis Fidel Castro[1],
Yankees during the Ruth & DiMaggio eras, and for ten years Nikola Tesla lived in the hotel[2]. From our room on the 22nd floor we could see New Jersey and the Hudson River.
I Googled where to catch the subway to Brooklyn, where James lived. It was literally next to the hotel, but I couldn’t find the entrance. Early onset? Shit. Maybe it was just the stress of driving in New York. Turns out subway means UNDERground transit.
18 miles, 4,528 total.
[1] Wikipedia
[2] www.newyorkerhotel.com
DAY 20: Visited a Goodwill store somewhere in New Jersey by the Passaic River. Clothing was sorted by color. Weeks earlier I had capitulated to a phone solicitation and agreed to stay at the storied New Yorker Hotel. It would be greatly discounted if I would only listen to a “120 minute” presentation. It was a great deal and being in New York, virtually on top of the subway, it would be convenient for visiting our kid, James. I agreed, in part so I could get off the phone, but then had to stay on the line to finalize the details (no capitulation goes unpunished). But now here we were, reaping the rewards.
Valet parking was much easier this time. Being across the street from Madison Square Garden, the New Yorker has had many famous guests, such as Muhammed Ali, Barrack Obama (Sr., the president maker), JFK, his nemesis Fidel Castro[1],
Yankees during the Ruth & DiMaggio eras, and for ten years Nikola Tesla lived in the hotel[2]. From our room on the 22nd floor we could see New Jersey and the Hudson River.
I Googled where to catch the subway to Brooklyn, where James lived. It was literally next to the hotel, but I couldn’t find the entrance. Early onset? Shit. Maybe it was just the stress of driving in New York. Turns out subway means UNDERground transit.
18 miles, 4,528 total.
[1] Wikipedia
[2] www.newyorkerhotel.com
1.5 mile walk there was faster than the 45-minute taxi ride back. Infinitely cheaper. NYC, NY.
DAY 21: The presentation: I’ve learned my lesson about the promise of getting something for nothing, but apparently, I need reminding each decade, or so. We were relieved to see fellow marks being ushered into the presentation room, but then we met “Joe,” our personal salesman (my term, forgot theirs). Joe was an extra corpulent NY native whose mother died of cancer while he was operating a hot dog stand. Covid hit six months later, he’s busted, so here he is. “Gotta work, right?” He’s excited about getting married soon but is not shy about leering and commenting on the attractiveness of a woman passing in the hallway. Charming. You probably know the rest: manager comes to “check” on Joe, “He’s one of our good guys,” “What if we lower it to this…,” finally, the third guy for an “exit-survey,” fatherly, well-groomed, paternal smiles. Finally, they took our no as an answer. Obligation fulfilled. But, after taxes, fees, parking, market value of our time, our stay at the New Yorker is now only an OK deal.
(Continued below)
Diocese of New York Cathedral, NYC, NY.
DAY 21: (Continued from above)
James rode his bicycle from Brooklyn to our hotel, nearly eight miles. The two of us rode to Central Park, around it, over to the Columbia campus where he was admitted only because he was still “staff,” (still technically employed in his TA gig). Beautiful, historical campus, I was surprised how much ground it covered in the middle of the city. He pointed out the Manhattan Project building among others.
Going back, we got rained on, hit some traffic, and an aggressive driver used our bike lane to try to cut us off as if we were automobiles. Had dinner later at the hotel restaurant where James’s girlfriend, Gal Polani, went upstairs to our room to take a call. When she came back, she told us she had landed a part in a feature length movie. Exciting stuff.
(Continued below)
WWII aircraft carrier, USS Intrepid.
DAY 21: (Continued from above)
I found a second wind and the four of us walked about a half mile to Times Square. At exactly three minutes until midnight, 97 advertising screens showed a group of people staring down at us, James’s girlfriend, Gal Polani, somewhere among them. At midnight they switched back to advertising. Turned out to be a great day.
Times Square. New York City, New York. At 23:57 ninety-seven screens switched to people staring down at the crowd. At midnight they switched back to advertising.
Gal Polani (upper left). TImes Square. New York City, New York.
DAY 22: There’s a constant updraft flowing past our 22nd story window. The horns and sirens below are nearly constant, a low background noise not loud, or discordant enough to be annoying, more like a refrigerator hum.
Downstairs, a floor beneath the lobby, is a truck driver’s paradise: a bathroom with six or more stalls, almost always to oneself! Clean, quiet, no waiting, no listening to drivers and their dispatchers (wives, girlfriends, music, games, YouTube videos), no loud grumbling about duration of stay, and whatever else I missed about trucking. Flashback, sorry.
Also downstairs are famous guest photos and memorabilia, most notably the items from Nikola Tesla’s room when he expired. His Death Ray notes were conspicuously missing from the display[1]. Improbably, a slightly older woman with a light European accent shared that she was an in-law of Nikola's, her husband being a great, great, great grandnephew.
Walked around town, parks, a church, and a sculpture, etc. Eventually, ended up in the hotel bar where our Washington state connection resumed. “Go Cougs!” we yelled at two younger women in Wazzu shirts as they walked past. That turned their heads and got them smiling.
[1] www.pbs.org/tesla/II/II_mispapers
Peace Fountain. NYC, NY. Greg Wyatt, sculptor.
DAY 23: James came over for breakfast on his way to work (which happened to be at the table while he was having breakfast). We burped, hugged goodbye, and went our separate ways – him across the river to work, and me across the street to the parking garage.
Exiting the garage, I stupidly decided against breaking traffic laws to get to our hotel across the street (in my weak defense, cops were nearby directing traffic). Instead, I circled the block and joined everybody else who had places to be and were thereby breaking traffic laws. It was every car for himself, the traffic cop merely an ornament. Forty-five minutes later I made it around the block.
Loaded, we hit the road and bumper to bumper traffic. It briefly got better, then we hit Baltimore (but not as hard as they let container ships hit them[1]). Nailed rush hour in Washington (the mere city) then followed the GPS onto a forbidden express lane then lost trying to get off it. Good times. Checked into Fredericksburg hotel.
285 miles, 4,813 total.
[1] On March 26th a container ship struck the Francis Scott Key Bridge, collapsing it.
DAY 24: 00:48 a.m. I received a group text from Margaret (Dad’s wife in all but certificate): “…Robert has been failing yesterday and again today…usually he rallies and may this time as well…and yet, after our prayers tonight he said, “I am ready to go.” I was exhausted and slept soundly.
But I sure dreamt. They were pleasant dreams other than me trying to figure out how to break the news to Laem. Laem’s in my dreams from time to time, of course, but this time she was the central character for much of it, with me throughout my dreams.
Laem’s dreams were nightmarish – she dreamt of comforting a dying child. The child called to her, not in distress, but for comfort. In the morning, I showed Laem the text. (I had passed out before telling her.)
Dad had told Laem a few months earlier that he was ready to go. He was in decline, as we all are the majority of our lives[1], but Dad was sliding down a much steeper slope. So, our trip was a gamble. I called Dad when it was a decent hour his time. He sounded good; he was alert, made no painful noises while on the phone, and his sense of humor was as sharp as ever. After hanging up, I was momentarily comforted. Then I remember the late-night text.
“We should drive to Chris’s tonight,” Laem said. We had planned on stopping in South Carolina. “You can fly home. I can drive some.”
“Yeah. That’s a good plan.” 820 miles or so, at 00:30 (12:30 a.m.) we were in Winterhaven, Florida.
820 miles, 5,633 total.
[1] According to the National Institute on Aging, our peak is around ages 30-35. After that we decline.
DAY 25: Arrived at friend's house 00:30 (12:30a.m.). Visited, slept, woke up, booked a flight for the next day then played miniature golf. I won, naturally. Hot & muggy, my was shirt thoroughly soaked in sweat. As soon as we putted the last hole the rain and lightning started. Good times.
820 miles, 4,904 total.
Juvenile alligators at Congo River Miniature Golf Course. Orlando, Florida.
May 19-23: Unscheduled flight home - Vacation on pause. Left Laem and the car with our friend in Florida. Flew out of Orlando, Florida and arrived in Seattle later that day. Borrowed my daughter’s car and was back on the road heading to Yamhill, Oregon.
Margaret is a little surprised I came. I suppose she didn’t think her text sounded as dire as it did to me. Dad has declined since we left – he’s now on hospice care and sleeps a lot. His sense of humor and intellect are intact, other than the repetition. He seemed stable enough for us to make it home, so I said goodbye after four days, “I’ll be dead by then,” Dad replied.
“No, Laem will be pissed at you if you are.” I hoped that invoking Laem’s name would give him the will to hang on until we got back. They get along famously, each very intelligent, wise at times.
“Rember what I said, take your time, have fun and enjoy yourselves,” Margaret said as we hugged goodbye. Drove back to Seattle, let my daughter have her car back, then asked for a ride to the airport. Flew to Orlando where Laem and our friend Chris picked me up.
Roundtrip air miles 5,108. Ground miles 462+42 miles. 5,570 total miles
Gabe. Yamhill, Oregon.
Florida, somewhere.
Busch Gardens. Tampa, Florida.
DAY 26: Vacation resumed. Chris went back to work, so I swam in his pool. Laem & I lounged around until it was time for tacos and beer. Our drink order was flubbed, so we were compensated with beer and personal attention from the bartendress, tableside, aimed mostly at Chris.
Lake Louisa, Florida. Spotted an alligator snout near the grassy area out in the lake.
DAY 27: We searched for alligators at Lake Louisa State Park and every lake along the way. Winter Haven has so many lakes that satellite photos of it look like moldy, extra holy Swiss cheese. Alligators in Florida are everywhere, especially in lakes, and easy to see, unless you’re a tourist on a schedule.
The signs boded well, especially one that said “Caution, Alligators,” and even more promising the sight of six kids swimming in sight of the sign. “I can show you where there’s an alligator,” a young girl told us. “C’mon, follow me, he's over here.” We walked to the shoreline, and she pointed, “Over there. See the bubbles? That means there’s an alligator. There! You can see his nose poking out the water.” And sure enough, there was an alligator snout above water. A smaller one, but in the wild. We heard a deep croaking noise and she said, “They can be in the bushes too. You have to be careful.” Precocious kid. She scampered back to her friend, and the swimmers continued splashing each other, uneaten.
We drove around a little before leaving. A huge tortoise decided against crossing the road as we approached.
Chris & Laem. Lake Louisa State Park, Florida.
DAY 28: Left Florida and headed for Georgia. I told Laem that I was going to skip riding in Arkansas, and Moab, and maybe after Nashville head more directly toward home. Laem was thinking similar thoughts. We’d visit a couple friends, blow out our eardrums, then hit the gas.
Brother Joey from Wazzu days, lives north of Atlanta. Traffic was fine, but the Georgia State Patrol was aggressively pulling over cars, sometimes two at a time. They drove at an emergency pace until behind the targets they were pulling over. One flew from the center island to the shoulder on my right, on the corner of my bumper, blocking me from pulling over safely. He suddenly punched it and pulled behind his actual target. Safety first, or revenue, I guess.
Somewhere along the way we pulled into a Buc-ees, a travel center chain that from the freeway looks like a truck-stop but isn’t. Instead, it has an almost supermarket-sized store inside. It was loud, kids, parents, store music, friendly cashiers. So I grabbed some beer and plopped the 30-pack (just in case) on the counter. “…birthday?” the cashier asked.
“No, reunion with an old friend.” She smiled even brighter and clarified that she needed my birthdate to enter into the system. (I may have retold this story a few times.)
Checked into hotel then ate at a chain restaurant. The staff (each one) moved at half pace, at best – it was interesting to watch.
438 miles, 6,071 total.
Lake Louisa State Park, Florida.
DAY 29: Made it to Joey’s, met his wife Kristie, kids, grandkids, a daughter in-law. Joey & Kristie own perhaps the only Chihuahua in the world that chooses not to bark; it can, but it won’t. The other dog kept us safe from birds and squirrels.
Joey & I picked up where we left off forty plus years ago. Both Laem and Kristie, independent of each other, were intrigued that he could. I told my “birthday” story for the first time and got the laughs I was fishing for.
We visited to the background sounds of youngsters playing in the pool (two being high ranked swimmers). They included us for an amazing family dinner of ribs, corn on the cob, coleslaw, and another delicious dish I’ve forgotten the name of. Spent the night. Great time.
58 miles, 6,129 total.
Go Cougs!
Cicada. Lookout Mountain, Tennessee.
DAY 30: Said our goodbyes to Joey & Kristie and headed for Ruby Falls. Billboards everywhere in Tennessee extoll the splendor that is Ruby Falls. So, it’s been on our list for a while. We jumped into an elevator (the only entrance, or escape) to/from the cavern and descended. Key features, such as stalagmites, stalactites, streams, and the waterfall itself are highlighted by colored lights. The effect isn’t as cheesy as it sounds, rather it enhanced the experience.
Outside, we finally encountered the infamous cicadas (the ’24 simultaneous emergence of the 17 & 13 year broods[1]). Loud bastards.
We then drove to Pedro’s, a cold war Army buddy who greeted me at the door with a beer. Haven’t seen him in 34 years, but like Joey, we picked up where we left off. Pedro has a lakefront house four times the size of our place in Seattle, a dock, a yard, a loud bullfrog, no traffic or emergency sirens, for about the price of ours. Savy bastard.
190 miles, 6,319 total.
[1] https://cicadas.uconn.edu
Ruby Falls. Inside Lookout Mountain, Tennessee.
Stalactites & reflecting pool. Ruby Falls, Tennessee.
Pedro!
DAY 31: Had leisurely breakfast and coffee “downtown” with Pedro then proceeded to Nashville. Checked-into motel, ordered a Lyft, and discovered a tenuous connection to Washington – our driver was Kenyan. Bear, or bare (your choice, depending on proclivity) with me: “You know who Henry Rono is, I bet.”
“Yes, yes!” Henry Rono was a drinking buddy of mine at The Coug (one night, anyway; penalty drink if you haven’t deduced that The Coug is a bar in Pullman, WA). Oh, Henry's also somewhat famous in running circles, & Kenya, for setting 4 world records in 81 days[1] while at Wazzu. Told the driver we were from there (Washington State) – still had to pay for our ride. Whatever.
