Idaho, 2015, Day Seven

 We discovered we have an extra day to kill before our family reunion in Idaho so we discussed options and Beartooth Pass sounded like a great adventure.  Writing down instructions from the breakfast lady at the hotel we headed for Cody, Wyoming and the mountains bordering the horizon.

I will never forget the last time I was in Cody back in the early 90s.  It was Paul and I and our two kids in a conversion van lugging around a Hi-Lo camper that was too heavy a load.  Just past Cody we chugged up a mountain with eye-popping scenery, sheer drop-offs, and inclines that gave our poor van a workout.  It was just under twenty miles to the top but we made it.  At the peak of the mountain a road crew was stopping traffic and we waited our turn to pass along with the other tourists going our way.  When the flagger waved us on we slowly moved forward and Paul, with an edge of panic in his voice informed me that, “This van has no power.”

“What do you mean?” I knew it wasn’t a mechanized marvel of excess horsepower but it had just made it to the top of a pretty impressive mountain, so why the panic now?

“I mean, nothing is happening when I push on the gas!”   Now I heard panic AND irritation.

“What are you talking about?  We’re moving forward.”  I sounded clueless because, well, I was.

“We are coasting.  Nothing is happening when I push on the gas, I’m telling you!!”

What followed was a long, tense ride down that mountain.  Was it the transmission?  The motor?  Some other malfunction neither of us had a name for???  I’m married to a man who can build anything but he has never pretended to be a mechanic.  He can change the oil if he has to, or replace a flat tire but that’s about it.  Oh, he can also keep a radiator filled and I know this because we kept a gallon of water handy that whole trip for our poor old tired and thirsty van.

Paul coasted us as far as possible but when the pavement leveled out at the bottom our poor exhausted van came to a total stop beside the road.  There was no sign of habitation in any direction.  All other traffic had long since passed us and was gone. 

We sat there and looked at each other for a few seconds and then Paul got out and unloaded one of our bikes from the camper and said he was going to go see if he could find help. Believe it or not, we were alive in the days before cell phones. I watched him pedal off down the deserted road and prayed God would have mercy on us poor idiots.

The kids and I got out and Erik climbed the nearest tree while Jaimee’ entertained herself doing what ten-year-old girls do when they’re outside passing time.  She pestered her brother and generally enjoyed the whole adventure with no thought for how complicated this might turn out to be.  I decided for better or worse this is all part of our family history so I dug out the video camera (back then they weighed about ten pounds and were the size of a small microwave) and I tried to ignore the knot in my stomach while I filmed the kids and their shenanigans.

It was less than a half-hour later when an old pickup truck came putzing back up the road from the way Paul had disappeared.  It was a mechanic from a town just around the bend and over the hill.  He had Paul’s bike in the bed of his truck and Paul riding in the front with him.  I wanted to fall at his feet and bless him and all his future off-spring but instead I just said hi and stayed out of their way as they hunched over the open hood of the van.

Paul told me a little later, when we were driving down the road again, what had happened.  “I found this little town, mostly deserted, and saw this guy working outside his shop.  He had a motor on a bench and was fixing it.  He was the only person around.  I rode up and told him what had happened.  He said he thinks the transmission got too hot and the 0-rings let all the transmission fluid out and all it needs is more fluid.”

I tried to pretend that all made sense to me while Paul finished his story.  “I really thought we’d be rebuilding a transmission.”  He shook his head in amazement.  “Then when we got back to the van, I looked underneath and you could see the fluid all over the bottom of the van.  That guy was right.  All we had to do was fill it back up and it was fine.”

“It’s a miracle.”  I said, and I believed it.  “It’s a weekend.  I didn’t think you’d find anyone around out here to help even if you could find a town. And if that thing had conked out before reaching the top of that mountain. . .”  I didn’t need to finish that thought.  It was unpleasant to imagine the possible outcomes of that scenario.  We laugh about it now, even while we acknowledge it could have been much worse. God really does look out for fools and children.

That had all been more than twenty years ago.  So when we had the chance to go through Cody again, I was enthused to experience a ride over those mountains without the anxiety of a breakdown ruining the fun.  And what a beautiful day it was!

I can’t even try to describe the scenery.  Our cameras couldn’t capture it either.  But we made some great memories again.  Fortunately with no mechanical problems this time.  We stopped at one of the overlooks and Wade pulled out a turquoise suitcase that opened up into a perfect picnic table with four bench seats.  We spread that little table with sandwiches, cheeses, grapes, chips and cookies we had purchased in the last town we’d passed through.  With wine we’d chilled in our little ice chest, and incredible vistas spread out before us it was a meal fit for kings and queens.

