Cindi’s mom made us breakfast out on the patio, and the local DJ dedicated a song to us on KCAD. It was then it was time to get in some nature before the party began. We headed west, to Theodore Roosevelt National Park, and decided to do some hiking. Since we hadn’t really planned on hiking, none of us were prepared; we had no water, and I was wearing flipflops. But I’ve been in much worse situations before.

painted canyon, in the badlands

cindi and matt on the trail

my awesome flipflop tan

We hiked down to the bottom of the canyon, wandered around for a while, then had to hike back out. It wasn’t easy. We got to the top and all had to rest for a while. It was hot and dry, and we were thankful for the warm outdoor drinking fountain.

Further west, we passed the Home on the Range for Wayward Boys:

Then we drove to the Montana border, since neither Wendy nor Jumi had been there before.

matt in montana, while we were in north dakota

we took turns riding in the trunk

We then turned around and headed to the Medora exit, to see the cute little town Cindi had been telling us about. It was full-on western. We had lunch at the Cowboy Cafe, because they served buffalo. Ick.

horse tongue!

matt’s buffalo steak

We wandered around, stopping into a few shops, and then Wendy rode the mechanical bull. We also had beers at the Iron Horse Pub, and sat out on the patio in the glorious weather. Well, I laid on the bench there. They didn’t seem to mind. It was perfect.

Late in the afternoon, it was time to head back to Dickinson. We took a spin through another part of the park first, to see the prairie dog villages (note: Jumi is scared of prairie dogs!) and look for buffalo. We didn’t see any (presumably because they’d eaten them all at the Cowboy Cafe), but we did see a very, very excited male horse. We couldn’t stop talking about it.

Back in Dickinson, it was rodeo time. I’d never been to a rodeo before, so I had no clue what to expect.

cowboy with a cellphone

We got our programs and started putting money on the riders, though none of us actually ended up settling our bets afterward. Matt opened his program and said, “hey, mine’s signed already!” Deb got very excited, because apparently that meant he won something. When they did drawings later, his prize was revealed: a championship belt buckle. SO AWESOME.

calf roping

this kid spent half the rodeo glaring at us. he was hysterical.

I’m glad I got to see the rodeo, but I’m glad I don’t have to go see one again. I kind of felt bad for the animals, especially the calves for roping.

We went to dinner with Cin’s parents at the Crunchy Kitten, where Terry couldn’t stop giggling over double-entendres. Afterward, we headed downtown (sans parents) to Uncle Ron’s Spur Bar, where crappy karaoke was in full swing.

wendy’s $3 beer

We were kind of bored with the place, so we decided to go to Army’s West instead. That may have been a mistake on a few levels.

1) a girl told Jumi they didn’t play much hip-hop there (presumably because she’s black)
2) they had long islands in pitchers that they just served with a bunch of straws
3) there was a crazy lesbian (presumably on meth) on the dance floor that scared everyone
4) they played the ‘Numa Numa’ song (which is the reason we decided to finally leave)
5) lots of potential date-rape action going on with the dancing.

ICK. However, we rocked the naked lady matching game. A lot.

I left Minneapolis at 8am with the car neatly organized, clutching a huge iced coffee. The drive out of Minneapolis was uneventful until I hit Moorhead, where I lost half an hour in a traffic jam. Who waits in traffic to get to Fargo? Besides me, I mean.

North Dakota was completely flat for 100 miles, but it’s all on this slight uphill grade. I crossed the continental divide, which I was pretty sure was in Montana, but who knows? The terrain in mid-North Dakota is hilly and open, like Kansas, only the billboards are less about god and more about the many benefits of ethanol. I stopped in Jamestown about 1:30 to see the world’s largest buffalo, not to mention the world’s largest buffalo balls, which were majestic and alarming at the same time.

I drove through downtown Jamestown and found nothing but scary bars, so I picked a mexican place by the mall for lunch. It sucked, but I was drinking coffee, and that’s all that mattered.

Making good time through North Dakota, I decided to pull off to see what the ‘Enchanted Highway’ signs were all about. I drove for a few miles and saw nothing of interest. As I made a u-turn in the middle of a tiny little highway, I noticed that it was really, really hard to turn the wheel. I freaked.

