Bastille Day 2024
Fifth-Year Anniversary of a Road Trip, posted a little late. My painfully crippled hands no longer handle a keyboard. This trip happened the year before the big virus panic, Since then I’ve been in hospitals for everything BUT. After several bad falls my PT said I have the equivalent of PTSD, fear of falling. Two steps down at my front porch defeat me. Since my last fall on the steps, which required three adults and a hauling strap to drag me inside and lift me onto the bed, I have been housebound. Fingers screaming protest, so back to when I could still write…
M. departed Detroit 18 June 2019 on a solo road trip across the country. Despite nay-saying of her friends about her being too old, at 75, for such shenanigans.
Her plan was to drive to Trinidad, Colorado to visit her old college roommate; spend a week there; then on to Washington
State for July with me. We stayed in touch by phone. I was “air traffic control,” routing her the best way. Googling highways and construction,
driving times and motels. ]
First leg went smoothly. Other than when she locked her keys in the car and had to hire help. She stopped in Springfield, Illinois first night.
Driving past St. Louis next day was a traffic-clogged hassle. She spent a night in Missouri, forged across the state. Kansas City was a zoo: heavy traffic and road work, mish-mash of confusing roads and road signs. But I was on the computer, looking at YouTube video, checking mileage watching live traffic merge and diverge on poorly signed highways. Saw the signs to
watch for before she got to them, reported lanes to get into, the
correct turns. She sailed through without a bobble.
I found motel quotes and points of interest near her line of travel beyond KC. All she had todo was drive and enjoy; it was a kick. I figured it close as I would come to another road trip. All that was in my rear view mirror due to
age and disability.
She spent a night in Lawrence, Kansas. Visited the “tall-grass” prairie
project I read about in William Least Heat Moon’s Prarie Erth, drove
on to Hays for another night. Then rolled across Kansas to Kanorado, the
border town I wrote about on a ’90s road trip of my own. Having read my
unpublished draft, she got a kick out of finding Kanorado unchanged.
Right down to the grain elevators, co-op gas station, and resemblance
to The Last Picture Show. Had an amusing exchange at the co-op, buying
gas, about how “out here” they didn’t have new-fangled computerized
pumps. Spent a while cruising the streets describing it to me.
Then across into Colorado. U.S. Route angling down to Trinidad, a
highway my YouTube research called thinly traveled and scenic. She
described scenery as amazing, she’d almost forgotten how beautiful
Colorado is. (She worked there in the 70s.) She found her old college
room-mate’s newly acquired house still gutted, renovation going slowly,
H. camping in a neighbor’s spare bedroom. M. got a motel room for her
stay, including a pool where she could keep up her daily water
exercises. Departed 27 June via another scenic route, through the
Rockies to Grand Junction, near the Utah border. Not a freeway. Curves
and inclines she described as “white- knuckle driving,” no chance for
cruise control. Exhausted by the time she stopped, exhilarated by the views.
Meanwhile I studied her projected path to Salt Lake City: another U.S.
Highway running at a diagonal northwest. NHTSA reported it one of the
deadliest highways in America. Two-way traffic, high speeds, poor sight
lines; over 900 fatal and serious-injury collisions in the past few
years. I voted no, and re-routed her straight west across I-70 to its
terminus at I-15. Straight and well cambered, 80-mph speed limit, cruise
control all the way. If the fatal route was the slant of a triangle, the
70–15 angle would be the back angle. Extra hour or so, but much safer.
Only concern: 106 miles of no exits, no services, longest stretch like
that in America. No cell service. A truly “Empty Quarter, ” but her
vehicle was new, well-serviced, got excellent mileage. We talked as she
crossed into Utah before she lost the connection. She was rested, happy,
pleased how her road trip was going, up for more scenery-viewing.
Hours trickled by before she called again.
She was “not quite to I-15.” Subdued. I knew something had happened. She
said she stopped at a viewing area to take phone pictures. Saw a gully
sloping away from the road. Decided she could get a better angle.
Started down the slope, paying more attention to her view-finder than
her footing. Missed a step and fell, hard. Then slid to the bottom of
the slope. She could not push herself up — her left wrist would not
support her weight.
A woman above in the viewing area saw this, and rushed down. Got her up.
The slope was so steep they had to crab-walk sideways at an angle,
unable to gain much ground. Two men in the viewing area saw their
plight, hurried down, and assisted them to the top. Good people in Utah.
Her wrist ached. Her shoulder hurt worse. They urged her to call 911 and named a town with an ER — miles in the wrong direction. She shrugged off their concern, got ice from her cooler, iced her wrist. Pressed on across Darkest Utah. (She didn’t admit until a day later she could easily have returned to Grand Junction; she was right at the start of the 106 isolated miles when she fell.)
She drove that whole distance injured and in pain, stopped before I-15 for more ice and for gas, and finally had cell service to call me to find a motel up I-15 for her. Her plan had been to make Salt Lake City. She asked me to find something closer. Provo seemed best bet. I texted motel and ER directions. I didn’t know how many hours
she had been in pain at that point.
Once on I-15, cell service went out again. Next I heard, she was in Nephi, a small town she couldn’t even spell, south of Provo.
She had realized Provo was too far when she saw an ER sign on the
freeway at Nephi. It led her to a regional trauma center.
