Crossing the Pond

"I have lived in good climate and it bores the hell out of me. I like weather rather than climate."---Steinbeck

On this point, I tend to agree with Steinbeck, as I love the seasons, and with the exception of February, March and August I think Michigan weather is generally pretty nice. And since my first stint in Hawaii, I have thought Ann Arbor's seasonal changes to be pretty special. Now give me a place with year-round 70-degree days and cool, clear nights where the humidity is low but but not crunchy, and I may suddenly opt for climate. While Oahu is beautiful and the climate perfect for many, it is a bit hot and sometimes humid for this Englishman. It is nice to give no thought to your morning outfit, but tough to need to figure out a way to avoid a four block walk to a meeting to avoid showing up sweat-soaked.

Luci was a champ about the flight. Not so much about the crate, the separation and the check-in process, but she arrived in Honolulu, perhaps a little delicate emotionally, but basically no worse for the ordeal. I had checked all my other bags, and returned to the car for Luci and the crate. I walked her through the terminal until I was told to cage her, which I did, and with little complaint from her. We got through the lengthy check-in process, which involved several stickers on her box ("live animal," said one, "this side up" another....arrows and warnings everywhere. I hoped the baggage folks didn't really need this remediality).

After check-in, we head to the CTX machine....a post 9/11 device to guarantee against doodle-terrorists. I belong to the camp that says, "if you let that poodle intimidate us, the terrorists have already won." W and Homeland Security of course believe that "Uh-merica" is always at risk, and a loss of the civil liberties of poodles is a small price to pay in the GWT. This is when Luci had to get out of the cage for a secondary check. It was quite the ordeal to re-incarcerate her. She spread all four legs in all four directions and I needed to fold her in like you do when moving an oversized sofa down a tight flight of stairs. She then barked loudly until I was out of sight, and was still going strong when I finally cleared hearing range. I was glad I had arrived almost two and a half hours before the flight.

I called Janis from the bar in the airport, and said, "it is 11:45AM, and I'm drinking a beer. I think if you were here, you would be too." I was lucky enough to have a big chair on the flight. Hey, Luci had a lot of legroom too. The flight attendants were old friends from Hawaii, and took good care of me, including confirming Luci's presence on the plane.

When we arrived, Luci was welcomed by the typical bureaucracy of Hawaii, as it took over an hour to release her from quarantine. Then we can't allow her out of the crate until we are off airport property. She was glad to get out on Sand Island, but not much different that if we had just come home from work. I was glad we decided not medicate her. It may have made it easier for us, but she was better off with her wits and reactions unteathered.

Life is harder here for Luci. the yard is smaller, the heat affects her and she isn't good at making new dog friends. But she seems to be adjusting, likes the people and is getting to the dog park or a big field once or twice a week for some serious frisbee.

I still want to spend some time drawing some conclusions from the trip, and writing about its impact on me. As I am back in school, my blogging time is precious, but certainly relaxing. Thank you to all that have read and commented along the way. That has added to my sense of why blogging works, why I write, and to the friendships I have at both ends of the journey, and to the many new ones at points inbetween.

The Last Bartender

I will skip the quote to begin this page, for reasons that should become obvious as I write. We have covered eleven states in ten days and now have a day and a half to put our ducks in a row for the trip across the pond. Buying Luci a crate for airline travel, disposing of the unused one we had for any hotel that might of required it. Losing enough bags to go from SUV packing to checked luggage. Confirming paperwork, paying passage, doing whatever could be done to smooth tomorrow, the day that promised to be the toughest day of Luci's still young and pampered life. I think it is hard to imagine how odd the experience would be for her; while smart, she is a little challenged by higher reasoning and dissecting the meaning of new experiences. Locked in a box, pushed to 500 mph and taken to 40,000 feet, bothered by the whining of the lesser hounds in the hold, bumped by Pacific turbulence and landed in a thoroughly new world. Well, let's just say one of us was a wreck at the thought of it.......

Running the errands to make this happen, I stopped at my first REAL Krispy Kreme (I had eaten their donuts before, but they had been produced, perhaps by Dick Cheney, at an undisclosed location. I expect he doesn't sleep well, and would awake in "time to make the donuts"). Watching Henry Ford's dream of an assembly line take the little cars of dough from parts, to whole, to painted, was mesmerizing. I think I actually ordered "two Model T's" before correcting my self and choosing a maple bar and an old fashioned glazed cake. The latter the Model T, the former more of a Lincoln Town Car with suicide doors (a custard filled Lincoln, that is).

As I alluded to earlier, I had an image of Portland built in the the vast creative studios of National Public Radio. A rolling greenbelt holding in a town of small breweries and communal bicycles, where liberal beliefs and good ingredients are brought together to create better-than the-rest-of-us-Utopia. OK, when you can see past the traffic and the most-strip-clubs-per-capita-in-the-US and the smog, you actually DO see a lot of the stuff NPR promised. But take a deep breath while you drive into to see it.

There are a lot of bikes in Portland. I never saw the orange ones shared by all in the central part of town, but I saw a lot, and I give all the riders credit. With the Willamette cutting a deep valley through town, anyone that rides here needs to handle hills and traffic. There are a lot of cars in Portland. If it is less than in another city of 600,000, I would be surprised. They park atop one another, and neighborhood roads are narrowed to alley-width as driveways per household seem rare. Rush hours rush nowhere. Bridges across the spinal river could charge rent for the time you spend on them.

My first night in town, I stayed on the west side of the river; probably the side I would choose to live on based on my short stay. A nice mix of neighborhoods, although the 'hood of our hotel brought down the mix a bit. I settled on dinner at the Jolly Roger. A good little bar on a busy little corner in nicely mixed part of town. A too loud, too modern, too old to be modern trio started playing while I was eating my sloppy joe sliders, so I finished dinner and bid farewell. But up until nine at night, this place had promise.

As I drove home by various dance clubs, strip bars and gentlemen's rooms, having been informed earlier of the great number of these establishments in Portland , I wondered why. In my state of mind, a month away from Janis , and with no political correctness in my thought, I decided that as most women of Portland (those that don't work in such places) make little effort to differentiate them from the men of Portland, perhaps the men need a little fantasy. I doubt this would pass any real analysis, but it formed my hypothesis that evening.

The next day, a cloudy and cool one, I stopped for lunch at the Barley Mill. A nice pub, and they served a full line McMenamins beer. Unfamiliar with the brand, I learned it was a very successful local chain with 56 pubs, clubs, dinner theatres, spas, hotels and breweries. Mostly in greater Portland, but reaching as far north as Seattle. Turns out the Barley Mill was their first property, and opened just before Portland law changed to allow the on-premise sale of micro brewed beer. So it remains one of their only pubs that isn't a brewery, but they drive the kegs over from a nearby brewpub. It would make a nice vacation to hit several of their properties over the course of a week.

After some more packing and blogging I headed into the afterwork life of a Portland Friday. I stopped in a couple of bars in the business district just west of the Willamette (that's "Willamette, Dammit" in case you were pronouncibility challenged). The first was a massive pool hall. Between Ann Arbor and Honolulu, it seemed a much higher percentage of bars have at least one pool table. It could be that the bookend towns are a bit shy about gambling. This place was unlike the old bars of the plains and the mountains. It was a pay by the hour, eight foot table and $5 beer kind of bar. I would say it was filled with beautiful people, but this WAS Portland after all........well, probably an inner beauty that wasn't immediately obvious.

My next stop was a place called Lotus. I had to shake two new friends; guys who parked behind and seemed to want to get to know me. If the street had had been less busy, I would have worried more, but I think it was an innocent exchange prompted by my Michigan license plate ("I've been to Ludington," it began).

Inside Lotus was a great after work crowd. The place was big, taking up two or three storefronts and a corner. A lot of people eating, the kitchen open to a diner-style counter in one corner, and tables pushed together to accommodate office crowds celebrating the end of another week. I found a seat by the waiter station of the bar, with a view out the window and a sense of the pulse of the place. I immediately alienated the busy bartender by stacking coins on the bar to pay for my beer and her tip. Hey, the rent-a-car had built up some serious loose change as we drove through almost a dozen states, and it seemed a waste to waste it, and a hassle to fly with it. I think that once she counted the well-sorted coins, heard my apology and realized the generous tip (more than the coin counter at the grocery store gets for counting my change), she softened a touch, but soft wasn't really her style.

She was small and athletic with her hair cropped on the #3 setting and wearing a latte tan. I guessed a triathlete, or a serious bicyclist. I later found out it was modern dance for a day job that kept her in that kind of shape. Her name was Eva, and as the now-relaxed office folk broke from their weekday relationships and took their collective buzz home to their other lives, her mile-minute-pace slowed, and the washing of the glasses began. And we had a chance to chat.

She lightened quickly to my story of travel, as many had a long the way. But for her it was closer to home: in a few weeks she was to set out across the country, with her dog, and to take six months to do it. She had worked extra jobs for a year to save for the adventure, and was excited to begin. I asked if she had read "Travels with Charley," and she wasn't aware of it. I told her of my inspiration from Deb, at Casey's in Ann Arbor, and how the book had really informed my trip. It turned out Eva has family in Heartland, 40 miles or so from Ann Arbor. I had a couple of ideas gel at this point, and hoped I was reading Eva correctly. I asked if she would like to read the book and, in return, would consider delivering it back to Deb at Casey's as she passed Ann Arbor. I thought she and Deb were not dissimilar (Deb IS the serious cyclist I thought Eva MAY be), and I saw some closure in this. Would the circle will be unbroken?

