We awoke at 5:30am (which happily felt like sleeping in), and checked out of the hotel. We got us some Starbucks downtown, then stopped at a supermarket for the supplies we felt might be hard to come by in Denali. They were playing Don’t Stop Believin’ over the loudspeaker, just for me. I also stocked up on decongestants, because I’d stopped being able to breathe since we’d gotten to Alaska.

We were well up the Parks highway by 8:30am, passing through the few suburbs of Anchorage, and then out into what felt like the middle of nowhere. It looked kind of like northern Wisconsin for a while; pine trees, cabins, and the occasional tavern. We stopped at Montana Creek to look around and climb under the railroad trestle, then headed to Talkeetna, a little town about 15 miles off the highway. It’s reportedly the model for the town in the show “Northern Exposure”.

talkeetna mermoose

Talkeetna is ridiculously cute. It’s all outfitters, gift shops, a famous old general store, and restaurants. Everyone is friendly. We wandered around a bunch of artsy little shops, stopped to talk to Stubbs the cat, the mayor and mascot of Talkeetna (as one of the locals informed us), and walked up to see the depot where the Alaska Railroad pulls up along the Susitna River.

this tiny airport is where almost all Mount McKinley/Denali climbing expeditions begin.

stubbs!

We had lunch out on the patio at the West Rib Pub, then wandered around the town some more.

We went back out to the Parks highway and continued towards Denali. We stopped at a few overlooks in Denali State Park, where we encountered our first bear warning signs, and got our first (very limited) view of Denali.

in denali state park

my obligatory sideview photo

We reached Denali National Park around 6:30pm, and drove up to our hotel, located in the little community across the highway from the park entrance, which doesn’t even have a name; directions are given based on the mile marker on the Parks Highway.

The Denalis Crow’s Nest was spectacular. It’s a bunch of cute little cabins lining the side of Sugarloaf Mountain. Ours was on the fourth tier at the far end, with a great view of Mount Healy and the park entrance. It was set up like a rustic hotel room inside, and had a couple of chairs and little table out front on the deck. We couldn’t have picked a better place to stay.

the denali party cabin (ours is the last on the left)

We unpacked and went downstairs to the Overlook Bar and Grill for dinner. We sat on the patio drinking girly drinks from milk bottles and staring at the park. It was kind of hard to believe we were actually there. After dinner, we went up and sat on the patio, reading. We had trouble deciding when to go to bed, because the sunset never actually happened.

We woke at 6:15am. Though it had been light all night, we slept fine. I was not particularly enjoying my cocktail of decongestants, however. I didn’t feel sick otherwise, I just couldn’t breathe.

We drove into the park and followed the signs to the Wilderness Access Center. Because the buses fill up fast, you have to get their early for tickets. Thankfully, they also have a little coffee counter with breakfast food and snacks, and a decent little store with supplies. We stocked up on snacks and boarded the first bus to Kantishna, the furthest point on the park road.

Our bus driver was Mike, and he told us his wife worked as a driver, too. In the off season, they taught English in Mexico. The vehicles are old school buses fitted with seat belts and gear racks overhead; they’re not terribly comfortable for a several-hour trek, but you kind of don’t notice when you’re in the middle of such an amazing place.

The bus stops at each point along the way. A few of the stops are just for campers. Others have overlooks and very basic restroom facilities. By the time we got to Polychrome Pass, we were very cold. There’s nothing like using a pit toilet with freezing air blowing out of it.

me at the polychrome rest stop

grizzly triplets!

The bus stops for wildlife sightings, and I started to believe the description I’d originally read: a drive down the park road is like a safari. We saw several grizzly bears, moose, dall sheep, and caribou. The driver just stops in the road and everyone creeps very quietly over to one side of the bus to take pictures.

shuttles at the toklat river station

toklat river

We also learned all about glaciation and the geology of the area from our driver. That stuff makes the nerd in me very happy. I do love me some braided streams.

It was overcast all day, so we could only occasionally see bits of Mount Rainier. We were told it’s only fully visible for a few days during the summer; it’s so huge, it creates its own weather system!

wonder lake

We reached Wonder Lake at 2:15pm, and had only two hours to hike before we’d have to catch the last bus returning to the Wilderness Access Center. Wonder Lake was incredibly serene and untouched, despite the clouds of mosquitos. One thing we heard over and over about Denali? Bring heavy-duty bug spray. This advice is not to be taken lightly.

