April 16, Lakeview, Ore. – Eleven hours on the road today. Dean Moriarty doesn’t have anything on me, except that maybe he and Sal Paradise took turns during their crazy drives from Denver to the West Coast. Hell, if I had a compatriot to drive with, I could go straight from Kentucky to the West Coast in one single shot. Maybe. Doubtful. Yesterday, I pulled a nine and a half hour shift in Alberta, my little red-headed beauty of a Subaru, driving from Boulder, Colo., to Springville, Utah.
Thus far: 45 hours on the road. $390.15 spent on gas. 2,750 miles.
In Boulder, the temperature was seventy-plus, the first of three very distinct weather conditions for the day. Into the Rockies, the wind came on strong, blowing Alberta all over the road. So strong at one point I puttered up a mountain at forty miles per hour. Going down the other side, Alberta picked back up to seventy. A true response to the old joke what kind of car do you drive. A Rolls Can 'Ardly. Rolls down one hill, can hardly get up the next. No, no, not Alberta. She’s a tough and pretty old pack mule, taking her time across this land, speed be damned.
Once in Utah, the wind blew more fiercely, which even more than Colorado’s Rockies, disrupts the full-speed throttle of Alberta. I had thought to stop to camp in Utah, somewhere near Moab, but I estimate the wind would pick me and my tent up and blow me up onto one of the majestic buttes that jag up from southern Utah’s desert. Alberta, too. I stop once past the Moab exit at a scenic viewing area. Sure, it’s scenic – through the sandstorm. I peel an orange. The peel blows away. Bits of sand stick to the orange. Can’t even eat a goddam orange. Climbed back in the car with clenched-jaw determination to drive through the night. Get the hell out of this desert hurricane.
Stop at a sandy service station in Green River, Utah, where the fair-haired handicapped attendant peers from behind the counter, sitting in a wheelchair. He warns a couple on their way to Las Vegas, “The highway signs aren’t lying: there are no service stations along this highway for another 110 miles.” I hand him my debit card. He stutters my name. “Twee-dell.” The way my grandfather used to pronounce it. I correct him to the way my father says it. “Twuh-dell."
“Is that Welsh?” he asks.
“Scotch-Irish.”
“Interesting.” Then he tells me the best route to Salt Lake City and I’m back in Alberta, heading north up 191 toward the Great Salt Lake, some five hours away. Halfway, snow falls onto the mountains I have driven into. They are high and majestic, maybe not so much as the Rockies, but awe-inspiring nonetheless. At the end of the day – I couldn’t make it through the night – I stop at a Cracker Barrel south of Provo, where for a few minutes, I don’t think clearly, my head still moving at sixty-five miles per hour through a windstorm, now displaced in the generic slow pace of America’s down-home front porch restaurant. Head clears. Thinking right now: Give me some greens and vinegar. Fried apples. Pot roast. Decaf. Later, a server asked me where I’m from. Kentucky. He replied he’s been to Kentucky – Louisville – and it’s so pretty there. I agreed. Then he said, “Unlike Utah. It’s so drab.” I disagreed. Look out the window, fool, at the snow-covered peaks smacking you in the face. Can even the beautiful familiar lose its attraction to a daily eye? Maybe one cause for a fifty-percent divorce rate. I’ll be with Alberta till she dies.
Thus far: 45 hours on the road. $390.15 spent on gas. 2,750 miles.
In Boulder, the temperature was seventy-plus, the first of three very distinct weather conditions for the day. Into the Rockies, the wind came on strong, blowing Alberta all over the road. So strong at one point I puttered up a mountain at forty miles per hour. Going down the other side, Alberta picked back up to seventy. A true response to the old joke what kind of car do you drive. A Rolls Can 'Ardly. Rolls down one hill, can hardly get up the next. No, no, not Alberta. She’s a tough and pretty old pack mule, taking her time across this land, speed be damned.
Once in Utah, the wind blew more fiercely, which even more than Colorado’s Rockies, disrupts the full-speed throttle of Alberta. I had thought to stop to camp in Utah, somewhere near Moab, but I estimate the wind would pick me and my tent up and blow me up onto one of the majestic buttes that jag up from southern Utah’s desert. Alberta, too. I stop once past the Moab exit at a scenic viewing area. Sure, it’s scenic – through the sandstorm. I peel an orange. The peel blows away. Bits of sand stick to the orange. Can’t even eat a goddam orange. Climbed back in the car with clenched-jaw determination to drive through the night. Get the hell out of this desert hurricane.
Stop at a sandy service station in Green River, Utah, where the fair-haired handicapped attendant peers from behind the counter, sitting in a wheelchair. He warns a couple on their way to Las Vegas, “The highway signs aren’t lying: there are no service stations along this highway for another 110 miles.” I hand him my debit card. He stutters my name. “Twee-dell.” The way my grandfather used to pronounce it. I correct him to the way my father says it. “Twuh-dell."
“Is that Welsh?” he asks.
“Scotch-Irish.”
“Interesting.” Then he tells me the best route to Salt Lake City and I’m back in Alberta, heading north up 191 toward the Great Salt Lake, some five hours away. Halfway, snow falls onto the mountains I have driven into. They are high and majestic, maybe not so much as the Rockies, but awe-inspiring nonetheless. At the end of the day – I couldn’t make it through the night – I stop at a Cracker Barrel south of Provo, where for a few minutes, I don’t think clearly, my head still moving at sixty-five miles per hour through a windstorm, now displaced in the generic slow pace of America’s down-home front porch restaurant. Head clears. Thinking right now: Give me some greens and vinegar. Fried apples. Pot roast. Decaf. Later, a server asked me where I’m from. Kentucky. He replied he’s been to Kentucky – Louisville – and it’s so pretty there. I agreed. Then he said, “Unlike Utah. It’s so drab.” I disagreed. Look out the window, fool, at the snow-covered peaks smacking you in the face. Can even the beautiful familiar lose its attraction to a daily eye? Maybe one cause for a fifty-percent divorce rate. I’ll be with Alberta till she dies.
1 comments:
Stub's! Holy shit. That's right. I was wondering when you were going to post some entries about your trip. It sounds great, except for the gas. I'm not looking forward to that aspect when I hit the road in the fall.
Nice descriptions. Nice energy of prose. Look out the window, fool! I'm listening to your favorite band, Dire Straits as I read your prose.
I'm working on a letter, a tri-letter. Admittedly, it's not exactly flowing with waterfalls of words at the moment. But it will be. I've recently sent out two more stories, and I'm waiting for the next thing I have to work on to smack me in the face.
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