Eva seemed genuinely excited about the idea. Enough so that I was willing to take the risk, and give up the ancient paperback that had become a part of me in the past few weeks. I headed back to the motel, penned a note of introduction of Eva to Deb, and delivered the tired tome back to the bar, where the last bartender of my journey bought me a beer ("a beer for a book," she nodded) and accepted not just "Charley," but the responsibility of its safe passage, I hope, and believe.

There was no quote here; the book gone. This may turn out to be folly but here is my thinking: as long as the book is read, the deal is fair. If it inspires, we are both ahead. If it is read, inspires, and completes the circle, well, that would be truly special. Probably too much to hope for that it is more than that, but it could be: a statement about the people we are, our dogs, our wanderlust, our interdependence with others, yet reliance upon ourselves. And it is a true tale of the America that Steinbeck traveled, I've now crossed, and that that awaits Eva.

It also speaks of bartenders. The first and last of this journey are certainly among those who rank the best. But so many along the way were good too. It was my way to see today's America, and I will write more of my conclusions later. But this is a great country of great stories, and I hope I have given justice to this one.

The End of the Trail

“The Pacific is my home ocean; I knew it first, grew up along its shore, collected marine animals along the coast. I knew its moods, its color, its nature. It was very far inland that I caught the first smell of the Pacific.”---Steinbeck

The Pacific is NOT my home Ocean, born in England and crossing the North Atlantic as a boy, but it is by far the ocean I know the best, having seen it for 5 years living in Hawaii, and having flown over it countless times. And as you travel through Oregon, especially along the wide slash known as the Columbia River Gorge, you do sense very early that you are nearing it. First the flora changes to what you think it should be in the Pacific Northwest, with dense dark pines covering steep hill sides. The the width of the river grows and the vessels upon it grow as well. When we pulled off into Portland, it is surprising that there remain two long, wide bends before the water turns brackish and too wide for bridges and spills into the ocean 50 miles Northwest.

The day's drive began with West Idaho, through farms and vineyards, although I have never met an Idaho wine. At Ontario we pass into Oregon, and the speed limit drops to 65 and the composite of the roadbed turns measurably rougher than anywhere in the previous 3500 miles. As we climb the Blue Mountains out of Baker City, the 65 mile an hour limit seems very sensible as the turns, climbs and dips are not as dramatic as others we have seen, but they would make an exciting ride at 75. In South Dakota and Wyoming I saw many a Minnesota license plate and a couple of Michigan ones. Now I see nothing from East of the Plains. I think this could be gas prices, but we have also now pushed beyond the scope of the Great American Roadtrip Vacation. The people on the road here seem to be of here. There is a mist on the Blue Mountains that I don't really know. I couldn't tell if it were fog, or low cloud or pollution, although I doubt the latter out here, where the only industry we passed was a lone cement plant.

We were ready for a break and we hit Pendleton. A struggling place that didn't share what it may have once been. But on the cut through road, I hit the first of the treasures that I-84 delivered. Hal's Hamburger Drive-In. An odd little building painted the shade of green common to old municipal water tanks. Here you pulled up, either in line, or to one of the speakers that looked to have been taken from the drive-in movie. I was in line, so the lively young carhop jogged out to us. I ordered a bacon cheeseburger. She said, "and a slice of bacon for your dog?" Despite her vegetarian mother and diet devoid of people food, I thought it was the treat Luci deserved. "Sure," I replied, "that would be nice." I tore the bacon into dog treat size pieces to hide its human-food nature, and fed them, most of them, to Luci, who enjoyed each appropriately, but not greedily.

I have tried to avoid hyperbole in my writing. But the bacon cheeseburger that arrived about 4 minutes after I ordered it was the best in the world, or at least the best I have ever encountered. The meat the right portion and quality, the bacon the thickness served in a good diner. The condiments classic and not sloppy, and a bun with great body, perhaps of potato bread. So say it is worth the drive may be stretching it, but certainly worth the choice of routing if ever you head to the Northwest. In town, across the tracks and past some sad housing we found a school, where she ran off her bacon chasing her frisbee, while I got little exercise, but basked in the afterglow of my sandwich experience.

Before getting on the highway we got gas, and Oregon, I believe along with New Jersey, remains a place where they insist on pumping it for you. "Minimum Service" the sign proudly proclaimed, and they delivered on the promise.

Soon after Pendleton you enter the Gorge, and spend the next 150 miles with Washington across the Columbia to the right of us and Mount Hood growing in front. The gorge is always wide, but variable, and we climb from riverside to hill tops as we gently curve along. As when you get to Portland, a view of Mount Hood is weather dependent, and our weather was poor there, this was the only time I got to see the mountain, and that is why I again thank I-84 for coming through for me. It is a classically shaped mountain, and seemed to be snowy from the point where it pushed above the surrounding range. Here the sky was still clear, except for one small cloud, that sat like a chinaman's cap atop Hood, and didn't vary for the two hours I held the view.

The drive continued past several dams as the river grew into recreational lakes again and again, and then we dipped south and hit Portland at evening rush. It is a big city, and despite its green reputation, it is a car heavy city. We hadn't seen this type of traffic across the country, and hadn't missed it. We got a little lost, got our bearings at the MacAdams Grill on the west side of the Willamette, and crossed back to find our hotel on the east side. The next 40 hours wrap up the road adventure and put us on an airplane, but there was a nice twist along the way. I will get us to the airport in my next post.

Boise will be Boise

"When we get these thruways across the whole country, as we will and must, it will be possible to drive from New York to California without seeing a single thing."---Steinbeck

Off the great thruway, and into Boise. A town with old roots and new growth and some interesting threads holding the two together. Boise has a history in sheep herding and I believe drinking beer and whiskey are as integral to sheep herding as are sheep dogs and shears. Boise now has a modern history of Mormonism, which generally gets along without any of the above. I was told that the growing Mormon population and its strengthening role in local politics was trying to run herd over the older drinking habits of this western town, but they hit an interesting road block. The sheep business had made Boise a destination for many Basques starting back in the late 1800's , and with Roman Catholicism as a religion, the English and the Scots as their bosses, and shepherding as their day job, it is no surprise they like a good drink. As some of the Mormon ideals began to work their way into legislative edicts, the Basque community united, raised their profile in the community ("The Basque Block" is squarely downtown) and went about protecting their way of life. With my local historian and ex-Marine, Jerry, I raised a glass to these mountain men of the Pyrenees: "Good on ya', fight the good fight!" I was only sad I didn't get down to their Block with its history, bars and restaurants.

As Boise has remained a good place to have a drink, they close several blocks for a "Live at Five" free concert and street party every Wednesday in the summer. This fills a good chunk of town just Northeast of the Boise State campus with revelers who linger well into the night. I enjoyed a good old place called the Tavern, with nice patrons and staff, but who must have missed the "Live at Five" memo and were woefully understaffed. This is where Jerry told me of the Basque, the Greenbelt, the growth of the city and of the 35lb. wild turkey he bagged earlier this year. I had no idea wild ones got that big; I thought our factory farms had a hard time reaching that tonnage. He also pointed me to a quieter neighborhood known as Hyde Park up to the North and West.

Here we pulled up to a parking space in front of the Parrilla Grill, an indoor-outdoor bar manned by a pair of body building twins, one probably twenty pounds bigger than the other, but either beyond adequate to keep things quiet in this small and peaceful joint. The bar was peopled with a college crowd despite its distance from campus. Five attractive young women, possibly drawn more by the bartenders than the microbrews, and a few young professorial types in deep talk. After a few minutes I looked over my shoulder to where Luci was biding time, and watching me closely through the open rear window. I asked if dogs were allowed and the less-large twin said, "absolutely, we like them more than people. Ah, is that your dog? She was breaking my heart staring in here." Luci was the guest of honor for the next hour or so. While I drank Sockeye IPA, which may be singlehandedly responsible for the current hopps shortage, Luci drank from the communal dog dish and befriended all takers. Which was everyone except the professor types, too consumed to notice her desire to join their debate. This was when one of the bartenders, hearing Luci's story, asked if I knew of "Travels with Charley." A Good bar.

We ended our evening there wishing we had more time to spend. Boise has borrowed a trick from Seattle. They tell all visitors that the weather is bad and the place boring. I have been to Seattle a dozen times and hardly seen a rain drop. These are the lies told by a place fighting hard to keep its sense of place. I hope with these lies, the Basques, and the turkey hunter that change comes here only in small and welcome doses.

I chose this post's Steinbeck quote because for the rest of my journey the interstate was an amazing road: I-84 from Glenns Ferry it follows wide rivers and skirts the Wallowa Mountains before climbing the Blue Mountains and then hitting the Columbia River gorge at Boardman. From there you travel the Oregon side of the Oregon-Washington border, the wide and dramatic gash that runs from here to the Pacific 180 miles away. "Interstate" versus "Interstates" deserves the same distinction as "American" versus "Americans." The single example should not be besmirched by the generalities of the species. Next post I'll say more of I-84, this most excellent road and the two big things I would have missed without its help.