We took the McKinley Bar trail, a narrow path leading down a hill from Wonder Lake and into the basin below. We crossed a few rivers on plank bridges. We didn’t see any other humans at all, though we could occasionally hear a shuttle on the park road off in the distance. We made a point of talking loudly in case there were bears around. I had a bear bell, but it’s mostly intended to remind you to make noise.

hiking on glacial moraine: permafrost covered in grass and moss

on the mckinley bar trail

It was mindblowing, being out in the middle of nowhere like that. I’ve never felt such a sense of complete wilderness, and vulnerability; there’s no question that nature is in charge in Denali.

wonder lake: mile 85 on the park road (a 12-hour roundtrip)

We hiked back up to the bus stop to catch the last bus from Kantishna. It was driven by the crabbiest woman ever, who opened the door and shouted, “DARLENE’S BUS!” We would hear that at least 40 more times on the several-hour journey. At one point, she yelled at me because she could hear my bear bell rattling. I didn’t even hear my bear bell rattling.

denali traffic jam

Near Polychrome Pass, we came upon a grizzly bear walking alongside the road. When we stopped, he came all the way up to the door of the bus. I was standing in the front, probably 4 feet away from him. I was, in fact, a little nervous about that. Further down the road, we watched a moose family.

moose family!

It was a quicker return to the Wilderness Access Center, because we didn’t stop to see things, just to use the bathroom occasionally and to pick up hikers along the way. We got back around 9pm, which made the entire trip about 14 hours total.

We had to do some searching for dinner, and finally settled on the Nenana View Bar and Grill at the resort across the road from our party cabin. It was far too fancy a place for us to be in dirty hiking gear, but we didn’t care. We had pizzas and chatted with our awesome server from Bulgaria. When she found out we were from Minneapolis, all she could talk about was going to the Mall of America!

We got to sleep in on the 4th of July, getting up shortly before 8am to make the 9:30 bus to the Toklat River station. It was clearer, with no sign of rain for once. We called home to reassure my mom that we were alive, then went to the visitor center for coffee. The girl there remembered me, which of course meant we were already regulars.

morning fog

Our bus driver, Rich, was great. He had a story about everything, and went around the bus asking people where they were from. He talked about the moose rut and sports with equal amounts of enthusiasm.

mom and baby bear

polychrome pass

We rode to Polychrome Pass, and decided to hike from there. We talked to Rich about the routes in the area, which were all really just game trails. The paths on top of the pass were really muddy, so he suggested we grab a shuttle back to the Toklat River instead. We started hiking down the pass, being sure to talk loudly. We’d just seen bears nearby.

from polychrome pass, with glacier!

A bus came by about 20 minutes later. We flagged it down and asked to be let off at the bridge on the Toklat River. There was an Amish family on the bus, which I found immensely fascinating.

snowmelt water mixing with glacial runoff in the toklat river

We found a driveway near the bridge, and hiked down to the river. The Murie Cabin is there, and rangers use it as a research outpost. It was kind of creepy, with nails sticking out of it to keep bears from chewing their way inside.

murie cabin

Behind the cabin, there was a port-a-potty. This was a big find, obviously, because facilities are so rare, especially clean ones with toilet paper. I was freaked out at being in the middle of nowhere, though, so I left the door open and talked the whole time. It’s not like anybody was going to accidentally come across me there in the bathroom.

We hiked along the little tributaries to the river, looking for places where the ice was still packed enough to be able to walk across. We were moving pretty slowly, always keeping an eye out for animals; the rushing of the nearby river was so loud that we wouldn’t hear a bear, and it’d be unlikely to hear us. You know what’s really rattling? Knowing that you could seriously be in danger of a bear attack. That’s not something you’re often concerned about.

On the banks of the Toklat River, we sat on the stones and ate lunch. Being there is something I’ll never forget.

We walked back up to the park road, with magpies following us and yelling the whole time. We saw wild hares all over in the brush. Heading up toward Sable Pass, we entered a restricted wildlife area, which meant we had to stay on the road lest we be eaten by things. That’s how I interpreted it, at least.

notice that the sign is all chewed up by bears.

