ROAD TRIP 2006: EASTBOUND

I made it home alive, hale and healthy, and on schedule. There are so many ways to organize all the data I’m collecting on this trip, but I think I’ll just make new posts to random whenever I can, update locations on Wayfarer, and post my photos to Flickr and let y’all figure it out. I am the Lazy Informaticist. If I already knew how to do this, I wouldn’t be studying it next Fall, now would I.

Day One: Oakland, CA to Wendover, UT

Left a beautiful sunny morning in the Bay, only to see signs alerting me to snow in Donner Pass. “Carry chains” indeed. The Black Lightning needs no chains! It scoffs, Sir, it scoffs! And what is this “snow” of which you speak, some mythical beast? Some petty bridge troll to be placated? Fie! Bought chains in the foothills and met the snow atop, which was decidedly unmythical, but neither did it accumulate upon the road, so the chains remained in their bag. Made for some nice scenery.

Descended into Reno, held breath, continued onward. Had a greasy burger in Lovelock, NV. The place apparently specialized in “broasted chicken,” which piqued my interest, but a sign claimed their “broaster” to be out of order. Alas. Waitress informed me it was “like KFC’s breaded chicken” but pressure cooked. Had difficulty visualizing this, so smiled and nodded. Still debating whether being addressed as “sweetie” by a 19-year-old waitress is endearing or offensive. Preferable to “sir,” I guess.

Nevada most desolate state evar. Between Reno, Lovelock, Winnemucca, Elko, and Wendover are vasty plains of nothingness, where nothingness = sagebrush + rock, punctuated by several signs reading “Prison Area: Do Not Stop. Hitchhiking Illegal.” Cold and beautiful, and a 75 MPH speed limit, but so empty.

If Reno is the poor man’s Vegas, then Winnemucca is the poor man’s Reno, and Wendover is the poor man’s Winnemucca. Every little dot with a name along I-80 in NV turned out to be little more than a handful of casinos and their supporting trailer homes. Preferred the empty desert. The KOA lady in Wendover said the town used to be a major train stop where they’d stop to chop wood, a practice they clearly did quite thoroughly judging by the complete absence of any standing trees. Had some greasy tacos from a taco stand, the only non-casino, non-chain, non-gas station eatery in town. Vastly more satisfying than the previous burger, despite grease.

Day Two: Wendover, UT to Kimball, NE

Today:

• 600 miles
• 10 hours
• 2 states

Left Wendover around 7 AM. KOA’s shower immaculate as the Holy Mary’s love life, and their water warm. Kudos. Can’t say the same for the breakfast options at the Wendover Pilot travel center: weak coffee, icky creamer, cloying muffins. Not that I didn’t wolf / slurp it all down, since warm and sweet were all I craved. As I sat on my trunk scarfing muffin, this guy strolls out of the store with arms full of foil-insulated foodstuffs. “Shit, man,” he said. “You made me hungry!” I smiled and chuckled awkwardly. I was glad to still be in casual cussing country, and where people just talk to you out of the blue, but since that land is not my native soil, I generally don’t know the appropriate response to such verbal throwaways. “Shit, it’s cold,” he added. “No shit,” I decided upon, attempting to lilt the “shit” in a friendly manner.

Across the salt flats (flat, white, and oddly wet), past the Great Salt Lake’s eponymous city (the lake low-lying and, in places, oddly dry), through some beautiful red rocks and cedar (cypress?), up through snowy Rockies. Utah proved quite beautiful. Wyoming was also a looker, mostly empty rolling hills, mesas, and sagebrush, some stunning rock formations. Stopped for lunch with beefy intent but little hunger, decided to compromise with a roast beef sandwich, purchased conceivably the very worst specimen of same in a gas station signed “Sandwich Shop.” The fact that I had to ask if they actually served sandwiches should have turned me away, and the fact that the clerk had to clarify the word with, “Oh, you mean hoagies?” should have sent me running. Plastic-wrapped, limp and abused self-serve condiments, and “beef” whose uncanny similarity to plywood was no doubt a defining characteristic of the substance through each and every step of its processing after it diverged from plant into cow. Alas. Doubly alas, because happy-looking heifers dotted the grassland all along the highway in the eastern half of the state, accompanied by numerous signs reminding me that I was in “Cattle Country.”