Spud-a-rific!

"It is impossible to be in this high spinal country without giving thought to the first men who crossed it, the French explorers, the Lewis and Clark men. We fly it in five hours, drive it in a week, dawdle it as I was doing in a month or six weeks. But Lewis and Clark and their party started in St. Louis in 1804 and returned in 1806."---Steinbeck

I have been back and forth across the trail left by Meriwether and William since Missouri, I believe. Both Lawrence and Manhattan fall on the wide Kansas River, which I am fairly certain they followed, and I again see signs of their traverse here in Idaho, although I now follow the Oregon Trail. It is when you get to the great spine of this country that you fall silent in awe of those who went before. My Hyundai was a strong little wagon, but it downshifted constantly on the long uphill pulls, and refused to accelerate on the worst of them. It took straining the gears to save the brakes on the long steep drops. You saw places that even uncountable tons of dynamite had barely tamed, and where a misstep could be a very long step indeed. Steinbeck, 50 years ago, still thought this dangerous country, and it is much softer now. But get off the interstate, and it doesn't take long see the echoes of those long ago journeys. And if you think that the time between our trip and that of John and Charley takes you a quarter of the way back the that first trip of discovery, it shouldn't be surprising that Steinbeck saw a rougher land than I.

As I cleared the Teton Pass with the sun climbing in the sky behind me, the road slalomed gently down a beautiful valley and I entered Idaho. I was listening to a station that would have been called "Legends of Country" when Johnny Cash was in the army, and the were playing "Oh Why, Oh Why Did I Ever Leave Wyoming."

It only took 20-30 miles of Idaho for that to become my newest theme song. This was mostly not the fault of Idaho, but of my commitment to avoiding Eisenhower's wide roads. After a nice ride through potato fields to Idaho Falls, my next destination was a visit with my friend Rob's mom in Glenns Ferry, an hour Southeast of Boise. The superhighway dipped South and then and then West-Northwest to get there. The country roads headed Northwest then Southwest to accomplish the same and in about the same number of miles. So 26 to Arco, past the Craters of the Moon National Monument, through Carey and Gooding and then to Glenns Ferry. What a terrible drive. While the Interstate ran along the Snake River Valley, past Knievel-worthy cliffs and charming places (I imagine) like Pocatello, I skirted the boarder of a nuclear test site (could have been recent, and maybe not even ours), through an honest to goodness depression style dust storm and along the edge of a lava field (hopefully unrelated to the nuclear tests). And encountered the longest construction delay of the entire trip. Lovely, simply lovely. So I believe Idaho to be a sandwich where the bread North and South is the best part, and I instead drove through the Deviled Ham meat-like spread between.

The place is so windy there are no bugs. It blows them all to Wyoming and even South Dakota. When Luci I stopped to play frisbee in Arco's nuclear winter I could throw the frisbee an amazing distance down wind. I hope the wind is why there are no bugs....if it was something else, there would still be cockroaches, right? The sign on the way into Idaho said "Too Great to Litter." Probably true of most of the state.

Glenns Ferry was a nice break. Rob's mom boards equine dentistry students who attend the local equine dentistry school, and we left Luci with student Jamie and walked down the block to the Oregon Trail Bar. You walk in the front and it is an empty diner. You know where you are going (Rob's mom knew), and you push aside the sliding door to a warm country bar. A couple women had started early, or last night, and they distracted a bit from what was otherwise a warm place and a hub of the small town. Here each year they reenact the Three Islands Crossing, where 50,000 or more crossed the Snake River to populate Oregon. Nice place, and my friend Rob is a nice man. There is nothing surprising that this is his home town.

On to Boise, which is nice, and home of the Parrilla Grill......Luci's favorite bar.

In the Hole

"But they'll laugh at you in Jackson, and I'll be dancin' on a Pony Keg.
They'll lead you 'round town like a scolded hound,
With your tail tucked between your legs,
Yeah, go to Jackson, you big-talkin' man.
And I'll be waitin' in Jackson, behind my Japan Fan."---Cash

Apologies to Steinbeck, but whenever I think of a Jackson, be it Mississippi, Michigan or yes, even Wyoming, this Johnny and June song always comes to mind. I think there are people wreckin' their health in this Jackson, either though hard partyin'-hard livin', or through hard playin'-hard livin', like of the x-games variety. People come here to live in the mountains, ski steep slopes, and in the summer, ride bikes on those same slopes.

There seems to be some confusion of this area: Jackson versus Jackson Hole. Here is my understanding; the man providing it was not a geography major, but it is good enough for me: Jackson Hole can mean two different things. It is the name of the high end ski resort up past Wilson. 5-7 miles from town, and I suspect little cross pollination between the two. Although you would need to drive through town to get there from the airport where all the G-5's and Lears are parked. Supposed to be one of the more challenging of the big resorts, but is said to out-Aspen Aspen for furs per square foot. I was told by a bartender in Jackson that when he visited Red Lodge, Montana, the local there said, "All the billionaires moving into Jackson are chasing all the millionaires to Montana." I digress. The other area referenced as Jackson Hole is the valley along the Snake River, with mountains practically surrounding the flat valley floor, hence "the Hole." "Jackson" just refers to the town of that name.

I had read in "Travels" that Charley had a unique reaction to bears encountered in Yellowstone Park. He went from his normally pacifist self to something quite vicious. I of course wondered how Luci would handle such a scene. Alas, our middle of the day trip to Yellowstone conveniently coincided with bear (and elk, and wolf, and buffalo) nap time, so in the park we saw nothing wilder than two unkempt Pomeranians. Luckily, earlier in the day, just as we pulled north from Jackson, not yet to the National Parks, I did spot a group of Buffalo grazing along the road. I pulled over and rolled down my window for the picture of the herd, numbering 20 and as close as 40 feet fto the car. Luci, having just settled into highway-mode as we had pulled out of town, needed to be awakened from her nap on the backseat. She went ape-shit. Like no reaction I had ever seen from her. I worried she was going to dive out the window, or at least get the buffalo angry enough to charge. I yelled for quiet, snapped a couple quick shots, and peeled back onto the road. I had a sense of what Steinbeck and Charley had experienced with the bears.

Driving through the Tetons to Yellowstone is one incredible drive. In fact, after completing that part of the journey, the parts of Yellowstone I was able to visit seemed muted, although a later review of my pictures hinted at some of the real beauty that is the Park. I did get to see Old Faithful blow. I wasn't able to get in the main parking lot, which was very poorly managed, but happened to pull into a gas station almost as close. It was loud, tall and impressive, and I was glad I happened to see it. I did see what looked like a small pumping station nearby, which left me curious as to whether the geyser had been "Disney-fied;" and guaranteed to go off appropriately and at the appropriate times.

Back in Jackson for the evening, I returned to the Snake River Brewery where I had been for a very late dinner the night before. "No Dogs on the Deck" said the sign quoting the city ordinance. Did seem to fit the village or the brewery to me, but I think earlier in the day it must be a real mix of tourists and they are just eliminating one variable. Here the food was excellent. Elk and Buffalo Chili really a good meal, and the on-site produced beers matched up well against it.

It was also where I asked a couple of Regulars about the Mug Club, as the mugs looked just like the ones given to club members at the brew pub where I am a club member in Ann Arbor. Jeremy asked, "Arbor Brewing Company?" I responded, "Grizzly Peak." He was from Brighton and spent years in Ann Arbor schooling and working at some of the same joints did, although a decade later. He now ran a Bistro on the edge of Jackson, and his girlfriend proclaimed itthe best food in town, but I was out of meals to give it a try.

The two male bartenders reminded me rather of Lincoln, where I thought they were on the prowl more than there to serve, but they knew a lot about the beer and the town. I had stopped in a couple other places, but one closed the kitchen early, and the other was teetering on the edge of a bar fight, which was going to replicate a scene from Frankenstein when all the little villagers tried to bring down the one massive monster. And I was conflicted....The monster HAD just bought me a beer for no good reason.

I picked up a caterer hitchhiker on her way home and dropped her at the hotel she lives at. This introduced me to quieter side of Jackson, where a lot of old hippies are finding ways to stay in a beautiful but increasingly expensive place.

The next morning we were on out way out of town and over the 10% grades of the Teton Pass into Idaho. Wow, it was steep. I saw 3 bikes riding up, and the only thing worse that I could imagine was riding down, but I am guessing these were not novices, and they would find a way to enjoy that coast. Onto windy Idaho I go.

The most beautiful state?

"I must confess to a laxness in the matter of National Parks. I haven’t visited many of them. Perhaps this is because they enclose the unique, the spectacular, the astounding- the greatest waterfall, the deepest canyon, the highest cliff, the most stupendous works of man or nature. And I would rather see a good Brady photograph than Mount Rushmore." ---Steinbeck

I doubt there is another state that gives so much of its land to the National Park system: the Tetons are big, Yellowstone huge. Like Steinbeck, I had mostly given short shrift to National Parks, but mostly out of lack of proximity or being too cheap to pay the entrance fee. But once you have chosen a fairly northern route across the Plains and Rockies, you would have to actively try to avoid the parks if you want to make the Pacific Coast.