(Some background: I have intense car-trouble paranoia, which is not completely unsubstantiated. [Evidence: exhibit 1, exhibit 2] I occasionally have this sense that my finely-engineered Swedish automobile is nothing more than a jumble of parts held together with scotch tape and twine, and it’s just waiting for the exact worst moment to fall apart in a million pieces around me. And, really, as far as worst moments go, this was close: I was in the middle of nowhere – or at least I thought I was, until I discovered Montana, I was alone, I had no cell signal, and I was on the very first day of a trip of undetermined length.)

I pulled over and quickly realized that the car was still running fine, but the power steering had gone out. I asked myself, ‘Can I take this trip through the mountains with no power steering?’ Um, no. So I got back on the interstate and exited at the next town: Dickinson, North Dakota, the last glimmer of civilization for 400 miles. I stopped at T-Rex Conoco (right past the T-Rex Mall!), pulled out my manual, popped the hood, and located the power steering fluid reservoir. I opened the cap and a wisp of smoke rose from the empty tank. I went into the gas station. I grabbed a bottle of power steering fluid and went up to the counter to ask the mechanic for his advice. Is this the right fluid? Was this normal? No, there must be a leak. Try filling the reservoir and see if it leaks out again. He explained how to get the fluid back in the system: turn the steering wheel all the way to the right, and all the way to the left.

I bought two bottles to be on the safe side, went to the car, and emptied one into the reservoir. I got in the car and did exactly like he said. The power steering came back right away, but it was loud and whiny. I drove into a nearby neighborhood and turned donuts in the middle of intersections, hoping it was working. It seemed to be driving fine, so I decided to get back on the interstate and exit at the next gas station, to check the level again. 18 miles down the road, I discovered that the reservoir was once again completely empty. I drove to another little service station and asked the guy for help. He apologized and said he was about to close, still had work to do, and doubted he could get the parts for a foreign car anyway. My best bet was to go back to Dickinson. I wanted to cry, but decided that this was all part of the adventure, and if I had to spend a night waiting in North Dakota, I could handle it. I emptied the other bottle of fluid into my car and headed back to Dickinson.

When I got there, I stopped at Conoco again, and checked the reservoir. This time, it had stayed at the right level, and it wasn’t making the whining noise anymore. I went in and talked to the same guy, asking him if he thought it had just taken that much fluid to fill it up, so now it would be fine. He said that was probably the case, but wanted to take a look anyway. He came outside with me and inspected the whole engine, checking for leaks while I turned the wheels back and forth. He said everything looked fine, and that Saab had probably forgotten to fill the reservoir when they had replaced the hoses in January. I told him that I was headed into Montana, and was really scared to leave civilization with a potential car issue. He laughed, and said that his advice was to get on the road and head to Billings, 430 miles away. They had a Saab dealership. If I could get that far, there’d be no problem getting parts for the car. He told me to be brave. I wanted to hug him for being so awesome, but I controlled myself. I got the crappiest iced coffee of my life at the Java Hut (by the T-Rex Mall!) and got back on the road. 60 miles and three quick stops-to-check-the-steering-fluid later, I was in Montana.

The second you cross the border into Montana, you become very aware of the fact that you have entered the middle of nowhere. You think you’ve been in remote places before. You’ve witnessed the emptiness of Nebraska and Oklahoma, but you’ve never seen anything like this. And it makes you very nervous, because you have a car in questionably-functional condition, your cellphone is useless, and you’re alone. But a North Dakota mechanic has ordered you to be brave, so you have no choice but to comply.

I stopped at the travel center in Montana, and was a little weirded out by the fact that mine was the only car in the lot, apart from a broken-down pickup that looked to have been there for some time. I went inside and was relieved to find a woman working there. I told her I was headed to Glacier, and wanted to know the best route. She unfolded a giant map (Montana is so huge that it requires a map at least twice the normal size) and showed me how the route via the interstate was 750 miles at 75mph, and the Highway 2 route was 500 miles at 70mph. Taking Highway 2 required a hundred-mile detour through the heart of Absolutely Nothing, but it meant I’d still get to Glacier a lot quicker. Also, Highway 2 (known as the Great Northern Route, because of the railroad) is one of the trips featured in my travel bible, Road Trip U.S.A., so it held a certain appeal.