As luck would have it, staffed by top-flight surgeons, one a hand specialist. The kind of luck and “angels” she says always are there for her. She called from the hospital. Both her wrist bones were broken. “Shattered,” they said. She was admitted. Next morning early they went in and made surgical
repairs with pins and such. More pain. Lots of pain. They gave her lots
of pain medication, and said repairing the shoulder would be too much in
one day. (She still hadn’t told me it was broken too. I thought bad
strain, torn rotator cuff or something.) The other thing they told her
was absolutely no driving for six to eight weeks. Recommended she fly
home. Abandon her car. Hah. They don’t know my stubborn French Canadian gal.
Two days later the surgeon modified his driving ban. She could drive
brief distances. I already had called my son to see if he could drive
with me to Utah, bring my Bronco home while I drove her. He called back
and said no — he was being admitted to hospital with kidney stones! (For
God’s sake. His constant back pain may be explained; he was attributing
it to repeated 50-hour weeks operating heavy equipment. Ultimately
resolved without surgery.) She had at least three long days of driving
to reach me.
Back in Trinidad, H. was all for abandoning her house
project to fly over to drive her north. We noodled rendezvous points
like Boise, Idaho. I could fly in there, H. could fly back to Colorado.
Too many moving parts. And H. was too tangled up in the home-renovation
and business appointments to do this.
Nephi was two hours south of Salt Lake City. I live two hours south of
SeaTac. So: drive to SeaTac and leave my Bronco? Have a four-hour round
trip to get it upon return? Plus days and days of parking fees? A limo
from home to Seatac would cost $180. Another limo, SLC to Nephi, over
$200. SLC shuttle buses departed too far from arrival gates for me to
walk, airport services might transport me and my luggage to the limo.
Meanwhile I called around and found I could rent a portable 02 machine
in Olympia — but had to go get it. Another moving part. I wore myself
out in computer research on flights. This deregulated, computerized age
is insane, prices changing hourly. Everything complicated by the first
week of July including Independence Day.
Trying to schedule airport assistance was another headache. I had not
been on a plane this century and never meant to be; had never traveled
since handicapped. I could not find any flight earlier that Sunday 7
July. My cleaning lady weighed in: she would drive me to SeaTac
Saturday. One expense/hassle avoided. I researched SeaTac motels for an
overnight stay and shuttle to the airport. M., much better at computer
air-travel research, found a Saturday evening flight, booked and paid —
First Class! First Class meant free checked baggage. Cost of two checked
bags non-first class made the higher price almost a wash. After four
days in hospital, they discharged her, due to insurance rules. Helped
her load up to go to a nearby Nephi motel. She reported pain controlled
by medication — mostly. But a lot of discomfort. She rested in the
motel, took short drives around town, to a drug store and such, to get a
feel how difficult driving would be.
Another headache and stress point for me: my dog was due for booster
shots — and the veterinarian refused to board her until ten days after
she got the shots. On top of which they were out of vaccine and wouldn’t
have any until the week after the Fourth. While she is certified as a
service dog, no way would I subject her to airline nonsense and stress.
I complained to the vet-office manager. Found they in fact had vaccine,
but all vets were off the Fourth of July. Because my dog and I are
regulars, the manager arranged a vet to come in Saturday 11:15 to give
shots, and waived the ten-day quarantine.
Slowly the plan took shape: board my dog, and my cleaning lady would
pick me up around 12:30 to drive to SeaTac. Friday she dropped by to
make sure I could fit in her compact car. I could. She drove me to
Olympia to get my 02 travel machine. I stood her to lunch at Red Robin
and filled her tank for the commute. Least I could do. Good people in
Washington too. With a 7:30 pm departure, we could depart 1 pm., take it
easy in home-bound holiday traffic, aim for 3 or 4 at the airport.
Plenty of time to arrange assistance to the remote departure gate. No
clue how long check-in and security would take.
Alaska Airlines had curbside check in. I felt odd arriving without a
physical ticket. But they had me in the curbside computer, and an
assistant waiting with a wheel chair. Of course, being me, I was
selected by TSA to train a rookie how to physically pat down a
wheelchair-bound passenger. Ruddy-faced serious young man, asking if any body parts were sensitive. My balls, I said. He got ruddier. I will pat
you down very gently he said, okay? Okay, I said. Then, to his
supervisor, as his hands roamed my waistline and below: but if I start
breathing hard, pull him off! The supervisor cracked up. The ruddy one
got ruddier. I asked his boss how come he didn’t have a cute female
rookie for old men. The ruddy one tried to rally: hey, you trying to
say I ain’t attractive? You look fine, I said, but I don’t swing that
way, even if this is Seattle. The supervisor thought I was a laugh a
minute, said I made his shift.
M. had checked out at Nephi Friday and drove two hours to SLC to a motel
with shuttle service near the airport She said she was worried how much
just that distance took out of her. But hoped to recover enough to take
the shuttle to meet me. I was scheduled to arrive 11 pm Mountain Time.
Arriving between 3 and 4 Pacific at SeaTac was a good idea. Plenty of
time for all the security nonsense and to be wheeled out to the gate.