I knew somewhere in Wyoming I would hit the Rockies. They first came in the form of the Big Horn Mountains, which rise quickly from the range land of eastern Wyoming into peaks snow capped even in late summer. This happens just as the interstate veers north in search of a pass, at the town of Buffalo. Seems like this Buffalo deserves its name a little more than the New York version, but it is a small place, so will always be "the other Buffalo." The West took no time presenting itself here, as I saw four cowboys, although one was probably a cowgirl, containing a dozen cows that had come through a fence right at road's edge. They were driving them from the road and up an impossibly steep incline, one you'd associate with the Big Horn sheep these mountains are named for.

These are real mountains, rising to beyond 13,000 feet, although we were able to cut through at about 9600 feet. If you stay on I-80, you miss them to the south as you sneak through the Great Basin Divide; a hole in the Eastern Rockies between Colorado and Wyoming. Although the driving was arduous and the day long, I was so glad of this route. I think Route 16 here in the middle of the state was the most beautiful I had ever been on; by sunset it may have dropped to a close second. As we wound our day down an amazing river canyon, down a long 6% grade, you could smell brakes cooking in the air. There were semis in front of me, but also campers. I assume the truckers work their gearboxes to take the strain here. If it was the campers, I was hoping they had plenty of shoes and pads to burn, because no happy end would come to anyone unable to slow on this hill.

We hit the central valley region of Wyoming, where most of the towns had elevations higher than their populations. We played frisbee at Hot Springs High School (home of the Bobcats) in Thermopolis, and then on to Shoshoni. The drive between the two towns could be lifted off a great model railway: river down the middle, road and railroad cut into the sides of the gorge, winding through short tunnels. From Shoshoni, Jackson was close on the map, but to get there in a car you had to follow the valley far north of the target. It was here, just past Poison Creek Picnic Area (good name for a creek, but a picnic area?....hummm) and the dot of a town Kinnear, that I went through the only speed trap I saw in 4000 miles, and I went through it slowly enough to avoid attention. It was a drop from 65 mph to 35 mph with 700 feet of warning. I suspect it is the largest revenue line item on their budget.

Several times in Wyoming, signs tell of the period the rock formation represents and the name of that era. "Pre-Cambrian" says one, "3 billion years old," the sign continues. Glad to see, in Dick Cheney's home state, that those signs haven't been removed or rewritten to a stricter scriptural interpretation.

It was now 7pm and the sign said I still had 150 miles to drive to Jackson. But the road was nice and fast as it rose gently up a valley, Rocky Mountains now to my left, my right and my front. We hit the continental divide at about 9000 feet. Luci, as my innocent surrogate, peed on the spot to begin the race to the two oceans. In Yellowstone we would cross the Divide again half a dozen times, making it more common than fast food in this part of the world. We were driving into the setting sun now, sometimes directly, sometimes it curved behind a mountain. Wyoming didn't have nearly the bugs South Dakota had given up, but I still thought Orkin should be subsidizing my fill ups. Here the critters on the windshield, and the ones not yet, glowed in the backlighting of the sun and added a fascinating difficulty to seeing the road.

Suddenly, distant yet dominant, ahead in the valley opening stood the Grand Tetons. They were dusty gray in this light, the sky behind them a dusty rose. 13 hours of driving this day seemed so very worth it at this moment. It was one of those moments that will be forever printed on my mind. Perhaps the postcard I take from this entire journey. Still a couple of hurdles to reach Jackson that night: a construction zone that required pilot vehicles to lead us through, and an oversize vehicle at the base of a steep and winding hill, struggling to maintain 15 miles an hour, yet impossible to pass, but with the view of the Tetons never far away. The last 30 miles take you down the Snake River Valley with elk to the right and buffalo to the left. It was too late to dawdle, but we'd get a better look in the morning.

In the moment I was sure Wyoming must be our most beautiful state. I know there will be millions of dissenting opinions on this, many from my new home, Hawaii, I am sure. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and one can only rate what one has seen. I have not been to Alaska, for instance, which must have bigger mountains and grander valleys. I have only seen the Colorado Rockies in winter; beautiful in white but muted compared to the variety summer offers. I also think that the mountain beauty of Wyoming and the ocean beauty of Hawaii are of the apples and oranges variety......no real way to compare such different vistas. Anyway, I am not quite done with Wyoming, but it truly left a mark on me.

Black Hills and Beyond

“There used to be a thing or a commodity that we put great store by. It was called the People…. Maybe they never existed, but if there ever were the People, that’s the commodity the Declaration was talking about, and Mr. Lincoln”. ---Steinbeck

Steinbeck often talks of not living in the past, but also is very fond the old ways and often sees them as the better ways. I think the west is full of evidence of the good old days, and Lincoln and Jefferson, larger than life, are there to look upon the People they spoke of. Roosevelt and Washington, the action heroes, join these men of deep thoughts and important words on this South Dakota mountainside. One of the truly iconic American landmarks, it was impressive to see, and to move around. In some spots you can focus on all four men; in other places the angles of the carving and the tough pine trees will leave you one-on-one with a former president. If you thought too long when you stood in those spots, you could feels quite small, and a little scared.

Mt Rushmore had a sign that said clearly, "NO PETS." Luci has little tolerance for this type of discrimination, but it turns out Mt Rushmore may be the most pet-friendly pet-prohibited place on Earth. At the gate, the ranger pointed me to the areas where you can take your pet for a walk, then directed me to the shaded parking, and then pulled out two dog treats for Luci, which she accepted, and thus forgave the park its announced position against Canine-Americans.

On this day the featured guest in the gift shop was an original granite carver. He wasn't there when I walked through. This thing was finished during the FDR administration.......I suspect he was napping.

From there we went to see the Crazy Horse statue. Envisioned as a 500 foot giant granite version of the great chief charging his mount into battle, work on it began when McCain was but a lad. 60 years into the work, the man commissioned for the job is long dead and a beautiful visitors' center gives you a distant glimpse of the Indian's face cut from the rock. And a hole under his arm. I don't know enough Native American culture to know if their perspective on time takes a long view, like some Asian cultures. But if I had been involved in asking for this work, I think my patience may be wearing a little thin as I try to picture the horse, the pointing arm and the 150 foot torso in the remaining rock.

As a child, Crazy Horse was nicknamed "Curly."

From there we traveled to a Sonic Drive-In in Rapid City. I have never lived where Sonic had set up shop. When I was studying at UH in the late 90's, one of the groups in my class, with John and Jodi and others, presented a case study about Sonic. As an old burger flipper, I had long been curious this throwback hamburger joint. It is a brilliant piece of marketing, and a good combination of old and new styles. Unfortunately, where they were not as impressive was in the food quality and value department. The burger was mediocre and a bit pricey (It was summer in a tourist town). And the condiment girl didn't stop by until I was mostly done with my sandwich. But hey, they actually had a condiment girl, slinging ranch and ketchup like a cigarette girl at a supper club in the 40's.

From the time I hit Hot Springs south in the Black Hills, I had seen an increasing presence of motorcycles. I saw a news report about how many people were vacationing this way to lower their gas bills, but I think my timing, a week before the festival in Sturgis, was probably the biggest thing drawing this thundering herd to the area. Luci had pointed out to me that morning at the hotel her general dislike of loud motorbikes; barking ferociously as one rider after another fired up their Hogs, with their distinctive acoustic signature. But I figured this close to Sturgis and this close to their big dance, we had to take a quick drive though.

Even a week a early, the down is decked out and bike-filled. I had a Star Trek-like feeling that I had entered into the alternative universe version of the Ann Arbor Art Fair, the version where Captain Kirk really needed a shave. The tents were everywhere, as were the crowds. But everything for sale in this town was black and silk screened, or it was leather. Luci stayed on high alert as we passed through, and we did stop at very nice community center and park to take care our needs. People here were friendly and the park well kept. I wondered what kind of clean up would be starting two weeks from my visit.

Our day was sliding by and we had a long way to go, so we bypassed Deadwood (of the HBO series), which I heard is still a neat town despite its growing commercialization. From here I did some horrible, as-the-crow-flies guess work on distance, and my four hour plan to Jackson took nine. Next time I'll tell a bit of the beauty there is to be seen in Wyoming.

Coal, Corn and Cows

"From the beginning of my journey, I had avoided the great high-speed slashes of concrete and tar called 'thruways,' or 'super-highways.' ---Steinbeck

I also have mostly avoided the big roads, only sampling I-70 from Lawrence to Manhattan, I-80 from Lincoln to Grand Island and I-90 from Rapid City to Buffalo. It was enough to regain bad habits (my apologies to the Nebraska farmers I sent scattering when I went for an Interstate style pass on a country road), and to cover some land quickly, but until Idaho I was glad with my decision to avoid them. More on that later.

So I headed out of Lincoln on a Sunday morning, aware of my earlier commitment to try church. I did get invited to a Mega-Church in Omaha, which is exactly what I hoped to see, but the service was late and 40 miles out of the way. The 3-4 hours it would have added to my day was more than I was willing to commit. I looked for another option, but my jones for the road took over, and we headed west. The good news is, while I missed the opportunities to meet folks through the church experience, my soul would not suffer as Nebraska radio offered plenty of what Merle Haggard called "sunday learning." There are a lot of Christian talk, Christian Rock, Christian country, and Country radio stations. I would scan channels and play "Name that Genre." Christian talk, often sprinkled among the NPR stations low on the dial, was amazingly easy to spot. I could usually name that genre in three words or less. Christian Rock also exposes itself pretty quickly. Christian Country and regular Country are tougher, as they seem to be on track for a merger. I know Country has always had a gospel strain, but these syrupy family songs are just sickening.

