Day 1: Getting the heck out of Dodge
We took the 20.
Which was a good thing because the Cascades are gorgeous! Steep, green, and winding, with in-your-face mountain walls and gasp-inducing drop offs. Wowzer! Alas, it was a slow trek, what with the street-line painters hogging the road, but as we are wont to do, we made up for it on the long desert flats.
After a quick tour of the Nez Perce’s arid and barren Colville Indian Reservation (that’s David standing next to a Chief Joseph monument), we arrived in the impossibly-green town of Grand Coulee at five p.m. Gotta admit It was very difficult for me to truly enjoy the technical feat of building the dam when all around me I noticed and read about the devastation inflicted upon the Indians.
Yes, the dam and its web of sister dams create enormous amounts of hydroelectric power for Washington and Oregon. Personally this means our home, which is a third larger than the one in Newport Beach, has an electric bill that is half our California bill. We love that.
But we do not love knowing that when the dam gates initially opened, it utterly destroyed numerous Indian tribes’ fishing grounds and ways of life. Either/or thinking, in my eyes, shows a lack of imagination. It all still haunts me.
And, yes, we made it to Spokane for dinner, with plenty of energy and anticipation for tomorrow’s destination: West Yellowstone.
Day 2: Warmer, warmer, but not hot.
Had to smile at Spokane’s inventive neighborhood names I read on highway signs: Morning District. Compressor District. Or was that in Coeur d’Alene?
We had a too-big-to-eat breakfast in pretty, pretty Coeur d’Alene; four-egg omelets are de rigor. (I hope the people of Cd’A realize not everyone has it as beautiful as they.)
While crossing the Continental Divide somewhere in Montana, it started raining plops the size of heron scat. The heavens provide!
We got to Missoula in time for a lovely little lunch over a creek, where, upon making a few phone calls, we realized West Yellowstone was fully booked. Eek! Thank the lord for broadband. After much handheld Internet research and disappointing phone conversations with motel desks, we found lodging in Big Sky on the beautiful Gallatin River, site of one of many U.S. Cavalry attacks on the fleeing Nez Perce Indians. Big Sky’s a good hour north of West Yellowstone, but it was close enough for us.
And what a great place Big Sky was. Surging mountains, grassy meadows, and alluring fly-fishing ponds and streams. It’s better than its calendar pix. I can only imagine how it looks in its winter white. Made me feel small and big at the same time. A guy came in and announced there was a dead bear cub down by the stream, and, hint, hint, you fishermen, momma bear ain’t gonna be too happy if she sees you down there.
The next morning we were glad we’d left the ice scraper in the car because we needed it to clear our window enough to get out of the parking lot without incident.
Day 3: Who’s in the zoo?
We entered Yellowstone’s West Gate at 8 a.m., in time for Old Faithful’s next eruption, which wasn’t as excellent an experience as many of you have had, for it was cold and foggy, despite the sunny picture. So when the geyser erupted, we saw the billowing clouds that instantly formed in the morning’s weather. (For great Yellowstone videos check out this link.)
We took in the Old Faithful Lodge, which carries a sentimental meaning for David since his mother Blanch and Aunt Beulah worked in the gift shop as college girls. Frankly, the lodge is irresistible. The wood looks like barely a thing was done to it before it was hammered together. And the insides itself must have inspired Escher, at least for a moment. Or vice versa. 
This buffalo was one of many streetwalking buffalo that day, so it was almost ho-hum when later we ran into a herd of free-range cattle clogging the two-lane artery traversing Wyoming’s Big Horn Mountains.
But Cody has fabulous public art (think Buffalo Bill Cody), if you’re into the whole cow-person fantasy thing as I am. The top picture reminded me of Charlemagne in front of Notre Dame in Paris, which I LOVE and took thirty pictures of. Anyway, dinner was a hit. We ate at Wyoming Rib and Chop House, where the baked potatoes (duly imported from Idaho) were the size of footballs and the steaks were sink-your-teeth-in fine. We got there around 5:30, and the place was packed. They stuck us in a back corner I think because we were wearing our usual sandals instead of their usual boots. We didn’t care. It gave us a great people-watching view!
Day 4: Ups and downs
Our plan for the day: scoot across Wyoming, drop down into South Dakota to see Mt. Rushmore and the Badlands, and then get as far east as possible.
But Wyoming does have the ultra-scenic Big Horn Mountains, and crossing them was like stepping back in time. Free-range cattle. Cowpokes and their hard-working dogs rustling up longhorns for a move to lower pastures. Practically no traffic. Few commercial interests (snowmobiling).
