November 2020
How many times have I crossed the country? It’s difficult to count for sometimes I went part way, turned back, flew a leg, rented a car, started again. From 2010 to 2017 I travelled and camped for months at a time. Jobs in southern Maryland, South Dakota and Washington state kept me on the move, living in tiny hotel rooms during the week; on weekends, exploring historic sites, trails and unusual landscapes, and of course, there was the getting from there to here to there.
Sturgis, South Dakota of motorcycle fame is fast asleep off season, the big saloons shuttered and forlorn. Imagine thousands of gleaming motorcycles, the roar of August rallies. It’s hard to wrap one’s mind around 400,000 bikers there this year; talk about a beer soaked super-spreader event, I’m only assuming they drink beer, mind you. I don’t want to offend anyone, but the dumbing down of America has been most successful, imagine no masks.
So here I am, on the road again. So far Snowball is doing an admirable job, the roads are clear and the weather pleasant. She likes her new sound system that hooks up to my phone, but she does have a mind of her own, that Siri. Sometimes I’ll ask for Beethoven’s 7th symphony and after the first movement Lead Belly interrupts, then Yo-yo Ma on his cello, Sonny Rollins’ saxophone does the Tennessee Waltz, then Tosca sings out her heart leaping over the parapet, Sheep May Safely Graze but Another One Bites the Dust. I watch for sheep, this is grazing land, be safe little lambs, be safe. It’s disconcerting, that shuffle feature. I don’t know how it starts or how to stop it. I’ll drive in silence, keep my eyes on the road.
I stop for the night at a camp near Twin Falls, Idaho. It’s lovely under the cottonwoods trees, the leaves carpet the grass as if with gold coins. In the late deep red sunset a boy and a girl throw a ball back and forth, cavorting in the glow, they run delighted and laughing. The fall color this year, brilliant reds and bold yellows is spectacular, especially through the Wallowa mountains; in the lowlands by the blue rushing water, shimmering yellow trees backed by the dark greens of the rolling hills.
I’ve been making tracks, not dawdling, my goal is to take I-70 and get to a friend’s house in Louisville for her birthday on November 3rd and we’ll watch the election returns with great hope, chocolate cake and crossed fingers. Steeling my nerves, focused and alert, I make it through Ogden, and Salt Lake, and at Provo turn off for Price and head to Green River State Park which, of course, is farther than I think, but it’s a pleasant drive after the rush of freeway through the cities. I stop at a rest area and walk around. A short, thin man in a purple plaid kilt, with bare hairy legs and a long full beard, has a pug, on an expandable leash. Neither are wearing masks, “Very, very vicious,” he says indicating his smiling dog. We are all nuts on the road to somewhere.
At Green River, there is one campsite left and I snap it up, and have a bit of a walkabout to shake off the road. It’s the weekend and the park is full of families, bicycles, tents, strollers, dogs and pickup trucks. Later, I set up the little table and chair, spread out a snack of olives, cheese, crackers and carrots and, of course, a cool beverage. I watch the quarter moon between the trees, the same silky yellow as the cottonwood leaves. It’s 68 degrees and the air smells of good fires and roasting meat. The neighbors from the next camp come and stand a ways apart to chat. They ask about Snowball, where I’m headed, they tell me they come here often for they like to ride their electric bikes. They’re about my age and she says, “You should get an electric bike, it is so much easier to go 20 miles, now I can go the 20 miles back again and still walk the next day.” I’ll think about it, I say, thanks.
In the morning, it is still warm, 66 degrees. I pack up and head east, on the road again. Gray mountains rise from the plain and a great beam of light shafts through a denim blue cloud. Rhiannon Giddens sings her song, Amen, how she does that is anyone’s guess, the magic of her song hits the nail on the head.
I think of Tennyson’s poem, The Eagle, “The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls…” and looking at the mountains, say to myself, “The wrinkled hills before me call.” There’s the cut-off to Moab and I wonder if I should go further south. From the turn-off come dozens of mud splattered Subaru’s and pickup trucks carrying equally dirty mountain bikes from the weekend’s adventure, heading east to Colorado, I follow.
By Grand Junction, the temperature is dropping, 40 degrees. Hmm, there are no good options, I keep going east, watch the thermometer fall. Rain spanks the windshield, look, there’s a sign for a rest area, it is lunchtime. Wait! That’s not rain. I look ahead for the exit and just beyond under the overpass are blinking blue lights, semi-trucks parked flashing red tail lights, there’s a clog up of cars covered in snow. I get off at the exit and crossing the bridge am suddenly hemmed in by half a dozen semis. I find a place to stop and make a sandwich. I heat some water on the stove, but blasted by the wind think, what if I tip over? This is a blizzard. Through the whiteout I spy a gas station store, it’s called the Weinerschnitzel and I pull over into its flank out of the wind and drink my tea. Just before the side window freezes up with white ice I see a sign that says, “Don’t give up just because things are hard.” Well, there you have it. It’s always nice to get advice when you need it.
Cars and trucks fill up the parking area. No one is going anywhere, the snow falls, the temperature falls, the wind blows. I get out an assortment of jackets, mittens, hats, sleeping bags and blankets, two pairs of wool socks and a red wool sweater. I try to read, my nose is cold, I can’t turn the pages with mittens on. Several times I go into the store where the stranded stomp about eating hotdogs. I go back to Snowball, Snowball!! And bundling up again somehow get through the night. Every hour or so I wake and turn on the engine for a few minutes. In the morning the temperature is 11 degrees, the engine turns over, oh, Snowball.
I can’t open the door for the drifts, managing somehow and looking like a Yeti, I troop inside with the other all-nighters. My glasses steam up as I try to order a breakfast sandwich through a plexi-glass shield from an equally masked and steamy cook, we can’t hear one another and just laugh. I take whatever he hands me and the woman at the counter says, “No charge,” when I try to pay. Later I see there’s a hotel nearby and taking my walking sticks gingerly cross the road. “We’ve been swamped all night and there’s nothing to eat,” says the woman at the counter. “Come back at 3:00 o’clock we should know by then if there’s a room.” Sure enough, there was, and a good hot bath, too. And a second one as well.
In the morning, the sun was shining, it was 3 degrees and all around Snowball was a sheet of impenetrable ice. In front of the hotel was a car so covered in brown dirty frozen slush that it looked like a giant Labradoodle dog. “I’ll just drive and hope it melts,” said the owner.
By some miracle it wasn’t long before cars and trucks were moving on the freeway and I tried to drive as well. Not a good plan; after a couple of exits I found a campground and lurched into a snowbank for the night.
But along a side-road, across a rippling stretch of Colorado River was a field of pure untrammeled snow, and there on a small rise stood a tall white horse, its breath blowing steam in great puffs like an old train engine. The winding river was as blue as the sky and at its banks the yellow cottonwoods, their trunks gnarled black, shivered in their sparkle of snow, glistening in the afternoon light. The sugary mountains beyond were striped brown and white baked and decorated by the great Creator for just this moment in time. All is well. All will be well.
With thanks to Bill Craig who once lived near Parachute, Colorado and thankfully prays for safe travels.
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