I went through Grand Island, NE as we used to live on Grand Island, NY, and I have always been curious. It made Ford Road in Canton, MI appear to be a quaint old fashioned village. 7 miles of big box. I think it is shopping central for central Nebraska, but I was really glad I didn't plan a stop there. If I missed a nice business district, I apologize.

Then I took off on Route 2 to Alliance. Here I saw a lot of Nebraska, and it exceeded expectations. It follows the rail tracks, so I think this must be a straight flat route, and yet it was varied and interesting, if at times deserted. Here I watched what we consume being prepared for market. Corn and hay are grown in huge lots. Coal pushed on in a steady stream. Both of these commodities seemed bountiful even though I know they are increasingly scarce. The model I don't get is cows. On the horizon I would spot an old west style windmill, and when I got closer I would always find 10-20 cows milling around and taking a drink. One of these pods of cows may not provide the beef I have eaten on this trip. I have driven a 1000 miles of cow country; these must hide them somewhere because I just can't tie what I see in the meat counter with what I see on the plains. Through Broken Bow and Mullen ("the biggest little town in Hooker County") and past the Nebraska National Forest (a really nice tree) I passed livestock trucks just to get out of the invisible sandstorm they put out, and turned right at Alliance and headed to South Dakota.

My last stop in Nebraska was the Favorite Bar in Chadron (SHAD-run). I was lucky to find it as it was the only bar open in the county. No liquor on Sundays, and beer from noon to eight. Sign on the door informed, "Smoking is allowed on the entire premises." Lincoln is non-smoking, the rest of the state goes that way next year. This is they type of bar where that is just plain big government. Everyone in the place, employee and patrons, save this interloper, puffed away. They allowed me to charge my camera battery, which I thought was generous, and they thought odd.

As I crossed the state line into South Dakota, over increasingly nice countryside there was a barn-now-casino on the roadside, 30 miles from anywhere. My guess is gambling is legal in SD, and not in NE.

I spent that Sunday night in Hot Springs, SD at the southern edge of the Black Hills. A nice town, feeling the hurt of a slow summer, although with the Sturgis motorcycle uber-fest firing up next week, hopes are still high. It was a quiet town with dollar pints and big tough women tending bars. Big, tough ex-military women to be more precise. Not sure this is a response to the biker presence, but I bet it helped keep the peace after too many bored locals had too many cheap drinks. Lanelle, working at The Bar, was colorful. She is taking next week off to go to Sturgis, and work "the Chip" (the Buffalo Chip, a bar and concert venue). She offered some colorful and descriptive nicknames for the local lesbian softball team (her toughest customers), and every Saturday her neighbor, the town's only cab driver, makes her his last fare.

Here I saw the clamato-beer combo known as chelada. This is the second new mainstream product based on Latin brew tastes, the other being lime-beer, like Miller Chill. I had a chelada, and it was spicy and refreshing; a low octane bloody mary sort of thing. Here is my only question: we need to make one with Bud and Clamato, and another with Bud Light and Clamato? Give me a break! The flavor is all clams, spice and tomato, just freshened and carbonated by the beer. I didn't do a side-by-side, but doubt there is a discernible difference.

We got back to the hotel and headed in quick as the bug population was exploding. 30 minutes later we stepped out for Luci's evening routine. She gave up first, in about 3 seconds. It was biblical: grasshoppers (locusts?) large beetles, moths, and mosquitoes pelting us like warm hail. The next morning the side of the hotel looked like the front of my car. More area covered by dead bugs than not.

Next we bit off a lot of road work; through the Black Hills and off to the Grand Tetons.

Huskers of Corn

"Traveling about, I early learned the difference between an American and the Americans. They are so far apart that they might be opposites." ---Steinbeck

This was the day I traveled from my new friend Kansas to its Northern neighbor, a place I have held suspect since end of the 1997 football season, and maybe since Springsteen wrote about it when I was in college. The refrain I hold for Kansas comes from a fluffy John Denver song, where he sings,
"Gold is just a windy Kansas wheat field, blue is just a Kansas summer sky." ---Denver

The repeating lyrics in my head for Nebraska are a little different:

I saw her standin' on her front lawn just twirlin' her baton
Me and her went for a ride sir, and ten innocent people died.
From the town of Lincoln, Nebraska with a sawed-off .410 on my lap
Through to the badlands of Wyoming I killed everything in my path.
I can't say that I'm sorry for the things that we done
At least for a little while sir me and her we had us some fun.
---Springsteen

Bashing Nebraska, or Lincoln, is not my intent. Steinbeck treated the state as the hole in the donut of his journey: Northern North Dakota outbound and Texas inbound. And Bruce's song talks of an American, not the the Americans. His is a stark story of Starkweather (a man who based his life on a James Dean character....just lonely and sad, until ten innocent people died. 40 years later, another killer blamed his own rampage on the Boss's song. As Johnny Cash would sing, "will the Circle be unbroken")? Yes, I am listening to a lot of old music on the road.

Anyway, I left you in Lawrence. I had the chance to have lunch with a first cousin-once removed, my dad's cousin Michael. He moved to Manhattan, KS shortly after we moved to the US, and taught computer science there for 30 years. He is a kind and generous man with a kind and generous wife, doing well with challenges that age can bring. And it so often brings it to 1/2 before the other. I guess I had seen him since England, but remember him only from Uncle Tony's house days before we sailed (I was smitten by his 8 year old daughter, probably in the way only a 6 year old boy could be.....unaware of the delicacies of family relationships, yet it clearly left a mark).

Manhattan left me thinking it is a town with great pride, or a great identity crisis. The name and logo of K-State absolutely everywhere. (like WAY more than Ann Arbor is Maize and Blue). A nice campus, but with far less of its own character (beyond logos) than the others I have known. With the name "State," and the agricultural focus, I probably (and unfortunately) apply my own MSU judgments to the place.

North out of there on route 77, which should take me all the way to Lincoln. Except in this part of the world a detour is really a detour. 15 miles east, 15 mile north and 15 miles west is what it means to go around the block. This led me over an area named Blue Valley. Deep in corn country I was skeptical. Without the detour, I never would have crossed the mile-wide river and wet lands that earned the valley its name.

I liked northern Kansas. They seems to borrow New Hampshire's motto. "Live free or die" trickled all the way down to the marking of passing zones on these byways. Better to meet an F-350 diesel grill-to-grill than to have felt the imposition of governmental restraint on my right to pass cars, by god. I also loved the "Legends of Country" radio station I found. All Waylon, and Willie and the Boys stuff. Took me back to when I hated country, and made me wonder why.

In Northern Kansas I passed by Marysville and fired up what would become my four-state obsession with coal . I crossed a bridge over eight tracks and saw eight coal trains as long as you could see (my later obsession informs me they were 1.3 miles a piece) . In Lincoln, that observation was multiplied three-fold, as 25 tracks became the staging area for the fuel to my home, my lights, my I-Pod. Over the next few days I watched a hundred trains pull that fuel down from the Hills to the Plains. The routine so complete that each train had two engines in front and one behind, that each was made of mostly clean cars, that all were all 1.3 miles long, and that the loading had left each pile of coal identical. Rising a foot or two beyond the hopper,the coal grew from back to front, then dipped and rose again. It struck me how much the load in each car resembled the back of a bison: curved, humped, rising, brooding or charging. I thought this strange picture of the Range also completed an imagined circle. I was able to think the herds were still represented here; we still slaughter them and they still feed us, but how the world has changed.

I crossed into Nebraska near Beatrice, and fatigue, and the arrival of long, east-facing shadows left me ready to sneak into a bar. I was able to leave Luci in the shaded car, and to have beer. I had that beer with Schroeder at Poo's Palace. A man as proud of his 3rd cousin connection to the Silver Spoons star Ricky Schroeder as he was to be a "DIE-rect DEE-cedent" of Abraham Lincoln. And on the wife's side, related to Raymond Burr as well. For all his near fame and distant fortune, I liked the polite, honest man, and the respectful way he addressed an issue. I referred to the to the town name as as BEE-u-truss, and he said "pardon me, but here we say it, "Bee-A-truss. It's German." He wasn't offended, but didn't want me to say it wrong to the wrong fella. As I would soon learn, many western towns are pronounced differently from how they appear.

From there we are on to Lincoln, where I spent a couple of nights. Falsely worried about civilization (laundry, internet) as I moved on, and ready for a slower day, I set up camp. As you may guess, it wouldn't be a place I would favor again with extra time, but it was fine.

Lincoln is home to 222,000 souls, the seat of government and the largest campus. I had been told O Street was the place to hang out, and it was happening, but I found smaller, nicer joints on P Street or on the edge of town. Also on O street, if you wander East to the Wonder Bar, you may wonder where you've gone. It quickly loses the college feel, and doesn't hold out a welcoming hand to strangers. The place I went the first night, in search of food, but missed the closing of the kitchen, was Bison Witches.