The attendant said she could stay with me until flight time — two hours. I
said how about just leaving me the wheelchair? She said it’s yours till
you depart. So I was able to use it as a walker to get something to eat
and for bladder breaks. Wound up walking more than in a typical week.
People-watched.
First Class was wonderful, like a return to the dear dead days of old.
Real China for the hot snack; real meat, real boutique bread — real
silverware! Endless Cokes and coffee. Steward and stewardesses fussing
over me, hanging my jacket, stowing my roll-aboard, finding secure
storage for my crutch. Boarding first and deplaning first. Wheelchair at
the jet door.
First setback: I put my 02 apparatus in checked baggage to avoid the
security rigmarole. Bad idea. My rented breathing machine went to San
Jose. The helpful Alaska Air baggage person explained SLC and SJC
airport designations are very similar. It was just a typo.
I said “typos” started more than one war. And I never did know the damn way to San Jose…
No flights from SJC to SLC till Sunday. Delta would bring it,
arriving 9 am. Alaska would deliver it to my motel. This was followed by
an old-fashioned Chinese fire drill. The Alaska employee pushing my
wheelchair was rattled by M.’s explosive comments (I had to use the
speaker on my phone due to deafness) when I told her they lost my bag.
She was painfully driving to meet me, stressed already. The Ramada
shuttle suddenly wasn’t available. I didn’t know where the hell I was.
The employee kept saying a door number. Expletives flowed as she replied
she was at that damn door! There were three lanes to meet arrivals: one
for buses and taxis, one for fat-cat limos, an outlying one for the hoi
polloi. We were way out there with the riffraff. She wasn’t. She
described her new Chevrolet, which I had never seen, right beside the
door. The employee said she can’t park there! That’s not for the
public! Bet me, I said. He reluctantly pushed me in that direction.
“Hell — LOOO!” came above the airport racket. M. appeared behind her
van, between two stretch limos. I levered out of the chair with my
crutch. The employee dropped my bags and fled with the wheelchair as if
fearing her glare would turn him into a column of salt. Hell with him. I
put my arms around her. She said “My god, are you a sight for sore
eyes!” I’d made it. The rest would just be details.
First detail: no 02 machine 9 am Sunday. Or noon. Second detail: she
could not find a way to rest comfortably. The arm was giving her fits
from her brief drive from Nephi. Sunday was lost time. I haven’t slept
without a CPAP or 02 machine this century. And didn’t sleep much
Saturday or Sunday, interrupted by apneas. Almost worse than no sleep at
all.
(The good news: the admirable ER docs in Nephi already had been in
contact with a Centralia hand and limb specialist for follow-up when we
got there.)
Other details: when I took over driving chores back to the
Ramada, we were blocked by the longest freight train in the world.
Scores of rail cars passed, slowed…stopped. Began to back up! Other drivers turned around. I did too. Kids drag-racing in unmufflered cars screamed past, startling me. I drove for an hour, observing vast ugly warehouses and shipping facilities sprawling everywhere. With acerbic commentary about them from my hurting passenger.
Eventually there was nothing for it but try the crossing again. We found the diesels that had hauled the endless train, now loafing in the road. Midnight shift change; they leisurely swung down, shooting the breeze with the graveyard guys before ambling to waiting cars. The new crews mounted up to do something like a pre-flight check. Finally they lumbered away: three locomotives in tandem.
There was a pretty good Sunday breakfast at the Ramada. Given that my
knee had given out from all the walking, I drove around to the front.
But I left my handicapped parking tag home, so had to park and use my
crutch 200 steps to eat. M. was sleeping a medicated sleep. I ate,
prepared plate and coffee for her. Tried to balance it carefully, one-
handed, out and down the slanted parking lot another 200 steps on my
crutch. Made it.
The key wouldn’t open the door. It took forever to
grasp I was at the wrong white van of three in a row. Only one had
Michigan plates. Note to self: check license plate next time.I got the
door open. Got all the way inside — placed the coffee and plate of
scrambled eggs and sausage on the console. And promptly elbowed them onto the floor. Major expletives.
Another long painful hobble. Arthritic right hip joining left knee,
threatening to give way. Another plate and cup. Back another two hundred
steps. Secured the food carefully. Reached in my jacket for my phone to
call her. No phone. No phone anywhere. Fifth two-hundred-step hobble
inside; a thousand-plus now. No phone on the table where I prepared her
plate.
Next, the dreary lost-phone drill: desk guy calling my number, no
ring tone anywhere. He went off to review security-camera footage. Sixth
two-hundred-step trek to complete the interrupted food delivery. Brain
sluggishly recreating the spill. Hell, the plate probably was sitting on
the phone and both got elbowed to the floor. Soon as I thought it, I
heard my phone. Somewhere. Crawled out of the car, went in the back,
burrowing through the detritus of a road trip: dirty clothes, snacks,
shoes, cooler; stuff. Phone kept ringing, my hearing too poor to
locate it. Dug to the floor, tossing Kleenex boxes and makeup kits and
god knows what around. No phone.
The phone stopped ringing. I rocked seats back and forth in case it was stuck against the console. No. By now blinded by sweat, dizzy, in pretty good pain from all the walking and bending, I gave up. Crawled back in the driver’s seat. The phone started ringing again. Beside my right foot. Must have dislodged from between seat and console, but forward, not onto the back floor.