Part of the way up the pass, a bus came along, but the driver said it was out of service, and another would be along shortly. We were fine, though; the nice thing about hiking in the mountains in Alaska is it’s not like, say, the Rockies. You’re only at 4-5,000 feet, instead of 14,000. Easy! We were just constantly on the lookout for bears and wolves. Another bus finally showed up, and it was full of very tired-looking people from Wonder Lake.

The driver of that bus, Brad, was talking about some of the other sights in Alaska. The one that excited me most, and the main one I intend to go back for, is the Valley of 10,000 Smokes. It’s a valley that’s buried in 700 feet of ash from a volcanic eruption, and you can hike in it.

We got back to the WAC around 5pm, had dinner at the visitors’ center, did some souvenir shopping, and then decided to drive back along the park road to see if we could find any more animals. Not only did the sun come out briefly, we saw a wolf! We turned around at the Savage River and headed back to the park entrance, stopping at the mercantile for breakfast supplies for our drive back to “civilization”.

i thought this was far funnier than stephanie did.

at the park exit

We went to our cabin to celebrate the 4th of July on the deck with the beverages we’d acquired in Healy. We realized that fireworks wouldn’t really work very well in Alaska that time of year, because it doesn’t get dark.

We were in bed by 10, but I set the alarm and got up at 2am to get this picture:

2am in denali on the 4th of july

You don’t really have trouble sleeping when you’ve been wandering in the wilderness all day, however.

We got up and checked out of the hotel, then drove north five miles or so to the Iao Valley. Every morning up til then, the valley had looked dark and cloudy compared to the rest of the island. This was unusual for Hawaii, which is 99.5% sunny with the occasional brief monsoon. This morning, however, the valley was sunny.

coconuts and papayas

The valley is a rainforest in what used to be a caldera in the West Maui Mountains. We drove to the hiking area and went up to the overlook, then went down and walked along the stream in the valley. It occurred to me that for a place so humid and tropical, Hawaii has hardly any bugs. In that kind of weather in the midwest, we’d have contracted West Nile Virus ten times over from all the mosquitoes.

Hawaii has relatively little wildlife at all, actually. There were Hawaiian Road Cock and Road Weasel and many, many birds, but the rest of the animals we read about were most likely mythical. There is no nene. I’m convinced of it.

iao needle

The Iao Valley has its own giant phallic symbol, which the natives used to worship. They also had an exhibit about native agriculture, so we got to see all manner of fruit plants and such. I don’t know why I think banana trees are so fascinating, but they are. Also, I forgot to mention that bananas taste completely different in Hawaii. Good stuff.

iao valley

Near the mouth of the valley, there’s a large park called the Kepaniwai Heritage Garden. It’s divided into four sections, displaying Hawaiian, Japanese, Korean, and Filipino architecture. I spent a long time in each of the temples. It was beautiful.

iao valley

We drove through Wailuku, a cute old town north of Kahului, and stopped at another famous general store, the Takegawa Market. One of the things on my must-do list for Hawaii was to try poi, even though everyone is horrified of it. I had to do it. The market was the first place I’d even heard mention of poi while we were there; they had a big case, and a sign telling us to take only one package per customer, due to the shortage. The case was empty.

A POI SHORTAGE. I was heartbroken.

We drove around the dodgy areas in Kahului, then wound our way back to Paia. I had decided after much obsessing that I couldn’t live without the neko sarong. I got that, then we visited the rest of the stores we had missed, including an amazing shop full of Japanese antiques.

We got back on the road and headed upcountry to Makawao. It was here we learned about the phenomenon of the Aloha Cowboy. It was so charming. They had little Western/Hawaiian shops, and a ton of art galleries. They had a small Down to Earth and a mystical crystal shop; it was hippie central. In one of the galleries, I found the most amazing little carved box. It looked like ivory but wasn’t; it had a unique smell to it that I figured was some kind of wood. I carried it around the store with me, in love, then finally brought it up to the counter. I asked the woman there what it was made of. She said, “Well… it’s cow bone.”

That was the end of my love for that.

We followed the travel guide to the much-recommended Cow Country Cafe in Pukalani, and had a lot of trouble finding it, due to Hawaiians’ immense dislike for street signs. We finally found a closed restaurant where we figured it was supposed to be, only it was called something completely different. We called them and were informed that that was the place, but they were closed due to a plumbing disaster. Ack.