(Continued below)
DAY 31 (Continued from above):
Nashville was pleasantly surprising. I was expecting it to be touristy (it is) and contrived. Instead, the place was rocking, even the country bands! We bar hopped, naturally, then settled on a band “featuring” a stand-up bass. The guy slapped the hell out of his instrument and manhandled it as if it were, well, a bass fiddle – still he readily hefted it where theatrically needed. A hell of a musician and showman.
The younger guitar player’s stage presence, though playing bluegrass, was somehow reminiscent of Angus Young of AC/DC – extremely proficient, theatrical facial contortions, engaging. According to the lead singer (of Kelly’s hero’s), the guitarist began listening to the band before he could enter the club legally. He’d stand in the doorway, absorbing everything he could. One night, the band’s guitarist was arrested on stage and taken away. Desperate (presumably), they asked the kid if he knew the songs in the set list. He said yes and has been playing for them since.
I heard drumming, equally proficient, which I assumed came from somewhere behind the bass fiddle & its player. Being a small stage, people on the sidewalk had a much better view of the drummer (this was true of many bars). So, I can’t vouch for his showmanship, but the lead singer/bassist says he was good (musically & otherwise), and I don’t disagree.
I'm still flabbergasted that one of the rockingest bands I've listened too in my life was a bluegrass band. We eventually called it a night and ordered a Lyft. Along the way, I was hit up by a panhandler, but told him I didn’t have cash. “No problem, you can Venmo me.”
“I don’t have the app and I have no idea how to install it.” I wasn’t lying, and apparently, he read the earnestness in my face.
Caught our Lyft and had yet another Washington connection – the kid’s Dad had been stationed at Fort Lewis. Me too! Good kid, hope he’s doing well.
120 miles, 6,439 total
[1] Common Wazzu knowledge; also, www.runnersworld.com for doubters.
DAY 31 (Continued from above):
Nashville was pleasantly surprising. I was expecting it to be touristy (it is) and contrived. Instead, the place was rocking, even the country bands! We bar hopped, naturally, then settled on a band “featuring” a stand-up bass. The guy slapped the hell out of his instrument and manhandled it as if it were, well, a bass fiddle – still he readily hefted it where theatrically needed. A hell of a musician and showman.
The younger guitar player’s stage presence, though playing bluegrass, was somehow reminiscent of Angus Young of AC/DC – extremely proficient, theatrical facial contortions, engaging. According to the lead singer (of Kelly’s hero’s), the guitarist began listening to the band before he could enter the club legally. He’d stand in the doorway, absorbing everything he could. One night, the band’s guitarist was arrested on stage and taken away. Desperate (presumably), they asked the kid if he knew the songs in the set list. He said yes and has been playing for them since.
I heard drumming, equally proficient, which I assumed came from somewhere behind the bass fiddle & its player. Being a small stage, people on the sidewalk had a much better view of the drummer (this was true of many bars). So, I can’t vouch for his showmanship, but the lead singer/bassist says he was good (musically & otherwise), and I don’t disagree.
I'm still flabbergasted that one of the rockingest bands I've listened too in my life was a bluegrass band. We eventually called it a night and ordered a Lyft. Along the way, I was hit up by a panhandler, but told him I didn’t have cash. “No problem, you can Venmo me.”
“I don’t have the app and I have no idea how to install it.” I wasn’t lying, and apparently, he read the earnestness in my face.
Caught our Lyft and had yet another Washington connection – the kid’s Dad had been stationed at Fort Lewis. Me too! Good kid, hope he’s doing well.
120 miles, 6,439 total
[1] Common Wazzu knowledge; also, www.runnersworld.com for doubters.
Kelly's Hero's at Robert's Western World. The rockingest band we saw in Nashville (despite playing bluegrass/country).
DAY 32: Noticed the truck stop was leveled. Last time we visited Nashville we’d stayed there. Times change. On the way to Goodwill, at a light we were behind a black couple on a motorcycle. He was rocking out to Aerosmith. When the song was over, he searched for another artist and chose the Eurythmics, and sang along unabashedly.
Noticed the truck stop was leveled. Last time we visited Nashville we’d stayed there. Repeated the night before except that Yellow Cab took us for a ride – way more expensive than previous rides.
DAY 32: Noticed the truck stop was leveled. Last time we visited Nashville we’d stayed there. Times change. On the way to Goodwill, at a light we were behind a black couple on a motorcycle. He was rocking out to Aerosmith. When the song was over, he searched for another artist and chose the Eurythmics, and sang along unabashedly.
Noticed the truck stop was leveled. Last time we visited Nashville we’d stayed there. Repeated the night before except that Yellow Cab took us for a ride – way more expensive than previous rides.
DAY 33: Laem waited until morning to finish laundry because of her unwillingness to remove some clod’s laundry from the dryer. Pseudo-related observation: the fancier the hotel the less likely there’s laundry machines, or microwaves in the room.
I called Margaret to check in. Dad was up, said, “I love you son,” a few times, then, “I’m dying,” a few times as well*. Sounded perfectly alert, aware to me.
“No, you’ll always be with us in spirit,” Margaret countered (probably not quite verbatim).
Traveled through the rest of Tennessee, took a side road just past a bunch of Confederate flags in Kentucky (thus narrowly escaping a road shutdown), apparently went through Illinois, crossed the Missouri and Mississippi rivers in St. Louis, then traveled the remaining width of Missouri and checked into our hotel on the banks of the Missouri river in Kansas City, Missouri.
555 miles, 6,994 total.
* Dad disdained Facebook and its rampant over-"sharing." Regarding all things postmortem, on the other hand, "What the hell do I care, I'll be dead."
I called Margaret to check in. Dad was up, said, “I love you son,” a few times, then, “I’m dying,” a few times as well*. Sounded perfectly alert, aware to me.
“No, you’ll always be with us in spirit,” Margaret countered (probably not quite verbatim).
Traveled through the rest of Tennessee, took a side road just past a bunch of Confederate flags in Kentucky (thus narrowly escaping a road shutdown), apparently went through Illinois, crossed the Missouri and Mississippi rivers in St. Louis, then traveled the remaining width of Missouri and checked into our hotel on the banks of the Missouri river in Kansas City, Missouri.
555 miles, 6,994 total.
* Dad disdained Facebook and its rampant over-"sharing." Regarding all things postmortem, on the other hand, "What the hell do I care, I'll be dead."
June '24
Glenwood Canyon, Colorado.
DAY 34: Departed Kansas City, Missouri, crossed the Missouri river and into Kansas City, Kansas. (Carry on my wayward son.) Probably saw the last of the roadkilled armadillos,* along with a turtle, red fox, and a live antelope in Colorado.
The cattle in Kansas were bunched together in tight, skin-to-skin huddles.
610 miles, 7,604 miles
*Their carcasses are ubiquitous along southern highways; knew this from trucking.
Colorado River as seen from Kokopelli Trail. Fruita, Colorado.
DAY 35: Overpaid for gas at Exxon ($3.29) because my gas finding app had Shell for $2.89 (it was $3.49!). But there was coffee nearby.
Still lots of snow over Vail and saw a car heading up Loveland pass with skis on its roof. Checked into our hotel in Fruita, Colorado ahead of schedule, so Laem dropped me off at the trailhead to Kokopelli Trails. It was more gorgeous than I remembered.
(Continued below)
Kokopelli Trails. Fruita, Colorado.
Kokopelli Trails. Fruita, Colorado.
(DAY 35: Continued from above)
Stopped often to take pictures, but the grandeur was hard to capture. I was grinning ear to ear for two miles, then tried a mountain bike like maneuver on my temporary non-mountain bike tire. Pinch flat. A few riders graciously offered what they had, but no luck. So, I had the most awesome hike I can remember. Laem picked me up early.
262 miles, 7,866 total.
Sidenote:
Laem
observed
that
there are
a lot of
heavy
people
there
for an
outdoor
mecca.
Kokopelli? He's supposed to be a trickster. Fruita, Colorado.
Shoshone Falls, Idaho. Falls were turned off.
DAY 36: Traveled a few miles in Colorado, then several more in Utah, and Idaho, before crossing into Oregon and stopping for the night. Enjoyed Utah’s 80mph speed limit and gorgeous scenery through Price Canyon, etc.
With the rivers in Idaho engorged, I looked forward to showing Laem Shoshone Falls, in Twin Falls, Idaho. It’s higher than Niagara Falls[1]. Unfortunately, the falls “weren’t on,” as the locals supposedly say, and more than half of the falls were exposed rock. The US Department of Reclamation controls the flow via the Milner Dam 20 miles upstream[2]. The gorge and falls were still spectacular – people base & bungee jump from the bridge (which undulates unnervingly when walking across). This is the same gorge Evel Knievel attempted to jump, and the same river (Snake) that wends its way through Hells Canyon Idaho/Oregon (the deepest canyon in North America[3].)
662 miles, 8,528 total.
[1] www.idahopower.com
[2] Twin Falls, Idaho. www.tfid.org
[3] US Forest Service www.fs.usda.gov
Shoshone Falls, Snake River Canyon. Twin falls, Idaho. 2017 when the falls were turned on.
Snake River Canyon, Twin Falls, Idaho.
DAY 37: Ontario, Oregon. Have spent plenty of nights in Ontario, but always on the other side of the street, at the truck stop.
A couple in the parking lot couldn’t start their motorcycle. So, Laem asked, “Can we give you a push?” We?
“Maybe,” the guy said. He tinkered around a little longer while we were loading, but to no avail. So, I pushed. He popped the clutch, it sputtered, then quit. I sputtered myself. His girlfriend probably noticed this and offered to help push. We pushed, he popped, it caught, and ran. Auspicious start to the day.
Dropped by a bike shop to get a real tire then headed to see Dad & Margaret. Plenty of vultures when we got to Yamhill, as usual.
466 miles, 8,994
Turkey Vulture & our favorite yellow dwarf. Yamhill, Oregon.
June 5: Dad was dying. He was past his expiration date in each category (sex, race, socioeconomic status. He had things that might have been fixed if caught earlier, if he was younger, in isolation, etc. Treatment may have prolonged his life marginally, maybe, but it certainly would have increased his discomfort level, exponentially. Dad opted for comfort, at home, for the duration of his life.
My brother, Kraig, came over a day later and between the three of us (Margaret, Laem, Kraig, & I) we tended to Dad. Dying wastes little time in attacking dignity. We tried to be business-like and efficient in dealing with those matters.
We stayed close by. We watched “The Hunt for Red October” a few times, “Did I tell you that was required reading when I worked at Hughes?” He had. Dad had worked with computers since they were room-sized, often in connection with the military. The following are some of the places Dad worked: Kwajalein Atoll Missile Range, Vandenburg AFB, SR71 Spy Plane Base – Kadena AFB, Okinawa, Japan, Area 51-Eddwards AFB.
“Can I drink beer?’ he’d asked the hospice nurse a few weeks earlier.
“Sure. You can have anything you want,” she’d said. So, Dad occasionally drank Spaten Optimator, through a straw sometimes, once chugging a whole bottle. Not bad for someone on his deathbed. Too soon, that was pretty much all the comfort we could offer – beer, or Coke, make sure the electric blanket was still on.
On the evening of June 17th Dad stopped breathing. He was 86 years old.
Yamhill, Oregon.
DAY 38 & 39: We said our goodbyes to Margaret and hit the road. A propane truck lit Interstate 5 on fire, shutting it down. So, we took the scenic route. Kraig spent the night at our place.
Laem stayed behind while Kraig and I went to visit Mom and my sister. A day earlier Mom had welcomed a new resident to her memory care facility by flashing him. She was less festive when we visited, whew!
Got back on the road, and headed to Deep Lake Washington. Eventually the sun set, and my eyes got heavy. I had Kraig drive. A couple of wild animals tested his reflexes and my brakes. Got to his place and promptly passed out.
650 miles, 9,644 total.
Strawberries elevated on a post, out of reach of deer. Deep Lake, Washington
DAY 40: Hung out, drank coffee, then went to Canada looking for food while Kraig & Karen went to the dentist and Costco. Frustrated by parking meters in Trail, I ended up at Tim Horton’s.
Credits: Based on Gary Larson calendar (July 17, '24). Photo credit: Orsulak, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. https://creativecommon.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en
DAY 40: Drank coffee, hung out, then went to Canada looking for food while Kraig & Karen went to the dentist and Costco. Frustrated by the parking meters in Trail, I ended up at Tim Horton’s.
Back at their place Kraig & Karen taught me rowing technique on their torture device. Easy to learn, harder to do. Kraig then demonstrated a common technique among fitness buffs that amuses rowers – I’d learn why the next day.
Kraig texted me a cartoon picture from his Far Side* calendar the day Dad died (see photo interpretation). “Spooky shit,” he wrote. Agreed.
62 miles, 9,706 total.
* By Wazzu great, Gary Larson. (Would have liked to have published Larson's art but was unable to get permission at time of this publication. Date on calendar, June 17th, 2024).
Back at their place Kraig & Karen taught me rowing technique on their torture device. Easy to learn, harder to do. Kraig then demonstrated a common technique among fitness buffs that amuses rowers – I’d learn why the next day.
Kraig texted me a cartoon picture from his Far Side* calendar the day Dad died (see photo interpretation). “Spooky shit,” he wrote. Agreed.
62 miles, 9,706 total.
* By Wazzu great, Gary Larson. (Would have liked to have published Larson's art but was unable to get permission at time of this publication. Date on calendar, June 17th, 2024).
Rowing lessons with Kraig. Deep Lake, Washington.
DAY 41: Went rowing! My brother and Karen have a two-seat rowing shell and live next to a calm lake that few people use. They taught me how to get in without falling or tipping the boat, how to use the oars for balance, etc. Karen then coached from a nearby kayak as Kraig gave the necessary commands.
I thought I was going to tip us at one point, which is easier to do than you’d think. Kraig thought I was doing good enough to join in and when he did the shell seemed to shoot forward (my backward). I helped store the boat and equipment. I now know the hilarity of Kraig’s demonstration the day before: some “rowers” raise their hands up which would be very disruptive, especially if the oar blades are plunging into the water at the wrong time.
Had dinner and conversation with their good friends and “neighbors,” Bonnie and Steve.
Awesome day, experience.
