Day 12: Utah, 324 Miles

A desultory hotel breakfast, and I was off. First order of business: buy a new toothbrush. Mine had gone missing somewhere between the Valley of the Gods and Richfield. Had I set it on the bumper of the car after using it that morning, and forgotten it there, then driven away? Had the blue plastic holder simply rolled off into the red dust, defiling that holy place?

It was raining pretty good as I left. Inside, with the curtains drawn, I hadn't noticed. They must have great insulation in that building, to muffle that kind of noise.

Highway 70 pulls you into the heart of Utah. Despite the weather, some of the mountains were still stunning. The brilliant orange and yellows around Big Rock Candy Mountain were particularly impressive, but the usual impediments – traffic, no good turnoffs – prevented any photography. A few hours later, I reached Zion National Park.

An unusually shaped mesa outside Zion National Park.

Just me?

Grand Canyon and Petrified Forest both have a sort of laissez faire approach to exploration. Here's some information; we offer guided tours if you like, but you're also free to roam as you see fit. Zion seems designed to largely curtail exploring on your own.

Checkerboard Mesa.

There are two entrances to the park. From the south, take the shuttle from nearby Springdale to the Visitors Center, and then onto one of the guided tour buses. Or drive yourself through the east entrance, along a picturesque road that curls between beautiful rock formations and stunning vistas, to the Visitors Center – in essence, making the trip in reverse. There are almost no signs along the way; the map they hand you as you enter primarily lays out the many places you can't go by car (most of the park. At that point, why bother letting people drive themselves?). All context – the park's history, the geology of the region, the names for the different features – waits at the end of the drive, where you hope you can remember what you saw, and in which order. You can, of course, board the shuttle, and repeat the trip with some idea of what the hell you've been seeing...

Various locations around Zion. Very little context for 

any of it, but I think the last one is the Three Patriarchs.

Pressed for time as always, I skipped the shuttle tour. Hence the lack of captions on this section's photographs. It was a beautiful drive, though – yet oddly familiar. The hairpin turns zigzagging down into the canyon, the trees growing out of the very stone, even the colors, reminded me of Route 60 through eastern Arizona. Which begs the question – why is this area a park, worthy of preservation, while in Arizona, it's just the side of the highway? One might expect the tribal government of Fort Apache Reservation, which controls that part of Arizona, to have at least tried something like the Navajo had in Monument Valley. It was likely a matter of timing. That portion of Route 60 was completed in the 1930s; Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park wasn't established until the 50s, and was the first of its kind. So by the time the Apache would've had a model to go by, it was already decades too late. Bummer.

By the time I left Zion, there was no way I'd get out of Utah tonight as I'd planned. Ironically, my best bet seemed to be returning to the Quality Inn in Richfield for another night, and continuing on the next day. Thankfully they put me in a different room. Would've been too Groundhog Day otherwise.

Day 13: Utah, Idaho; 415 Miles

Stopping for gas on my way out of town, I was approached by a young couple. Car trouble. Did I have a spare tire they could have?

I lied. To get at the spare, I'd have to empty most of my things out of the back. But more than that, I had this image of losing a tire two weeks from now in East Thumbscrew Alaska, and being unable to limp out of the tundra because these kids had my spare. If it was just a flat, I said, I could give them some air, so they could at least get to a tire shop. But no. The tire had blown completely. I wished them luck, but felt like a heel.

Meadow Hot Springs.

A friend suggested that I check out the hot springs in Meadow. Tucked away on an unpaved county road, the springs are free to visit (though a metal bin to one side quietly solicits donations). The air is heavy with the scent of minerals. I stuck my hand in the water. It felt a good 60 degrees warmer than the ambient air. Steam rolled across the surface.

Google wanted me to leave by continuing forward along the road. I startled a pair of Canada geese into flight as I splashed along. The ground was soft; water pooled everywhere. I got stuck briefly, the Moxie Mama's tires spinning uselessly, seeking a purchase that wouldn't come. Eventually I managed to back out, turn around, and exit the way I came.

I decided not to stop in Salt Lake City. Instead, I made my way to the town of Promontory, and Golden Spike National Historical Park. It was here that the Transcontinental Railroad was completed on May 10, 1869. Largely undertaken by the Central Pacific and Union Pacific Railroads, the line connected Council Bluffs, Iowa to San Francisco. Travel from coast to coast became a question of days, not months. It's hard to overstate the impact this had on American life and trade.

I arrived just before the Visitors Center closed for the day. I missed the day's final appearance by the replica of the 119, the Union Pacific locomotive that appeared at the Golden Spike Ceremony in 1869. I did, however, manage to see the Central Pacific Jupiter replica take a victory lap before being put to bed. Afterward, I bought the $2 Driving Tour Guidebook and embarked on the East Tour.

                        

Replica of the Jupiter, the Central Pacific locomotive 

present for the Golden Spike Ceremony in 1869.

This short drive follows the route once taken by the Central Pacific. The rails have long since disappeared, but the gravel bed remains. You creep along steep grades and through hills that men drilled by hand and blasted over a century ago. It was hard, backbreaking work, mostly undertaken by ethnic and religious minorities – Irish and Chinese immigrants, Mormons. Living conditions were crude even by the standards of the time. Avalanches were common in the winter. Pay often came late, or not at all, and was seldom in the amount agreed upon. America certainly is consistent. Occasional strikes broke out. One such incident delayed the Golden Spike Ceremony for two days, as workers outside Piedmont, Wyoming held Union Pacific VP Thomas Durant's train hostage until their backpay arrived.