We went back to Makawao and dined at Casanova Restaurant, which doubled as a gigantic Italian nightclub in the evening. I’m not sure what the deal was with the 30s-gangster-style Italian places, but I loved it. Our server was awesome, and the food was excellent. After lunch, we went back to Lahaina one last time so Stephanie could finish her souvenir shopping. We walked around for a while, but it was painfully hot. Since we still had four hours to kill before our flight back to Oahu, and because it’s a huge pain in the ass getting into Waikiki at night, we decided to call Hawaiian Airlines and see if we could get onto an earlier flight. It was easily arranged, and we were on our way to Kahului Airport.

Airport security was stepped up somewhat. We didn’t know at the time that there had been bombings in London. As we got to the scanners, they pulled us out of line to tell us we had to be screened. As Stephanie realized afterwards, our boarding passes were flagged, presumably because we switched flights at the last minute.

I waited while they wanded her, and I knew I was going to have some trouble when they paused over items like the clasp on her bra, and the zipper on her shorts. The TSA girl was extremely thorough. I stepped up for my turn, and she checked my bra clasps and earrings. When she got to my front, the wand beeped and she stopped. She tried again and it beeped. She looked confused. I said, “They’re pierced.” She looked very, very uncomfortable.

She told me to wait there, and disappeared. Then she came back again and told me to follow her. She wandered aimlessly around the secured area, obviously unsure of what to do. She finally flagged down an older female officer and whispered to her. The woman asked me to follow her, and we went into the little guardroom area where they changed clothes. The older officer apologized and explained that they had to have proof of everything that set off the scanner. I said I understood. She stammered and started apologizing again. I said, “Um, I’m kind of in a hurry.” I pulled up my shirt and bra and gave them proof. The old lady winced and apologized two or three more times. I laughed hysterically all the way to the gate.

rainbow over pearl harbor

The flight back to Oahu was on a much bigger plane with assigned seats. Sad. We were at the Honolulu airport by 6:30, and had picked up our car (Captain Crunch). We checked into our hotel in Waikiki, cleaned up, and headed back out to find dinner and wander around. We were back at the hotel by 10, and we crashed.

We woke up at 7am to some horrifying talk radio station. We got up and fed the seagulls our remaining pretzels from the hotel balcony, then checked out. We were on our way to Charleston, via Starbucks.

I was cranky as hell, as I usually am in the morning. It seemed to take an extra long time to get there, which we finally did around 11:30. Heather wanted to do some present shopping at the Old City Market (on eBay Street!), I wanted to pee. We drove around and around looking for parking, but the place was mobbed. Finally, I told her to go shop and I’d keep looking for parking, and call her when I found it. I never did. Around 12:30, about to pee my pants, I called her and told her we had to switch so I could go to the bathroom, so we did that. Then she went back in for more, and I circled until she was ready to go. Charleston is an incredibly beautiful city, but when you don’t have time to enjoy it, what’s the point?

We got back on the road. I was still crabby, since we had over 1300 miles to drive and were making hardly any progress. We stopped in Columbia, South Carolina for gas and food. We wanted to eat in the car, and since fast food is almost never an option for me, we picked a grocery store, Bi-Lo, instead. I emerged with a protein bar, 2 bananas, and grapes. Heather got a sub sandwich she told me she had ordered because it had “salami and salami and salami and salami and cheese”

We drove and drove and had nonsensical conversations about pretzel dessicants and giant cicadas taking the place of the headrest in your car. Sample conversation*:

Me: PARDON ME, THERE’S A CICADA BEHIND YOU!
H: WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU! I HAVE A CICADA FOR A HEADREST!

*This conversation is best when screamed at the top of your lungs.

It kept us awake, even if we barely managed to stay on the road because we were laughing so hard. We drove through the Blue Ridge Mountains in western North Carolina, then the Great Smoky Mountains in eastern Tennessee. By 6:30pm, we were in Knoxville. I had decided that I really, really wanted to write a book, and had the outline written in my head. Heather was loudly voicing her opinion of each and every other driver on the road. We stopped at a gas station to pee, and Heather had a fight with the slush puppy machine. I decided that ‘Easy On, Easy Off’ was the new title of my autobiography (which gets a new title almost every single day).

At 7:30pm, we were passing the town of Corbin at an alarming speed, and both saw a sign that could possibly change our lives, so we exited. Because, my friends, Corbin, Kentucky is the birthplace of KFC, and the home to the Colonel Sanders museum.