DAY 41: Went rowing! My brother and Karen have a two-seat rowing shell and live next to a calm lake that few people use. They taught me how to get in without falling or tipping the boat, how to use the oars for balance, etc. Karen then coached from a nearby kayak as Kraig gave the necessary commands.
I thought I was going to tip us at one point, which is easier to do than you’d think. Kraig thought I was doing good enough to join in and when he did the shell seemed to shoot forward (my backward). I helped store the boat and equipment. I now know the hilarity of Kraig’s demonstration the day before: some “rowers” raise their hands up which would be very disruptive, especially if the oar blades are plunging into the water at the wrong time.
Had dinner and conversation with their good friends and “neighbors,” Bonnie and Steve.
Awesome day, experience.
The BUTTON below takes you to Karen's Facebook page wherein rowing videos exist. Middle video is best.
DAY 42: Had coffee, then got in our cars and had more in Northport (Northern Provisions). Said our goodbyes, then drove to Omak, Washington. Checked into a hotel and they handed me a key! First non-keycard this trip, this decade probably.
153 miles, 9,859 total.
Colville National Forest, Washington.
DAY 43: Drove through beautiful country to get to Leavenworth, Washington, the Bavarian themed town. Cute, but my new tire and I were there to ride Freund Canyon. I was passed by three ebikes, two dogs, and one runner going up, and up. Nobody passed me going down.
Took a quick sponge bath in the parking lot and headed home. Slept in my own bed that night, and the next, so on, and so forth. The End.
251 miles, 10,110 total trip miles.
(15,680 air + ground miles from April 24 – June 23, 2024)
Somewhere near the top of Freund Canyon Trail. Leavenworth, Washington.
Somewhere near home.
**************************************
CROSS-COUNTRY
ROAD TRIP
****************************
The End
March '24
Tiger Mountain, Washington.
February '24
Olympic Mountains, Puget Sound, and some bald eagles. Seattle, Washington.
December '23
Tiger Mountain (probably), Washington.
Yet another rainy day in the Pacific Northwest.
November '23
"So, if you live here you DON'T have to wear a leash?"
"C'mon. Who doesn't like chase?"
Nutrient-Rich Clouds. Yamhill, Oregon.
Alki Beach. Seattle, Washington.
October '23
Tiger Mountain, Washington (State).
Seafair. Lake Washington (Between Seattle, Bellevue, & Mercer Island, Washington.
August '23
Lake Tahoe, California. Flume Trail. Retirement test-run.
Angora Ridge. Lake Tahoe, Nevada.
Lake Tahoe, California. Flume Trail.
Crater Lake, Oregon.
July '23
Jacob Marley as the Ghost of Sloppy Winters Past (dressed as the author of your favorite website).
Idaho Falls, Idaho. Last ride from the truck.
Glendo State Park, Wyoming. Nearing the end of the trucking adventure.
June '23
Amsterdam, Netherlands. (Retirement test-drive, via bicycles.)
Koln Dom. Koln, Germany. (Cologne Cathedral, Cologne, Germany.)
Koln Dom. Cologne, Germany.
Bamberg Dom. Bamberg, Germany. Construction began in the year 1002, more than 200 years earlier than the Koln Dom (Cologne Cathedral).
May '23
She has no thumbs, so I was stuck with taking the picture. Bootleg Canyon, Nevada. Near Hoover Dam, Nevada/Arizona.
Self Portrait. Fontana, California.
A Dog and His Man. Fontana, California (Southridge Park).
April '23
Look what I painted! (By "painted" I mean I zoomed in so far in editing that the tortured pixels gave up.) San Francisco Bay, California.
A pod of humans. San Francisco Bay, California.
Jumper Memorial. Fort Point National Historic Site (Civil War Fortress). Near (very) Golden Gate Bridge. San Francisco, California.
March '23
When mountains hold their breath. The Wasatch range, Ogden, Utah.
February '23
Humboldt Peak, Nevada and a Raven (possibly Crow, didn't ask)
January '23
Alki Point. Seattle, Washington.
Stockton California. Wat Dhammararam Buddhist Temple (Cambodian persuasion).
Figs. Central California, A few years ago. (Still looking for a pic taken near this date.
Figs, pay attention! Dates are grown further south, in the desert., and places that would be desert if left unirrigated.)
December '22
November '22
Hohokam petroglyphs, South Mountain Park. Phoenix, Arizona.
More Hohokam work.
October, '22
Arizona desert somewhere between Phoenix and Kingman. From a few years ago. (Needed to fill this space. Send a self-addressed stamped envelope along with $500.00 and I'll send you an actual picture taken in October! Hurry, while supplies last, etc.)
Somewhere in Oregon. Moon, or trees, take your pic(K). From a few years ago.
June '22
Green River, Wyoming.
A plague of Mormon Crickets. Nevada highways were blackened by their squashed carcasses.
Sooners. Folks that jumped the line and staked their claims sooner (than the other poor schmucks who waited for the official starting gun). Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.
May '22
High Desert Trail. Gallup, New Mexico.
High Desert Trail. Near Gallup, New Mexico.
The bloom is off the rose, and in the trees. The Rose City (AKA Portland, Oregon).
Zen Trail, entirely free from the scourge of dragons. St. George, Utah.
Jacksonville, Oregon.
Medford, Oregon from Prescott Park.
April '22
Southern Georgia. A day's drive later we were welcomed by tornado sirens, an eerie calm, and ill-behaved rainwater in an otherwise forgettable burg.
March '22
A shortcut. Near Flagstaff, Arizona.
Space, as occupied by windblown snowflakes. (Near Flagstaff, Arizona)
February '22
Changing room.
January '22
Sandy River just before it joins the mighty Columbia. Troutdale, Oregon (near Portlandlia).
November '21
Spokane River, Washington.
October '21
Trapped Sunlight's glow in the Land of Enchantment. (Also known as High Desert Trail System, near Gallup, New Mexico.)
High Desert Trail System. Gallup, New Mexico.
August '21
Some texter blocked my usual entrance to a favorite trail, so I went around him and dismounted abruptly over my handlebars, in his full view (it may be on the internet.) This pic is my consolation prize. I did not zoom in and I am not an expert on deer body Language, but I think I was close to a confrontation. Beacon Hill (Sekani Trails), Spokane, Washington.
Smoked turkeys (everything & everybody is this summer).
Somewhere over the Rainbow (between Jordan Valley, Oregon and McDermitt, Nevada.
July '21
Semitourist is pleased to exploit the talents of Guest Photographer, Laem Kuntz. Laem took this month's photos while the truck attempted the speed limit on the hyper-twisty US 101 along the Oregon Coast and through the Redwood National Park.
The Pacific Ocean and a series of large rocks therein.
Humbug State Park, Oregon.
Redwood National Park. Note the lack of shoulder and the trees creeping closer and closer to the road.
June '21
Donner Pass, California.
Looking for a peanut-butter fish. Puget Sound, Tacoma, Washington.
Used Car, Like New. Tacoma, Washington.
May '21
Monument Valley, Arizona.
April '21
Some Creek. Bonneville Shoreline Trail. Ogden, Utah.
March '21
Zen Trail. St. George, Utah. Untouched by rain (or lightning) somehow.
February '21
Brutal cold weather everywhere. Texas froze, lost power, and even accumulated snow on their beaches. Myself, I was stranded in Baker City, Oregon waiting for our company to let us drive (we have a no chain-up policy). When I was allowed to drive, I made it to the outskirts of Portland (still Oregon) and sat until the freezing rain finished coating the already snow-inundated city. I Parked safely on a side street and was then tucked-in for the night by Portland snowplows. The next morning, I dug & chopped leisurely away at the snow/ice waiting for the go-ahead to leave (the lag-time between what the driver sees, and what dispatch knows is sometimes incongruous). Anyway, next time I might consider parking on the freeway (among the many others already parked there - safety first!).
Portland, Oregon. Ice Storm.
Raspberry Leaf. Portland, Oregon.
January
2021
Mojave Desert, California. Sunset.
November '20
I strayed off of I-5 long and far enough that I got a load going to Texas. Which was canceled. It was replaced by a load going through Moab - with enough time between stops for me to ride Slickrock Mountain Bike Trail (the granddaddy of 'em all, a literal destination ride!) Recuperated on up to Washington. Trekked through the rain a few days later for a protest beer (go back to the Soviet Union Comrade Inslee!). Pretty boring until I showed up at Costco to find a rolled SUV in the parking lot partially blocking the docks. Kudos to him, never would have guessed that was possible.
Colorado River Gorge as seen from Slickrock Trail. Moab, Utah
Costco parking lot/loading dock area moments before my arrival. He walked away. Lehi, Utah.
March thru October '20
I delivered toilet paper.
What the box says (from a few years ago, but the sediment is valid - pun is a freebie). From a warehouse somewhere in Southern California, near the container ships.
February
Pane-Staking. Salt Lake City Library, Utah.
Date Night (afternoon, actually). Fontana, California.
2019
August
through
November
through
November
Wasatch Mountains, and a freshly swept reefer (refrigerated trailer if you're wondering why reefers need sweeping). Ogden, Utah.
Random People (as far as you're concerned) fishing. Somewhere near Nirvana. Washington State (Go Cougs!)
Zen Trail, Saint George, Utah.
July
Trail Obstacle (Rattlesnake). Ogden, Utah.
June
May
Indian Trail (off Bonneville Shoreline Trail). Ogden, Utah.
April
Temporary Hood Ornament (close relative of statue-whitewashers).
April showers bring...pollen. Record amounts nationally. Clouds of the stuff. As a diligent photojournalist I chronicled the phenomenon by photographing cowgirls barrel racing (indoors). Probably the same girl. Oh, and I photoshopped the fluorescent tubing out of the picture. There, know before you buy.
Unknown Barrel Racing Contestant. Rolling Hills Equestrian Center, Corning, California.
Unknown Barrell Racer. Rolling Hills Equestrian Center. Corning, California.
March
As of the Ides of March (which I had to Google), winter has been spectacular for wildlife sightings in the west. Near Toppenish, Washington the sunlight illuminated the most beautiful porcupine halfway up a cottonwood (probably) tree. That very same day (or the day before, or after) we saw, in one day, a Bald Eagle, the porcupine, a herd of elk, and a coyote crossing our path. The next day, just before Snowville, Utah, in the span of a mile we saw a herd of elk, several herds of deer, and a smattering of antelope. The following morning we stayed put as several spun-out vehicle sightings were reported.
As of the Ides of March (which I had to Google), winter has been spectacular for wildlife sightings in the west. Near Toppenish, Washington the sunlight illuminated the most beautiful porcupine halfway up a cottonwood (probably) tree. That very same day (or the day before, or after) we saw, in one day, a Bald Eagle, the porcupine, a herd of elk, and a coyote crossing our path. The next day, just before Snowville, Utah, in the span of a mile we saw a herd of elk, several herds of deer, and a smattering of antelope. The following morning we stayed put as several spun-out vehicle sightings were reported.
OK, technically, on vacation. BUT, you'd be hard pressed to get to Snoqualmie Ski Area without negotiating Snoqualmie Pass. So, indulge me
.
February
South Mountain Park (Mormon Trail). Phoenix, Arizona.
Later That Same Day. (South Mountain Park. Phoenix, Arizona)
Hoar Frost. (Spelled correctly, and not a euphemism for anything that I know of.) Central Oregon, Near Shaniko.
January, 2019
Scenery Beyond St. George, Utah City Limits. Taken from Inside the Crab on the Zen Trail.
Just Some Sky and Clouds Near St. George, Utah. Taken From Inside the Crab on the Zen Trail.
Eastern Sierra Nevadas, Taken From Independence, California.
The Zipper Trail. Sparks, Nevada.
2018, Belated.
(Yes this is all I have to show for the entire year - Send me a self-addressed, postage paid envelope with $10.00 to cover postage and handling & I will promptly refund your subscription fee (unless, of course, at some point I actually charge a subscription fee).
Mt. Shasta, California a Scant Few Hours Before Fire Shut Down I-5 for Weeks. (OF COURSE I Photoshopped, er Corelled,
the Hell Out of the Pic - Ash Turned Everything Gray!)
December 2017
Eastern Sierras, California.
Mount Shasta, California.
December 22, 2017. Launch of SpaceX Falconn 9 as seen from Oxnard, California.
September, 2017
Southridge Mountain Bike Trail, Fontana, California. Fires Finally Caught Up with Me.
Foundry. Yreka, California.
Idaho Panhandle & the Light Side.
August, 2017
Reno, Nevada.
Pelican Formation Near Columbia River. Burbank, Washington.
July, 2017
French Camp Fire
On July 9th, 2017 French Camp Grain Company, Incorporated (conveniently located in French Camp, California) supplied thousands of gallons of corn oil to a spectacular blaze and concomitant* smoke plume. The firefighter staring into the recurring fireballs from the top of the ladder had enormous juevos, according to a photographer on the ground (who, in full disclosure, happened to be me. However I’m not that dedicated to journalism to confirm this anatomical assumption.) It is unclear as of this writing how many kitchen fires could have been started with the corn oil lost in the French Camp inferno.
* use it or lose it is my reasoning behind this pretentious word choice.
On July 9th, 2017 French Camp Grain Company, Incorporated (conveniently located in French Camp, California) supplied thousands of gallons of corn oil to a spectacular blaze and concomitant* smoke plume. The firefighter staring into the recurring fireballs from the top of the ladder had enormous juevos, according to a photographer on the ground (who, in full disclosure, happened to be me. However I’m not that dedicated to journalism to confirm this anatomical assumption.) It is unclear as of this writing how many kitchen fires could have been started with the corn oil lost in the French Camp inferno.
* use it or lose it is my reasoning behind this pretentious word choice.
French Camp Grain Company Fire. French Camp, California.
French Camp Grain Company Fire. French Camp, California.
French Camp, California.
June
One of Two Landscapers. Yreka, California.
Dunnigan, California.
Donner Pass, California. June 12th, 2017. Later that day 77f in Sacramento.
Bighorn Sheep. Columbia River Gorge, Oregon Side.
Box Elder Bugs? Riverside, California.
May
Goleta Beach California.
Duthie Hill Park. Issaquah, Washington.
Duthie Hill Park. Issaquah, Washington. (No, I didn't)
Bear Creek Trail. Central Point/Medford/Talent/Ashland, Oregon.