Countless switchbacks later, passing snowy hillsides at altitudes over 11,000 feet, rounding lakes tucked into hidden valleys and discovering snowmelt waterfalls bounding down the mountainsides, we were awestruck over and over.  And the lack of guardrails kept us breathless at times. Or maybe it was the lack of oxygen.  At our age we need all we can get of both guardrails and O2.  When we came down the mountain we watched a storm to our left, black and threatening with vivid flashes of lightening looking like tears in a solid curtain.  It stayed out of our path but I was glad we were no longer up top.

This was our best day yet.

Idaho, 2015, Days Five and Six

Day Five we spent lollygagging in Denver while Wade and Barbara were visiting with family who were in town. 

Paul and I went to see Jurassic World and were less than amazed. Spoiler Alert:  Take the first Jurassic movie, change the actors, shift a few relationships around, make the park bigger, and you’ve basically got this movie, minus some of the humor in the first one.  Like the guy in the outhouse when the T-Rex is on the rampage.  That was funny in a sick, twisted sort of way. 

In the evening we walked a few blocks down the street for a root beer float and some ice-cream and that was about it for the day.  I feel like I’m finally relaxed enough to start my vacation.

Day Six started with a walk to Einstein’s for bagels.  Back on the road, the scenery is becoming more and more spectacular with snow-capped mountains barely visible on the horizon and a sky that looks so much bigger and so much bluer than at home.  A rare house here and there on an occasional hill in the distance are the only signs of life other than the traffic on the highway.  The speed limit is 80mph.  I finally feel like I’m west of the Mississippi.

Tonight we stopped in the only town of any size we have seen in hours.  Buffalo, Wyoming is a charming place with quaint shops along the historic main street, unfortunately all closed since it's a Sunday evening. We found a very nice hotel with the appropriate name of The Buffalo Inn, looking fairly new and decorated with, you guessed it, buffalo paintings and such.  The very pleasant clerk told us there’s nothing much to see around here except the old brothel in town and there’s nothing much open for supper on a Sunday evening except the Boseman Steakhouse.

We searched out the steakhouse and were soon getting to know our waitress who has lived around these parts her whole life and “loves it.”  Her name is Jordan, she told us, because, “My mom loved Michael Jordan and I was supposed to be a boy.”  Petit and blonde, she is neither a boy nor in any way reminiscent of His Royal Airness.

I’m not sure how it happened but she told us all about herself and it felt rather like a compliment, not like too much sharing.  Her mother family had ten thousand sheep and her father was from a long line of cattle farmers.  And yes, their union was not blessed by either side at first. It seems the dogs from her father’s side kept coming over and eating the sheep.  Well, killing them at least. Eventually, it all came right though and now they “all get along fine.” Then she he told us about recent tragedies, deep and painful things, in a matter-of-fact voice that made it even more heart-wrenching.  She had a ready smile and self-pity never surfaced.

 I’m not sure how our conversation progressed to such things but it wasn’t awkward like one might suppose.  And I hope we were encouraging somehow. I left feeling thankful for all the sorrow I have not had to face.  And praying she would not doubt God’s love for her.  We never know, do we, how chance encounters might change a person’s life.  If not hers, than ours.

Idaho, 2015, Day Four

Today we finished with Kansas, eventually crossing into Colorado.  Two more states to cross off my bucket list.  Outside the windows, golden wheat fields stretch to the horizon on both sides, ahead and behind as far as the eye can see.  A few scattered towns, and I mean scattered.  Mile after mile after mile of sameness.  Nothing to hide behind if one should want to hide.  Ceaseless winds make keeping the van in the proper lane on the long straight ribbon of highway challenging.

Kansas is part of the Great Plains, America’s bread basket, and one of the unfortunate victims making up the Dust Bowl.  It’s hard to imagine the devastation of the 1930's dust storms wreaking havoc upon the prairies, now lush green and gold. Those storms swept away the topsoil loosened by deep plowing, blowing it to places as far away as New York City and Washington DC. With sixty per cent of the population fleeing the “black blizzards” and migrating to cities to find employment, Texas, Oklahoma, New Mexico, Colorado and Kansas were changed for good.  With wiser farming methods and improved conservation techniques, prosperity gradually returned until the beauty we passed through today is the norm again.