On O Street the bartenders where male models or members of the Cornhusker demo squad. Either way, they weren't making it in the world on their brain power. Here on P Street, they were engaging and informed. The manager stopped by, perhaps not his first stop of the night, and when I inquired about buying a tee-shirt, he sent the bartender for one of the ones they had made for their softball team, and gave it to me for free. I went back the next night for food, hung out with a great young couple (he teaches 4th grade and hopes to coach, she sells drugs. Oh, sorry, she reps pharmaceuticals), and ate a fantastic beef and brie half sandwich. One beer, one margarita and too much food? $6.50. The couple wanted to make Lincoln my favorite place. They helped me to like them a lot and the bar a lot, but couldn't put all of Lincoln on their shoulders.

The next day, after chores, I headed out and had the obligatory runza for lunch. It is the national dish of the Big Red Nation. I thought it was like some one tried to make a Cornish Pasty after looking at a picture of one. Ground beef, cubed potatoes, diced onion and too much salt and thyme baked inside little more than a hot dog bun. Not horrible, but not good enough to taste for several hours, and that was its impact on me.

My journey will get me one day soon to Oahu. If you see Captain Cook's first map, he spells it Wahoo. Imagine my luck in finding that spelling just 30 miles north of Lincoln.. Hey, they have a Grand Island, NE which, like Mt Pleasant MI, is neither. Perhaps they also had a Hawaiian island hidden there. Not exactly. We got there as the shadows again provided safety for Luci in the car, and I headed into Chez Place, which bragged of the "coldest beer on the block." Loud music and three young guys playing a video game, I drank my beer and explored the town. Not too much to see. An aging corn town, but 30 miles from Lincoln and about the same from Omaha, it seems hopeful of a future as a bedroom community, especially if the occupants of that bed work in each of the two cities.

Anyway, I stopped back in Chez Place and the place was transformed, maybe even transported. Local hero, and QB of UN, Omaha, Zach Miller had just been married to his sweetheart, and the guests all had an hour to kill while the family took photos and the steamboat roast rested. Well of course they all wanted the coldest beer on the block, so here they were. A great crowd of mostly young, well dressed folks all in a good mood. The one guy my age was rugged, trim and handsome in black jeans and shirt, a pin stripe black jacket, boots and a chain on his wallet. It sounds like I'm funnin' him, but he pulled it off neatly, and was with his wife, whom I suspect once sat atop a float in this town. A beautiful young woman named Tara, fresh with her MSW thought she wanted to follow Janis's career, and took the time to tell me of the day ("oh that detour? We just went around the barricade. the wedding party is in a stretch Hummer, after all"). Her significant other, together with old buddies, stopped by long enough to convince himself of my harmlessness, and went back to Jose Cuervo.

Back in town, I took Luci again for a walk on the Campus. Large, and largely car free, built of brick in a consistent style and with some green space, she thought it pee-worthy. But this night the lights were on at the Shrine of St Tom......yes, a game afoot at Memorial Stadium, and in July no less. It was the high school all-star game, with the teams wearing the home and away Husker uniforms. It was the second half and I walked in for free. I am adolescently proud that it took me less than 10 seconds to start a fight over the 1997 national championship. "Huh, that's odd, they listed 1997 on your Wall of Champions. Well, that can't be right," I said Columbo-like. Just a few quick points:
1. They are happy to have a share of the title. Similar to the false mother's reaction to Solomon's offer to split the baby.
2. Their only argument: "We would have kicked your ass." Nice work. Pick the one totally unprovable fact and rest everything on it.
3. When in Lincoln, or perhaps the whole state, avoid saying, "Tom Osborne is a whore." I was warned in Lawrence about that. In the future I will heed such warnings.
4. On the mighty football statue in front of the stadium, they have roughly cemented plaques to the smooth brass, each representing the championship years. 1997 is around the corner, missed by most. I believe that if I traveled with hammer and chisel, I would have that with me today. I asked a Nebraska fan in South Dakota if he thought that would be a misdemeanor or a felony, he calmly replied, "a capital offense."

Time to leave Lincoln. Where is my .410?

Itinerary

I am sure some people look at this not looking for all these thoughts, but to see where I have been. here is the drive so far:

Monday, July 21: I-94 and I-80 to the Quad cities (Moline, or actually Cordova)

Tuesday, July 22: Side trip to Field of Dreams. Illinois 84N to Illinois 20N to Dubuque (Wisconsin, Illinois, Iowa confluence), then Iowa 20W to Iowa 136N. Return trip, Iowa 61S to DeWitt, 30E to Clinton, 84S to Cordova.

Wednesday, July 23: Illinois 67S from Quad Cities to Macomb. West to Carthage, 336S to Quincy. Crossed into MO. 61S to 19S to 22W to 63S to Columbia.

Thursday, July 24: 63S from Columbia to Jefferson City. 50W to Lawrence, Kansas.

Friday, July 25: I-70W to 177N to Manhattan, lunch with cousin Michael. 77N, with 45 minute detour, to Lincoln, Nebraska

Saturday, July 26: Side trip Wahoo, Nebraska. 77N, returned on 77S.

Sunday, July 27: I-80W from Lincoln to Grand Island (which is neither), 24N to 2W to Alliance. 385N to Hot Springs. SD.

Monday, July 28: Winding through the Black Hills, N from Hot Springs, SD, by Custer, Crazy Horse, Mount Rushmore, Rapid City and Sturgis (Rally is next week) to I-90. W to Buffalo, Wyoming. Then 16W to Worland, 20S to Shoshoni, 26W to Moran Junction, 189S to Jackson (long day, beautiful drive).

Tuesday, July 29: Side trip to Yellowstone National Park by way of Grand Tetons National Park, all by way of 189. I went as far North as Old Faithful.

Wednesday, July 30: WY 22 out of Jackson and through Teton Pass into Idaho. The ID 26 through Arco and Shoshone to Gooding. I-84 with a stop at Glenns Ferry and then on to Boise.

Thursday, July 31: I-84 from Boise to Portland OR, with a stop in Pendleton for the world's best bacon cheeseburger.

Friday, August 1: Stayed in greater Portland

Closing in on 4000 miles

Saturday, August 2: NWA flight to Honolulu

Well over 6000 miles now.

No Place Like Home

"Much earlier I spoke of the changes at state lines, changes in Highway English, in prose forms on the signs, changes in permitted speeds. The states' rights guaranteed under the Constitution seem to be passionately and gleefully exercised."---Steinbeck

I think these differences exist, but a lot of national chains, products and advertising may hide the differences. By avoiding chains (except for my home-away-from-home, dog friendly, wi-fi kicking Motel 6's) and mostly staying off the interstates, I think I have found more differences along the way than hurried travelers might. In the last few days I have made my first stop in several of the states in the middle of the country, states that in the past I lumped into one: the plains, the fly-over states, the heartland. It has been a great opportunity see both the similarities and differences, at least those which jumped off the wall at me in these very short visits. I am sure longer stays and meeting more people would prove some and disprove some of my thoughts.

When I left Columbia, MO I did a drive-by of the state capital in Jefferson City and then continued west on Route 50 toward Lawrence, KS. Let me start with the quickest impression of all: the capital building is brilliantly positioned. Coming in on 63S, you come over a rise, and there it is, several miles away, completely dominating the skyline. Driving away on 50W, I look in the mirror, and again, all I see is the dome of the capital. And this building doesn't appear to do it by height alone, like the Nebraska ("only unicameral legislature in the country") capital, which appears to be compensating for something.

On to Sedalia, MO for frisbee and lunch. We found a nice park by a 19th century train depot that spoke to a time of glory for this small, now tired, town. I did have a nice lunch served by a nice bartender. She was 6'2", and the size must have come from her father's side, as I doubt her proportions would ever take her from that awkward stage. She told me Sedalia's current glory comes but twice a year as it hosts the Ragtime Festival and the State Fair. She was from Omaha, and thought I should change my plan and make that my Nebraska stop. I gave it good thought, as not much recommended Lincoln to me, but decided to keep to my route, and to my college town strategy.

From there we listened to the farm report and raced a train full of T.E.U.'s across the countryside, one labeled MATSON. I imagined it contained our household, although I knew the route and the time wasn't right. We gained on the train, eventually passing its length only to hit the speed zone of a small town and watch it again charge to the front. Dresden, Knob Noster and Lone Jack were all good for the train; the highway between was good for me and Luci. The highway outweighed the towns, and we led comfortably when the tracks peeled off to Kansas City.

Far Eastern Kansas is green and hilly, a continuation of Missouri. It is growing flatter by Lawrence, which then rises above like an acropolis. Atop this mound, The University of Kansas, dyslexically abbreviated KU, is a very nice campus. Tasteful buildings in complimentary yet different styles form a really nice college feel. You can see for miles in all directions. And then you head down the ski slope-like streets to the college town section of Lawrence. Laid on on state-named north-south avenues, it centers on Massachusetts, referred to locally a Mass. Little would dissuade young drinkers from long nights on Mass more than the Stairmaster of a hike back to the dorm on "the Hill."

