A journal of our travels.
December 2, 2001
<James> I have a confession to make.
I hate snow.
Snow means cold. Cold means ice. Ice means treachery. Especially for perambulatory bipedal beings and 1975 school buses loaded with toys.
Maybe my snow loathing is due to the traumatic experience I had driving my Mom's Galaxy 500 on the ice slickened streets of Richardson, Texas, when my license was fresh and driving was new. Cresting the top of a hill and learning in a hurry that the mass of a moving vehicle is very hard to control without the assistance of friction.
Maybe it's due to the time I found myself at the top of what might as well have been a double black diamond run in Taos, New Mexico, when I was just learning to ski. For all intents and purposes I was standing on a vertical ice rink with visions of traction devices dancing through my head.
Or maybe it was the time I drove through Colorado with my Pinto loaded to the gills blindly following the disappearing tracks of the vehicle ahead of me. Visibility hovered near zero. If the car ahead of me had careened off a cliff, I might have inadvertently followed.
As we left Bend, Oregon, home of relentless recreationists and assorted ranchers, dirt bikers and forestry professionals, the snow and ice began to accumulate on Highway 97. A thousand dollars worth of new tires bought us peace of mind and just enough traction to keep us in motion.
Huge snowflakes fell in massive flurries. They fell in mesmerizing patterns. They fell randomly and haphazardly. They made me drunk with their confusing, conflicting, consistent one minute, inconsistent the next pathways.
The back of the bus slipped sideways with the tiniest of fishtails and in the rearview mirror I could quickly discern consternation on Kristin's face. She was lying on the futon toward the back of the bus directly over the rear tires and felt the slip more than anyone else. It was time to stop for those chains we wisely purchased at the Flying J truckstop in Troutdale. . .
As for snow, I don't unconditionally hate it. I can appreciate its positive aspects --- cross-country skiing, snowmen, homemade ice cream, fires and hot toddies. It's just the driving and getting around in it that vexes me.
We've arrived safely in Lodi, California. We're parked on a dead-end road beside one of those all-purpose truck stops. Semis are littered across the landscape, diesel engines idling noisily. We've found a quiet spot away from all of that because truckers don't want to have to deal with a narrow dead end road. Everyone jostles for a sleeping space --- five on the sleeping platform, Mace on the love sofa, Ally and I sacked across the two facing bench seats --- and after a long day rattling down the highway, I peck away at the laptop, the glow of the display terminal illuminating my face.
December 3, 2001
<James> "What in God's name is that sound? Are we in the middle of a trumpeter swan refuge?"
The noise emanated from the sleeping platform and the pile of bodies and nylon bags. It was as melodious as an out-of-tune oboe. We were being serenaded by an unconscious, exhausted Clark, pillows framing his face like bookends. It's not paint-peeling snoring like Nolan Nickelberry, but it has the volume to get your attention.
We were all crammed into the interior of the bus on our first night on the road. Clark wheezing and honking, dead to the world. Scout impatiently pacing in the aisle, emitting the occasional whimper, indignant at not being allowed on the sleeping platform with the other five bodies. Of course, after ingesting a brick of fudge brownies left unguarded on the table while we were dining out, Scout's whining might just indicate digestive distress. Seven bodies rustling and fidgeting, desperately trying to nest for the night.
Welcome to our home for the next eight weeks. Conditions will improve once we can sleep up top and spread out. But last night, after surviving a blinding snowstorm in northern California, the weather was too inclement to consider bedding down on the roof rack.
"Ride, Captain, ride, upon your mystery ship. . ."
Liquor in the mini-marts. Pump your own gas. Cheesy, one-hit wonders on the intercom. We must be deep in the heart of California. But what the hell is this? Could it be. . .sn. . .snow? We are in the Mojave Desert! What is going on? We're bringing the weather from Bend with us. Perhaps we should be aimed north. . .
Clark is at the helm. His penance for mimicking a trumpeter swan being stretched on a torturer's rack. I am joking, of course. We are spreading the pleasure of strong-arming Greg along the highways and byways of North America.
He is greeted on his initial stint with another blinding slurry of snowflakes and a highway sans white lines. What is up with that? An infrastructure victim of California's tax-cutting measures? Who needs white lines to drive on a two-lane blacktop, anyway?
Eighty miles from Barstow and the cold is closing in. . .again. . . the heat is somewhere south of us.
December 4, 2001
<James> Tonopah Joe's and Alice's Restaurant in Tonopah, Arizona
Hoo boy, careful what you ask for. . . We awakened late this morning following a night where a gentle sprinkling of rain drove us off the roof. Ally and I retreated to beneath the bus rather than dare venture inside where there was sure to be a puppy pile of people on every flat surface. Beneath the bus suited us just fine.