A great deal of this nation’s history has happened here.  American Indians roamed these vast open spaces a mere century ago and it was easy, as we drove along, to let my imagination run with images of the Arapaho, Cheyenne, Comanche, Kansa, Kiowa, Osage, Pawnee, and Wichita peoples who were native to Kansas.  The state gets its name from the Kansa tribe and means “Wind People.” And no wonder.  The wind never stops, from what I can tell. As we drove hour after hour I thought that much of this land has not changed a great deal from their time, but only the people who inhabit it and I felt sad.  I can’t help but wonder how many personal tragedies took place over possession of this beautiful place and I feel small in the middle of its vastness.

“Can’t you just see a cowboy riding out there?” Barbara asked me.  I had been thinking the same thing.  And some buffalo, I thought.  Millions of them. But not anymore.  Just a whole lot of emptiness now.  Except for the wheat and the trains.  Very long trains snaking their way through the grassy plains bearing their cargo to wherever it is needed.

Gradually the plains gave way to gently rolling hills in Colorado. Dotted with giant wind turbines churning out their contribution to the electrical grid. The green pastures also held a few horse farms here and there, looking like toys in the huge panoramic landscape.  Coming from the steep hills and twists and turns of Holmes County, Ohio, this openness makes me feel like a bug, tiny, insignificant, and vulnerable to, well, to what I’m not sure.  I imagine the people who live here would find my neck of the woods claustrophobic.

We took a short detour through Colorado Springs so we could see the Garden of the Gods.  Mammoth red rocks unlike anything around them made me ask how they came to be there. Someone started off with “Well, a few hundred million years ago. . .”

What I wanted to hear was not a lesson in geology.  I want to know why these red rocks are jutting into the sky in such stark contrast to everything around them. I happen to agree with whoever in the van said they think God has a sense of humor.  Maybe he plopped them there just so he could hear all the crazy theories "brilliant" scientists would come up with centuries later.  Who knows?

We stopped for the weekend in Denver, the mile-high city.  And we introduced Wade and Barbara to the joys of Rook, the game all self-respecting Amish folk and their descendants know how to play.  I think a few more sessions and they might actually enjoy it.

Idaho, 2015, Day Three

I walked out of our hotel room this morning and into a blast of hot air already impressive at 8:30 AM.  I joined Paul in the lobby for the advertised free breakfast and found him deep in conversation with the daughter of the hotel’s owners, a petit Asian girl with a Canadian accent.  Well, Minnesota, but close enough.  Paul strikes up conversations with everyone he meets, unlike me.  I tend to live and let live, especially before noon or my third cup of coffee, whichever comes first.

I joined their conversation for a while but when another guest walked in and asked Paul where we’re from, I fixed myself a waffle and went back to our room.  I knew they wouldn’t even notice.  I envy this ability of Paul’s to immediately engage with everyone he meets; it’s a talent that escapes me.

Today was a driving day, most all of it in Kansas; we arrived at the border in the early forenoon and drove through the state the rest of the day.  We stopped for lunch at another local dive, Aunt Toadie’s.  They had me at the name although the packed parking lot at noon in an eye-blink of a town suggested this was a great place to eat.  Or maybe the only place.  The food was plentiful, tasty, and cheap.  The pies were home-made and two bucks a slice so even though I didn’t need one, AT ALL, I had one anyway.

Several hours later, after bouncing along on less-than-pristine roads, and driving 25 miles out of the way (thanks to a detour sign that didn’t specifically tell us the bridge was GONE,) Wade felt sure the tires needed balanced so we lurched into a small shop that looked like they knew tires.  Turns out the thirty-one year old mechanic had already been the owner of the business for eight years so it was safe to assume he knew what he was doing. 

We sat in the spotless and air-conditioned (more important than being spotless) office for fifteen minutes while the tire guys worked their miracles on the van.  An air-filter filled with dried flowers was hanging on the wall.  I admit I never would have thought of putting those two together but it somehow worked here.   Another customer walked in and sat down, his blue jeans covered in white splotches and tattered in places.

“Dry wall or paint?” asks Paul.  

“Neither,” says the man.  “They’re designer.” And Paul had another friend.

We weren’t sure whether to believe him or not, today’s fashion trends being what they are.  Paul told him they must be worth a few thousand then, the shape they’re in.  The man laughs and says “Stucco. And they are really heavy.” He laughs again and we exchange home-town information. 