At that point, I had to decide: take the long route, which was also the path to safety because it was the way to the Saab dealership in Billings, or take my chances with the short route. After checking the steering fluid again, I decided to take my chances.

I stopped for gas and dinner in Glendive, the last city on I-94 before the exit for the Highway 2 route. I called Heather from a payphone at the gas station, figuring it might be my last brush with modern technology that evening. Then I went to find dinner. I decided it would be really funny to eat at one of the many, many casinos in town (in Montana, everything is a casino). I walked in and got a glimpse of the pile of meat on the buffet.

Me: Can I ask? I’m vegetarian. Is there anything I can eat here?
Waitress: (grimacing) Um… well, there’s the salad bar.
Me: OK. Do you know if there are any sit-down type places in town where I’d find something?
Waitress: (calling other waitress over) Do you know if Pizza Hut has a vegetable–
Me: Uh, I can’t eat Pizza Hut. Like, any regular restaurants?
Waitress: There’s CC’s. Or the Chinese place. No, that’s closed Mondays.
Me: And CC’s is, like, what kind of food?
Waitress: Oh, you know. You order off the menu.

I drove over to CC’s, and quickly realized it was the place where the locals hung out. Breakfast all day, sandwiches, liver and onions. The only things on the menu I could eat were a salad and cottage cheese and fruit. I ordered both. They had no light dressing. An old waitress leaned over the counter and raved about my hair color. The slutty-looking bleached-blonde chick in the corner was staring at me every time I looked up. I covered the table with my huge Montana map, AAA travel guide, and travel diary, and crammed fruit in my mouth while scribbling furiously: everyone here is either old or fat or both. awesome!

I was back on the road just as it was getting dark. The landscape in eastern Montana is beautiful, kind of scrubby and hilly, and completely desolate. I came over a rise and saw the most incredible sky I’d ever seen (OK, it’s goofy, but now I understand why it’s called ‘big sky country’. It’s completely true). There were low-hanging, dark clouds, and I could see rain off in the distance. The setting sun was vibrant fuchsia on the horizon, filtering through the rain. I saw huge lightning strikes off to the west. I hoped I wasn’t driving into a storm. By the time I got to Highway 2, it was raining a little, but not much. It was windy, with a sort of unsettled feeling in the air. I got out at a gas station to buy sunflower seeds (my new favorite roadtrip snack: 1) they’re low-calorie, 2) they’ve got lots of protein, 3) they come in many flavors, and 4) they keep you awake), and everyone inside was talking about how badly they needed rain.

I got back in the car and headed off along Highway 2. My plan for the night was to drive as far as I could, then pull off at a rest stop and sleep in the backseat. After a hundred miles or so, it became clear that there were no rest stops. In fact, there was nothing at all. No buildings, no signs, no crossroads that I could see, no lights. A car would pass me going the other direction every 15 or 20 minutes. If I could have seen well enough what was near the road, I would’ve been happy to just pull off and rest. But I couldn’t see anything, and was convinced if I did that, I’d wake up in the middle of a horror-movie scene. So I kept going.

Around midnight, I arrived at the town of Glasgow. There was one larger combination casino/motel, and four or five smaller motels. I was prepared to take anything, but all the little motels had ‘no vacancy’ signs out front. I turned around and went back to the Cottonwood Inn (don’t let ‘casino’ conjure images of Vegas or anything – this was essentially a Best Western with a cowboy theme and some slot machines off the lobby). I ran inside and asked the woman at the counter how much a single room was. She told me $63. I balked. She said, “You’re welcome to try the next town. It’s 70 miles down the road.” I took the room.