Nothing for it but a seventh painful shamble to the desk to say
thanks, no need for security video. Eighth trek back to the car. Drove
around to the closest entrance to our room. The door wouldn’t open to my
card key. I carefully parked food on a rail and reached through an open
window to unlock the door. Amazingly the food and coffee still were warm
when I got it to her.
All that, and still no suitcase with my 02 machine. No word from the airline til 2:30. An Alaska employee called: my bag was in, the Ramada shuttle would pick up and deliver it. When I called the desk to confirm, the woman said no. No shuttle available, we don’t run errands like that anyway. Dead loss, the Ramada. I called Alaska. Don’t know what to say, the woman said, that’s the message I was given…
Over 24 hours without sleep, I had long since lost any sense of humor. I
mentioned putative hospital stays I might face without 02, due to their
negligence. Which would be their liability. She got huffy. I said time
to move this above your pay grade. An intermediate-level guy came on,
said Alaska hired a transport service to deliver my bag, his supervisor
would come with. They would drop it at the front desk. Forever far from
the room, after my exhausting morning.
No, I said. You will bring it to my room; your records establish I am
disabled. You are supposed to accommodate me, not continue to put my
health at risk. Okay, they would do that. I was on my computer, did not
hear the door. M. answered. A uniformed Alaska Air male thrust the
suitcase at her, spun on his heel with body language I read as
contemptuous, and was walking away before she could get it in the door.
Slow and crippled as I am, I was up to go after him. She blocked the
way. Pick your battles she said. You got it now, and you need sleep. She was right of course. Finally by 5:30 pm. I was asleep.
Fragmented sleep, with endless frustrating snippets of dreams. M. said
over-stimulation of the past 24 hours after years of quietness in
Centralia probably had my brain on overdrive. The portable 02 machine
did not supply continuous positive air pressure, just timed spurts. Lack
of steady pressure prevented deep sleep. I woke literally every hour
through midnight. Finally slept about four hours and woke starving. It
had been a long time since breakfast. She was awake from pain and
discomfort. And hunger. I drove us to a Denny’s eight miles away.
Things began to improve. We had a really decent breakfast, a good fast-food cook working back there. A good night-shift waiter who looked after us very well. A zero-dark-thirty coffee klatch of off-duty Denny’s
employees giggling about their boyfriends. A mild July night: low
humidity, nice breeze. We drove downtown to observe the lighted Temple
and other Mormon edifices and gardens, stuff she thought she might stop
to see on her road trip. Much nicer views than vast soulless warehouses
and marshaling yards near the motel.
Her whole upper arm looked awful, black and blue and swollen above the
wrist-forearm cast. I changed dressings on bad scrapes on her elbow,
already pink and healthy and healing. Also black and blue, her ribs, her
hips and legs. Evidence she had a hell of a tumble. Bad pain came and
went.
Little jaunts like Denny’s were warm-up to see if she was ready to
head north, or needed to go back to Nephi to see the doc who repairedher. She hates retracing steps! But I was here now, could easily drive her two hours south to the trauma center.
She had not decided by Monday, 8 July. So there I sat seven am. in one of the last places I would have expected to be. Slept an hour or so after Denny’s and had a couple pipes. She brought with her a whole package of custom tobaccos they sent to her address by mistake. Tossed it in the car (along with everything but her kitchen sink) for her trip. I said ah ha, this is what really got me to Salt Lake City, the tobacco. She did not whack me with her cast.
In seriousness, she had a hell of a time sleeping, from a chair to bed
and back, trying to find a place the arm could rest without pain. She’s
not used to sleep problems, had a lifetime of quick to sleep, quick to
rise. This time it was the lame leading the halt. Or vice versa.
Amazingly none of this depressed me. M. said it’s good I can’t even
remember very well what it was like to be clinically depressed and
immobilized during what I called my “dark decade.” Said it’s not worth
remembering. I am worn out, sleep deprived and my joints hurt like hell
— but I’m okay. I’ve proved to my own satisfaction that, even screwed up
and old, I can answer the fire bell and ride to the rescue. She said she
never doubted it. Well, I did.
We found ourselves enjoying the deep green of quaking aspens in the
parking lot, knowing they would turn bright yellow in a month or so.
Enjoying the breeze and surprisingly mild temps for Salt Lake City. I
found myself looking forward to driving her up through Utah and Idaho
and Oregon on a route I know of old, showing her Northwest stuff. When
she first proposed a country-wide road trip, she asked if I could
physically swing getting to Detroit, dealing with airport hassles and
such, to accompany her. I reluctantly said it was beyond me, I’d travel
with her vicariously by phone. And I had.
But the emergency changed the ground rules. And dammit, I got here! What remained once I had some sleep, was…our road trip together!
Shorter than across the entire nation, but still a road trip, through some of the best scenery there is. The task would be to minimize her discomfort, take in a few sights to distract her from the pain, do all the driving and pill-bottle opening and such. By Tuesday 9 July, she felt ready to travel north.
Just loading everything on a luggage cart, getting it out to the car and
packing, was a chore. The woman does not travel light. My knee gave out.