April
Shoshone Falls, Snake River Canyon. Twin Falls, Idaho.
March
Pelican Diving for Fish (Presumably). Their Splashes were Nearly Constant. Dockweiler Beach (LA to those not anal about geographic exactitude), California.
The Pelican Synchronized Diving Competition. Dockweiler State Beach, California.
Washout!
The Tieton’s connected to the, Naches. The Naches’s is connected to the, Yakima. The Yakima’s connected to the, Columbia. The Columbia’s connected to the, Pacific. And there the rivers end. Except when they escape their embankments. Naches made such a run for it and caused the city of Yakima to declare a state of emergency. Nothing epic, like the classic Mississippi floods, but large chunks of the Yakima River Greenway are now askew or at the river bottom. (Not to be confused with Harry Riverbottom, an acquaintance from several decades ago who according to a Seattle Times article is quite the polo player.) Damages pictured are from the Naches on the west end of the trail, and on the Yakima on the east end of the trail.
Yakima River & Greenway. Yakima, Washington.
Guess They Really Meant It. Yakima, Washington.
Slip Sliding Away, Slip Sliding Away-ayy. You Know the Nearer Your Destination the More You're Slip Sliding Away-ayy. Yakima, Washington.
Good Advice. Yakima, Washington.
Redondo Beach, California. "Home Time."
Sacramento National Wildlife Refuge. Near Willows, California.
FEBRUARY
Yakima Ridge. Freezing Rain Encrusted Underlying Snow. Unseasonably Warm Days, Cold Winter Nights Prolonged the Effect. Seen from Selah, Washington.
Incisive (Incisor at Least) Art. Salt Lake City, Utah.
January 29 - February 4
Flood Aftermath. Truckee River & Bicycle Path. Reno, Nevada.
January 22-28
Near Eugene, Oregon. ONE of the Ice Storms in the Pacific Northwest (from a few weeks earlier).
January 15-21, 2017
Donner Pass, California. Chain-up, chain-off. Repeat.
January 8-14
Bonneville Salt Flats and Sliver Island Mountains, Utah.
January 1-7, 2017
The Woods Near Cle Elum, Washington (heading toward Snoqualmie Pass)
|
August, 2011 Dear family, friends, (enemies), and total strangers: thanks for reading (and/or looking). And when my loyal bots, webcrawlers, spiders, and other cybernetic organisms attain consciousness I’ll thank you too (I’d better, I’ve watched TheTerminator.) So, back to work. Got a nice load to Southern California. Park for a minute at Bishop, visit the tourist info center, pick up a few supplies, and head out again. Relaxing trip, no rush. An hour and a half down the road: This is the_____ Health Clinic, did you lose your wallet? Huh? Uh no, I had it this morning. Sir, the Bishop Police Department claims to have possession of your wallet. Do you consent to our giving them your phone number? (Ah, crap.) Yes, please. So, a nice relaxing load turns into Oh shit, if traffic through Victorville craps on me, I’m out of hours, done for. But, I made it. Next morning, dream route: through Las Vegas, Utah, and the best of Colorado. Problem is it’s all Nixon’d-up (expletive-deleted). Sure it’s a dream route, but the load is high-value, no-playtime, until Kansas. KANSAS!!! What the hell’s left after Kansas?!!! (PLENTY, according to the signs advertising hometowns of notable escapees such as: Walter P. Chrysler, Bob Dole, President Dwight D. Eisenhower, and more astronauts than were actually in the space program.) I think I digressed. I got another high-value load, which again rendered my bike impotent. But after delivery a day off is forced upon me, so I get to explore Cape Girardeau, Missouri: the land of Limbaugh. Which I do. CG is a quaint little river town with a good looking bridge, an interesting rock quarry, and a mural so pleasing to the eye that I actually read the informative plaques. But all that reading made me thirsty, and hungry. So I stepped into the Buckner Brewery where Mike was hard at work brewing some beer. He must have known I was coming,‘cause there seemed to be plenty of it already brewed. |
|
 Cape Girardeau, Missouri.
 Mike, the Brewer at Buckner Brewery in Cape Girardeau,
Missouri. |
July, 2011
June, 2011
|
June, 2011 |
Quail, and a Chicken Wing.
Dublin, California
Ding-Dong, the witch-hunt’s done! For 72 hours the DOT (Department of Overzealous Tax-collectors) focused their nation-wide collection efforts on the trucking industry. Last year nearly one in five (19.6%) truckers were put out of service for safety violations. Wooohoo! you’re tempted to shout. But seriously, you honestly believe every fifth trucker is a menace to the driving public?
OK, fine. Punish the driver. Clean out his pockets for the day, at least. Heap points upon his license, threaten his livelihood. Recruit armies of inexperienced drivers to replace the ousted veterans. That should make the roads safer (and goods cheaper).
But honestly, I love the concept. It should be applied vigorously across all levels of government: an annual 72 hour auditing blitz (the DOT’s actual word). Inspect governmental agencies for balanced budgets, cost overruns, bloat. Deficit? Immediate pay freeze ‘til remedied. Dole out points, pink slips.
Fantasy. Unfortunately, reality is the opposite: the economy has been put out of service. (Google real unemployment rate and discover that one in five of us is, at most, underemployed.) Apparently, being a productive member of society is unsafe. Safety first.
Aggghhh!!! You finally figure out how things work, and they come out with version n.0 improvement!! Oh well, I was gonna make changes anyway. In fact, I have a photo for this little disruption:
Dublin, California
Ding-Dong, the witch-hunt’s done! For 72 hours the DOT (Department of Overzealous Tax-collectors) focused their nation-wide collection efforts on the trucking industry. Last year nearly one in five (19.6%) truckers were put out of service for safety violations. Wooohoo! you’re tempted to shout. But seriously, you honestly believe every fifth trucker is a menace to the driving public?
OK, fine. Punish the driver. Clean out his pockets for the day, at least. Heap points upon his license, threaten his livelihood. Recruit armies of inexperienced drivers to replace the ousted veterans. That should make the roads safer (and goods cheaper).
But honestly, I love the concept. It should be applied vigorously across all levels of government: an annual 72 hour auditing blitz (the DOT’s actual word). Inspect governmental agencies for balanced budgets, cost overruns, bloat. Deficit? Immediate pay freeze ‘til remedied. Dole out points, pink slips.
Fantasy. Unfortunately, reality is the opposite: the economy has been put out of service. (Google real unemployment rate and discover that one in five of us is, at most, underemployed.) Apparently, being a productive member of society is unsafe. Safety first.
Aggghhh!!! You finally figure out how things work, and they come out with version n.0 improvement!! Oh well, I was gonna make changes anyway. In fact, I have a photo for this little disruption:
Obvious Need for More Stimulus Money
Denver, Colorado
Denver, Colorado
Latest Adventures
May, 2011
May, 2011
“Baked, mashed, or fries?”
“Mashed.”
“Brown, or white gravy?” And such is the state of fine dining in rural Eastern Colorado.
Bears, pigs, and badgers, oh my! Louisiana floodgates were opened to ease downstream flooding of the Mississippi river. Motorists on I-10 were warned that critters flushed out into the open might cross onto the freeway. I was nowhere near. But, I did see a badger in Oregon waddling towards the deluge. (I didn’t know Oregon boarded badgers. Then again, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a badger before, anywhere.) Of course, it could have been an obese raccoon, chopped off at the knees, like a Corgi gone wild.
Again, I’m a lucky SOB. I missed the floods and the tornados (please give generously). But, flooding did catch up with me and due to I-90 closure at the Wyoming/Montana state-line I was forced to take the scenic route to Montana. As I understand it, the whole point of Wyoming, dating back to the Oregon Trail, and probably nomadic Indians before that, is to avoid going up and over the mountains.
But I’m all about adventure, so up the mountain I went. US-14 is a six percent grade that winds through Bighorn National Forest. (I didn’t see any bighorns, but I exchanged glances with a large moose on a switchback.) Impulsively, I pulled into the Sibley Lake cross-country parking area and wedged myself between a car and the snow bank. In front of a pair of cross-country witnesses, and a parade of detour traffic, I dug a path around the car and parked. Thus limbered, I went skiing.
All told it was a 67 mile detour. Scenic as hell, and I was really glad to strap on the skis one last time, but it sure bled my hours dry. At the time, I felt pretty smug detouring around all those trucks parked on the interstate. In the winter though, patience usually pays off as closed roads often reopen in a timely manner. That evening, though exhausted, I couldn’t sleep; I had to know. Montana DOT’s recorded voice said, “go to sleep, you were right. I-90 is still closed at the Wyoming state line.” Hee hee hee, I win.
Update: The new owners have met with the talent. Signs are positive.
“Baked, mashed, or fries?”
“Mashed.”
“Brown, or white gravy?” And such is the state of fine dining in rural Eastern Colorado.
Bears, pigs, and badgers, oh my! Louisiana floodgates were opened to ease downstream flooding of the Mississippi river. Motorists on I-10 were warned that critters flushed out into the open might cross onto the freeway. I was nowhere near. But, I did see a badger in Oregon waddling towards the deluge. (I didn’t know Oregon boarded badgers. Then again, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a badger before, anywhere.) Of course, it could have been an obese raccoon, chopped off at the knees, like a Corgi gone wild.
Again, I’m a lucky SOB. I missed the floods and the tornados (please give generously). But, flooding did catch up with me and due to I-90 closure at the Wyoming/Montana state-line I was forced to take the scenic route to Montana. As I understand it, the whole point of Wyoming, dating back to the Oregon Trail, and probably nomadic Indians before that, is to avoid going up and over the mountains.
But I’m all about adventure, so up the mountain I went. US-14 is a six percent grade that winds through Bighorn National Forest. (I didn’t see any bighorns, but I exchanged glances with a large moose on a switchback.) Impulsively, I pulled into the Sibley Lake cross-country parking area and wedged myself between a car and the snow bank. In front of a pair of cross-country witnesses, and a parade of detour traffic, I dug a path around the car and parked. Thus limbered, I went skiing.
All told it was a 67 mile detour. Scenic as hell, and I was really glad to strap on the skis one last time, but it sure bled my hours dry. At the time, I felt pretty smug detouring around all those trucks parked on the interstate. In the winter though, patience usually pays off as closed roads often reopen in a timely manner. That evening, though exhausted, I couldn’t sleep; I had to know. Montana DOT’s recorded voice said, “go to sleep, you were right. I-90 is still closed at the Wyoming state line.” Hee hee hee, I win.
Update: The new owners have met with the talent. Signs are positive.
US-14, Wyoming.
US-14, Bighorn National Forest, Wyoming.
US-310, Montana. Ten+ miles of dirt, dust, & potholes.
April, 2011
Oregon Rowing Unlimited. Portland, Oregon.
April, 2011
Romantic Getaway, Epilogue
So, my dispatcher of over three years defected on me under the haze of breakdown time. No worries, as he himself might have said. And when the company merrily announced our takeover (mercifully, as rumors have it) my wife & I joked at his replacement’s conspicuous “appointment.”
Ahhhhhhhh, crap. Good thing I severed all ties to my previous life.
Anyway, my brother gave me a ride to Hermiston, Oregon, to pick up my truck. Thankfully, Obama is working overtime to make sure we’re fully employed. The stool at the Hermiston parts counter, for example, is staffed at 100% on weekends! As for the service department, well, the parts stool is staffed at 100% on weekends! So, we jump the truck. Then, some idiot (me, maybe) switched off the ignition and we couldn’t get it started again. (Close, but cigars are not politically correct as of this writing.) So, we waited for a technician to come out and apply current to approximately the same contacts.
All’s well that ends well though. My truck drove just fine from Yakima to Portland. Then it quit. At least we have a shop in Portland (too bad we fired all the mechanics to keep our heads above water for a few more days).
So, I have all the time in the world to Google “online-moneymaking-schemes-for-broke-down-truckers.” Amazingly I found, and got accepted, to a legitimate site. My first assignment: stalk a celebrity and write about their proclivities. (Well, steering my search results away from porn sites proved to be tougher than I’d have ever imagined. So, I bailed out. It was/is a legitimate website, & a legitimate topic, but…) Hey, did I beg you to click on the advertising yet? PLEASE, don’t make me resort to cardboard & magic-markers.
Happy May Day? Yes, I guess it is. My wife is safe & sound at home. (And I’m safe & sound.)
Romantic Getaway (or, Dream Vacation Update)
Pre-trip preparation: To ensure a clean start to our upcoming journey, I left the truck with the shop, and had my wife take me home. We detoured 180 some miles to get home, but it was our anniversary, so we did some sightseeing. We took in Multnomah Falls and half a dozen others before making it home. After plenty of good beer and bad dancing it was time to go back to work. The car rental thieves planned on taking an extra $75 for a one-way trip (but only after pretending that none of the cars in the lot were available, and putting us on a waiting list). So, I did like any mature grown man would do – I asked Mom for a ride.
Departure day: I faxed the passenger authorization form to my dispatcher earlier; it didn’t arrive. No problem, there was enough time to resend before leaving the yard. And there was enough time to resend it again from the nearest truck stop. O for three (I assume the fourth got there). Finally, we were on our way. I hoped like hell the big horn sheep would show themselves for my wife. And they did, herd after herd.
Rest stop: We were making nice time. We pulled into a rest area and failed to pull out. The truck wouldn’t stay in gear. No need for panic, it gets these hiccups on occasion. So, I disconnected the battery for about half an hour while we had dinner. It worked like a charm. We pulled out of our spot, slipped out of gear, and coasted to the shoulder. I called our breakdown services and they commiserated with me, but all the same, I had to pull out the fuses in the battery box. To get to that step I had to take down both bicycles, set them aside, pull off the large metal catwalk, set that aside, unscrew the cover to the battery box, set that aside, find and pull all the fuses, and remember to set those aside logically so they could be reinserted into their properly assigned slots. And wait an hour. Then put everything back together (because you must assume, even though your gut knows better, that this will fix everything, so you need to be ready to roll). Another call to breakdown services, another helpful mechanic. More commiseration, but try disconnecting the fuses again. Repeat. Add another shift change. Eventually the shifts made a complete rotation and a tow truck was ordered. It promptly arrived the next evening.