Stopped at a rest stop amid an endless plain of sagebrush and found ground squirrels. A bunch! With little holes! At first I thought they were prairie dogs, but I don’t think they were chubby enough, These were clearly rest stop variety squirrels because immediately after scampering to a safe distance upon my appearance, they eyed me warily and made small moves back. Abandoning my general aversion to the practice, I decided to indulge them with some trail mix, which they did not hesitate to devour from my hand, 3 or 4 at a time. I doubt very much that the chocolate chips helped them in any way (the exact opposite, most likely), but they ate up all the same. Yay.

Made it into Nebraska, and stopped here in Kimball, at another KOA. Equally spotless facilities, to the point that I feel guilty sullying them. About 80 degrees F when I arrived, with a breeze and huge open skies, quite blissful. Friendly staff concluded that my only non-fast food dining options on a Sunday night would be be Big Mamouns (or something) if it was open (it was not, and I was not sorry by the looks of it), and the Beef and Brunch back by the highway. A name more impossible to refuse I’ve yet to encounter, so Beef and Brunch it was! And lo, their nightly special was the elusive broasted chicken! But first one last stab at Cow Country beef: were the steaks local? Actually, confessed my wonderfully friendly waitress in sheepishly low tones, I just buy it at Sam’s Club. Very well, bring on the broast! I think my previous difficulty in reconciling battered chicken with a pressure cooker stemmed from my inability to believe that such a combination would ever yield anything even approaching fried chicken, and, as a testament to my perennial lack of faith, broasted chicken turned out to be exactly what one might expect, if one believed people actually did it: fried chicken without the crispy skin. Crispy skin intentionally left uncrisped. Unfathomable. Served with canned corn, whipped spuds and gravy. I was offered the option of salad or the soup of the day, cheesy broccoli. Detecting my half-second deliberation, my waitress added, “It’s really good, and,” the closer, “it’s homemade.” “Homemade” soup, I think, involved some broccoli left in warm Velveeta since lunchtime. I’m not saying that I don’t like eating straight up Velveeta. I appreciate the finer things, but can reach perfect satisfaction with any assortment of processed lipids and carbohydrates. I’m trying not to be an elitist bicoastal scumbag here. I enjoyed the meal, right up to the final cup of Jello pudding, but while I can indulge in the basic evils of cafeteria food, and in what I assume to be the genuine regionality of serving such food, I was just hoping for something a little more real. Full marks on ambiance and service, Beef and Brunch, matching or exceeding any I’ve had at even the finest restaurants, but all I wanted was one of those cows out the back door.

There was talk of tornadoes and thunder on the radio, and the wind is jostling my thin little tent in ways that will no doubt seem comical in retrospect. I am not in Kansas and I am already in a place strange enough that they serve me Velveeta at restaurants, but if all that remains of me tomorrow is a tornado scar and this laptop, please forward a pair of ruby Tevas to Oz post-haste.

Day Three: Kimball, NE to Oxford, IA

Broke fast at the Longhorn cafe, pretty much a diner, many pickups outside. Inside found friendly waitress and long table full of farmers. Grabbed small table to the side, ordered and consumed a shortstack, filled mug with weak coffee and split. At the gas station, struggled to get pump to work. Went inside to report broken pump, lady asked if I had lifted the handle. Confessed I had not. Lady paused, then replied, slowly “Ok, hon, first you put your card in, then you press the button for the type of gas you want, ok? Then you lift the handle, and then you can pump.” Mumbled incoherent thanks and sheepishly returned to car, feeling ever the spacey Californian moron. Successfully got gas to flow, set the catch, and let the tank fill while I cleaned my windshield. Windshield clean, I leaned against my car at watched the meter. On the other side of the pump is this guy in jeans, cowboy boots, and cowboy hat, with his dad in same but with a trucker hat. Neither outfit seemed affected. Watched meter. 7 gallons. 8 gallons. 9 gallons. Didn’t I only have about 3/4 of a tank to fill? 10 gallons. Glance over at the back of the car, gas overflowing all over the side, all over the ground. Cowboy and I both dart for the nozzle, I get there first, struggle with it ineptly, spilling gas everywhere, finally shut it off. “Shit,” I say cheerily. “You guys think I should go in and let them know I spilled gas everywhere?” I ask Cowboy and Cowboy Dad. Cowboy Dad smiles, “Nah, I’d just take off.” As I leave, I imagine:

Cowboy Dad: California plates.
Cowboy: Yup.
Cowoby Dad: (takes long drag on cigarette, squinting) Mm-hm.