I had to wrap it in a neoprene brace. Even more of a chore to pack a car
with a crutch in one hand. And to try to keep her from impatiently
trying to “do it myself!” from lifting a sixty-pound suitcase to
unscrewing a “child proof” pill bottle. Fit and strong, she bridled at
forced inactivity.
So the thing that did her in that morning was a pill bottle.
Without thinking she canted her left wrist to apply pressure to the
“child-proof” cap. Broken bones rubbed together in her wrist. The broken
shoulder flared. Pain kept coming in waves every slightest jar of the
highway. Even on relatively smooth freeway we could not cover much
ground before she had to call a halt when increasing discomfort said it
was time for more medication.
We had lunch in a small town, Snowville, Utah, at “Molly’s Café,” an American original. Smart young waitress keeping the cowboys in stitches. M. asked, What’s a cowboy burger? Waitress:Oh, you know, bacon and chili peppers and cheese. I added: and spurs and a couple .45 cartridges. Waitress, deadpan: He knows.
We discovered Ocean Star Inc. An odd gated compound, vaguely Asian,
including koi ponds. Asked the waitress if she knew what that was about.
Yep. They harvest a special “briny shrimp” from Great Salt Lake to make
fish food for koi — said to make them healthy and long-lived — and
expanded to fish food for aqua-farming operations. Waitress’s
grandmother worked there; she said the big mansion was empty mostly,
year-round, til the “rich little old Chinese man who owns it comes
around to check the operation…” In a small mountain hamlet in Utah.
We made Twin Falls, Idaho without a plan for the night. M.’ s injuries
had woken up big time. She was hurting, almost confused. I was tired
after my first high-speed run in years. We pulled into a widely
advertised Red Lion Inn and Suites. Long pause. She said I don’t think
it’s open. Not only not open — utterly closed, boards over windows,
most of the parking lot torn up. We sat there to call around. Nothing
was available; no handicapped rooms, no reasonable rooms. Far across the
fields was what looked like a motel. We’d seen no advertising for it at
the exit. Tucked behind a truck stop, it was almost invisible. She
said it will be closed up too, maybe. But there were cars in the lot,
lights on, people moving around. A Comfort Inn as it turned out. No
ground-floor rooms, but an elevator. Super-nice and solicitous staff.
We struggled to bring in a cart full of stuff she needed to sort out.
She took a pain pill and conked for two hours. Got up to go talk to the
desk and outside for a smoke. I never heard her come back. I was gone. I
had to prop pillows under my legs to relieve back pain and prop up for
GERD, barely got my mask on before I was out. Woke later with her
sleeping again on the couch, where she conked first time. She could prop
her arm in a neutral position against the couch back; nothing to prop
against in the bed. For the first time since I got there she looked
utterly peaceful and still; sleeping deeply. I was in my usual two-hour
sleep cycle: wake; pee; sleep; repeat.
Morning of 10 July was dry and hot as hell. She woke dehydrated, game to press on, but had to admit the previous day’s travel took a lot out of her, and sudden recurrence of severe pain was unnerving. So we decided to stay over 10 July. Recover fully as we could. See some sights maybe. Head north tomorrow. The Comfort Inn put on an excellent breakfast. I went down and ate. Then prepared a plate for her — no mean trick with one hand occupied by a crutch. Scrambled eggs and Canadian bacon; Yogurt and blueberry muffins. It helped they had lids for coffee and OJ. The lean, sun-wizened
attendant saw me struggling and volunteered to get a tray and take it
upstairs; gold star for her. We left a generous tip upon departure,
complimenting her to the day manager.
After breakfast M. felt sleepy again. Since I failed to pack enough
clothes for the longer-than- anticipated trip, and was in no shape to do
laundry, I went shopping at my favorite department store, Fred Meyer.
And will be damned if Freddie’s hasn’t stopped carrying Big and Tall.
But they had Tillamook Yogurt on sale, fresh-caught boiled and peeled
cold shrimp, smoked sockeye salmon, fresh-baked French bread, lunch
supplies for a room picnic. I stopped at Goodwill for XXXL T-shirts and
XXL sweat pants. By the time I got back to the room with clothing,
cooler full of ice, and lunch (temperature 100 degrees and not even
noon) I had walked more one day than any two-week period the past year.
My airport day in Seatac and SLC, I had a loaner wheel chair to use as a
walker. Today — and the Ramada lost-telephone day — was “cold turkey.”
Just my crutch and knee brace.
After lunch we set out to find Shoshone Falls, supposedly compared by
early settlers to Niagara. A real tourist attraction. Well, yeah. But on
the road-sign and billboard evidence, there is no such place as Shoshone
Falls. Just as, arriving at the abandoned Red Lion yesterday, we saw no
evidence there was a Twin Falls. Just rolling farm fields and wide
vistas. We found Twin Falls four miles the other side of the exit where
the fields fell back to reveal the dramatic Snake River Gorge. Where
Evel Kneivel once tried to fly a motorcycle across. And crowded on the
far lip of the Gorge a full, busy, small city. We drove through, almost
in disbelief at commerce and bustling traffic. Behind the strip-
development clutter, small conventional residential neighborhoods with
conventional homes — all within blocks of the stupendous natural wonder
of the Gorge.