Tow truck: I’ll call him Tom, ‘cause I didn’t ask. Tom’s gait was purposeful, but leisurely and you had to look closely to notice that he wasn’t moving all that fast. He had a kink in his neck, a crook in his shoulder, and they met halfway in between. Tom didn’t really work, but rather performed. Tools were carefully eyeballed. Chains were placed meticulously except for the flourish of throwing his arm up as he let go of what was left in his hand. Making conversation, I opened with, “That’s quite a physical job you got.” I strained to understand what Tom said, ‘cause I’m not sure he believed in vowels. I think he said that once he got knocked out by the heavy equipment and woke up hours later under the vehicle he was towing. Or maybe he called me names. Who knows. So, we lurched down the highway (vehicles take after their drivers, apparently) as Tom towed us to the shop; which was closed for the evening.
Shop: “We have to drop the transmission. Call your dispatcher, we won’t get to it until Tuesday at the earliest.” So, Motel 6 for the weekend. This could have happened in Nebraska I keep telling my wife (but mostly myself).
April, 2011
Romantic Getaway, Epilogue
So, my dispatcher of over three years defected on me under the haze of breakdown time. No worries, as he himself might have said. And when the company merrily announced our takeover (mercifully, as rumors have it) my wife & I joked at his replacement’s conspicuous “appointment.”
Ahhhhhhhh, crap. Good thing I severed all ties to my previous life.
Anyway, my brother gave me a ride to Hermiston, Oregon, to pick up my truck. Thankfully, Obama is working overtime to make sure we’re fully employed. The stool at the Hermiston parts counter, for example, is staffed at 100% on weekends! As for the service department, well, the parts stool is staffed at 100% on weekends! So, we jump the truck. Then, some idiot (me, maybe) switched off the ignition and we couldn’t get it started again. (Close, but cigars are not politically correct as of this writing.) So, we waited for a technician to come out and apply current to approximately the same contacts.
All’s well that ends well though. My truck drove just fine from Yakima to Portland. Then it quit. At least we have a shop in Portland (too bad we fired all the mechanics to keep our heads above water for a few more days).
So, I have all the time in the world to Google “online-moneymaking-schemes-for-broke-down-truckers.” Amazingly I found, and got accepted, to a legitimate site. My first assignment: stalk a celebrity and write about their proclivities. (Well, steering my search results away from porn sites proved to be tougher than I’d have ever imagined. So, I bailed out. It was/is a legitimate website, & a legitimate topic, but…) Hey, did I beg you to click on the advertising yet? PLEASE, don’t make me resort to cardboard & magic-markers.
Happy May Day? Yes, I guess it is. My wife is safe & sound at home. (And I’m safe & sound.)
Romantic Getaway (or, Dream Vacation Update)
Pre-trip preparation: To ensure a clean start to our upcoming journey, I left the truck with the shop, and had my wife take me home. We detoured 180 some miles to get home, but it was our anniversary, so we did some sightseeing. We took in Multnomah Falls and half a dozen others before making it home. After plenty of good beer and bad dancing it was time to go back to work. The car rental thieves planned on taking an extra $75 for a one-way trip (but only after pretending that none of the cars in the lot were available, and putting us on a waiting list). So, I did like any mature grown man would do – I asked Mom for a ride.
Departure day: I faxed the passenger authorization form to my dispatcher earlier; it didn’t arrive. No problem, there was enough time to resend before leaving the yard. And there was enough time to resend it again from the nearest truck stop. O for three (I assume the fourth got there). Finally, we were on our way. I hoped like hell the big horn sheep would show themselves for my wife. And they did, herd after herd.
Rest stop: We were making nice time. We pulled into a rest area and failed to pull out. The truck wouldn’t stay in gear. No need for panic, it gets these hiccups on occasion. So, I disconnected the battery for about half an hour while we had dinner. It worked like a charm. We pulled out of our spot, slipped out of gear, and coasted to the shoulder. I called our breakdown services and they commiserated with me, but all the same, I had to pull out the fuses in the battery box. To get to that step I had to take down both bicycles, set them aside, pull off the large metal catwalk, set that aside, unscrew the cover to the battery box, set that aside, find and pull all the fuses, and remember to set those aside logically so they could be reinserted into their properly assigned slots. And wait an hour. Then put everything back together (because you must assume, even though your gut knows better, that this will fix everything, so you need to be ready to roll). Another call to breakdown services, another helpful mechanic. More commiseration, but try disconnecting the fuses again. Repeat. Add another shift change. Eventually the shifts made a complete rotation and a tow truck was ordered. It promptly arrived the next evening.
Tow truck: I’ll call him Tom, ‘cause I didn’t ask. Tom’s gait was purposeful, but leisurely and you had to look closely to notice that he wasn’t moving all that fast. He had a kink in his neck, a crook in his shoulder, and they met halfway in between. Tom didn’t really work, but rather performed. Tools were carefully eyeballed. Chains were placed meticulously except for the flourish of throwing his arm up as he let go of what was left in his hand. Making conversation, I opened with, “That’s quite a physical job you got.” I strained to understand what Tom said, ‘cause I’m not sure he believed in vowels. I think he said that once he got knocked out by the heavy equipment and woke up hours later under the vehicle he was towing. Or maybe he called me names. Who knows. So, we lurched down the highway (vehicles take after their drivers, apparently) as Tom towed us to the shop; which was closed for the evening.
Shop: “We have to drop the transmission. Call your dispatcher, we won’t get to it until Tuesday at the earliest.” So, Motel 6 for the weekend. This could have happened in Nebraska I keep telling my wife (but mostly myself).
The Pre-Trip Inspectors
Spokane, Washington
Dispatch: After five days and no progress, we learn that our transmission is being shipped from our yard in the LA area, and who knows when it will be ready to drive. “Call a taxi and get a price from Hermiston to the Pendleton airport. Call me back with the exact amount.” So, off to Pendleton to rent a car to go to Spokane. Waiting for us in Spokane is a loaner truck, “You know how to drive a 9 speed, right?” Sure, learned on them a few years ago. So, race back to the truck in Hermiston and cram as much into the “economy” size rental as we can, as fast as we can, 'cause for some reason it has to be checked back in by 8:00.
Heading to Spokane: What a luxury to have someone else prepare and inspect the car. Or, not. They neglected to replace the oil filler cap. We neglected to wipe the oil off the side of the car. However, we did add some oil and held up the line at the return counter trying to get reimbursed.
Loaner truck: We find our loaner truck, toss out the dog stained mattress, and fill it with what we could fit into the rental. No bikes, skiis, etc. My patient wife returns the car, and I dutifully pick her up and grind our way through the passenger loading/unloading zone.
Finally, a truck to drive: We even got a load. Unfortunately, the driver handing off the load to us broke down on the other side of the border. So, we waited. And waited. And got a different load.
Montana: Smooth sailing. Woke up buried. Fortunately, eastbound lanes were open. Skated on through.
North Dakota: Nasty, snowy, windy, slippery. Slept late – no truck noises. I called 511, the road info number, and sure enough the interstate was shut down. So, we go inside, I start writing this novel and my power supply craps out. So we’re stranded without my skiis, bike, computer, but I had my lovely wife. (This isn’t a country music song, I still have her.)
Nashville: We pulled off a day in Nashville shopping, eating, and singing for the tourists. Ok, just a few lines when the lead singer jumped off stage and shared his microphone with us. (He learned his lesson though – he didn’t offer his microphone to anyone else after that. Or, maybe we’re just a hard act to follow.)
Spokane, Washington
Dispatch: After five days and no progress, we learn that our transmission is being shipped from our yard in the LA area, and who knows when it will be ready to drive. “Call a taxi and get a price from Hermiston to the Pendleton airport. Call me back with the exact amount.” So, off to Pendleton to rent a car to go to Spokane. Waiting for us in Spokane is a loaner truck, “You know how to drive a 9 speed, right?” Sure, learned on them a few years ago. So, race back to the truck in Hermiston and cram as much into the “economy” size rental as we can, as fast as we can, 'cause for some reason it has to be checked back in by 8:00.
Heading to Spokane: What a luxury to have someone else prepare and inspect the car. Or, not. They neglected to replace the oil filler cap. We neglected to wipe the oil off the side of the car. However, we did add some oil and held up the line at the return counter trying to get reimbursed.
Loaner truck: We find our loaner truck, toss out the dog stained mattress, and fill it with what we could fit into the rental. No bikes, skiis, etc. My patient wife returns the car, and I dutifully pick her up and grind our way through the passenger loading/unloading zone.
Finally, a truck to drive: We even got a load. Unfortunately, the driver handing off the load to us broke down on the other side of the border. So, we waited. And waited. And got a different load.
Montana: Smooth sailing. Woke up buried. Fortunately, eastbound lanes were open. Skated on through.
North Dakota: Nasty, snowy, windy, slippery. Slept late – no truck noises. I called 511, the road info number, and sure enough the interstate was shut down. So, we go inside, I start writing this novel and my power supply craps out. So we’re stranded without my skiis, bike, computer, but I had my lovely wife. (This isn’t a country music song, I still have her.)
Nashville: We pulled off a day in Nashville shopping, eating, and singing for the tourists. Ok, just a few lines when the lead singer jumped off stage and shared his microphone with us. (He learned his lesson though – he didn’t offer his microphone to anyone else after that. Or, maybe we’re just a hard act to follow.)
Honky Tonkin'
Nashville, Tennessee
Nashville, Tennessee
March, 2011
Dream Vacation
I talked my wife onto the truck for another month-long dream cruise. We made it two hundred miles before breaking down. Frankly, I think she’ll be happy to be leaving Hermiston, Oregon – too much excitement, too early.
February, 2011
Colorful trip this month
Colorful trip this month. Caught a train to LA, and then a bus to the beach. On that particular day I was asked to be photographed, asked if I was a musician (by a drummer from Maine whose drums are somewhere in the Midwest with a friend), was accused of being the devil (because I was Bill Gates), and discussed jazz/blues on the train-ride back with a Korean War medic originally from Memphis, Tennessee.
Four separate bald eagle sightings, evenly spaced throughout the state of Iowa, is my new personal best. Later that same evening, in the dark night of rural Indiana, a swarm of giant red fireflies revealed themselves to be actually horse-drawn Amish buggies. The clip-clopping gave them away.
I spent a blustery day in Des Moines where everything was grey. Then a visual symphony burst forth. First a bluebird happened by, then a few blue jays quickly followed by many strikingly marked birds I can’t name, and finally, the most vivid cardinal I have ever seen.
Big horn sheep in the Columbia Gorge chaperoned each of my three trips through, and finally favored me with a nice family portrait.
At a paper mill in Longview, Washington I swapped Mount Saint Helens stories with a guy who was in search and rescue at the time. He knew people who went camping that weekend. That morning one couple got knocked into the lake by the shock wave thereby escaping the following heat wave that cooked the other couple in their tent. In my story everybody lives.
A Little Behind
(No, I’m not referring to the lizard.) I’ve been successful lately. The weather has cooperated at the right times, at the right places: sun when I wanted, snow where I wanted. So I was able to do some biking and skinny skiing in Postcard Land (maybe I got a few). Updates coming as soon as I can crank them out.
Resident of Kokopelli's Trail.
Near Fruita, Colorado.
Near Fruita, Colorado.
Near Mount Carmel Junction, Utah.
January, 2011
Atypical Day in Oregon
A few weeks ago on a crisp, clear Oregon day I spotted four bald eagles, in three separate sightings, all within Klamath Falls. Further up the highway near Chemult a coyote, with it’s head bowed in concentration, pounced it’s front paws into the sparkling snow. Then he did it again. And again. My deer whistle broke his concentration and he scampered into the treeline. Near Rufus, high up on the basalt cliffs of the Columbia gorge, a herd of bighorn sheep marched single file. Shortly afterwards, I crossed into Washington.
At the Guard Shack
“Let’s see, you’re going to Goodard? Godard? Is that how you pronounce it? I don’t know. I do know God is good. Do you believe in God?”
“I believe 06:30 am is too early for a religious discussion,” I thought, but said “sure.”
“You see I don’t believe in God, I know, if you know what I mean. Do you?”
“Uh huh,” but a polite uh huh.
“I’m just waiting. With all the things going on in the world today and if Jesus comes down and takes me I’m waiting, or if I live out my days I’m waiting. Either way is ok with me. I’m just waiting. But actively waiting. Do you know what I mean by actively waiting?”
“I think I'm doing it now, but again, I know 06:30 is too early, and it’s kinda cold; in fact I believe Arkansas has frozen over,” I thought, but replied “yes.”
“God bless you. Let me shake your hand.”
“Well ok, but I haven’t gotten around to reading the contract yet.”
Fall in!
Goddard, Kansas.
Goddard, Kansas.
Sunset at Mount Shasta, California.
December, 2010
Velcro®, (stick with me here...)
Weather
I am, as my father pointed out, “a lucky mother…” Shut your mouth! (But I’m not talking about Shaft!) I seem to be dancing around the major weather systems. When Colorado closed it’s passes and Wyoming switched off their Welcome sign, I was skipping through the southwest. When snow caved in the Minneapolis Metrodome (it’s a stadium, not a gay hairstyle) I did see a few skiffs in Missouri, but nothing to write about (o.k., maybe the last half of that sentence, but that’s it). I entered Indiana a day after they were rescuing stranded motorists.
Then finally, the weather caught up with me. Everything outside was safely tucked under a thick blanket of snow when I awoke to go back to work. I had to shovel to get out of the driveway. Cars slid down the hill, many sideways. Snow berms not only bounced cars back into the field of play, but gave them an interesting spin as well. It was an adult version of the birthday bowling alley party. There was no sign the snow was going to stop (probably because it wouldn’t stop until after dark). I dreaded getting on the truck.
Turns out I was a day early. Back to bed! Unfortunately, no; responsibility reared it’s annoying head and said, “You know, if you don’t get those holes patched and those walls painted you won’t get your damage deposit back.” So, we stayed up late patching, painting, and getting ready to move. Weather wins (underhandedly, as usual).
Weather
I am, as my father pointed out, “a lucky mother…” Shut your mouth! (But I’m not talking about Shaft!) I seem to be dancing around the major weather systems. When Colorado closed it’s passes and Wyoming switched off their Welcome sign, I was skipping through the southwest. When snow caved in the Minneapolis Metrodome (it’s a stadium, not a gay hairstyle) I did see a few skiffs in Missouri, but nothing to write about (o.k., maybe the last half of that sentence, but that’s it). I entered Indiana a day after they were rescuing stranded motorists.
