The Way Back: Part One

I left Kirkland the next day, head filled with possibility, heart longing for home. My veins hummed with caffeine and (sadly short-lived) excitement.

Seattle drivers are the most impatient dickheads. Light turns green, they honk. Doesn't matter that traffic's already moving. My theory is that they expect the green light to teleport them to their destination, and the realization that they still have to drive there fills them with such rage that they have to release it somehow. Hooooonk....

In Spokane, traffic was at a standstill. Multiple crashes created multiple lane closures, leading to long delays as everyone squeezed together. Eventually the dam broke, and by evening I'd crossed the Idaho panhandle and into Montana.

I should've known better than to enter Yellowstone National Park on a weekend, especially with the weather this gorgeous. The streets of West Yellowstone, Montana were jammed with carloads of would-be visitors. At the park entrance, a ranger waved me through without checking my pass. “We're just pushing traffic,” he said.

What's that old Peanuts quote? “I love mankind...it's people I can't stand”? For me it's the opposite. I like most people, at least a little. But humanity as a collective (to borrow a vulgarity from comedian K. Trevor Wilson) can fuck a hat. Yellowstone reminded me why. People driving through the park instantly forgot basic rules of the road, common sense, and self-preservation. They drove down the wrong side of the road, parked in the travel lane or next to NO PARKING ANYTIME signs, slammed their brakes at 40 mph with a stack of tour buses behind them. Tourists routinely climbed past the safety barriers meant to separate them from dangerous cliff edges and unpredictable bison. I overheard a ranger bemoaning the damage all those trampling feet would do to the grass. “It won't grow back,” she sighed.

Yellowstone; exact location unknown.

Old Faithful.

Madison River.

Clepsydra Geyser.

Much of Yellowstone lies atop a dormant volcano. That it still stirs fitfully, however, is evidenced by the hydrothermal features that dot the park. Geysers, mudpots, steam vents. The air hangs thick with water vapor and the rotten-egg smell of hydrogen sulfides. Visually fascinating, but after a day and a half, my stomach was turning from the stench. Time to move on.

I kept trying to get a good picture 

of a bison. This was one of my first,

and probably the best. 

Hayden Valley.

Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone.

Highway 212 east crosses the Wyoming-Montana border by way of the Beartooth Mountains. The road twists and turns as it climbs the mountainsides. One side drops away sharply, with few guardrails between you and death. It's still winter in the higher elevations; the berms of snow left by the plows stand 8 feet high in places. I had a brief image of being chased by Liam Neeson in a plow truck through this white-walled maze. I sincerely hope almost none of you get that reference. What a terrible movie. What a beautiful drive.

Down, and back into spring. Another Montana rest area. The morning brought heavy rain and fog. By the time I reached Rapid City, South Dakota, visibility was dwindling. Uh-oh...

Uh-oh indeed. This was my first view of Mount Rushmore:

Most people were in surprising good humor. “It's everything I imagined!” “Stunning craftsmanship!” One woman unfolded a brochure and held it behind her head, so her husband could get a photo of her with Mount Rushmore in the background. I wandered the trail and popped into the Sculptor's Studio. I caught the tail-end of a talk on the wild times of Gutzon Borglum, the sculptor who oversaw the mountain's carving. “If it ever clears up, you'll notice...”

Borglum's original model. The lower portions of the mountain proved unsuitable for carving, 

so the bottom details were left out of the final construction. 

On my way back to the Visitor's Center, I overheard another tourist telling his companions that the weather was supposed to clear in an hour or so. I decided to get coffee and wait a while. My brother called. We talked for ten minutes. I walked back to the viewing platform. Slowly, the fog melted. Washington's forehead appeared, dimly. Then in starker outline. And was that Lincoln over in the corner? It was.

Suddenly the mist rolled away, revealing the whole monument. The crowd cheered. Everybody snapped their photos. The fog returned, swallowing the mountain once more. I left, musing about the benefits of patience. Sometimes it pays off. And sometimes...maybe humanity isn't all bad.

The rain stopped by the time I reached Badlands National Park. Predictably, Google sent me to the wrong part of the park; I stopped at the White River Visitor Center and got directions to the more dramatic section.

At Panorama Point, I met an Indian family – father, mother, college-aged son. Dad announced he had achieved nirvana, looking out over the canyons. His son was embarrassed. Seeing me nod, Dad pointed at me. “See! He gets it!”

They were heading west to California. If they stopped in Utah, I told them, be sure to check out Valley of the Gods. We wished each other well and parted ways.

Nightfall saw me crossing into Minnesota.

The next day was pretty dull. Southern Minnesota, northeast Iowa – one big pancake. Where Dar Williams found “the hills of Iowa” that she sings about is beyond me.

Google shat its pants again, this time in downtown Cedar Rapids. Perfect timing, smack in the middle of a city and no directions. I managed to find my way out and into Wisconsin. If anyone can recommend an alternative phone app for navigation, let me know.

I was making better than expected time. So much so, that I decided to follow a “must see” roadtrip suggested on Facebook. Big mistake. Google couldn't find the entrance to the first stop, and tried to send me down a chained-off road with NO TRESPASSING signs. Another locale turned out to require a $60 ferry ticket that I couldn't afford. Copper Falls State Park was nice. It was good to get out of the car and walk around for an hour. And the multiple falls were beautiful in an understated way. Otherwise, it was 8 hours of pointless driving. Oh well.

Copper Falls State Park, 

Mellen, Wisconsin.

I camped overnight on Michigan's Upper Peninsula. As I was getting situated, a lanky kid walked up from an adjacent campsite. He'd started the night before at my spot, he explained, but been put off by the insects and the trash left by previous campers. He was returning now to get a few things he'd left behind. He tried to talk me into also moving on to a different campsite. I decided I'd be fine in the car. I slept fine.

I started the day with a delicious oatmilk latte from Superbloom Coffee House in Gladstone. The smattering of other patrons were all clearly regulars. They chatted with the baristas about the school year winding down and plans for the summer. The décor was adorable, the breakfast sandwich solid.

Superbloom Coffee House, Gladstone MI.

At the Mackinac Bridge, the tollbooth operator was even more excited than I was. She gave me a business card on which she had scribbled, “First crossing” and the date (“So you'll remember!”). It was a calm day, which I appreciated. I understand crossing can be a little nerve-wracking on windy days. As it was, the view was somewhat dizzying. Two hundred feet to the water below at midspan. Good thing I had the road in front of me to focus on.

Mackinac Bridge.

The trip south through Michigan went otherwise smoothly (other than Google losing all track of me - again). I spent the night in a hotel in Findlay, Ohio. Checkout is in a few minutes; time to wrap this up and hit the road.

I'll be in touch again when I can. Bye for now.