Going back across the bridge, I parked so she could walk
to a viewing area with other tourists. Too stove-up to go with her, I
sat and waited, grateful she exhibited the wisdom not to fiddle with her phone-camera around scenic views. That’s how this whole thing started.
Later, in search of Shoshone Falls, I wondered if it was a snipe-hunt
joke on tourists. Her AAA guidebook steered us wrong. Computer GPS
directions steered us wrong. Paper maps steered us wrong. When all else
fails, ask a local. A local gas-station clerk laughed and handed M.
printed-out step-by-step directions. Said we get this question all the
time. When we found the entrance, M. told the ranger this place is hard
to find. He said yep almost proudly, we hear that all the time.
Worth the trouble. The falls were impressive. M. was off down long steps
to the viewing platform over the chasm. No point protesting. I had to
hit the Porta Potty after all that driving. Not handicapped-friendly and
on a slant; I hosed the whole place down trying not to fall out the
door, which refused to latch. Then walked to the gift kiosk, had
farmer’s-almanac talk about the anemic growth of Idaho corn this summer.
Asked if it had been a late spring. The lady said late and wet, and you
know the old saying that begins knee-high…? I said yep, by the 4th of
July. Well not this year/, she said;yesterday was our first 90-degree
day. I did not say just my luck; hot weather hates me.
I was drenched in sweat from walking another 500 paces, potty to
concession to viewing rail, where I could see the falls plainly. No
pictures. I don’t do pictures. M. got a couple nice photos, but promised
she watched her footing. Called me smart-ass when I said the proof was
she got back in one piece — not counting previous breaks. I bought a
Falls coffee cup in honor of her stubbornness. She said I looked near
collapse back at the car. I was. Recovered driving back to Twin Falls,
leaving only tired and sore and stiff to deal with. After four straight
days of physical activity well in excess of the usual, instead of total
collapse I slumped, then recovered. I knocked on wood that would
continue. We turned in early after icing her arm again. Not the vacation
she planned. But we were turning it into one anyway.
On 11 July, in a room at Red Lion Inn and Suites in Pendleton, Oregon, I
recalled joking the previous day we should be home by Bastille Day. Now
I wrote “Maybe not a joke after all.”After leaving Twin Falls,
friendly folks at the Ontario, Oregon welcome station stayed open past
five to give me water and advice. M. was on the phone checking motels in
Ontario and Baker City; nothing appealed. I already had researched
Pendleton as interim stop before home. The Red Lion guy had all the
amenities we needed. Handicapped room. A senior discount. M. said but
Pendleton! That’s too far for one day. I said it doesn’t feel too far;
it feels like I am waking up after a two-decade hibernation. Pendleton
is doable. I was actually bemused toward the end of the run when her
nerves got frayed, all worried I was overdoing it. She said I accused
her of thinking herself superwoman for forging on through darkest Utah
when hurt. Now she could say the same of me. Me: what, that I think I’m
superwoman? M.:don’t do that! It hurts to laugh.
So: Pendleton. A very nice big room, handicapped amenities like a walk-
in shower and such. We ate at a local Shari’s. Had been a long day since
lunch. Marge confessed her arm pain began to spike as we blew through
the Blue Mountains, probably from tensing up among lead-footed assholes.
Said just being a passenger exhausted her; how was I still awake? I
wrapped her arm with an ice pack, gave her a pain pill and got her
settled in a comfortable position. The ugly black along her whole arm
and hip and leg was fading, large patches of normal skin beginning to
show; she has quick recuperative powers. But the bones of course would
take a lot longer.
We arrived in Pendleton after my longest high-speed
run in over ten years. Eighty-mph posted speed limit; a thrill to use it
after all the idiotic double-nickel years. I seemed to be coming to life
in the crisis, though she was really suffering. I knew of old what was
coming in the Blue Mountains: the up and down and around, the snaking
turns; the grades so steep there are escape ramps for heavy trucks that
burn out their brakes. We passed one, halfway up a dirt ramp. M. asked
what happens if they run out of ramp? Guess they learn if they can fly…
The journey was rendered harder by almost horizontal afternoon sun asthe freeway snaked in and out of mountain shadow, really giving old eyes a workout. We were heading west into the fireball. But my glasses darkened so well I didn’t need extra sunglasses. And I was in that old road-tripping zone of years gone by. Never thought I’d find that zone again.
Before Pendleton, in Boise, we found a wonderful gas station diner
called the Stagecoach Inn, something like it. /Huevos rancheros/ to die
for; refried beans were transcendent. Who knew beans could taste like
that? Wonderful huge root beer float with Tillamook ice cream. Not quite
the A&W ones we had at Snowville and later Twin Falls — A&W alive and
well far out in flyover country! I found that as pleasing as China and
silverware in a first-class airplane seat. M. said Stagecoach/chorizo/ was best she’d ever had and she’s a Mexican food snob. (French-Canadian raised in a Polish neighborhood in Motor City; go figure.) We bought two of their souvenir coffee cups to honor the experience.
After the run to Pendleton my eyes were exhausted. I was too. Sleep-deprived by the sporadic puffing of the rental 02 machine. We decided it was a good idea to stand down a day before taking on the Columbia Gorge, and Portland weekend traffic. Unfortunately there was a “whiskey festival” in Pendleton, no motel-room availability.
We had dinner at a Shari’s down the street, slept the best we could.