Then finally, the weather caught up with me. Everything outside was safely tucked under a thick blanket of snow when I awoke to go back to work. I had to shovel to get out of the driveway. Cars slid down the hill, many sideways. Snow berms not only bounced cars back into the field of play, but gave them an interesting spin as well. It was an adult version of the birthday bowling alley party. There was no sign the snow was going to stop (probably because it wouldn’t stop until after dark). I dreaded getting on the truck.
Turns out I was a day early. Back to bed! Unfortunately, no; responsibility reared it’s annoying head and said, “You know, if you don’t get those holes patched and those walls painted you won’t get your damage deposit back.” So, we stayed up late patching, painting, and getting ready to move. Weather wins (underhandedly, as usual).
November, 2010
Hanford, Washington
("Artist's" rendition)
("Artist's" rendition)
One of these is not a spider web.
Moving on (that’s how I roll, L sorry, couldn’t stop myself, agh! and again!) Wyoming was typical Wyoming, maybe a bit milder, ‘cause the official weather gage (the number of overturned trucks) was in the low single digits. And Utah was uneventful, other than losing my brakes at the top of the 10 mile, 6% grade near Park City. Had the warning light not worked properly, then I would have had something to write about (assuming I survived without brain injury); it would have been an Olympic spectacle to rival the luge.
Going through the back highways of California, the sky was unnaturally blue, the snow was fresh, and the air smelled alpiney. I couldn’t get California Dreamin’ out of my head. If I got the song correct some guy is whining about winter, instead of doing something about it. Well, I couldn’t leave my load, so maybe I whined a little, too.
Going through the back highways of California, the sky was unnaturally blue, the snow was fresh, and the air smelled alpiney. I couldn’t get California Dreamin’ out of my head. If I got the song correct some guy is whining about winter, instead of doing something about it. Well, I couldn’t leave my load, so maybe I whined a little, too.
Wells, Nevada.
Stampede! Little dogies thought I had food, or maybe they just wanted to gore me & my red sweatshirt. Orland, California.
October, 2010
Breasts were bared at me in Idaho. I missed nearly the entire show. No matter, I know the plot: curtain goes up, a couple of boobs take center stage. Nevertheless, I’ve been paid homage. Now I must come to grips with being a rock star. (Poor, misguided woman: get thee to a concert!)
In New Mexico I had to swerve to avoid hitting a tarantula (he was in the crosswalk, after all). He was headed for the meat market; it’s mating season in the Southwest.
Twice in Davenport, Iowa, bicyclists rang their bells: once to announce their presence, and once to warn of my presence. Verbally, they warned me that the Mississippi is swollen because the neighbors up north can’t rein in their precipitation (groan, sorry).
An El Paso funeral stopped me dead in my tracks: or, it would have if I had adjusted my brakes properly. I had planned to tour/photograph/absorb Ysleta Mission, but to do so during a funeral would have required an all-out National Geographic impersonation. I let the dead guy have his day.
Road (out)rage! Little America truck stop in Flagstaff, Arizona, is now off limits to our company. It made our list of restricted truck stops because of security concerns. Flagstaff is one of my favorite destinations. This stinks more than all the truck stop parking lots combined! In the spirit of CSA 2010, maybe the nearest DOT jurisdiction should be put out of service (without pay, like us) until the truck stop is made safe again.
The itsy, bitsy, spider...
Tucumcari, New Mexico
Tucumcari, New Mexico
In Mississippi, late one night, I listened to gospel music (according to FM radio). It rocked circles around the Christian rock stations. No surprise; Christian rock has driven more kids to Satan than all the strains of rock and roll combined.
In Louisiana I had my first “boudin,” a sausage looking thing stuffed with rice, vegetables, and critter du jour, (pork, alligator, shrimp, or, crayfish in my case). Tasty. Stuffed with boudin, I went to my pick-up. I was a little early. A gentleman there asked me to spot him while he backed onto the country highway, which I cheerfully did. Then he backed another pickup truck to the first, attached a tow-rope to the front bumper, and asked me to steer his truck and trailer for him while he tried to pull the stuck truck and high-centered trailer off the middle of the highway which I had just spotted for him. Good times.
Speaking of ditches, which we missed, I must give a last minute political pitch while gently correcting the President’s analogy: President Obama is spot on – republicans drove the car into the ditch (deficit & debt). Those republicans need to be fired (if not prosecuted). President Obama, Nancy Pelosi, and Harry Reid are pushing hard, to the left, so they can get the car out of the ditch and into the abyss (or, bottomless pit, which any kid can tell you leads to China). Please vote for those with enough sense to hook the car to a tow-truck.
In Louisiana I had my first “boudin,” a sausage looking thing stuffed with rice, vegetables, and critter du jour, (pork, alligator, shrimp, or, crayfish in my case). Tasty. Stuffed with boudin, I went to my pick-up. I was a little early. A gentleman there asked me to spot him while he backed onto the country highway, which I cheerfully did. Then he backed another pickup truck to the first, attached a tow-rope to the front bumper, and asked me to steer his truck and trailer for him while he tried to pull the stuck truck and high-centered trailer off the middle of the highway which I had just spotted for him. Good times.
Speaking of ditches, which we missed, I must give a last minute political pitch while gently correcting the President’s analogy: President Obama is spot on – republicans drove the car into the ditch (deficit & debt). Those republicans need to be fired (if not prosecuted). President Obama, Nancy Pelosi, and Harry Reid are pushing hard, to the left, so they can get the car out of the ditch and into the abyss (or, bottomless pit, which any kid can tell you leads to China). Please vote for those with enough sense to hook the car to a tow-truck.
Tacoma, Washington
September, 2010
Guard-Turtle
Kearney, Missouri
Kearney, Missouri
August, 2010
You Like™ Me, you Really, Really Like™ Me
Sorry, you can’t Like™ me; at least not until I figure out how to plug in the plug-in. Personally, I think social networking is an Orwellian/Obamian tool to keep tabs on the populace. So, obviously, the Like™ button flags your file. Paranoia is inappropriate though (unless the content of your site conflicts with approved free speech topics). Obviously, I kid. The government would have to have the authority to wiretap it’s citizens to pull that off.
Speaking of chilling, the other day it was below 30° in Oregon. Nice and clear, though. If not for all the windmills littering the landscape you could have seen the volcanoes coming into Washington. Oh well, if gouging out the hillsides and blotting out the scenery saves the planet then I say “Go green!”
Hidden Picture (Magic Eye kinda)
Smith Rock, Oregon
Smith Rock, Oregon
July, 2010
“There they go takin’ pictures again.”
“10-4. Flatlanders love these mountains.”
“There goes another one.”
“Maybe that one was lightning.”
Quite the cameras these flatlanders brandish. I made it back to the Smokey Mountain area where a boiled peanut vendor and a river-raft captain each confirmed that everything is uphill, big hills, from Hartford, Tennessee. I reaffirmed this for myself, this time without the flat tire. Nearly same result. Locals though, according to the river captain, can be persuaded to give you a lift uphill for a few bucks. Firetower is the bike trail.
While Lance crashed France, I le tour’d the Bayou. A few Gulf states, anyway. Alabama, by state law, serenaded me with Sweet Home Alabama. Kid Rock’s homage followed. When Kid, however, sang of …smoking funny things, it played “…******* funny things.” It’s ok to openly …drink whisky out the bottle, though. Methinks the FCC could stand a surprise audit.
On Thursday, July 14th I got a firsthand look at the Gulf: Biloxi, Mississippi. By Friday, July 15th I was relaxing in New Orleans; oh, and the oil well was capped. Of course I had nothing to do with that feat, but then again it took me less than twenty-four hours to do nothing. The key, I think, was staying out of the way.
Above: Dragonfly, or not.
Below: On Time Band, New Orleans, Louisiana.
Air conditioning crapped out this month. Works out pretty well, actually; haven’t been through Wyoming since. (Nor have I had to chain up!)
In Iowa, the local Ag news station reported that due to all the moisture, Iowa would see “…the best corn production in a generation…” Impressive, for sure. Same is probably true for mosquito propagation (that would explain all the Freightliner-assisted suicides among deer).
I mentioned my AC went TU, yes? Well, I’m all over the place this trip. Not very chronological. Anyhoo, fall asleep at the wheel in Mississippi and you’ll miss (ha, pun not intended, unlike the following) these gems: Miss Juvenile Rehab, and Miss Juvenile Justice Center, Honorable somebody somebody somebody, Jr., presiding (no kidding!), and on and on. The biggest pageant by far belongs to Miss State Patrol: nice to know our fines support the young women of Mississippi.
Below: On Time Band, New Orleans, Louisiana.
Air conditioning crapped out this month. Works out pretty well, actually; haven’t been through Wyoming since. (Nor have I had to chain up!)
In Iowa, the local Ag news station reported that due to all the moisture, Iowa would see “…the best corn production in a generation…” Impressive, for sure. Same is probably true for mosquito propagation (that would explain all the Freightliner-assisted suicides among deer).
I mentioned my AC went TU, yes? Well, I’m all over the place this trip. Not very chronological. Anyhoo, fall asleep at the wheel in Mississippi and you’ll miss (ha, pun not intended, unlike the following) these gems: Miss Juvenile Rehab, and Miss Juvenile Justice Center, Honorable somebody somebody somebody, Jr., presiding (no kidding!), and on and on. The biggest pageant by far belongs to Miss State Patrol: nice to know our fines support the young women of Mississippi.
June, 2010
I begin this month’s adventure from southern California. Interesting, punny times. President Obama was visiting California too, stumping for Barbara Boxer. I wish I could’ve written the headlines: maybe something like “Oil Magnate Hosts Oil Magnet.” (Dinner was served in the Getty oil mansion.) Meanwhile, as I pass sign after sign reading, “Congress Created Dustbowl,” the radio announces that the pumps will soon be delivering salmon enriched water to parched farmlands. Housewives will be happy. Watering keeps the dust down much more efficiently than having the kids go outside and take deep breathes.
Further up the road, Washington (State, hold on. A thought just occurred to me: if we changed Washington (AC & DC) to Marx, or Lenin would our respective politicians honor those visionaries by becoming rabid capitalists?) rained supreme. Groan. Sorry, it was wet.
Further up the road, Washington (State, hold on. A thought just occurred to me: if we changed Washington (AC & DC) to Marx, or Lenin would our respective politicians honor those visionaries by becoming rabid capitalists?) rained supreme. Groan. Sorry, it was wet.
Previously on Twin Peaks...
(AKA, Mt. Si, Washington)
Anyway, back down to Sacramento, then across Nevada on “The Loneliest Highway,” (according to the map and city welcome signs), Utah, and halfway through Colorado (although, really the state should be divided into Colorado, and West Kansas). Driving across Colorado killed me. No time to spare. So many obvious opportunities to explore. All those rest areas smack dab on top of bike paths. I often fool myself, thinking I’ll get a load right back. Apparently, I was too distracted in Denver to think rationally, realistically, or negatively, because I got a load right back. With time to spare.
So I explored Glenwood Springs. Nice tourist town featuring great big public hot springs. I passed ‘em up. It also has wonderful paved tails that follow the Colorado River for as far as you want to go. (Or, about the length of the gorge.) So, I passed that up too. Downtown looked like your typical tourist town with fine dining and artsy fartsy shops. Naturally, I passed up a few of those. And, somewhere along the route I probably passed Doc Holiday’s grave. I sacrificed all of that to ride Scout Trail.
Scout Trail is hundreds of years old, established by the Ute Indians. (Any further information would clearly indicate a deeper than superficial exploration of the facts, which I am clearly opposed to.) That being said, it gains about a two thousand feet in elevation. I did about 800 feet, I think. If I ever get a load that allows several hours of exploration I plan to explore further. Legs permitting.
(AKA, Mt. Si, Washington)
Anyway, back down to Sacramento, then across Nevada on “The Loneliest Highway,” (according to the map and city welcome signs), Utah, and halfway through Colorado (although, really the state should be divided into Colorado, and West Kansas). Driving across Colorado killed me. No time to spare. So many obvious opportunities to explore. All those rest areas smack dab on top of bike paths. I often fool myself, thinking I’ll get a load right back. Apparently, I was too distracted in Denver to think rationally, realistically, or negatively, because I got a load right back. With time to spare.
So I explored Glenwood Springs. Nice tourist town featuring great big public hot springs. I passed ‘em up. It also has wonderful paved tails that follow the Colorado River for as far as you want to go. (Or, about the length of the gorge.) So, I passed that up too. Downtown looked like your typical tourist town with fine dining and artsy fartsy shops. Naturally, I passed up a few of those. And, somewhere along the route I probably passed Doc Holiday’s grave. I sacrificed all of that to ride Scout Trail.
Scout Trail is hundreds of years old, established by the Ute Indians. (Any further information would clearly indicate a deeper than superficial exploration of the facts, which I am clearly opposed to.) That being said, it gains about a two thousand feet in elevation. I did about 800 feet, I think. If I ever get a load that allows several hours of exploration I plan to explore further. Legs permitting.
Red Mountain
Glenwood Springs, Colorado
Then back to Utah, and down to St. George. Since I’ve already started re-drawing maps, let me lop off Southwestern Utah and cede it to Arizona. Utah should not be allowed palm trees. Likewise, that little 7,000ft+ oasis in Northern Arizona is probably really New Mexico. (Not symmetrical for the cartographers, but hey we’ve learned to live with Hawaii.) But I get ahead of myself.
St. George should have been explored further – the maps indicate some nice mountain biking trails – but I thought, Ogden is the place to be, so I packed up my truck and I drove to Kimberly, Clark that is. Toilet paper. White rolls.
But I’ve been there, so I gambled on Nephi. Nada. (Obvious, anyway.) The load went to Phoenix, mas o menos, and was routed through the national parklands. This is the most beautiful time of the year, I suspect, with the greens contrasting with the reds and the punctuations of different flowers. So, I figured a place named Big Rock Candy Mountain would have to pay off. It did. But, I had a Jones (first time I’ve ever used that term, may be the last) for mountain biking. There are 20 miles of gorgeous paved biking trail along the river that lead, purportedly, to Butch Cassidy’s boyhood home. (Butch was a pre-television American Idol, for warped reasons maybe, but at least he didn’t sing.)