Entering South Dakota at the vibrant little college town of Spearfish jolted our senses after miles and miles of Wyoming. From Spearfish, we drove south through Deadwood,
a town currently making the most of its fifteen minutes of fame (casinos everywhere!). A half hour further south we arrived at Mt. Rushmore, which is hidden from the road, forcing us to pay a ten-dollar parking fee in order to see it at elevation, a small price for such a pleasurable experience.
Mt. Rushmore far surpassed my expectations. The impression I’ve held most of my life is that the heads were carved out of an ordinary, cone-shaped mountain top. But, no, that’s not how it is. The mountain itself is a combination of perfect-for-sculpting rocky outcroppings and stilled molten flows, which amplify the site’s energy. The craftsmanship, composition, and evoked meaning, of course, are powerful, rendering the site the national treasure that it is. I feel fortunate to have seen it for all that it added to my experience.
From Mt. Rushmore, we descended the Black Hills and headed for the Badlands. Like most desert landmarks are for me, it was at once fantastic and depressing. I wanted to leave in the worst way, but I also wanted to stay, for it was a site Davy had seen forty-five years ago on a solo trip across the country and wanted to share it with somebody. But the desert’s bleakness caused my spirit to shudder, and I couldn’t help fretting about where we’d spend the night.
We ended up in the sweet, tiny town of Kadoka, South Dakota, which is very much like you’d imagine it to be. A wind-blown, white-clapboard motel. A family-owned diner (Club 27) unprepared for the onslaught of travelers who for whatever reason just happened to be out this week. The feeling that time doesn’t pass and that things really don’t change.
Our first real lead-foot day. We drove from Kadoka to Sioux Falls, where we were shocked to re-enter civilization. Or rather, what the International Council of Shopping Centers has transformed into our idea of civilization. Chili’s. Barnes and Noble. Target. Abercrombie and Fitch. Payless Shoes. Everytown, USA.
From here, we dropped down to the 80, with a short stop in Sioux City, where I got out of the car in the old part of town and stood on the street to imagine what it would be like if this city had been a natural part of my life. For Sioux City is where my birth father William Roscoe Jepson was born, and where his family established itself. For all the wonders of adoption, there is always this weirdness about being legally disconnected from one’s gene code. It was a poignant moment for me, and I’m sure I’m not finished with it yet.
Our next stop was in Des Moines, Iowa, where we made a Costco stop to get David’s glasses fixed, and where I got some Blistex for my blooming cold sore.
Back out on the highway, I got the surprise of my life. Des Moines drivers are faster and more erratic than L.A. drivers. Cripes, I thought we were going to die. An SUV decked with a “Pray for Peace” sticker cut us off twice. Twice! A truck going 80 in a 65 zone attempted to merge into our lane, thinking we might move over for him, even though there was no other lane for us to take.
(Did you know, based on our driving across the whole country, that Americans generally drive 75 mph regardless of the speed limit?)
We spent the night in Grinnell, Iowa, where we had the pleasure of having the high school football team a floor above us pull an all-nighter, which oddly didn’t bother us. We also had a fine little dinner at the Grinnell Steakhouse, which had a great concept (you pick your own labeled cut and grill it yourself), but only executed the concept by 75% (they forgot to decorate the place).
On our way back to the motel, we heard a scraping, gnarling sound coming from Amana’s right front. Being optimists, we thought it was nothing. Amana had a stone in her paw. It’ll work its way out.
But . . . .
Day 6: Stuck in a corn field amid piles of knowledge
The noise was not a passing thing.
We clanged our way up to the tire store (fortunately Grinnell was not as small as it looked), got Amana lifted up, and listened to the mechanic inform us we needed a new wheel bearing, which they couldn’t do because they didn’t have a hydraulic press to install the bearing, but Arnold’s had one. But today, being Saturday, Arnolds Motor Supply didn’t have the man power to work on the car, but after a long search, they sold us a bearing and told us to try Morrison’s on the other side of the highway.
Turned out Morrison’s was not only on the other side of the highway, it was in a corn field, of which there are a lot in Iowa.
We sat in Ron Morrison’s Auto Repair for almost five hours, reading 2007 issues of Car and Driver and American Farmer (which is a fascinating magazine highlighting do-it-yourself solutions to common and rare agriculture problems like refitting your chain saw to work off a Mercury V-8 engine).
Why’d it take so long? First, he said we had the wrong wheel bearing. Second, they had a hell of a time getting the broken one out, and Mr. Morrison wouldn’t say a single word to us until he figured out how he was going to solve our little problem. Grace had stepped into our lives, though. Mr. Morrison was a man of experience, which he drew on this Saturday morning.