“You haven’t seen the best part of Kansas yet,” he informs us.  It took me a few minutes to pick up on the sarcasm.

“What’s the best part?” I ask.  I wasn’t surprised there was more to see since what we’d driven through so far was mostly flat, nondescript farmland with a few scrubby trees, the occasional cows, a few scattered houses and not much else.

“Well, about fifteen miles that way,” pointing in the direction we are headed, “there is nothing. Just flat open land. And nothing else.”  He gestured the way we had come.  “This here’s hilly!”

About then Wade yelled at us to come get in the van, the tires are balanced.  The business owner and his young helpers were finishing up, sweat literally dripping on the concrete.  One of them informs us, “This ain’t bad at all.” I’d hate to see what “bad” is, I thought. Wade paid his twelve-dollar bill adding a few more for good measure and we piled back in and hit the road.

Stucco man was right.  Flat, flat, and more flat.  Those wheat fields hold a beauty, though, that is probably missed by people who see them every day.

Idaho, 2015, Day Two

Today we reached Branson by early afternoon, in time to take in a few shows.  The weather was sunny but blisteringly hot and I thought back to the days of traveling in the back of my parents' Volkswagen Bug, sans a/c and being thankful when I wasn’t relegated to a pillow on top of the emergency brake between the two front seats.  

We were cruising past the Orange Blossom Hotel and wheeled in to check out their claims of clean and inexpensive rooms.  They were, so we booked two for tonight and since we were there in the flesh with written confirmations in hand, I felt confident we wouldn’t have a repeat of last night. 

Yesterday I had found a hotel online, a super good deal through Priceline.  Immediately after receiving a confirmation email via my phone, we pulled off our exit and within five minutes were at the hotel. I was exclaiming over the futuristic feel of managing our itinerary by phone when, "We’re full,” the young lady behind the counter tells Paul.  He shows her the phone confirmation and she proceeds to make calls trying to find us a room elsewhere.  It ended well for us though.  She decided to give us two rooms since we were there first and said she'd deal later with the poor schmucks who also thought they had reservations but hadn't arrived yet. (My words, not hers). Wade and Barbara were even given a three-room suite.  I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the people who might not have a room when they arrived and for the clerk when she had to explain it to them.

With our hotel secured for tonight we were off to our first show, Pierce Arrow.  The singing group, not the car.

The comedian claimed his name was Gene Pool.  “Nobody gets that,” he says.  And the way he says it, it’s funny. The music was pretty good, a mixture of Gatlin Brothers, Oak Ridge Boys, Eagles, and gospel songs.  And most important of all the air-conditioning was in fine working order.  I left during the last song to beat the bathroom mob and found the brochure rack in the lobby while I was waiting on the others to exit.  There I discovered that there ia a Sight and Sound in Branson.

Wade and Barbara had never been to a Sight and Sound production and after hearing that I’d really like to go see the current one, Jonah, they were game.  Paul, having been to several before, was enthused as well.  We were not disappointed.  Amazing sets, great music, and an inspirational story combined to provide us with a memorable end to our second day out.

On the way back to our hotel we stopped for some frozen custard, fresh blackberries included.  Yum.  I’m glad I packed some roomy clothes.

Idaho, 2015, Day One

As is always the case, no matter how hard I try to be organized, I ran myself ragged getting ready for this latest of family reunion adventures.  I finally drug my weary body into bed before midnight last night but unfortunately my brain was still in overdrive and I resorted to Netflix to put me to sleep.  Usually this works in less than ten minutes but not tonight.  After I was into my second episode of Covert Affairs I finally passed out.  Sort of.  Two alarm clocks notwithstanding, I have an unreasonable fear of missing my flight whenever I plan to travel by plane. In reality, alarm clocks are totally unnecessary because, true to form, I woke five minutes before it went off.  With about an hour’s worth of shut-eye I almost felt relieved to get up and get started.

We made it to the airport before the baggage handlers so we stood in line like the rest of the zombies and waited.  After TSA finished all their weighing, searching, scanning, and questioning, deeming us safe, we arrived at our gate and proceeded to wait some more. I’m not a fan of air travel.  I like to be able to open a window when I need air and I have a personal space that does not appreciate the literal rubbing of elbows with strangers.  Oh, and I don’t like the virtually zero odds of survival should there be a malfunction of some sort.  Yes, I know it’s safer than all other forms of travel.  But when one of those tin cans goes down it’s pretty much curtains in an ugly way.  So, while I wait to board I usually spend my time trying to keep my imagination in check.

