Drive, Part Two
Flagstaff, Arizona to Anacortes, Washington. August 2020.
Make sure you read Part One first!
When we landed at Grandma and Grandpa’s house in Flagstaff, we’d been traveling almost nonstop for four days, driving just under 2,000 miles. To say that the effort had caught up to me is an understatement. We extended our stay from two nights to three, because we couldn’t imagine being well enough to pull out of the driveway just a day and a half later.
We celebrated an early birthday for me with takeout from one of my favorite Thai restaurants. I had to check in with my supervisor at the University of Georgia (I was still on the clock, geez) and we restocked for the next leg. Plans to see friends during this time were scrapped, as I felt like I had fast-forwarded the aging process and wasn’t mentally up to anything more than basic conversation. Even still, we enjoyed walking the dog, splashing in the kiddie pool, and most of all, sleeping.
Thus, the first part (and Grandma-supported leg) of the journey had come to an end. On the morning of the eighth day, we waved goodbye and got on our way.
Day Eight: Arizona, Nevada, Arizona (again), and Utah.
Of course, as it was mid-August, it was hot as blazes in the Southwest. We decided not to head due west to California and Death Valley, considering the possibility that the truck might overheat and we’d get stuck and somehow just spontaneously combust. Instead, we opted to travel north to Utah, a state I’d never visited before, and therefore avoid the hottest part of the country by going through another hot part of the country. Sure. There’s a little crevice in the ground called the Grand Canyon that we needed to avoid, so we would drive all the way to Nevada, skirt around Las Vegas, circle back into Arizona for a bit (because that’s what the road would make us do), and then spend the first night in St. George, Utah.
I was nervous about driving that huge truck over the Hoover Dam, not realizing that in 2010 (two years after we’d moved from Arizona), the bridge bypass (named after Pat Tillman and a former Governor of Nevada) was completed. Despite not having to drive the slow, curvy meander of the dam—daunting enough—the road climbs up and up and the bridge itself is reeeeally high. Glancing over the edge unfortunately activated my fears of tumbling over the side—not the first, second, or last time I had that image in my brain on this trip—and I had to turn off the AC because I was scared of overheating the truck and getting stuck. I was sweating buckets. I threw my phone in the cooler again so it wouldn’t burn up. The climb up the bridge was so slow, I was probably clocking 35 mph at the highest speed. How long was this bridge, anyway: twenty miles?!
Later that same day, we approached another jaw-dropping section, the Virgin River Gorge, which ended up placing second on my list of “scariest roads” on this journey. It’s fascinating, the ways that water has carved rock over millennia. The Virgin River cuts through 500 million-year-old sandstone, and the road twists and turns with it for 15 miles through the northwestern corner of Arizona. And we had no idea this was here!
You might think we would have researched the trip ahead of time—you would be slightly right. With packing, trying to work from home full time, managing a 3-year-old at home, packing, the pandemic, and PACKING, we were only able to accomplish the bare minimum of preparations. When Grandma arrived, she helped stake out hotels, pack, and perform child care duties, but the amount of time we’d be driving (and the size of the truck) meant that we would not get to check out any quirky side trips or visit any National Parks. Still, I was excited enough to be traveling roads I’d never been on before. This whole second half of the trip—Utah, Idaho, Oregon—would be completely new.
Some roads are scary because of weather conditions, poor lighting, disintegrating surfaces, or construction. Some roads are scary because of unpredictable curves and surroundings. Some roads are scary because of other drivers (I-40 through ABQ checked many of these boxes). The Virgin River corridor was scary because the canyon walls soared straight up next to the road, as though the road was here first and the walls just sprouted and never stopped growing. The canyon walls are so steep that apparently in winter time, there are sections that the sunlight never reaches. If any rocks tumbled down, they would all land right on top of the cars below. And yet, I was craning my neck, trying to see where the mountains topped, reveling in the clear blue sky, and thanking my lucky stars for this incredible beauty and the fact that instead of having to climb over this part, we could simply drive through it.
We arrived in St. George, Utah, around dinner time. The temperatures were cooling into the eighties at that time of day. Takeout dinner from a restaurant next door, where people were—gasp!—dining in. I had some kind of buttery, garlicky shrimp scampi and lo it was good.
Day Nine: Utah. That is all.
Scenery-wise, this was a mellow day. It was my actual birthday, and we would drive until just north of Salt Lake City. I was disappointed that the road didn’t yield more beauty through the spine of the state, yet relieved that it was the flattest day I’d driven yet, and that was a fine birthday gift.
While I had the difficult task of driving the truck and towing a car, my husband was driving our Subaru with a not-yet-four-year-old in the back seat. I don’t know how much experience you’ve had driving long distances with a young kid, but boy, it makes the trip interesting and often endlessly frustrating. Snacks, drinks, games, stickers, you need to be prepared for any kind of mood and any kind of condition. Grandma’s help was invaluable for the first half, but this time he was on his own. If I’m still reeling two years after driving that truck, he certainly must still be scarred by the challenges of this particular solo responsibility, one that was even more important than the responsibility I had.