As I went back out to get my bags from the car, I was happy to have stopped. I had driven 770 miles, and had dealt with car trouble, too. The wind outside had picked up and was whipping garbage around the parking lot. I dashed inside and locked myself in my room. As I unpacked to take a shower, I suddenly became aware of the quiet. It was the first night of the first trip I’d ever taken by myself. I felt very alone.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

yo la tengo is the perfect music for western north dakota. it’s like the badlands, only grassier. half the exits say ‘no services’.

things what suck: not having anyone to talk to. no signal. not sharing the experiences. i’ll never be able to say, ‘remember what the sky looked like that first night in montana?’

good things: i can drive a ton on my own. super-nice and quirky people everywhere i go. the way the crappiest food tastes good when you’re on the road and hungry. dill-flavored sunflower seeds!

i miss heather a lot tonight.

– – – – –

On day two of my trip, I began what would be an ongoing contest with myself: to see how quickly I could get out of bed and on the road in the morning. The night before leaving a town, I would pack everything up (the little I had allowed myself to unpack in the first place; if I was just staying somewhere for one night, I didn’t even bring my suitcase in, I just dug clothes and underwear out and shoved them into my shoulder bag – and it’s funny the kind of fashion decisions one makes while rooting through the trunk in the dark at midnight), and everything else I needed to use in the morning would be laid out neatly and deposited back in my bag as soon as it was used. This orderliness was due to two factors: first, I am incredibly, ridiculously impatient. The faster I could get through the formalities of hair and clothes in the morning and get on the road, the better. Second, having everything in order was a way of maintaining sanity. As my friends know well, you can always tell my mental state by my surroundings.

Anyway, I was back on Highway 2 by 7am. I finally got a glimpse of all the nothingness I could only imagine the night before, and it was even less spectacular than I thought. Whereas eastern Montana was all hills and scenic vistas, central Montana is rolling grasslands as far as you can see. (Do you remember that scene in Priscilla, Queen of the Desert when they come up over a rise in the Winnebago and see the Outback laid out before them for miles and miles, going on forever? I had that exact same moment leaving the town of Glasgow.) At this point, I realized that I was relating whatever landscape I was seeing to something else I had seen before, e.g. ‘Central Montana is just like Colorado, only less arid.’ This developed into a game: ‘Kansas with a hint of southern Oklahoma.’ ‘Iowa without the Iowans.’ ‘If Pennsylvania and Missouri had a baby, only Kentucky was the real father, and he was abusive.’

I wondered what I was going to be like after a few more days spent alone. I started to worry.

Left: There’s a ton of road construction on Highway 2. It’s often down to one lane for traffic going both directions, so you have to sit and wait for the Pilot Car to lead you to safety. Right: Cut Bank, Montana, the coldest spot in the nation.

Another thing about Montana: you know those little markers you sometimes see on the side of the road where someone was killed in an accident? Generally a cross and flowers? (Speaking of which, the creepiest one we ever saw was on the Deep South Roadtrip: three crosses on the side of the interstate. One said ‘Jennifer’, one said ‘Jason’, and we didn’t catch the name on the last one. That’s probably for the best, because I’m sure it said ‘Heather’. Since we didn’t see it, we were safe.) In Montana, those crosses are an organized effort. Everywhere someone has died on the road, they put up a little white cross. Often, you see clusters of crosses. I saw way more dead people than living people on Highway 2.

Road Trip U.S.A. told me never to pass a gas station in Montana with less than a quarter-tank of gas, so I obeyed. I was stopping often to pee and get beverages, which is also a good way to stay awake when you’re driving in less-than-interesting territory. I reached Shelby around 10am and drove into town, having seen a billboard with the magic word on it: espresso. I found the little ice cream shop, and ended up with not only a really good iced latte, but a scoop of sugar-free raspberry gelato. I sat there and wrote postcards, then scribbled in my travel journal: i’ve been asked four times if i won this car on ‘the price is right’. I’ve had these license plates for a year and a half now, and no one has ever asked me that before. Bizarre.

I reached the St. Mary entrance on the east side of Glacier National Park at 2pm. According to a sign on the highway, I was 30 miles from the Canadian border, and Canada closes at 11pm. I was a little nervous about driving through the Rockies with my potential power steering issue, not to mention the fact that my brakes were in bad shape when I left home. I had been meaning to have our friend, Nathan, replace them, but hadn’t had the time. Also, I had never driven through the mountains before. Not mountains like these, at least.