I like technology.  Since the young woman next to me had her phone in hand and her earbuds inserted (same as I did),it was mutually understood that talking wasn’t required.  At 6:00 in the morning, this suits me fine.

We arrived in Atlanta thirty minutes ahead of schedule and were picked up by Cousin Barbara and her husband Wade from Sarasota.  The plan:  we drive across the country together in their very large and very comfortable van. After breakfast at Cracker Barrel, I promptly commandeered the sofa in the back and slept for a few hours. I can’t sleep before flight time, even when I’m in my own comfortable bed. But when the anxiety of oversleeping is gone, I can sink into a virtual coma while careening down the road in a speeding missile, inches from big rigs and crazy motorists.  Ok, I never said it makes sense.

When I finally woke up, I was able to check a few things off my bucket list.  I would like to visit every state before I’m too old to travel.  We cruised through Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Tennessee, and Arkansas.  Three of those I don’t remember visiting before. 

At suppertime we were passing through a desolate section of Arkansas between Memphis and Little Rock on Interstate 40.  Googling revealed some good reviews for a place called Craig’s BBQ. We left the main highway and meandered along looking for this culinary wonder.  Other than abandoned, weather beaten buildings, the occasional, possibly-occupied mobile home, and even a collection of buildings that looked a little like the ghost town in Fried Green Tomatoes, there was nothing resembling an eatery worthy of Google.

 Our GPS came through though.  Craig’s does exist.  And it is a local dive of legendary localness.  I asked for the bathroom and the very sweet waitress pointed me toward the swinging kitchen door.  Thinking I misunderstood, I hesitated.  She repeated, “Through the kitchen.”

 About that time a woman of indeterminate age, maybe fifty, maybe seventy, stuck her head out the door and motioned me back with a shake of her head. Black as midnight, years of hard work left their mark in the lines on her face and the slight stoop of her shoulders. She held authority about her and I would have obeyed her even if I no longer needed to use the bathroom.  I was intrigued though, wanting to see what it looked like behind the swinging door.

A tiny kitchen, hot and steamy, was bustling with activity, meaning the three people hard at work filled it to capacity, and one of those was our waitress.  The only waitress.  They paid me no mind as I invaded their space on my way to the bathroom, located behind and to the right of their workspace.  I stifled my hilarity that rears its head at inappropriate times and tried to focus on my mission: find the bathroom.  Other than the headshake from the woman in charge, I received no further direction.

The term “deep south” probably holds different meaning to different people but everything about Craig’s BBQ fit exactly with my mental pictures of backwater Arkansas.  And I do not mean that in any derogatory way.  It was delicious and I refer to the atmosphere as a whole, not just the food. 

Except maybe the bathroom.  That would be worthy of a whole blog in and of itself.  I looked at the piece of trim once framing the back side of the door, but now broken in two about a foot and a half below the top edge and dangling uselessly in midair.  Why oh why did I not bring my camera, I moaned inwardly, because, after all, does not every self-respecting tourist take their camera with them to the bathroom?  I choked off the giggles and attended to business.

The beef Wade ordered, slathered in BBQ sauce was again reminiscent of Fried Green Tomatoes, like the "town" outside. I wanted to giggle again. The pork BBQ sandwich with coleslaw stacked on was delectable. The waitress in her soft southern drawl had said it was their best seller.  I’m not stupid.  When a tiny, decrepit, hole-in-the-wall like Craig’s elicits rave reviews on Trip Advisor, I feel secure in following the footsteps of all the customers who have gone before.  And, not to my surprise, the waitress was right.  The suggested “vegetable” was potato chips.  She brought a handful of individual bags and was passing them out.  One fell to the floor.  She scooped it up and put it on our table and it occurred to me that here, in this time and place, eating things that fell on the floor seemed entirely acceptable, even to me.

I was sad they were out of buttermilk and sweet potato pie. We ordered a slice each of coconut and chocolate and were presented with huge wedges of meringue-topped confections unlike anything I had ever seen before.  Again, delicious.  The waitress explained to us that the pies were not on our receipt because, “they are made by a lady across the street so the money for those goes to her.”   A cement block building across the way, looking long-abandoned and about the size of respectable closet, sported a spray painted scrawl haphazardly proclaiming it the Pie Shop.

We turned toward Little Rock, full, sleepy and well-satisfied with our supper experience.