We went into the Sanders Cafe, which is a functioning KFC attached to the original restaurant. There are some statues and displays honoring the (fake) colonel, which were reminiscent of the Sam Walton shrine in Arkansas. They had original menus and photos and even a Colonel Sanders halloween mask, which was both unsettling and erotic. They have the original kitchen and dining room, the (fake) colonel’s office, and a motel room. That’s because the (fake) colonel also ran a chain of motels in the area, and in order to advertise their swankiness, he built a replica in his restaurant. Weird.

Speaking of Sam Walton, on the way back to the interstate, we encountered this:

How often do you see an abandoned Wal-Mart?? It was a good feeling, until I realized that it was because they had just built a brand new Wal-Mart Supercenter down the road. Fuckers.

At 8:15pm, we decided to stop for dinner. That was because Heather’s dream had finally been realized: we found a Bob Evans in Richmond, Kentucky. I don’t know why she likes that place so much; we had stopped at one once because it was the only thing in the entire state of Missouri that was open on New Year’s. Something about biscuits. Anyway, we stopped. In the lobby, they had an American flag hanging on the wall, with a marker for pledging your allegiance, or something. So I did, because there never was a truer patriot than me. We got seated, and I went to use the restroom. On the way back, I passed three waitresses (I know, I usually refer to them as ‘servers’, but this was the kind of place where the girls all worked out front, and the boys all worked in the kitchen), and none of them would make eye contact. Maybe it was my ‘THUG’ tshirt? They all had poorly-conceived face paintings on their cheeks. In an orgasmic frenzy, Heather ordered the Homestead Breakfast with sixteen types of meat, and three pounds of starch. (She wishes for me to mention that she did not, in fact, eat it all. Not even close.)

I ordered a salad and a grilled cheese, which at least was digestable this time around. From our booth, I could see all the behind-the-counter antics, and watched with fascination. The waitresses compared tips; ours counted her cash and had a total of $35. Now, I’m just making assumptions, but I’m pretty sure she must have worked the dinner rush, since they were only open til 10. Sunday dinner, and only $35 in tips? Kentucky sucks.

Carl, the manager, was one of those guys who’s married, in his mid-30s, and likes to refer to the staff as his ‘girls’. He was flirty and condescending. He liked to throw his substantial weight around. He was sure that he was well-liked by all, and he was seriously mistaken. He probably touched a little too often, too. At one point, our server called him over to see if she was making a side salad correctly. He counted the croutons, then removed some. I wanted to cry, because somewhere, a really bad country-western song had been written about this man.

Our bill was $15, and it was disturbing to realize that my $4 tip would make up a full 10% of her take for the night. We got back on the road to get in a few more hours of driving that night. I didn’t see much of Kentucky, but Louisville struck me as kind of cool. From there, we crossed into Indiana, and were safely ensconced once again in NASCAR country. It was raining and we were tired, so we finally pulled off at the Mariann Motel in Scottsburg, one of the three listed in the hotel guide we picked up at a rest area. We each took a bed and collapsed for the night.

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 got up and logged to Priceline to book my room for Los Angeles. $35 at the Hilton, which meant that I was spending more for crappy hotels in the middle of nowhere than I was for nice hotels in big cities. Jay came home with my car, and told me that I not only needed to get a replacement gas cap (the car wasn’t the performance vehicle it normally was), but my headlight was burnt out. Dammit. He was heading out of town for the weekend, so we said goodbye. I drove over to the auto parts store and had both the gas cap and headlamp installed within 10 minutes, for a total of $25. From there, I got on the Bay Bridge and headed east.

Outside Oakland, it’s all rolling hills, dry grass, and wind farms. I loved all the windmills lined up along the tops of the hills. They were cool and menacing at the same time. The farther I got from the bay, the warmer it got. It had been 50 degrees and misty in SF. By the time I exited 520 in Manteca, it was in the mid-80s.

The route to Yosemite was pretty, but slow. It winds through little towns and produce farms. I stopped at a roadside farmer’s market and bought one of nearly everything. About 40 miles from Yosemite, the mountains start. On the steep parts, I had to turn off the air conditioning, and at that point it was over 100 degrees. With all the windows and the sunroof open, it didn’t feel that bad, but my back and the backs of my legs were soaking wet.

