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.