After breakfast at Shari’s we decided to take time to tour Pendleton
Woolen Mills, an old favorite of mine — the only hunting shirts her dad
would wear. And she wanted to fax medical paperwork to the Washington
doctor since a call indicated they had not received it from Nephi, never
found a fax. But we found the mills easily. Triple-digit heat was
enervating, awfully hot to look at woolens, but Pendleton has branched
into cottons over the years. She scored some nice stuff at outlet
prices. They send their spun wool to Mexico now for shirt-making. I have
two of the last ones made here that have endured twenty years without
apparent wear. But Mexico craftsmanship has impressed us both before
this. And there were 4XL Pendletons on sale, crafted so the pattern on
the pockets align with the shirt pattern — a pet peeve of mine is
pockets sewn on without aligning the pattern. So now I have two Mexican
Pendletons. The outlet, marginally cooler than outside, dehydrated me.
And there were ten steps up to the front door. I long since stopped
doing steps. But hey, it was Pendleton Woolen Mills! I entertained her
with stories of trying out for the news-editor job with the Pendleton
East Oregonian in 1973. I was on the desk for a trial run the day Mao
died; simple page-one banner that day. The Pendleton Roundup, third
largest rodeo in the US, was starting too, streets full of cowboys.
Interesting juxtaposition of hammer, sickle, spurs and bucking broncos.
(Didn’t get the job offer.)
She used her phone to find another Comfort Inn in Hermiston, thirty
miles on. With another A&W Root Beer place across the parking lot!
Burgers made from scratch. Fresh meat and vegetables, good fries;
floats, of course. We gorged on A&W, brewed good coffee in the maker I
insisted we get in the SLC Costco since I forgot my old travel
percolator. I don’t do road trips without coffee! The Comfort Inn was
hospitable and well-staffed as the Twin Falls one. Must have been well-
insulated too, because sound from the enormous truck stop next door
never penetrated despite constant coming and going. Next afternoon, we
drove over to the Columbia River, found a perfectly maintained,
exquisite Corps of Engineers park on the water. People fishing and
swimming and motor-boating, and something we’d neither ever seen: stand-up pedal boards. In the sun dazzle, a man came casually walking upstream in the middle of the wide river. We watched a long time. Finally he circled close enough to see how the thing worked. He was cocky; wasn’t
even wearing a life vest. We stayed until sundown. A pleasant, peaceful
interlude. Just like a real vacation.
Back in Hermiston we decided to go out late for a Denny’s meal. Which
led to a comedic circling of darkened streets, trying to interpret phone
GPS directions. My co-pilot said unkind things about GPS. I said
Korzybski and other general semanticists always caution the map is not
the territory; the word is not the thing itself. Must apply to GPS too.
Incredulous look from co-pilot. Dire mutterings. We puzzled it out by
doing the exact opposite of what the GPS said do. Slept okay, rose and
departed in good order. Two hours to The Dalles for brunch in a
bar, watching outflow from one of the giant Columbia dams. She relished
some sort of poached-egg salmon Hollandaise concoction. Marvelous French fries. I had an excellent omelet — and grits! Real grits, with butter,
cooked right. In Oregon! Biscuits too, of course.
Signs in The Dalles: The Naked Winery — We Aim to Tease. Adult Store — and Pipes. I restrained curiosity and we drove on. The name of the town comes from voyageur French used to refer to rapids of the Columbia River between the present-day city and Celilo Falls, a major Native American trading center for at least 10,000 years. Leaving the freeway for the old Gorge roads, we found a village of native fishermen — low-end subdivision
houses, nothing remotely historical — tucked uphill from the river:
boats on trailers, drying nets, wandering dogs and children, suspicious
glances through screen doors.
She loved the Gorge, said I had not oversold it as an attraction. I took
her up hair-raising (if I had hair) winding roads to high promontories
with vast views of the river. Took the old highways with brief sojourns
on I-84. Barges on the river were like the Rhine in Germany. M. said she
never in her life had needed rescue. But when she finally did, I was
there. Made me feel damn good. It was fun teasing her about her stubborn
independence. And seeing her relax and realize it was her turn to be
pampered, after she has pampered me so much. On the Pinnacle View
overlook she laughed and said wonder what the tourists think about the
two old codgers snuggling by the stone wall. I said if they’re smart
they’re envious.
We took longer than the estimated 45 minutes to the cute little town of
Hood River, at the confluence of the eponymous River and the Columbia in
the heart of the Gorge. Sailboarders and para-gliders and kayakers —
probably pedal-boarders too — were out in force, colorful sails and such
in the bright sun, festive as a hot-air balloon gathering. We caught
glimpses of snow on Mount Hood about 30 miles south, tallest peak in the
state, and of the town of White Salmon, Washington across the Columbia
bridge.
Multnomah Falls, nearer Portland, was a disappointment. By July the flow
was very low. But that wasn’t the disappointment. The road to the Falls
was narrow and restrictive. We were stopped well short of the site by
backed-up cars. Within minutes there were thirty more cars behind us. No
escape. No signs warning of congestion, no traffic control; empty
government vehicles beside the road, rangers nowhere in sight. When we
inched forward finally, streams of people criss-crossed the roadway in
erratic spurts from parking lots to Falls, not letting cars through.