I stopped for gas outside Yosemite. I had to pee badly, so I locked the car and ran into the gas station first. Then I came back out and went to pump gas. When I pulled on the little fuel door, it wouldn’t open. It was stuck! I tugged some more, and it wouldn’t move. I thought maybe someone had bumped my car, and indented it or something. I yanked harder and harder, and finally it popped open. My car beeped and the doors unlocked, and I realized what had happened: the little door locks shut when you lock the car. I felt like an idiot. I looked up and saw a girl sitting in the car behind me, watching. I smiled and shrugged.

While the gas was pumping, I went to wash the windshield. The squeegee had the longest handle ever, probably for big trucks. I was hurrying, and paid the price for my reckless squeegeeing: I hit myself in the mouth with the handle. At that point, nothing stupid I could do could possibly surprise me, so I finished with the window, put the gas cap back on (at least I remembered that), and got back in the car. I looked in the mirror, and my lip was bleeding down my chin.

I got to Yosemite around 11am, and congratulated myself on the fact that my National Parks pass had already paid for itself. I drove up to about 6000 feet, then down into the valley. I stopped and hiked to Bridalveil Falls. The spray was a relief from the heat. There were lots of people there, wading around in the stream, trying to keep cool. The heat made visiting the pit-toilet restrooms an endurance test: how long can I hold my breath while peeing? How fast can I run away and find someplace to wash my hands? I noticed that all the tourists there were slow-moving, although maybe it was the heat. I felt bad barging my way through them to experience America’s natural wonders, but I had a schedule to keep.

I parked and walked to Yosemite Village. I shopped at the general store, which was annoyingly mobbed. I went to the deli and got the biggest, blandest veggie sandwich I had ever tasted. I picked it apart and drank my americano while writing postcards. While I was sitting outside at a picnic table, I looked up and a few tables over, a girl was sitting there with her sandwich, a notebook, and a stack of postcards, with a stuffed-full backpack by her side. My counterpart! All of a sudden, I didn’t feel so alone.

I finished lunch and took the rest of the drive through Yosemite valley, then headed back. The drive was slow and boring, and the heat wasn’t letting up as the sun went down. I distracted myself by talking on the phone, as usual. The view of SF coming back over the Bay Bridge was amazing. I was proud of myself for figuring out where to exit and how to get back to Jay’s without even looking at the map, and especially for getting a spot right out in front of his building. I walked to Whole Foods and got a tofu sandwich, which was just as bland as the veggie sandwich I had eaten for lunch. I did laundry, packed up my stuff, and loaded the car so I could get on the road as fast as possible the next morning.

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random notes from my travel journal:

that was a whole lot of pms yesterday. i hope that goes away quick. anyway.

my nose and forehead are peeling today. my scraped hand is killing me. the skin feels tight, and i keep bumping it. also, i left my sunscreen at jay’s. i am smart.

i’ve decided the strangest places to travel alone are the national parks. they’re all family-oriented. it’s weird to see a group of fewer than four people here.

i hope my car will see me through. i worry even more when it’s so hot. me and chico, we’ve been through a lot together.

i think i want to keep this up when i get back. probably not handwritten, although my handwriting would improve. it’s too slow, but tactile, which is nice. hmm. maybe someday it’ll develop into that journal-writing project.

tomorrow night, la. i consider sf the midpoint of my trip, so that means that everything from here on out is technically heading towards home.

my pants are too big. they need a belt. go figure.

ok. i think that’s it from sf. what a strange feeling.

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I left Vegas at 7am, iced coffee in hand. As I drove out, I noticed that the trip odometer was at exactly 5000 miles. It was in the 80s and the change was a huge relief. By the time I reached Mesquite, I had to pee. I drove by a billboard with the magic symbol on it: Starbucks. So, yes, I stopped at the Casablanca Casino to use the bathroom and get coffee. You do what you have to do.

The landscape the whole way was incredible. It was all desert scrub and mountains with red and white rock, studies in plate tectonics (see, I learned something in school). The Virgin River Gorge was beautiful, so I didn’t even mind more steep, winding grade and the 55mph speed limit. I crossed into Arizona and cursed losing an hour. I hit I-70 and was excited by the sign reading ‘Richfield’; I wanted that to mean Richfield, Minnesota, where I live. I stopped a few times to go to the bathroom. Then I stopped in Richfield to try and find coffee, but couldn’t. I was zoning out again, eating sunflower seeds to stay awake, and taking off my sunglasses so the glare would keep me alert. When I saw a sign telling me there was going to be a big stretch of nothing for 110 miles, I took that as my cue to stop.