I met Gary and Kari at Louise's Downtown, where most were drinking schooners of domestic for $1.75. A schooner being a 32 oz. glass, only slightly larger than the wagon of beer I thought they were ordering. College towns are cheap for eating and drinking. This is something I was missing in Ann Arbor, where the town/gown separation makes the college bars a place I wouldn't go, and where it would be viewed as creepy if I did. In Columbia, Lawrence and Lincoln, the crowd was varied in age and affiliation everywhere I stopped. Kari told me where to go in her hometown of Lincoln, and that saved me driving and research. People in each of these middle states often seemed connected to the nearby states, and all helped me along. Louise's is a place I would return to, and only partly because I owe the buying of some drinks there.

On the way out of town, and near my hotel I stopped in Johnny's, as recommended by Gary. A loud band, but a great Hawaii connected bartender named Blair. Elementary School at Maunawili in Kailua. He also gave me Portland info as his brother lives there. Someone else I owe a drink to. When they buy me a drink, I think they must of worried about the frequency of my fuel stops and took pity on me, but it is a trend that nicely continues.....

I came to Kansas with low expectations and little knowledge. As I drove from the state I passed the billboard for the OZ Museum and thought of Dorothy. Today I better understand her desire to return.

Entering Big 12 Country

"When show people come into what they call the sticks, they have contempt for the yokels. It took a little time, but when I learned there aren't any yokels, I began to get on fine." ---Steinbeck

I dipped further south than my destination called for to visit some places I had never been before: Missouri, Kansas and now into Nebraska. Janis had a bit of an epiphany when I was driving into Lincoln when she realized I was perhaps only a four hour drive from the Quad Cities. Yes, the same Quad Cities I set forth from three days earlier. Of course exploration is the mission, not expediency. Was it worth the detour? Yes.

Arriving in Missouri offered little promise. Light industry and agricultural businesses on wide divided highways replaced the old river town of Quincy, Illinois. but that gave way to nicer, smaller roads as I tried to find the angle from Quincy to Columbia that kept me off the highway, but on the path. A spot along the way that worried me, because I still don't know farming, or Missouri, was the village of Ladonia. The road forked there, and dirt alleys got longer connecting the tines as they spread southeast and southwest. Along these alleys were small white shacks on low stilts, and a lot of them. 500 yards down the road, there is more open space than one from east of the Mississippi can conceive , and yet some one needs to live in these close, soulless dwellings. Again, my ignorance: farmer workers? families? migrants? immigrants? displaced locals? I don't know, but I do know political correctness had not run amok as this little junction. Here route K joined with route KK, demanding signs in all directions that declared K KK, or KK K. A few miles down the road I saw a farm peddling "live bait" and "corgi puppies." I really hope they weren't from the same litter.......

Columbia was good to me, and physically impressive, but remains enigmatic. At a bike race the week before I arrived, the back of the pack was wiped out when thumb tacks were spread across the road. My older brother Nick works really hard to train for the Helluva Ride about this time each year, about his birthday. This year, rain ruined his day and he ONLY got in 70 miles, making him think about about doing another century ride later. This vicarious connection left me feeling for the riders, but I really wondered about the tack throwers. Thoughtless teens (guilty of stupid, hurtful, but unintended acts long ago, I know this happens)? Friends of some rider worried about a late charge? Anti bikers that arrived too late to wipe out the leaders? A 007 and "Q" fan that rigged his bike to wipe out pursuers?

There are an amazing number of Walmarts in this part of the world, and they come in many sizes. At school we often speak of Walmart, but here it is easy to see the profound change it would bring to a small community. For this trip, the biggest impact of the mega company was the 40 miles I spent behind a Walmart truck on a road too narrow to pass.

In Columbia we played frisbee and then walked the campus, and it was very nice. Luci had not yet announced her intention to keep me in constant company, but I still wanted to stop for a beer, and the Bengal bar on the edge of campus was happy to allow us on their patio, and supplied my friend with a big dish of water. The Bengal, in location, layout and purpose reminded me of the Linebacker bar in South Bend, but I was glad, with Luci, that I was not there the night before a home game. Anyway, Luci was popular, and I enjoyed the company of young people drawn to her, people that had no trouble with the term and concept of "goldendoodle."

Then to the hotel where Luci announced she would not be left alone during this adventure. After dark I headed into town and lucked into a joint called Booche's, established in 1884 or some similar year. Good beer, good, cheap burgers. and a great bartender. In the 1970's it was a men's club, and the activist women of campus staged a sit in. Booche's joined the decade and opened their doors to all. I suspect that every 3 or 4 days now, a woman actually takes advantage of that hard earned privilege. Actually a nice young woman named Sunny, comfortably looking like she was in costume for that long ago sit in, was there, and a welcoming presence for Columbia.

The bartender, a marathon running, world traveling, story telling historian recommended Ernie's (est. 1938)or breakfast, and a great diner it was, but not to be reached without some adventure.

I woke to see clouds that were altogether unfamiliar to me, heavy and gray, but drawn in long layers like fresh squid-ink pasta pulled through the pasta mills thinnest setting. I wondered if they were unfamiliar to locals as well. I suspected they held violence, but had failed to check the weather before leaving the motel. Luci and I arrived at the nature area Southeast of campus and the sky had greened, the wind now bragged and the light receded to a level where I now knew our minutes were being counted in the single digits. As friend Nord once quoted Gordon Lightfoot, "does anyone know where the love of God goes?" Nord said it when his good golf round disintegrated on the 13th green of Eagle Crest. Well, Luci and I felt the same dropping sensation as we ran back to the bridge (signed "flood area, impassible in high water," see picture) and were pelted by rain drops the size of seagulls.

We got to the car before the full deluge struck, and felt ourselves the lucky ones as we saw a young man, not dressed for exercise (but more for clubbing), jogging, walking and sprinting along the road. Kenny accepted our offer of a ride. Seems he was just dumped by his girls friend, who seems to have timed it brilliantly: miles from home, in a rising hell-storm, and before his college-mate friends had pulled themselves from bed. We took him the miles back to his place, luckily within a few blocks of Ernie's. He was a decent, respectful and good looking young man. I hold absolutely no judgment on the righteousness of his removal.

Ernie's was as good as advertised. I liked the help, I loved the "Boone County Ham" and thought the whiteboard of Dick Tracy longing for Ernie's (and produced by Chester Gould himself) was way better than the average homage. I need to learn Daniel Boone's tie to this area, but he got the county and a lot of schools named for him.

Back on the road, and racing a fright train to Lawrence, by way of Sedalia.

pictures

pictures of trip, mostly bad and taken from a moving car, are at

http://picasaweb.google.com/robin.hadwick

The Edge

"If you take a map of the United States and fold it in the middle, eastern edge against western, and crease it sharply, right in the crease will be Fargo. On double-page maps sometimes Fargo gets lost in the binding. This may not be a very scientific method for finding the east-west middle of the country, but it will do." ---Steinbeck

The driving mileage chart in my atlas confirms Fargo as a good choice for a central point, a jump from east to west. I used an older center of the country, one that doesn't live up to geographic scrutiny, but perhaps historic. It is also what I really considered the beginning of our adventure, not the middle, the point after which all would be new. It is the Mississippi River. Janis's folks moved to a house on the river, and our nephew lives there today. I have seen the River as its struggles to life in Minnesota, and I have seen it widening to the sea in Louisiana. But here in Moline it is in its working vigor.

Here at dawn on the River's edge a massive fog bank obscures the water and Iowa on the the side. In this invisible state, the river seems even wider than it it really is. I feel like this place sits on the edge of past, which I guess also means the edge of the future. This neighborhood, 20 miles upstream from the Quad Cities of Moline, Rock Island, Bettendorf and Davenport is made up of quaint river cottages, small family farms ,grazing deer and now dozens of huge McMansions. I suspect whenever the family home here is sold, it will be torn down as the land is no doubt worth more than the structure. As Luci and I walk down the street a man and his cat tend to his small gang of large cattle. I am not sure, but I think Luci believes them to be the biggest dogs she has ever seen. She once was visibly scared by them; running to the other side of the road, tail tucked firmly between her legs. Now she anticipates them, and hunts rabbits on the other side of the road, giving her plausible deniability that she saw them at all. If you go another 1/2 mile, the road is closed as it approaches the nuclear power plant, the one that warmed the waters and brought back the bald eagles according locals who must be from the "global warming is real, and it is good" school of thought.

I like Moline, perhaps more than Janis does. Of course I don't know Moline like Janis does. Moline itself formed about the same time as Ann Arbor, and shares a similar early architecture. Then Ann Arbor became a college town and John Deere made Moline a factory town, and that has driven them differently for the last century and a half. As John Deere makes farm equipment, it makes Moline a city uniquely built on the success of the farm. I suppose the machines Deere builds are what made large farms grow and family farms disappear. But if you are going to live in a company town, this seems like a good one, although not immune to the troubles of American heavy industry in the last 40 years.

From here I drove down through Macomb and Carthage and Quincy. Truly corn country. I wish one of the stands selling corn had a pot of boiling water and a stick of butter. I thought I must be near an airport when I realized the planes were dusting the crops. some real flying being done here. They turn in a high climbing bank, and then dive barely above the trees to 30 feet off the deck and spread their chemical cocktail across the corn. I could have watched for hours. The term crop dusting always brings a rude smile to my face as it is a term flight attendants use for a particular activity that occurs when the pressure change affects human body at altitude.