Glenwood Springs, Colorado
Then back to Utah, and down to St. George. Since I’ve already started re-drawing maps, let me lop off Southwestern Utah and cede it to Arizona. Utah should not be allowed palm trees. Likewise, that little 7,000ft+ oasis in Northern Arizona is probably really New Mexico. (Not symmetrical for the cartographers, but hey we’ve learned to live with Hawaii.) But I get ahead of myself.
St. George should have been explored further – the maps indicate some nice mountain biking trails – but I thought, Ogden is the place to be, so I packed up my truck and I drove to Kimberly, Clark that is. Toilet paper. White rolls.
But I’ve been there, so I gambled on Nephi. Nada. (Obvious, anyway.) The load went to Phoenix, mas o menos, and was routed through the national parklands. This is the most beautiful time of the year, I suspect, with the greens contrasting with the reds and the punctuations of different flowers. So, I figured a place named Big Rock Candy Mountain would have to pay off. It did. But, I had a Jones (first time I’ve ever used that term, may be the last) for mountain biking. There are 20 miles of gorgeous paved biking trail along the river that lead, purportedly, to Butch Cassidy’s boyhood home. (Butch was a pre-television American Idol, for warped reasons maybe, but at least he didn’t sing.)
Big Rock Candy Mountain, Utah
(Really)
(Really)
Greater Phoenix (Buckeye, especially) was pre-set to broil, or about 110° mas o menos. Chain was busted anyway. “Is there public transportation nearby,” I asked? I got a “yeah-right” snort for a reply. So pumped seventy some bucks into the Arizona economy on laundry: expensive, but at that price they throw in an air-conditioned room. It felt so good flipping the Obama administration the bird via contributing to Arizona’s economy that I did it again in Flagstaff (new chain). Good times.
From Flagstaff I headed through New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Missouri, and landed just inside Illinois. And then I did it again, but veered off to Dallas, Texas. Hot there too. In Oklahoma and later Texas, I had to dodge three tortoises while two more threatened to dart into my lane. They must know how to play the game, ‘cause I saw very little roadkill of their kind.
From Flagstaff I headed through New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Missouri, and landed just inside Illinois. And then I did it again, but veered off to Dallas, Texas. Hot there too. In Oklahoma and later Texas, I had to dodge three tortoises while two more threatened to dart into my lane. They must know how to play the game, ‘cause I saw very little roadkill of their kind.
Bumblebee
Tucumcari, New Mexico
Tucumcari, New Mexico
Cactus with Tiaras
Outside of Phoenix, Arizona
Outside of Phoenix, Arizona
Heading back out through the Oklahoma panhandle a legion of storm-chasers passed me coming from Colorado (I lost count at around 1.3 million). Apparently there was some nastiness in Colorado the same day as the flash flood that swept away the Arkansas campers. Likewise, Wyoming was the wettest I’ve seen, with streams coming out of nowhere to crisscross the open range. Utah, same thing; swollen rivers. So, having traveled through three states of rain I figured Shoshone Falls, Idaho would be epic! Photogenic, but just not epic. I expected a thundering, deafening, ground-shuddering tsunami barely contained by the towering walls of the canyon. Dams? Who knows.
In the '80s they used DeLoreans
Observed in Boise City, Oklahoma
Observed in Boise City, Oklahoma
Maybe I just got swept up in the geological history of the area. This neck of the woods (or, lack thereof), was part of Lake Bonneville, the monster that spanned a large chunk of Utah, and swaths of Idaho, and Nevada; equivalent in size to Lake Michigan. One day a narrow natural dam busted and all hell broke loose. A similar mega-lake in Montana kept breaking free of it’s ice-dams and rampaged eastern Washington. That’s what I came to photograph. Oh well, another day.
Sparrow (and Shoshone Falls, Idaho)
Back to the tortoises, or turtles. (Most were turtles, I think.) For some reason, turtles in the Midwest urgently needed to cross the freeways. From Kansas, down through Oklahoma, Texas, Arkansas, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Tennessee, and, Missouri I saw more live and dead turtles than deer (live or dead). National Public Radio (NPR for fundraising purposes – sounds less governmentally-subsidized that way) had a segment about mass turtle-migrations across Minnesota’s freeways. NPR warned against stopping and rescuing turtles from the freeways (darting in front of freeway traffic to pick up turtles is dangerous, apparently).
"Rescued" Turtle: trying to get in to see the management.
Shelby, North Carolina.
Staying in the Midwest: Midwestern storms are fascinating. It fascinates me the way you realize, at some point, that the skies are no longer sky-blue, but cobalt-blue. It’s like trying to pinpoint the exact moment you’re dreaming. I imagine Thor sneaking over to set the needle down on Barry White, turn the dimmer-switch down to cobalt and releasing the first few subtle strands of lightning. Smooth – you’d think he was a Greek god. Anyway, lots of rain, lightning, some wind, but no tornados. Good for washing away the bug-splatter.
And, to illustrate that there is beauty in nearly everything, there are few things as entertaining (late at night, anyway) as ectoplasmic bug-splatter. Or, the fluorescent-green of lightning bug entrails on your windshield.
Shelby, North Carolina.
Staying in the Midwest: Midwestern storms are fascinating. It fascinates me the way you realize, at some point, that the skies are no longer sky-blue, but cobalt-blue. It’s like trying to pinpoint the exact moment you’re dreaming. I imagine Thor sneaking over to set the needle down on Barry White, turn the dimmer-switch down to cobalt and releasing the first few subtle strands of lightning. Smooth – you’d think he was a Greek god. Anyway, lots of rain, lightning, some wind, but no tornados. Good for washing away the bug-splatter.
And, to illustrate that there is beauty in nearly everything, there are few things as entertaining (late at night, anyway) as ectoplasmic bug-splatter. Or, the fluorescent-green of lightning bug entrails on your windshield.
April/May, 2010
I feel kind of dirty. No, not the stereotypical trucker dirty. Nor the stereotypical perverted trucker dirty. Worse, maybe. I photoshopped. I performed image enhancement. I’m no longer pure. My defense might go like this: “Your Honor, I was simply trying to faithfully reproduce the beauty I remembered seeing.”
“Yes, I hear acid induced visions are quite vivid. Pee into this cup. (Bang!) Next!” Nevertheless, the brain and eyes take several readings continuously. The camera, one reading at one particular instant. So, which version is the one and only true version? Don’t ask me. Anyway, I’ll try to use some restraint.
If you can get to the brackish waters of Chambers’ Bay just north of Steilacoom there is a daily wildlife extravaganza. Fish migrating from the saltwater Puget Sound swim through a gauntlet of cormorants, herons, osprey, seals, and bald eagles (among others) to get to the freshwater Chambers’ Creek. Gauntlet survivors gather in the pond above and breach the surface in celebration (or to catch insects). The not so lucky, get fought over. If you yourself survived the traffic gauntlet to get there, and have the spare energy, a nice little hiking/mountain bike trail is just across the street. (Look for parking off I-5, exit 128, or 129 by all the chain restaurants. Take 74th street to Custer rd SW, go west on Steilacoom blvd, all the way down the hill to the city of Steilacoom, take the first through street on the right and take a right on Lafayette which will turn into Chambers Creek road. Follow road until it runs along a little bay and continue until just before the bridge.)
“Yes, I hear acid induced visions are quite vivid. Pee into this cup. (Bang!) Next!” Nevertheless, the brain and eyes take several readings continuously. The camera, one reading at one particular instant. So, which version is the one and only true version? Don’t ask me. Anyway, I’ll try to use some restraint.
If you can get to the brackish waters of Chambers’ Bay just north of Steilacoom there is a daily wildlife extravaganza. Fish migrating from the saltwater Puget Sound swim through a gauntlet of cormorants, herons, osprey, seals, and bald eagles (among others) to get to the freshwater Chambers’ Creek. Gauntlet survivors gather in the pond above and breach the surface in celebration (or to catch insects). The not so lucky, get fought over. If you yourself survived the traffic gauntlet to get there, and have the spare energy, a nice little hiking/mountain bike trail is just across the street. (Look for parking off I-5, exit 128, or 129 by all the chain restaurants. Take 74th street to Custer rd SW, go west on Steilacoom blvd, all the way down the hill to the city of Steilacoom, take the first through street on the right and take a right on Lafayette which will turn into Chambers Creek road. Follow road until it runs along a little bay and continue until just before the bridge.)
Image suffered from the heavy cropping.
(The fish may have suffered some too.)
Chambers Bay, Washington
(The fish may have suffered some too.)
Chambers Bay, Washington
Ducks
Chambers Bay, Washington (Tacoma +/-)
Sections of Butte, Montana are super fun. These areas are designated by signs that read: “Super fun site: Keep out.” Sorry. Seriously though, I did have a wonderful time riding around Butte. Copper mines rule the town with their black derricks braced against the wind like Eiffel towers with a purpose. These derricks also serve as memorials to dead miners. On the east side of town is the enormous open pit mine. Colorful. I intend to catch it at sunset someday.
After riding up and down Butte, dodging traffic (if you can find any) stop in at Montana’s Bean N’ Cream for the cheapest (great) coffee around ($1.00 12 oz Americano). They also boast about their breakfast burrito (which I suspect is a bargain as well).
Chambers Bay, Washington (Tacoma +/-)
Sections of Butte, Montana are super fun. These areas are designated by signs that read: “Super fun site: Keep out.” Sorry. Seriously though, I did have a wonderful time riding around Butte. Copper mines rule the town with their black derricks braced against the wind like Eiffel towers with a purpose. These derricks also serve as memorials to dead miners. On the east side of town is the enormous open pit mine. Colorful. I intend to catch it at sunset someday.
After riding up and down Butte, dodging traffic (if you can find any) stop in at Montana’s Bean N’ Cream for the cheapest (great) coffee around ($1.00 12 oz Americano). They also boast about their breakfast burrito (which I suspect is a bargain as well).
Butte, Montana's Interpretation of the Eiffel Tower
Moving along, Idaho had some snow on the ground, Utah kept it up in the mountains, and Wyoming let it drift all over the interstate. Typical. For this they closed the road for the evening and 2/3rds of the next day. Opening of the road must have been like what the Sooners experienced (“Breaker, breaker: if you can’t do at least seven¡¡ #$£** %♫#! miles an hour, stay out of the ¡¡ #$**%♫#! hammer lane!) – the rush was on. The rush was off a hundred miles later in Laramie. Trucks parked bumper to bumper on the interstate for more than seven miles waiting for wreckers to clear four semis. So much for skiing, ironically. (And nix biking, schedule shot to pieces.)
Moving along, Idaho had some snow on the ground, Utah kept it up in the mountains, and Wyoming let it drift all over the interstate. Typical. For this they closed the road for the evening and 2/3rds of the next day. Opening of the road must have been like what the Sooners experienced (“Breaker, breaker: if you can’t do at least seven¡¡ #$£** %♫#! miles an hour, stay out of the ¡¡ #$**%♫#! hammer lane!) – the rush was on. The rush was off a hundred miles later in Laramie. Trucks parked bumper to bumper on the interstate for more than seven miles waiting for wreckers to clear four semis. So much for skiing, ironically. (And nix biking, schedule shot to pieces.)
March/April, 2010
March comes in like a lion: published site, erased site (parts anyway). Was showing site off to my niece, “look what this does.” She wasn’t impressed.
Nice start to the work week: beautiful sunny day, leisurely load, and an exhilarating bike ride. Even better was having enough shoulder room to pull over and photograph a herd of bighorn sheep. Second sighting this year (only two sightings in my life). So, keep your eyes peeled along the Columbia gorge, Oregon side, east of Biggs.
Bighorn Sheep, near Rufus, Oregon
The wildlife theme continued into the next trip with sightings of a bald eagle, pronghorn antelope, and an Amish farmer plowing his field (teasing of course – I shouldn’t talk). Anyway, Montana alone boasted a bald eagle, pronghorn antelope, and a bumper sticker on a pick up advertising Maggot Fest. I’d love to attend that fest as well as the Testicle Festival in Clinton, Montana. (Must be rough being a steer in Montana.) Montana also tried to snow on me, but by North Dakota the weather forecaster announced it would be “…49°, get out the shorts.” To celebrate, the station played accordion polka music. Then it was back to the business of soliciting volunteer sand baggers for the rapidly rising Red River.
In Carlisle, Pennsylvania I took the bike out on the Appalachian Trail again. I came to a road and couldn’t find where the trail resumed. So, I asked a rather dour woman (despite the sun-weathered, sunburst tattoo setting into her cleavage) “excuse me, do you know where the trail picks up again?” She told me, but assured me it was impassible by bike. Huge cliff, big boulders. True enough, falling would have been bad. So, if you go and decide you need to fall, bring a helmet.
Over the river and through the woods to Maine, or Georgia.
Appalaichain Trail, Carlisle, Pennsylvania
After dropping a load in New Jersey (insert potty humor here), I missed two of the closest rest areas and suspiciously ended up at the perfect location for biking into Philadelphia. (Dispatch called me on it too; thankfully, I don’t make suspicious looking mistakes often.) So I sped off towards the city of brotherly love (tough love, I hear). I was nearly too late. For now, Independence Hall still stands, but as the photo clearly shows, ground has already been broken for the new Department of Health and Human Services complex (and this photo was taken days before the final vote!).
Heading back “home,” I lost the path I took getting into the city. The new path was much more interesting: it boasted cops squealing rubber around corners, and hooligans riding ATVs full throttle in the wrong lane, during rush hour. I suspect the two were connected. The next morning it was off to Staten Island, a long night, and then a postcard perfect sunrise over the New York skyline (alas, no pic).
Appalaichain Trail, Carlisle, Pennsylvania
After dropping a load in New Jersey (insert potty humor here), I missed two of the closest rest areas and suspiciously ended up at the perfect location for biking into Philadelphia. (Dispatch called me on it too; thankfully, I don’t make suspicious looking mistakes often.) So I sped off towards the city of brotherly love (tough love, I hear). I was nearly too late. For now, Independence Hall still stands, but as the photo clearly shows, ground has already been broken for the new Department of Health and Human Services complex (and this photo was taken days before the final vote!).