The town I pulled off at had a couple trucker bars and a Denny’s. Beyond caring, I chose Denny’s. I got out of the car, shaking, with the cold sweats. I staggered in, got a table, and almost cried with relief when I saw that they had a gardenburger. I ordered coffee and sat and wrote. I sat there for a long time after I finished eating, too, because I was afraid I’d stand up again and realize that I was still in bad shape, and wouldn’t be able to drive. But, no, when I got up, I was fine, and I had confirmed that my problem was definitely low blood sugar. I vowed to be more careful about that in the future.

I got back on the road and make the 110-mile drive through the middle of nowhere easily. Utah is beautiful, and the landscape is really diverse. Anywhere else, it would all be national park, but there’s just so much of it, they probably couldn’t do that to the entire state. Although maybe the Mormons could get in on some of that action and convert all the visitors. It’s a win-win, really.

I crossed the Colorado border and the scenery continued. It was somewhere close to a million degrees outside, and I was dying. My pants were soaking wet again, so I devised a method in which to dry them: I cranked up the air and aimed all the blowers down towards my seat. I braced my knees against the dashboard and pushed back against the seat, to lift my ass up and allow for air circulation underneath it. Thanks to my thighs of steel, I could hold that position for miles, and it worked.

I stopped in Grand Junction to get coffee. Heather told me that both Safeway and Albertson’s had Starbucks, so I was on the lookout. I got gas, and asked the woman at the next pump where I could find one of those stores. She was really nice, gave me directions, and said her mom was born in Minnesota. I found Albertson’s, walked in, and asked the odd-looking bagboy where the restrooms were. I bought pop and fruit. At the checkout, the bagboy (who was one of a matched set, prompting the mental debate: twins or clones? Clones.) asked if I had found the bathroom OK. Ha! I went over to the Starbucks counter, and the kid there was super-nice, too, if painfully dumb. It took him three minutes to enter my order in the computer, and he kept apologizing over and over. I asked him if he knew how to get back to I-70 from there. He said no, he had just moved there recently, and he honestly didn’t even know what I-70 was. I laughed and said, “It’s the huge highway that goes to Denver!” Another guy showed up, and I asked him. He gave me really elaborate, detailed directions, even though the answer was essentially, “Drive down this road and you’ll run into it.” I was a little weirded out when I realized that everyone I had encountered in that town was really, really nice. I had to get out quick.

Before reaching the Rockies, I crossed the Colorado River. There’s this area where the interstate runs through a gigantic gorge alongside the river, and I was almost positive it was running uphill most of the way. Anyway, this section of road is a marvel of modern engineering, and I’m not even joking about that. It actually looks like it belongs there, rather than having been carved out with a lot of destruction. There are two lanes going either direction, and they’re often at different levels, one above the other. There are perfect, smooth curves, so you can set the cruise and go. There are walking and bike paths down along the river. There are cool tunnels. And the scenery is great. Also, these were the very important things I thought about while driving insane distances alone.

I saw Vail and all those big ski areas I’m sure someone cares about. I was surprised to see hardly any snow in the Rockies, considering there were elevations over 10,000 feet, whereas I had hiked in snow in Glacier at only 7000 feet. As I got into the mountains, it started raining a little, and the temperature dropped from 105 to 60. I finally got to turn off the air conditioning. I went through the Eisenhower Tunnel, although I didn’t realize it at the time. Going down the east side of the Rockies, there are a million signs for truckers, warning them about the grade, and they get funnier as you go: “Truckers, don’t be fooled! Steep downward grades ahead! Check brakes!” and “Truckers, you’re not down yet! Are your brakes cool?”

I got into Denver around 8:30. 5,700 miles. I wanted to stop for dinner, but the switch to I-76 skirted town, which was actually kind of nice. I decided to keep going to whatever exit had something promising. That ended up being around 9pm, when I saw a sign that listed a few chain restaurants and Starbucks. I pulled into Starbucks, afraid it would be closed after dinner. I went to the bathroom, and as I went up to the counter, the guy had the cash drawers out, and the woman was washing dishes. I asked him, “Are you closed?” He looked at me like I was stupid, said, “We close at 10,” and walked away. I stood there, stunned. Was it 10pm? Was I in mountain or central time? I had no idea. I asked the woman, “Are you closed? I don’t even know what time zone this is.” I must have seemed really flustered, because she looked concerned. She said no, they were open. I told her what the guy had said. I was exhausted and confused, and she probably thought I was really pissed. She very slowly and deliberately made me coffee, then put it on the counter next to my Starbucks card. I slid the card towards her, and she just looked at me and said, “Have a good night.” I told her she was very nice, and thanked her for the coffee.