After a mysteriously unfortunate experience in a disgusting bathroom back in Tennessee, our daughter refused to go inside any bathroom for the remainder of the entire trip. It was not easy. Now would have been a great time for her to be wearing pull-ups, but she was past that stage. We had to make alternate plans.
A friend had suggested a little portable potty, which was great to have in theory, but often the need was so urgent that we sometimes couldn’t get the potty out in time, much less attach the bags to catch anything below. I could regale you with all the places where we assisted her in relieving herself, including on someone’s lawn in Baker City, Oregon. We did what we had to do in the moment, and all solid waste was collected and disposed of. We are not wild animals.
That evening around dinnertime, we pulled into our hotel. I parked the truck in a corner of the parking lot—another challenge to overcome every evening, finding a place to park out of everyone’s way and not to the ire of the hotel staff—and offered to drive the car to pick up dinner from Olive Garden.
On the way back, windows down, I was reveling in the cool evening air, when my eyes started burning fiercely. They instantaneously began watering so badly and painfully that I had to pull over to the side of the road. I could not drive. I was freaked out. What the hell had happened?
All I can figure is that the car in front of me—the only vehicle around, as I was on a side road—may have sprayed pepper spray out a window and I drove right through it. While it wasn’t enough to make the burning sensation and streaks of tears last more than 5 minutes (I was really close to the hotel, thankfully), it certainly incapacitated me momentarily. And while I can’t offer any advice about avoiding pepper spray (who knew?), I can say that I hope I’m not on the receiving end of it again.
(Also, BOO for COVID shutting down hotel pools during our entire trip)!
Day Ten: Out of Utah and into…IDAHO!
Crossing the border into Idaho meant…the continuation of high desert. But it felt like we were getting higher and higher. Living in Arizona, I got used to—and eventually formed a deep appreciation for—a landscape where the water is so scarce that its presence is a rare gift. These high, crispy rolling hills looked like they were touching the dome of the hazy sky.
Driving through a changing landscape all in one go gives a sense of what it might have been like for other migrants over the course of history (although our trip would have seemed remarkably “sped up” by their standards). Indeed, the Oregon Trail passed this way. We sentimentalized the journey through a game which is, in itself, a piece of nostalgia for those of us who played it on computers at school in the early ‘90s. (Dysentery? Well, you at least have four other children and your wife!–oops, cholera took her and two more kids. You didn’t make it after all, sorry!) The ease of traveling in current times makes it hard to fully visualize just how recent it was that these people undertook such a life-changing journey. While the road is now paved and gasoline rockets us as far as we want to fly, the tendons of the land still connect everyone who passed this way–whether journeying on horseback to a new home, and especially those for whom this land was already home.
Sailing by to the north was the capital, Boise. A city that has hovered in my mind for 23 years, after, as a high schooler, meeting and befriending a group of Idaho high schoolers. We were all actors in The Fringe Festival in Edinburgh, Scotland, and it was a profound experience, with much more to say. All the kids from my school left with little potato-shaped pins with “BOISE” in yellow, and I wore mine on my canvas purse for the whole next year, longer than we were ever together.
Now, almost a quarter century later–in fact, 23 years to the freaking day–I stared wistfully at the skyline from the cab of the U-Haul, my first time finally in Idaho, feeling a little heartsick over having to pass Boise by. I’ll be here again, I promise.
We stayed at a hotel in Nampa, a suburb west of Boise, and got pizza from a chain called Idaho Pizza Company. Given the low expectations (and even lower realities) of dinners on the road, this pizza was surprisingly delicious. Clean soft sheets, restful sleep, and we were on our way again early the next sunny morning. On to Oregon.
Day Eleven: Idaho to Oregon (with Washington in view from the road)!
Eastern Oregon in August is not the Oregon of dreams. Not that that’s a bad thing; driving a huge truck through the blazing sun for hours on end and days on end was getting tiresome, and sometimes I like to take a break from, oh, sweating through my clothes.
We were planning to drive through eastern Oregon on Interstate 84, where it meets up with the Columbia River and travels due West all the way to Portland. Before we could get to the river, though, we had to cross through one final terrifying stretch of road. This is the Number One, most jaw-dropping, heart-pumping/pounding/stopping section of road during this 3000+ mile journey, and guess what the name of it is?
Dead Man’s Pass.
At the time, I didn’t know it had a name, much less this auspicious moniker. (I also found out that the worst section is commonly called “Cabbage Hill” and has this informational graphic for drivers, with all sorts of warnings: Cabbage Hill is one of the most hazardous stretches of road along westbound Interstate 84! You’ll lose 2,000 feet of elevation in six miles and twist through a double hairpin turn at a 6-percent downgrade! While you’re at it, throw in a double Hamill camel spin and triple salchow, too!)