I stopped quickly at the visitors center to get maps of the hiking trails. At the gate, I decided to spring for the $50 annual national parks pass, which ended up being worth the price. I drove a few miles into the park, then stopped and took a short, steep hike to see a waterfall.

On the way back up, I encountered a group of four Amish people, two men and two women. The men asked me about the hike. Why was I so amused to find Amish people hiking in our National Parks? I think it was the idea of the women sporting hiking boots under those heavy, impractical dresses.

I got back in the car and drove up and up, pulling off the road to take a million pictures. I reached Logan Pass, the continental divide, at 6600 feet elevation. The visitor center was mobbed. I followed the signs to the hiking trail, which led to an overlook point a mile and a half away. I got a few hundred feet up the path before noticing that it disappeared into a snow hill. I climbed over it and saw that the whole side of the mountain was covered in snow. The pathway peeked out in a few places. There were people all over the place, so I decided to climb up there anyway. I was worried about being cold in my tshirt and capris, but hardly anyone was wearing a jacket, and it was warm and sunny. In fact, it was so sunny that I had given in and put suntan lotion all over, even on my face, knowing that I was going to get zits because of it (skin cancer is worse than zits, apparently).

The snow was starting to melt a little in the sun, especially near the path. I quickly discovered that the best way to climb through it was to run in the looser stuff away from the path, rather than where it was hard-packed and slippery. So I kind of leapt and bounded my way up the hill, taking some pleasure in passing everyone, including the snowboarders. I jumped past a guy who gasped, “I can’t do this, I live at sea level!” I was unused to the altitude, so I was out of breath immediately, but didn’t feel tired at all. About two-thirds of the way up, there was a tiny, narrow trail along the edge of a steep hill. All of a sudden, I was terrified. I was wearing slippery running shoes. I have the worst balance ever. (No, really. I have trouble walking in a straight line. Something about the inner ear infections I had constantly as a kid.) Luckily, there was a long line of people creeping slowly along the edge, so I was forced to take my time. I tried not to think about the climb back down. By the time I got near the top, my shoes were soaked, and there was snow creeping down my ankles and into my socks. The ground was muddy, and we had to pick our way through streams by balancing on rocks. At the overlook, there was a crown of people lounging in the sun, eating protein bars and drinking gatorade. We took each other’s pictures and enjoyed the view. I tried hard not to think about how I was more likely to make it down the mountain inside a giant snowball than on my own feet.

I was starting the downhill trek when I heard a noise to my right. Just as I turned to look, a mountain goat went barreling past me. Then two more came down the hill, all of them making this loud bleating noise that sounded exactly like ‘mom!’ And they were actually yelling for their mom, who appeared on the other side of the slope, surrounded by hikers with cameras. Now, I’m the first to admit that I’m completely unprepared for any sort of wilderness adventure, because I find myself asking questions like, ‘Can mountain goats hurt me? Should I be standing this close?’ (I’m the same girl who’s impressed with the preparedness of the other snow-climbers just because they’re wearing hiking boots and carrying walking sticks.)

Once I got back to the snow-covered part of the hill, I discovered that it was easier to run downhill as well, as long as it wasn’t so steep that I couldn’t stop. The snow seemed about ten times more slippery, but I managed to stay on my feet. When I got back to the narrow trail, I stopped, scared to go any further. To whoever was listening, I said, “I’m really afraid of dying on this mountain right now.” The woman ahead of me turned and said, “SHHH!” Very slowly, we crept along the trail, teetering on the far edge whenever people had to pass going the other direction. A few times, I started to panic and had to just stop and stand there, up to my calves in snow. But I made it through, and ran the rest of the way down the hill. By the time I got to my car, my feet were numb from the cold, and I was starving.

I drove down the long descent from Logan Pass, noticing that my brakes were squealing. Another mountain goat wandered into the road and up to my car. I got an impromptu car wash at the Weeping Wall. I spent a few contemplative minutes on the stone beach at Lake McDonald. I stopped at the west entrance visitor center to write postcards, and I was on my way.