Heading back “home,” I lost the path I took getting into the city. The new path was much more interesting: it boasted cops squealing rubber around corners, and hooligans riding ATVs full throttle in the wrong lane, during rush hour. I suspect the two were connected. The next morning it was off to Staten Island, a long night, and then a postcard perfect sunrise over the New York skyline (alas, no pic).
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Above: breaking ground for the new Health & Human Services complex. Background Independence Hall - annachronistic
relic of the radical right wing (kidding, of course - don't think Pelosi is though).
In Minnesota, I was gladdened to hear that the sandbags worked in North Dakota. Wisconsin has always eluded me. Time constraints, for some reason. I made up for it by stopping in Hudson, Wisconsin and biking to the state park. White tail deer flashed like paparazzi flashbulbs when I rode past. (Leave the camera if you want to see stuff.) Camp Douglas, Wisconsin whiffed on the deer venue. (I brought the camera.)
Above: breaking ground for the new Health & Human Services complex. Background Independence Hall - annachronistic
relic of the radical right wing (kidding, of course - don't think Pelosi is though).
In Minnesota, I was gladdened to hear that the sandbags worked in North Dakota. Wisconsin has always eluded me. Time constraints, for some reason. I made up for it by stopping in Hudson, Wisconsin and biking to the state park. White tail deer flashed like paparazzi flashbulbs when I rode past. (Leave the camera if you want to see stuff.) Camp Douglas, Wisconsin whiffed on the deer venue. (I brought the camera.)
The autopsied remains of Frosty (guess it wasn't the magic in that old top hat).
Camp Douglas, Wisconsin
That’s o.k., Metropolis picked up the slack. Superman, sure, but Big John too! “Bag ‘em, Big John.” Alas, both were mired in concrete. (Suspiciously, the health care vote moved at breakneck speed.) No happy endings.
Camp Douglas, Wisconsin
That’s o.k., Metropolis picked up the slack. Superman, sure, but Big John too! “Bag ‘em, Big John.” Alas, both were mired in concrete. (Suspiciously, the health care vote moved at breakneck speed.) No happy endings.
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Metropolis, Illinois
The mild-mannered duo of Clark Kent & Big John And then I was back in New Jersey. I confess to not getting the hang of that state. The onramps to freeways and interstates seem to be part of a giant Rube Goldberg conspiracy. The last couple of visits I found myself traveling opposite my intended route. But I escaped. Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Chicago-Land (please deposit toll and next available politician will fleece you at their earliest convenience), Wisconsin, Minnesota, and then North Dakota. Lots of farming going on in North Dakota. To the untrained eye, like mine, you might be tempted to think, “not much to see here.” But then a fully loaded pickup truck hauling raccoon carcasses passes, tails flapping in the slipstream. Not kidding. Questions, questions. Hmmm, a farmer (or, trapper more than likely) taking his raccoons to market. So, I tuned the radio to the Ag News Network to check the spot price for raccoon commodities. “Live feeder cattle, September wheat, may soybeans, spring chickens, chicken fingers, nuggets…,” the usual stuff I tuned out until Paul Harvey came on, but no mention of raccoons (I’d really like to know the rest of the story). A cursory Google search revealed that there is a market for raccoon pelts, mostly out of Russia; and a gentleman in Detroit sells raccoon meat, but he hunts it himself. And finally before leaving North Dakota, the buffalo were out, roaming. (Domesticated buffalo should have their horns clipped; domesticated horses should be saddled at all times. Only then can we take pictures with confidence.) Trouble-free through Montana, Idaho, Washington, shop, Oregon, Idaho, Utah, and into Wyoming. Broke out the cross-country skiis on Pole Mountain and promptly broke both baskets on my poles. My poles enjoyed the newfound freedom and showed off by planting themselves wrist-deep a few times. The resulting falls were far less violent than plopping into a recliner. |
Pole Mountain, Wyoming
(Aptly named)
Windy, but warm (nearly hot) in Colorado, Oklahoma, and Texas. Before leaving Texas, I was treated to an aerial display by a flock of black birds (coloring, not species). Flying at high speeds, changing directions on a dime, their shapes continuously transformed. They let me walk right up to their perches.
(Aptly named)
Windy, but warm (nearly hot) in Colorado, Oklahoma, and Texas. Before leaving Texas, I was treated to an aerial display by a flock of black birds (coloring, not species). Flying at high speeds, changing directions on a dime, their shapes continuously transformed. They let me walk right up to their perches.
(Near) Hedley, Texas
Performing nightly
The same route in reverse was much cooler. Still warm enough in Denver though to take out the bike. I took the first path I saw and rode into a homeless encampment under the bridge. (The Sand Creek Greenway path is actually across the creek.) Looks like an extensive trail system throughout the metropolitan area. Interestingly, the trail doesn’t seem to discriminate against the industrial neighborhoods, as it also winds amongst oil refineries. I’m sure it winds amongst good restaurants as well. Another time.
Pronghorn antelope grazed Texas, Oklahoma, Colorado, Wyoming, and possibly Utah. Marmots presided over Idaho highways. In Mountain Home, Idaho an authentic cowboy (recognizable by the embroidered ranch name on his coveralls) parked his pickup and joined the truck stop herd. His spurs were slightly out of tune which got me to wondering how he used them to enhance his truck’s performance. I almost asked, but I didn’t especially feel like getting my ass kicked.
In Richland, Washington I watched observers of Songkran, or Thai New Year. (Another bad time to leave the camera behind.) The celebration was characterized by dancing and friendly water fights. A handful of women made themselves busy ambushing fellow participants with baby powder. Which led to more water. And repeat. Saffron robed Buddhists bestowed blessings, and good-naturedly received their share of water. And then more water and dancing.
And then back to the shop.
Performing nightly
The same route in reverse was much cooler. Still warm enough in Denver though to take out the bike. I took the first path I saw and rode into a homeless encampment under the bridge. (The Sand Creek Greenway path is actually across the creek.) Looks like an extensive trail system throughout the metropolitan area. Interestingly, the trail doesn’t seem to discriminate against the industrial neighborhoods, as it also winds amongst oil refineries. I’m sure it winds amongst good restaurants as well. Another time.
Pronghorn antelope grazed Texas, Oklahoma, Colorado, Wyoming, and possibly Utah. Marmots presided over Idaho highways. In Mountain Home, Idaho an authentic cowboy (recognizable by the embroidered ranch name on his coveralls) parked his pickup and joined the truck stop herd. His spurs were slightly out of tune which got me to wondering how he used them to enhance his truck’s performance. I almost asked, but I didn’t especially feel like getting my ass kicked.
In Richland, Washington I watched observers of Songkran, or Thai New Year. (Another bad time to leave the camera behind.) The celebration was characterized by dancing and friendly water fights. A handful of women made themselves busy ambushing fellow participants with baby powder. Which led to more water. And repeat. Saffron robed Buddhists bestowed blessings, and good-naturedly received their share of water. And then more water and dancing.
And then back to the shop.
February, 2010.
February, 2010
Yeee hah! Trucking in February; the longest month of the year. Incredibly, the easiest driving this month was through the mountains of Idaho, Montana, and Wyoming. In Helena, there was enough residual snow at the delivery to take out the cross-country skis. This was my maiden outing on skinny skis. Pretty, no, but I had the cover of darkness.
Helena, Montana
I skated through Utah, southern California, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas snow-free. In El Paso I took the bike out and did some hiking (something sharp tore open the inner-tube a few miles from the truck stop). Before that happened though, I inadvertently succeeded in doing something that hundreds of cars speeding by at at least 50 mph couldn’t – I spooked a buffalo calf. The domestic bovine juveniles just looked at him, “the new kid’s kinda jumpy.”
I skated through Utah, southern California, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas snow-free. In El Paso I took the bike out and did some hiking (something sharp tore open the inner-tube a few miles from the truck stop). Before that happened though, I inadvertently succeeded in doing something that hundreds of cars speeding by at at least 50 mph couldn’t – I spooked a buffalo calf. The domestic bovine juveniles just looked at him, “the new kid’s kinda jumpy.”
Socorro (El Paso), Texas
(Why settle for taking a picture of a pair of big horn sheep in the Columbia Gorge, Oregon when I can snap off a pic of a penned in buffalo.)
In Oklahoma they had quaint warnings of an impending snow storm delivering up to an inch of snow. By mid-Indiana cars were off the road. Western Ohio finally brought patches of dry pavement again. In Findlay, Ohio the sun came out and I tried the cross-country skis again. About an hour before sunset scores (hundreds maybe) of geese circled over the yard. They arrived in smaller formations, joined, honked excitedly, circled, grew, and finally settled just east of the yard; the whole scene reminded me of a junior high school assembly up to the pledge of allegiance.
(Why settle for taking a picture of a pair of big horn sheep in the Columbia Gorge, Oregon when I can snap off a pic of a penned in buffalo.)
In Oklahoma they had quaint warnings of an impending snow storm delivering up to an inch of snow. By mid-Indiana cars were off the road. Western Ohio finally brought patches of dry pavement again. In Findlay, Ohio the sun came out and I tried the cross-country skis again. About an hour before sunset scores (hundreds maybe) of geese circled over the yard. They arrived in smaller formations, joined, honked excitedly, circled, grew, and finally settled just east of the yard; the whole scene reminded me of a junior high school assembly up to the pledge of allegiance.
Findlay, Ohio
After stops in Detroit, and Columbus, I headed across Pennsylvania and eventually picked up a load in Tunkhannok (northeastern Pennsylvania). The following morning the clouds unloaded their snow. At least five semis ran each other off the road and closed that side for the day. At least our side re-opened.
After stops in Detroit, and Columbus, I headed across Pennsylvania and eventually picked up a load in Tunkhannok (northeastern Pennsylvania). The following morning the clouds unloaded their snow. At least five semis ran each other off the road and closed that side for the day. At least our side re-opened.
From Tennessee it was southwest through Arkansas and almost all of Texas back to El Paso (Spanish for déjà vu). I Took the bike down again and headed towards the border. I may have found the park I was looking for, or maybe just undeveloped land. A jackrabbit I came across seemed similarly confused. In looking for the way back to the truck-stop I realized I was following the Mission Trail. I popped into the Socorro Mission and snapped a few pictures. Originally built in 1682, and rebuilt (late 1700s?) after the Rio Grande flooded it is a fine example of that type of architecture (ha, sounds like an answer to a 7th grade essay question).
Socorro Mission, Texas
That afternoon I abandoned El Paso’s 60° weather for a 15° New Mexico snow storm. I crept into Santa Rosa glad to find a place park. Roads that evening were pretty icy, but they weren’t nice and polished like the exit ramp at the truck-stop. The next morning a popular spectator sport developed, complete with commentary, as truck after truck tried to conquer the exit ramp. Most would have triumphed except for having to stop for oncoming traffic (and usually there was some). Then they would polish the ice, stop, slide a little backwards, polish some more ice, slide a little, polish a little, and eventually either back or slide all the way back down. Somehow none of us thought to put on safety vests and direct the cross-traffic. I cheated and went out the entrance. Halfway to Tucumcari the ice on the roadway finally disappeared. I broke out the skis and explored a little. I’m finally getting some glide going.
That afternoon I abandoned El Paso’s 60° weather for a 15° New Mexico snow storm. I crept into Santa Rosa glad to find a place park. Roads that evening were pretty icy, but they weren’t nice and polished like the exit ramp at the truck-stop. The next morning a popular spectator sport developed, complete with commentary, as truck after truck tried to conquer the exit ramp. Most would have triumphed except for having to stop for oncoming traffic (and usually there was some). Then they would polish the ice, stop, slide a little backwards, polish some more ice, slide a little, polish a little, and eventually either back or slide all the way back down. Somehow none of us thought to put on safety vests and direct the cross-traffic. I cheated and went out the entrance. Halfway to Tucumcari the ice on the roadway finally disappeared. I broke out the skis and explored a little. I’m finally getting some glide going.
Tucumcari, New Mexico
In Buckeye, Arizona I took the bike out again. In Quartzite, Arizona I stopped long enough to ask a fast food employee, “What’s the deal with all the motor homes?” She claimed that Quartzite is home to the largest swap meet in the world. I think there’s probably more to it than that; personally, and I don’t mean to disparage Quartzite, but I think the government is slipping hallucinogens into the water supply. I intend to investigate further. By Palm Springs, California I realized my air conditioning wasn’t up to the task. By Oregon daffodils bloomed and newborn lambs frolicked in the brilliantly green countryside. “Can you believe this state,” I said to the guy pumping fuel next to me, “Daffodils!” “Ha, those poor bastards on the east coast,” he replied.
In Buckeye, Arizona I took the bike out again. In Quartzite, Arizona I stopped long enough to ask a fast food employee, “What’s the deal with all the motor homes?” She claimed that Quartzite is home to the largest swap meet in the world. I think there’s probably more to it than that; personally, and I don’t mean to disparage Quartzite, but I think the government is slipping hallucinogens into the water supply. I intend to investigate further. By Palm Springs, California I realized my air conditioning wasn’t up to the task. By Oregon daffodils bloomed and newborn lambs frolicked in the brilliantly green countryside. “Can you believe this state,” I said to the guy pumping fuel next to me, “Daffodils!” “Ha, those poor bastards on the east coast,” he replied.
Cactus Skeleton, Buckeye, Arizona
Yo-yoing back down I-5, I stopped at Medford just long enough to pedal along the river. Nice bike path. Looks like it goes for quite a ways (I’m guessing Central Point to Phoenix). Ironically, I busted my derailleur on this gentle path, but mercifully, as I was pulling back into the parking lot. Rain in the San Francisco bay area debugged my windshield, while central Oregon obligingly offered just enough snow to keep the bugs down. And then I trucked on home, safe and sound.
Yo-yoing back down I-5, I stopped at Medford just long enough to pedal along the river. Nice bike path. Looks like it goes for quite a ways (I’m guessing Central Point to Phoenix). Ironically, I busted my derailleur on this gentle path, but mercifully, as I was pulling back into the parking lot. Rain in the San Francisco bay area debugged my windshield, while central Oregon obligingly offered just enough snow to keep the bugs down. And then I trucked on home, safe and sound.
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