What made this one different wasn’t just the treacherousness of the curves and lack of guardrails (though there was certainly that); it was also that I could see everything I was in for. Unlike some of the other fast winding roads where the twists and turns are hidden from view, this one was wide open—no trees, just a huge mountain I was on top of and needed to get off. In the far distance, I could see where the road flattened out; I just didn’t want to fall off the road to get there, so I concentrated on making it to the bottom without having to tell myself cryptically, It will all be over soon.
That night we stopped at a hotel in The Dalles (dalles basically means “rapids in a gorge”), and it was the first and only time on the trip that we stayed in a “cool little town” vs. a hotel close to the highway. This one was close to the highway, actually, but with the road on the banks of the Columbia River, it wasn’t your typical interstate stop. Also, it was the second night with yummy food: burritos for David and me, pasta for our daughter, and some garlic knots that I remember quite fondly.
Early the next morning, on my search for coffee (the one and only time we tried Dutch Brothers), I drove through the quiet of the morning and snapped some pictures of the Western quirkiness (you can see them here). I still don’t know a whole lot about The Dalles, but there will likely never be a time in my life when I won’t fantasize about living in a cool little town like that.
Day Twelve: Washington!
At last! Today would be our final day on the road. That night, we would sleep in comfort on an air mattress on the floor of the house where we’d be living for the next almost-year; the second time on this trip that we’d be staying in my brother’s family’s empty house, a house that had to be purchased sight unseen, where they hadn’t even lived yet (this unique arrangement—all of it—helped us make the decision to move, so we’re grateful that we got to do it)!
We were still hugging the riverbanks—I could not believe how huge the Columbia River was—and of course, the road made me a bit nervous. But it was the second day of this, and I could relax a little and ponder the geology of this totally new (to me) landscape. Water and time can do amazing things! I enjoyed the drive past a quiet Mt. Hood (my first view of one of many active—yes, active—volcanoes that are all over the place up here) and going by Portland and through downtown Seattle on I-5 were both breezes compared to what I’d experienced earlier in the trip (especially yesterday). North of Seattle, we had less than two hours to go.
We pulled off of I-5 onto US Hwy 20 which would take us west to Fidalgo Island and Anacortes. We drove in the direction of the Pacific Ocean and the sun, which wasn’t setting yet and it was nearly 8:00. As we cruised through the sleepy town at almost-dusk, I felt exhausted but energized, undaunted and ready for our next chapter. From the house, we could see the ocean, and what looked like mountains to the north, south, and west, that, as it turned out, weren’t simply mountains, but mountainous islands.
The journey was over; the journey had just begun.
This move would not have been possible without the assistance and generosity of many people, including friends, family, strangers along the way, even our employers. The generosity of my brother and his family, plus Grandma’s selflessness in accompanying us for the first half of the trip, were huge, and we were (and still are) so grateful to them.
I’m especially appreciative of David for taking on his own version of the trip, which had its fair share of challenges—like single parenting inside that car for dozens of hours and days—and intimidating moments, since he drove the same roads I did! We couldn’t have done it as smoothly had we not worked as a team. He’d use the Subaru to make space for me every time I needed to pass or merge, and he was the one who asked that guy in Arkansas to help me get the truck unstuck. For all the moments I felt like I had to handle the driving alone, I was certainly not alone, and for that I am grateful.
One final note: Even after the stress of it all, I felt like I’d accomplished something huge. Driving that thing helped me identify with some of the challenges (and sure, rewards) that go along with steering a tractor trailer for a living. I am not joking when I say that I thought, for a moment, that maybe that kind of life would be gratifying, and I would need a new job soon, so…And yeah, it will probably never happen, but I understand the pull of the freedom and challenge of it, especially for women.
The takeaway is this: I can do scary things and you can do scary things, so don’t let anything intimidate you.
Reflection questions:
Hypothetical question: if someone offered you a million dollars to quit your job for a year and work as a tractor-trailer operator, would you do it?
What are the scariest roads you’ve ever driven on and why?
How has a long road trip changed your sense of self? (No matter how short or how long, the road changes us. Leave a comment)!
There are hundreds of recognized and unrecognized tribes and nations between Athens, Georgia and Anacortes, Washington. To learn their names and more about them, please see https://native-land.ca/.
Wow - that's quite a drive! Glad you made it through Idaho, my old stomping ground. I suspect you just swung south of Sun Valley on your way to Boise. I lived in Picabo and loved it. So glad you enjoyed the landscape! I had no appreciation for Lewis & Clark or the Oregon Trail until living in Idaho surrounded by sagebrush as tall as 6 feet!!