The way through this rock would've been drilled and blasted by hand. 

On a good day, a two-man team could manage to clear away around 1 foot of rock. 

This spot alone would've taken many days to get through.

Near the end of the East Tour stands a natural rock formation called “Chinese Arch”. It's treated as a monument to the men of Chinese descent who worked this part of the line. Initially, small groups of Chinese workers were recruited from California. By all accounts, these “experiments” were paid on an equal footing with their white counterparts. Later, the railroads imported labor directly from China. Some accounts suggest that these new men were paid less than their fellows.

"Chinese Arch."

The construction of the Transcontinental Railroad also led to the near-extinction of the American bison. In the Great Plains, tracks were laid across Native American lands, in violation of federal treaties. Native raids on camps became common. In retaliation, the Army was called in to eliminate the natives' food supply, in a scorched earth program reminiscent of Sherman's March through Georgia. Hundreds of thousands of buffalo were slaughtered and their corpses left to rot. The raids stopped.

In 1872, the New York Sun revealed that the Union Pacific Railroad had perpetrated millions of dollars in fraud and stock manipulation throughout the construction process. A dummy corporation, Crédit Mobilier of America, had been created to oversee construction. CM would invoice Union Pacific for inflated building costs; Union Pacific would pay them via check with funds backed by the US government. CM would use these funds to purchase UP stock at a discount, then sell those shares on the open market at a substantial profit. Much of the proceeds went into the pockets of Crédit Mobilier executives, who were also executives for Union Pacific. The rest went to members of Congress in the form of bribes. The revelations in the Sun nearly bankrupted Union Pacific and its leadership.

It's tempting to see the Transcontinental Railroad as a synecdoche for the whole American Experiment – natural beauty, inspiring ingenuity, hard work, racism, environmental degradation, corruption, failure to meet financial obligations. So much to celebrate. So much that troubles the heart as one continues driving north.

I'm paranoid about my tires. If the car handles even a little funny, or I've been a few days over rough roads, out comes the gauge and the electric pump. Just to make sure. I pulled into a gas station to check the pressure. Couldn't find the tire gauge anywhere. “Probably next to my goddamn toothbrush” I muttered as I slammed the car door. I bought a new one. Bright blue, so it should be easier to keep track of. Tires were fine.

The view from my Idaho "campsite."

I slipped across the Idaho border. I spent the night on what I thought was a free campground. In retrospect, I may have scooted across the line into privately-owned ranch land. There certainly was a lot of desiccated cow shit around. Regardless, I was up before the sunrise and on the road before anybody showed up with a shotgun to shoo me off.

Oh, I found my toothbrush. It was loose in the back of the car, for some reason. And, yes – the tire gauge was right there with it.

Day 14: Idaho, Oregon, Washington; 627 Miles

The day before, I'd pieced together an itinerary for the next week. Idaho into Oregon. Oregon to Portland, where I'd spend a day. Southern Washington. A Day in Seattle. Then into Canada, and on to Alaska. It seemed perfect.

Until I did the math. I've got maybe three weeks to get back to Vermont. Canada-Alaska-Canada is going to take at least a week, probably longer. Plus five days in the Pacific Northwest. That left me with less than a week to get home. I could do it, but it meant racing through, stopping as little as possible.

Time to revisit my priorities. Alaska was the point of it all. Getting there quickly was primary. So, never mind Portland. Cut from Idaho through northeast Oregon and into Washington in a day. Be in Canada in time for the weekend. Sold.

At a rest area in Idaho – Bliss? - I faced the public bathroom from hell. The place was filthy. Only one sink worked; a hole in the wall marked where one of the soap dispensers had been. The toilet seat was dirty and peeling. Across the inside of the stall door, someone had scrawled a series of white supremacist slogans in fading permanent marker - “White Pride! 100% Segregationalism! [sic]” I didn't even want to shit in there.

I walked to the car for a pen. Back in the stall, I added my own comment, a David Lynch quote that's taken the internet by storm since his death. “Fix your heart or die!” As I drove off, it occurred to me that my response – fresh, in ballpoint pen – could be easily removed or painted over if anyone ever cleans that hellhole. And probably would be. But I couldn't shake the feeling that the other graffiti, the illiterate ravings of some neonazi piece of garbage, would probably be allowed to stand. It had so far. This is Idaho, I thought, and shook my head.

Highway view, eastern Oregon.

I forgot how gorgeous eastern Oregon is: the purple and green of the mountains, the sparkling blue of the Snake River. I stopped for a short nap at a rest area (clean, the graffiti non-racist) and then continued into Washington.

Food truck in Yakima, WA.

In Yakima, I bought two lengua tacos from a food truck behind a gas station. The beef tongue was so tender and juicy that I nearly cried.

So clean!

It was too early to make camp, so I treated the Moxie Mama to her first ever laser car wash. Cleaned away the bug grime from her windshield, the dust still clinging to her from Monument Valley, the mud splatter from the hot springs road. She was beautiful.

An hour later, you couldn't tell she'd ever been washed. The dirt roads through Gifford Pinchot National Forest are bumpy. The woods were deep, and still. No cell service up there. I didn't care. I need this more often, I decided. Whatever life looks like when this trip is over – let's have more woods.

Night falls in Gifford Pinchot National Forest.

Next time: deeper into Washington for pie and coffee...