I got back on Highway 2 and started looking for a place to spend the night. I almost peed my pants with excitement when my cell service returned in Kalispell, Montana. I drove around to five or six hotels, running in to ask about their rates. Half of them were already booked up, and they were all ridiculously expensive. Exhausted and irritated, I dragged out my AAA guide and found a listing for the Glacier Gateway Motel. The woman behind the counter was the owner, and she obviously took a lot of pride in taking care of the rooms. It was perfect: a tiny little cubicle with a twin bed and shower stall, very clean, and $40. It might as well have been the Ritz, as happy as I was to be staying there. I dumped my stuff in the room, grabbed the local newspaper, and quickly found an ad for a restaurant with the other magic word: vegetarian. I ate dinner on the patio at the Knead Cafe, digging through a stack of travel brochures I’d picked up at the motel. On my way out, they give me a huge loaf of rosemary-tomato bread, because they had leftovers. I went back to the hotel happy, took a long shower, examined my hard-earned, glowing sunburn, and made a bunch of phone calls just for the sheer novelty of having a signal again. By 11pm, I was asleep.

I woke up at 7:30, having slept really hard in my little cubicle of a room. I drove around Kalispell, and stopped at a cute bread shop for coffee and a bagel. I would have shopped in town, but it was 8am and nothing was open (a trend I noticed along the way: the further west you go, the later people seem to get going in the morning). I got back on the road, heading towards Idaho. Western Montana is beautiful: hills, rivers, and pine forests. Except where they’re being chopped down, that is. I pulled off at a poorly-marked rest area that Road Trip USA said was a worthwile stop, and set off on the half-mile hike to the Kootenai River. (I’m aware of the stupidity of hiking alone in the middle of nowhere, by the way. It was a conscious decision.)

I walked up to the falls first, laid down on a huge, flat rock, and enjoyed the sun and the complete silence. Then I hiked the other direction, to the swinging bridge. On the way there, I started to feel a little bit fuzzy, and had to walk slower. By the time I got to the bridge, I was feeling like crap. My blood sugar had dropped, and I was tired, dizzy, and sick to my stomach. So I did the most logical thing, which was to cross the bridge. It bounced and swayed in the wind, which was fun for about 15 seconds, and then just made me sicker. I clung to the rope and took pictures to distract myself.

Then I wobbled back to the platform and sat down with my head against the railing. Part of me wished that someone would come along and reassure me that I was not going to die alone in the wilderness, but the other part of me realized that wasn’t a great idea, in case they decided I was in really bad shape and called for an ambulance. No insurance. I sat for about twenty minutes and convinced myself I was starting to feel better. I got up and started hiking back up the hill. I was shaky and having trouble seeing, but I pushed as hard as I could, knowing that adrenaline would help get me back to normal. By the time I got back to my car, I felt a little better, and resolved not to tell Heather, since she would yell at me for getting sick in the middle of nowhere.

I crossed into Idaho mid-morning, and the speed limit on Highway 2 dropped to 60mph. Everyone in Idaho drives a pickup truck and wears big mirrored sunglasses. Their license plates read, ‘Famous Potatoes’. Ha. I stopped in Sandpoint for lunch. It’s a cute little resort town that seems to be centered around a big Coldwater Creek store. I parked on the main street and wandered around, looking for lunch. I expected to have no trouble finding decent vegetarian food in that kind of town, but was quickly proven wrong. Half the restaurants were already closed for the 4th of July (does it make sense to shut down a resort town over a national holiday?), and the other half seemed to value meat pretty highly. I finally found a really cute Italian restaurant with good veggie lasagna and better espresso, and sat out on the patio and wrote postcards from Idaho.

At some point after lunch, I got to Washington. I had expected to go through Coeur d’Alene and join up with I-90, but I was wrong. I was on the outskirts of Spokane at a gas station before I realized that I had left Idaho, and was probably in the Pacific time zone. I drove into Spokane and called Heather. It was 3pm, and I had made better time than I had expected, so I figured if she could find me a cheap hotel in Seattle, I’d drive the rest of the way there and have an extra day in town. She called back with the address of the Hyatt Regency in Bellevue, a whole $35 a night on Priceline. (Have I mentioned yet that I love Priceline? I do. Despite Shatner, even.) I was thrilled.