We awakened late and we awakened hungry. I steered Greg onto the interstate --- wide, double lanes, smooth and recently asphalted --- and pushed the pedal to the metal. We were cruising comfortably at a little above sixty miles per hour. Destination: the Tonopah exit.
No Denny's. No IHOP. No Iron Skillet, Stuckey's or whatever other name brand franchise you can imagine. Just Tonopah Joe and Alice's Restaurant, Truck Stop and RV/Diesel Repair Shop. We were not to be deterred. There is a comfort with the familiar, but today we are diving in. After all, eight of us were in the early stages of coffee withdrawal (Clark is our lone hot tea-sipper.)
In California, laws have been enacted prohibiting smoking in all public spaces, including the stoops and front entryways of public buildings. In Arizona, you are expected to smoke wherever you find yourself. TJ&A's was not unduly smoky, but you could tell by the patrons, the wall hangings, the waitresses and the decor that if you wanted to smoke you would not be given a second glance.
Outside the front door, a cartoonish mural of a Indian warrior princess on steroids was bronco-busting a Mack truck. Just inside the front door, across from the obligatory pull tab dispensers and keno vending machines was a detailed explanation of what you should do in case of an emergency at the Palo Verde Nuclear Plant. The waitresses were distinctly atypical seeing as how not one of them could have been younger than 55. Everybody was grizzled and leathery --- perfect reflections of a grizzled and leathery landscape.
Our waitress was named Sandy. For being AARP eligible, she was as trim and fit as a gymnast. She wore a snug-fitting crushed velour top, several touches too much make-up and spandex-tight jeans. You could see in her eyes she didn't take guff lightly, and so I cringed every time we made her task more difficult.
Mace ordered the biscuits and gravy and I ordered a biscuit on the side to accompany my Trucker's Special, which was available only to those who could show they were CDL certified. (Commercial Driving License) I wrote 'careful what you ask for' earlier in this piece because our biscuit orders were monstrous Pillsbury rolls floating in white gravy and chunks of shredded sausage. No skimping with the biscuits and gravy at TJ&A's. They were the full meal deals.
Laden with grease, our whistles whetted with the best truck stop coffee money can buy in Tonopah, and we were on the road to Phoenix for our next-to-the-last-minute purchases prior to belly-flopping into northern Mexico, south of El Paso.
December 5, 2001
<James> A night of chilly rest stop camping somewhere approaching the New Mexico border, several exits before 'The Thing'. Interstate 10 is infamous for its ubiquitous 'Thing' billboards. 'Thing' promotional billboards begin in west Texas and continue hundreds of miles to the west. Sort of like Victoria's Butchart Gardens billboards in the Northwest.
Curious once and delirious from driving, I stopped during one of my cross-country travels. I believe, if my recollection is sound, that 'The Thing' turned out to be a disappointing, shriveled. . . oh, I shouldn't give it away. You might want to stop and see for yourself one of these days. We passed right on by. Our sights are set on the Mexican border at El Paso.
Breakfast was at the Desert Rose Cafe in Wilcox, Arizona. It was
Jessica's turn to decide where we would dine. It was an excellent
selection based entirely on the name I think our second option was The
Regal.
The Desert Rose had a large dining area, ample tabletops for groups and comfortable seats. Fresh red roses afloat in a globe decorated each table. Martha Stewart would have been impressed and delighted but probably would have offered a few suggestions. Christmas music and decorations lent the cafe a cozy, welcoming ambiance. It felt like we had been invited to Grandmother's for supper. Above our table more than a dozen commemorative plates painted with Disney scenarios filled in the space on the wall. Knick-knacks, for sure, but more tasteful than you might expect for a town with a greater elevation than population.
Our waitress seemed a bit brusque. Perhaps distracted from 'task
saturation'. She apologized that she was on her own this morning and
running a little behind. I looked around and noted that we were virtually
her only patrons. We assured her we didn't have a plane to catch or any
reason to rush. And, for the record, the French Toast and the Huevos
Rancheros were notable enough to mention.
<Mace> The night wound up with us playing our first game of 'Battle of the Sexes'. Men vs. Women to see who knew the most about what the game designers see as the opposite sex's fields of knowledge. We squeaked out a narrow victory, and learned a lot of interestingly useful knowledge. Las tres amigas (Erica, Jessica and Kristin) finished off a bottle of 'fine wine' as we played, and much fun was had by all. We hope to play this once a week or so, perhaps we'll make a 'games' page to house pictures of all our results for you. Then again, Maybe not!