To get the bearing out he remembered back to a time when he was a young mechanic working on a back hoe that needed a frozen axle bearing removed. His boss told him to weld some beads on the inside of the bearing race. When the welds cooled after expanding in the welding process, they’d shrink enough to draw the bearing race loose from the seat.
So that’s what Mr. Morrison did to get our old bearing out.
By one o’clock, we were on our way, only to have to turn right around and return to Morrison’s because the heat shield was hitting the brake rotors, causing a horrible noise. He fixed it, or so it seemed, and we headed east once again.
By two o’clock we were on our way and magically made it to what seemed to us a freeway-town in Hammond, Indiana, (SE of Chi.) in time to have both the worst meal and sleep of the trip. I know YOU’LL never need to store this tidbit for future use, but I’m going to warn you anyway. Do not eat at Best Western’s Orion Restaurant! I had a chef’s salad that had slivers from a slice of American cheese and some bacon crumbles. That’s it. David had tacos filled with something truly unrecognizable. We went back to our room and slept upon a noisy, coily bed.
Day 7: On a tear
Here’s what I remember about Sunday, Sept. 20th. We drove over 700 miles from Gary, Indiana; through Illinois and Ohio; and eastward to Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, a stone’s throw from the New Jersey border, because we needed to be in NYC by Monday morning to see Lisa and Kim, because they were on a time schedule too. In Indiana, Ohio, and Illinois, we passed silos, farm houses, corn and sorghum fields, and grasslands. Pennsylvania’s 80 offered the most beautiful drive of all. As far as our eyes could see were ancient hills painted orange, yellow, green, red, and purple by the trees’ changing leaves.
All along the way, and really all the way from Washington to NYC, there was lots of highway work going on, due to the American Reinvestment and Recovery Act providing much needed repairs to rough roads. What’s the fuss about Recovery money not being spent?
Stroudsburg was fun. Our motel had an indoor pool, of which we did not partake. Dinner was at Grace O’Malley’s sports bar. Americana!
Day 8: Honk, honk, beep, beep
Indeed, travel then picked up, and in no time we were in the Prospect Park area of Brooklyn for a visit with Lisa. Her boy cat Hunter was happy to see us, but Olympia and Agogoboots hid in the closet. It was a good visit. We walked the park (pic is of Arch of the Grand Army of the Republic), but really didn’t do a lot because then we couldn’t talk. Kim joined us for dinner after work, at Santa Fe Grill. The next morning we’d be up and on our way to Reading, PA and Virginia, for Mici (UCSC ’98) was due to arrive in NYC in a couple of hours.
Too bad Amana broke, or we’d have had a longer visit. Alas, I’ll take a flight east in the next couple of months.
Day 9: Almost there.
OMG, another day with a bajillion miles to go! But we did it and it was totally worth the effort.
After Reading, we took the 83 South toward Baltimore. It was our chance to see Francis Meginnis, David’s 89-year-old high school English teacher. Alas, she didn’t want us to come. Her eyes. Her legs. The overwhelming emotion of a visit. We were still tempted. But highway signs lit up, telling us that the off-ramps to Towson were closed due to an accident, so we’d never make the visit anyway. With sad hearts, we skirted Baltimore and headed to Virginia, making our usual dinner stop at Capt. Billy’s Crab House on the Patomac’s northern shore.
Day 10: There.
But before we left Washington, David and Dan decided to sell the home, which meant a century of goods had to be cleared out and a garage sale held. It took three days of non-stop work to clear things out, another day for the garage sale, and another couple of days to get rid of the rest of the stuff.
No one bought the deer head, which shocked me. I thought it’d be the first to go. But then its nose and jaws fell off and I knew its value evaporated. The Boy Scouts got Dan’s canoe. An early bird purchased the ten-foot church pew. A contingent from the Chickahominy Indian tribe acquired the plaster turtle; I gave it to them because it was their tribal symbol---how could I not? A guy driving a patent-leather black ’71 Bonneville paid through the nose for David’s personally painted keg of marbles. I could feel Blanche smiling from above when a shopper would pick up something of hers and say, “Isn’t this pretty. Look how lovely this is!” And all I had to do was say “David’s back in the shed,” and a shopper would head past the huge magnolia hiding Ed’s shed from view. “You have a shed!” they’d sing in delight. One person didn’t though. He said, “Oh, no, I already have a shed.” He must attend Shed Owners Anonymous, if they have such a thing.
We had a WONDERFUL bonding weekend with our counsins!
Day 14: Feeling there.
It’s taken two days to write all this and prep the pics. I’m really ready for a rest! Oh, and the noise from Amana’s front? It was the heat shield rubbing againt the brake rotor, but not because it was bending, but because the wheel-bearing nut had come loose and the wheel was wobbling. Eek!
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