Mortification lasts approx. 100 miles.

Nebraska an endless expanse of open range, cows, with more farms and silos past North Platte. At Lincoln the heat and humidity skyrocketed to values I associate with “real” summer. Another greasy burger at Lori’s. Menu reads in large red letters, “Add gravy to any item, 79 ¢.” Swear off burgers for remainder of trip. Unimog in parking lot bedecked with German flags and a sign reading “Klaus.”

Push on past Des Moines to Oxford, dying main street, idyllic farms and bales of hay in the evening light. Camped in F. W. Kent State Park, where the friendly camp stewards gave me some free firewood. Midwestern reputation for friendly hospitality confirmed again. Hardwoods, heat, and humidity combine into some kind of bliss. Great horned owl hoots in the distance, gray tree frogs call from the pond below, genuine honest to god crickets chirping from the woods. Cooked rice and heated packaged curry from Trader Joe’s over the fire, update the family on my progress over food, ashamed to admit it was my best meal yet.

Day 4: Oxford, IA to Mercer, PA

Went quite a bit further than originally intended. Such is the power of caffeine. Left Oxford around 7 AM after insipid gas station coffee and one of my own bagels. Crossed the Mississippi into Illinois, put on Sufjan Stephens, drowsy after 6 songs, back to This American Life. TAL greatest road trip companion ever created. Long enough for meaningful content, short enough that you don’t get bored, always interesting, hilarious, touching, etc. Ira Glass now elevated to personal hero status, along with Terry Gross.

Had originally planned to seek out Chicago-style hot dogs in Joliet, IL, to the point of printing out a map of the town and a list of local hot dogeries. Eventually found Hey! Hot Dog, which served nice franks and fantastic homemade root beer, but sadly lacking the poppy seed bun, tomatoes, peppers, and pickle that define the Chicagoan dog. At least it lacked ketchup. Unsatisfied, I sought out Joe’s Hot Dogs, where I at least got the tomatoes. Left full, happy, but goal unmet. Next time.

Indiana and Ohio stretches largely unremarkable save massive construction, rain, and some fantastically big classic Midwestern thunderstorms. Awesome lightening. Becoming an expert on highway rest stops, and have decided they may say something about a state. Nevada doesn’t have rest stops, they have casinos. Utah considers rest sloth, and therefore ungodly. Wyoming and Nebraska had nice, solar powered and self-sustaining rest stops, implying, I think, that their states are too damn big to waste time maintaining their rest stops, so the stops must maintain themselves. Ohio’s rest stops are totally commercial affairs with a gas station, several fast food chains, info stations, etc. Here my theory breaks down, because the rest of the what I could see from the highway in that state implied that everyone in Ohio is a farmer. I did get my very first halfway decent 16 oz of coffee at one of these stops, which fueled my marathon push past Youngstown and into Pennsylvania.

KOA in Mercer, PA much like other KOAs, engendering brand loyalty. Store had Wild Bill’s jerky. Possibly the same Dave always used to bring back to Williams? Not sure, but damn good. Deeply regretting not buying more than one stick.

Day 5: Mercer, PA to Clinton, CT

Decide that after yesterday’s reminder of what real coffee tastes like, would not settle for anything less. Subsequently spent an hour exploring tiny (but beautiful) Pennsylvanian town searching for it as withdrawal symptoms gradually set in. Finally located it, then wasted more time searching for small, clear creeks in the Allegheny River drainage for hellbenders, without success.

Western PA seems as wild and beautiful as the plains of Wyoming, but you can only appreciate that when you get a rare view above the treetops. This wilderness also feels more like home. Finally left I-80 at Stroudsburg, had a pleasant drive up 209 along the Delaware River, stopping for a pastrami sandwich, and met up with I-84. Reached CT in no time, and toddled down 34, remembering the nice views of Lake Zoar and the Housatonic, and the cool bricky character of Derby from last Christmas. Met some of the only traffic of the entire trip in I-95 in New Haven, but it was brief and I was back home in no time, 5 days and 3111 miles since departing Oakland.