I stopped to see Riverfront Park, mainly because Road Trip USA told me they had a giant Radio Flyer. It was indeed giant, and I was a little jealous of the kids climbing on it. Riverfront Park was nice, the kind of place I’d spend a lot of time walking around if I lived there, but Spokane in general was just kind of… um… exactly like you’d expect Spokane, Washington to be like, I guess. Lots of strip malls, kind of industrial. I was in a hurry to get to Seattle. Before I left Spokane, though, I took this very patriotic picture out my sunroof. It’s at a Perkins. Doesn’t it make you proud to be an American? Yeah. Me too.

I got on I-90 and set the cruise for a speed somewhere between legal and breaking the sound barrier. Then I got on the phone to kill time, as I still had 300 miles to go. (I know there are many, many of you who hate people like me for just that reason, but I’m not apologizing. I’m just as reckless off the phone as on it. In my defense, however: I’ve been driving for 15 years, and never been in an accident, or gotten a single speeding ticket. So shut up.) I was surprised at the terrain in Washington; I had expected all hills and pine trees, but the central part of the state is pretty flat and arid (Colorado with a splash of Oklahoma). I crossed the Columbia River, and stopped briefly at the overlook.

After crossing the river, it was pretty much all mountain pass the rest of the way. I had to turn off the air conditioning. I was sick to death of listening to the same dance CD over and over, but driving through mountains at 85mph takes full concentration, so I couldn’t change it. The mountains (Cascade? I should use the internet to verify this, but I’m lazy.) end about 20 miles outside Seattle. I switched to the radio and laughed really hard because the first song I heard on the rock station was by Alice in Chains. I found my hotel easily, parked underground, and hauled out my giant duffel bag. This was a novelty, as I’d been digging clothes out of it so far. The hotel was super nice, and I was on the 21st floor, one of the extra-swank rooms. I’m pretty sure I was the only non-Japanese tourist in the place. I set up my laptop and got my email, which was not as big a thrill as I expected; I’m pretty good with traveling sans internet. I was too tired to even think about going to find dinner, so I opted for room service: red lentil chili and tortilla chips (280 calories, the menu proudly informed me) and a Starbucks latte (more exciting than it probably should have been, but, you know. It’s Seattle. Starbucks from room service! It’s the right thing to do!)

While I was waiting for my food, I called Heather. She had moved into Daniel’s place, as far as I could tell, which made me feel better about leaving her at home alone. I called my mom to tell her I was alive, and both her and my dad got on the phone for the update. The parents are so cute. I called Ryan and made plans to meet for breakfast the next morning. I decided to see Seattle on the 3rd and then drive to Vancouver on the 4th because:

• Canadians don’t care about our holidays, so stuff would be open
• I could also go see Mount Rainier, which would probably also be open on the 4th
• Going to Canada to celebrate the 4th just seemed like the right thing to do.

I’m a planner. Also, I was really excited to see Seattle. I grimaced at myself in the mirror, realizing I looked like crap, took a shower, made a nest of the four pillows in my giant bed, and passed out.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

montana is all about cool road signs: ‘range cattle’, ‘rough break’ (what does that even mean?), ‘chain-up area’.

stopped at a dumb gift shop in troy (mt) and the woman behind the counter told me she had moved there from minneapolis 6 years ago. she said it was like stepping back in time. she couldn’t even get a cell phone, there’s no coverage there. she was so excited to talk to someone from home, i felt bad leaving after 20 minutes.

i fucking hate logging trucks. if i die on this trip, it’s going to be because of them.

idaho: i’m so glad to be back in the land of coffee. there’s even a starbucks here!

what time zone am i in???

my back and neck are killing me from my white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel driving through the mountains.

jesus, i look terrible. dark circles under my eyes. messy hair. sunburnt nose. zits from putting suntan lotion on my face. i look really tired. and i smell. i am hardcore.

photos: my passenger seat. bug holocaust (montana).

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