I crossed the Mississippi for good at Quincy, and headed into the rolling hills of Eastern Missouri. We'll pick it up there next time.

"Travails" with Luci

“Charley is no more like a dog than he is like a cat. His perceptions are sharp and delicate and he is a mind-reader. I don’t know if he can read the thoughts of other dogs, but he can read mine. Before a plan is half formed in my own mind, Charley knows about it, and he also knows whether he is to be included in it.
--- Steinbeck

As I drove through Illinois today, I listened to piece on public radio about how silly a slice of the population has become regarding their pets. Paying huge vet bills, for instance, and doing more to eek out a few more months of living than we do for our human loved ones (another place I think needs examination). Now some of these people were actually talking about these measures for cats, which is clearly insane, others were, more understandably, doing it for their dogs (save the hate mail, I like cats too, having paid a large vet bill for a cat I lost custody of years before).

Now Janis and I know we are the sad-to-observe childless middle age couple that dote on their dog as if the chance of a Harvard education was in the balance. And we know we are spending a ton of money to make this move work for Luci. And my sister just did for her sick dog what we would have done, taking it to the dog hospital at Michigan State for a week of miraculous measures (thankfully successful), even though she had to cancel a vacation, and I believe pull her child out of school and put him to work to pay for it (possible exaggeration) . So I listened intently as Dr. Katz, author of "Katz on Dogs" and other books, said how good dogs are at manipulating us. What we see as unconditional love, they see as guaranteeing their next treat.

So I arrive in Columbia, Missouri after a day of driving that included a two mile walk and a pair of frisbee games with Luci. She and I found the Bengal Bar on the edge of the Missouri University campus, and they let us sit down for a beer in their beer garden. Very nice. I then took Luci to the hotel and checked in. I was thinking "I am going to see a lot of this great country on this trip, and Luci will be there for 90% of it; but Imay like to see the other 10% without her." As I left she started barking. I hoped she may settle, so I stopped at the desk and said to call me if she did not. The call came 17 minutes later, the first complaint received. I, of course, was a big baby about this infringement, like the 12 year old who wanted the dog until owning it cost him a trip to Cedar Point, but she had done exactly what Dr. Katz suggested. She behaved in a way that got her what she wanted. And if this mode turns out to be de rigueur, it isn't really a huge deal, as she will sit in the car for an hour if I want to visit a restaurant or bar that doesn't welcome her.

And she is a good dog. In Carthage Illinois, a picture book throwback town deep in corn country not far from the Missouri line, we stopped and played frisbee in a fenced school yard. It worked great and has put me on the look out for school yards since. We found our next one in a depressed and mostly black neighborhood in Columbia, Mo. I am glad to report she had no prejudice to this at all, clearly seeing all school yards as equal. I have to admit I was not quite as good: in Carthage, I thought, "the worst that could happen is the sheriff shows up." In Columbia, I thought, "the worst that could happen is the sheriff is too far away." I was told later in town that may have been a bad neighborhood for me to visit. With a day to reflect, I disagree. I think with Luci as my ambassador, it was a great neighborhood for me to visit.

Dreams and Reality

“I soon discovered that if a wayfaring stranger wants to eavesdrop on a local population the places for him to slip in and hold his peace are bars and churches.” –Steinbeck

Well, firstly, there will be but one Sunday on my trip, and secondly, my basic unfamiliarity with churches makes me such a careful observer of ritual and protocol that I am apt to miss the human behavior. And, oh yeah, as most know, I happen to like bars. So it is in moments over pints, or bottles of Old Style, or even while guessing how a local brew got its name, that I most learn of people. Of course, them, like me, self-selected for this survey, and it may be skewed. I will try to do a church on Sunday…….

Well, there have been a few stops already, and I have learned of places through the people who go through life there. Not always what I hope to learned. One thing I currently realize is how little I know of agriculture. I watch things and cannot put real meaning to them. Yesterday morning I watched as an elevator of sorts was attached to the bottom of a silo, of sorts (not a classic missile shaped, curved top silo, but one of those must-be-good, must-be-cheap “BROCK” silos that dominate the edge of the heartland). It took the golden grain 20 feet high, and poured it hard and fast into an open semi-trailer. What was that grain? Was it this year’s grain? Did it belong to a local farmer or an agri-business giant? Later in the day, I saw several very cool crop dusters. Again, was today crop dusting day? Is July crop dusting month? Should I shut off the air input on my car? I got to Howard’s Tap in Albany, Illinois (more later on stolen place names) after 5 hours of driving and dreaming, and thinking through a lot of these questions. So I see a group that probably farm, or as least know of farming. But today, blood-sucking insects were all they wanted to talk about. Apparently this corner where Wisconsin, Iowa and Illinois join is tick central, and two of the men both had Lyme Disease. I was glad I put the flea and tick repellent on Luci, and wondered my people didn’t wear it as well. I guess I’ll have more time to learn of farming as I cross Kansas and Nebraska.

I took a drive up to the set for “Field of Dreams” in Iowa. Smaller than it looks in the movie, but nice to see a group of kids playing ball on the field. Last night in a bar in Columbia, MO the movie was playing. What struck me the most was that the driveway was exactly the same. I know they keep the house and the field just so, but the dirt double driveway seemed strangely more authentic.

This drive took me through Galena, Il. A beautiful town, I would guess settled by the Irish 150 years ago. And I had the pleasure of getting stuck in their first ever traffic jam. Gave me a chance to see the town better! It is nestled in a valley along a river with dramatic hills and cliffs all around. Shockingly different, in a good way, from the stereotype of vast flat spaces that I held of this region.

getting started

"In long-range planning for a trip, I think there is a private conviction that it won't happen. As the day approached, my warm bed and comfortable house grew increasingly desirable and my dear wife incalculably precious." --Steinbeck

Of course, it is the incalculableness of my wife Janis that drives me to go. So while I hate leaving home, I am driven to go by both the road and the destination. I was delayed in leaving, but only slightly and not by motivational forces; just by staying out too late the night before departure, and by the amount of work I left to the last available minute.

The drive to Moline was uneventful, although more tiring than usual. Illinois, land of Lincoln and birthplace of Reagan. Probably the bookends of what was the republican party. I grew tired and for first time ever, used a rest stop.... to rest. Steinbeck described these new and pristine inventions in 1960. I think they hit a low point a while back, but are pretty nice again. The unchanged quality of them is they keep you separated from place. You travel over the land, not through it, and a rest stop offers few clues of where you've been.

Arrival in Moline led immediately to a rescue mission. My Hyundai picking up nephew Joe from his dying Dodge pick-up.....no symbolism there!

This is a familiar stop for Luci, where she ignores the cows and chases the rabbits. Here she cannot be described as a goldendoodle without raising eyebrows. Here she is 1/2 standard poodle, 1/2 golden retriever (as if an unfortunate event had happened to her mother) and 3/4 bad haircut (to explain a dog clearly neither poodle or golden). Steinbeck's Charley was a dandy of a groomed dog. Luci is a tomboy.

More about Illinois and Iowa tomorrow as I have seen some of both. Tomorrow I think I am heading to KCMO with hope of seeing the Tigers play, but it will take great luck for it all to happen.

getting ready, with growing urgency

Luci and I are getting ready for the big trip,which is less than a week away. I'd like to be looking at the map, choosing a route and imagining good road food. Instead it is is more about switching utilities, cleaning the fridge and securing medical records. But also a lot of good byes. Good friends and good get togethers, last pints with my brother, last rounds on favorite golf courses.

So this is a first attempt at blogging, and I expect it is pretty boring so far. I am only in today to make sure I knew HOW to get back in. I hope that the road will bring the inspiration to make it better. I am reading Steinbeck now. His America and mine will be quite different, separated by 1/2 a century, and by his professional observer's skills. But there are similarities, and I will try to quote Steinbeck when he has already said what I hope to say, as I would rather not compete.

The movers come tomorrow. I hope this isn't unpleasant for Luci, although I think she'll go to day care for the day to avoid the experience. Although she'd probably like to make sure we don't pack anything we need for the trip (frisbee, treats, etc).

I have loaded a picture to this blog, and it was very slow. I will set up a Picasa site to correspond with our trip. More next week.

getting ready

In two weeks, Luci and I will set off across the country, from Ann Arbor, MI to Portland, OR and then catch a plane to Hawai`i, where we are moving to be with my wife, Janis. Luci is a Golden Doodle.....one of those designer mutts that are increasingly popular.

As I discussed my trip with the wise bartender at Casey's Pub, she asked if I had read Steinbeck's "Travels with Charley," his later life story of his cross country trip with his standard poodle. I have not, but I just received a well-worn copy from Amazon, and will make reading it a part of my preparation.

Growing up, my family never made that classic American family vacation: the car trip of the west. Hence, I have only ever flown over the fly over states, and this seems like a great chance to visit several of them, cutting in half the states I am yet to visit.

As I talked about this adventure, a few people have asked that I blog about it. Blogging being one of the web adventures I have not tried, I thought this would be a good time to give it a go. I will try to put up my thoughts when I get opportunities as I pass through the plains and the Rockies.

In the mean time, I will try to share my thoughts as I prepare for this journey.