Each car had to wait for a split-second break. Children ran wild,
darting back and forth. Unnerving. Parking lots full, line of waiting
cars at each. I drove past to a spot I could turn around. A car ahead
did the same, came past: burnished-gold, brand-new Mustang. It looked
like real gold, not paint. Surreal. When I turned and followed to where
it was stalled again by foot traffic, I noticed the license plate:
Arabic letters. The only English: Qatar. And an embassy sticker. The big
engine rumbled like a tank. He was trying to turn left into one of the
parking lots. Cars from the other direction kept slipping between floods
of pedestrians. The engine grumbled and revved. I half- expected him to
force his way through. Casualties would be dismissed; he’d fly home free.
A Washington driver behind me got impatient and passed me. She passed
him with his left-turn signal flaring as he tried to edge across. His
windows were desert-dark, so I could not see the driver’s reaction. But
the whole Mustang seemed to quiver at the insult. She nudged through
pedestrians and away. Another car from behind followed her. Another
Washington soccer mom. The Mustang quivered but did not break. Okay I
said, here goes nothing. We got by too. Went back to a lesser Falls,
Horseshoe. Plenty of parking there. Still dramatic: hundreds of feet of
falling white water, cooling the air. Triggering my pee reflex. M. went
to take pictures. I went to the front of her van and watered bushes. She
said you have irrigated across the West. Horseshoe Falls was lovely
enough to mitigate disappointment, and we moved on.
Not the best Horseshoe photo, but indicative
Sunday traffic approaching Portland was hectic. Road signs failed to
direct me to I-205 North. Rather than fight in at the last minute I went
south, found an exit, and looked for gas and a restroom. M. had remarked
she was not equipped for outdoor peeing behind the car. We got that
taken care of and went back north across the Columbia into Washington on
I-5. I was looking for a Burgerville, a Northwest icon. First one I ever
saw, here in Vancouver, the next-door Golden Arches had a bragging
sign: /millions of burgers sold/. Burgerville’s sign: /millions behind,
help us catch up/! I did. Couldn’t find the remembered Burgerville;
asked a local. His directions sent us on a wild-goose chase all the way
back to the freeway. Next exit had a Burgerville sign. I ate their
signature salmon salad. M. had a burger with Walla Walla sweet onions, a
specialty, and she loves Walla Walla onions. Plus an Oregon-strawberry
shake with ice cream from Tillamook, another Northwest icon. She said I
was trying to wean her away from Michigan and keep her here. Could be…
I-5 north was a road race with home-bound Seattlites and Tacomans making
stupid dangerous passes with no signal. We saw near-disasters avoided by
the thickness of a paint job. Slogged through a slowdown caused by a
wrecked semi with two trailers, strewn all over. Looked as if he might
have been forced to slam on the Jake Brake, his load shifted and broke
the trailer connection to his cab, punching it off the side of the road
as trailers fishtailed and flipped. Again I believe it is a miracle the
highway carnage is not worse, the way people drive.
Another slowdown south of Centralia, so I had to leave the freeway and
work my way home in the dark via back roads. We aired out the house,
turned on the AC, brought in the bare essentials, and sat talking late
into the night to unwind from road stress. I already had purchased big
pillows before I left to support her arm and shoulder in a neutral
position for sleeping. I got her arranged with Tylenol and ice (the pain
not severe enough now for heavier meds) and she conked out. She slept
through, without thrashing or moaning. I retired to my recliner and home
02 machine. The positive-pressure air flow put me right under. We both
caught up on lost sleep.
We were home and dry as the Brits style it. On Bastille Day.
M.’s pain level was much reduced after good sleep. Refreshing rain came
in on a coastal squall-weather pattern. We sat on my back porch with
Seattle’s Best Coffee, listening to rain patter on the roof, talking
about everything and nothing. When the sun came out through the
cloudburst, she said there should be a rainbow. Soon as she said it,
there was. A very dramatic, vivid rainbow over the neighbor’s yard. She
was able to get a good photo. While snorting at my cautionary reminder
that, given her Utah pratfall, a career in photography might not be her
best bet.
Five years later I am in bad shape. M. had gone home for the holidays and came back for a visit 2020, literally days before the world wide Covid panic. We hunkered down to ride it out, got the recommended vaccinations, wiped down everything coming into the house, etc. Out of nowhere I had the first major sarcoidosis flare-up in years. Evidently stress can cause that. Doctors half my age had no idea what sarcoidosis is. A biopsy was lost. An open sore on my foot developed cellulitis . I spent days in hospital surrounded by space-suited staff and dying Covid patients.
My first hospital stay of too many. I live in chronic pain and with chronic fatigue, housebound. But I tell M. I am the luckiest man alive. She chose to stay and care for me. Not an easy task. I keep hoping to get better. Well enough to do all the things we did when she came back to me. (We’ve become one of those cute little old couples walking arm in arm in the rain she said as we left my favorite Indian-food restaurant run by an Irishman. That was her first visit.)
Here’s hoping we get back there. If the good Lord’s willing. If the creek don’t rise. If society doesn’t implode. If plagues retreat. If locusts and drought
and earthquake hold off. If asteroids continue to miss.
Hope springs eternal.