I had dinner at Applebee’s, the only sit-down place in town. The food sucked, but it was food. The server sat at my table for a long time and talked about being vegetarian. She was great. In fact, everyone in Colorado was really friendly. I couldn’t figure out whether that should scare me or not.

I got back on the road, hoping to get a couple more hours of driving in. The farther I could make it, the fewer miles I’d have to drive to reach home the next day. Since I was once again in the middle of nowhere with no cell signal, I stopped at a gas station to call Heather on the payphone. While I was standing there talking, bugs were swarming around me. I had to keep stamping my feet to knock off the beetles that were climbing on my shoes.

By 11:30, I couldn’t drive anymore. About 20 minutes outside of Sterling, I saw a mouse run across the highway, and had a bizarre flashback: the last time we were driving through that area about 3 in the morning, while I was dozing in the passenger seat, Heather told me she was seeing mice running across the highway. Then she saw mice flying across the highway. Then we blew a tire. I decided to stop. So I exited and pulled into the first motel I saw, which happened to be the Travelodge. I parked in front of my room, went in, and did the first thing I usually do, strip the bed. I flipped over the pillow, and there was a big black beetle sitting happily underneath. I froze. Now, I have bug paranoia, so that wasn’t great. Our first apartment had roaches, and I will never, ever get over the emotional scars. I was pretty sure this wasn’t a roach, but my head wanted me to believe it was. It was probably one of the million beetle-y bugs from outside. Still, it was big, and it was just sitting there looking at me. I got some kleenex and tried to kill it, but it ran away. I chased it, yelling, “No no no no no!” It disappeared under the bed.

I unmade the other bed and checked all over for bugs. Then I went to get ready for a shower. While I was undressing, another smaller bug ran across the floor. I smashed it with my shoe. In the bathroom, I discovered another black beetle writhing around on its back behind the door. Sufficiently grossed out, I took a shower but didn’t wash my hair – I didn’t want to stick around long enough in the morning to redo it.

I brushed my teeth and re-checked the second bed. I left the bathroom light on because I was freaked, and wanted to be able to see the bugs before they got to me. I laid there for about 20 minutes, having visions of beetles crawling in my bed, in my shoes, into my bag. Also, I still wasn’t convinced they weren’t roaches. I thought about going out to sleep in my car, but then was pissed that I would have to pay for the room. So I got dressed, grabbed my stuff, threw my sleeping bag, pillow, and blankets in the back seat of the car, and went back to the office.

There was another woman at the front desk, checking in. I said, “I can’t stay here, there are bugs all over my room.” The woman signing in stopped writing and stared for a minute, thought about it, and went back to writing. The front desk woman said, “Do you want to try a room upstairs?” I said no, I was just going to go. She printed up my refund and handed it to me without a word.

I thought about trying a different motel, but my other option was the Super 8, and I didn’t hold out much hope for that, either. I already had the creeps. Plus it was 1am and I had showered and brushed my teeth, so why pay $50 for a bed? I decided to drive on to the rest area, which I knew was within 50 miles.

I got back on the interstate, set the cruise at 80, and blasted music. I passed a town every 10 miles. It was pitch black, and reminded me of driving late at night in Montana. I kept the brights on even with oncoming traffic, because I was scared of hitting something. But I did anyway – one of those huge strips of semi tire laying on its side in the middle of the road. I didn’t even see it. It slammed loudly against the bottom of my car, and I thought I was going to be sick. I was sure I would at least have a flat tire. I shut off the stereo and listened, and everything seemed fine. No bumping, no weird noises, no alarms. After ten minutes, I reassured myself that the car was OK.

20 miles later, I found the rest area, right on the Colorado-Nebraska border. There were about ten cars and campers already parked there. I settled in and was comfortable, starting to doze off right away. I closed the screen on the sunroof to block the light and the sound of the rain that was just starting. I woke up a little later, cramped and drenched in sweat. I spent the next few hours flopping around, having delirious dreams. I was in California. I was in Las Vegas. I was sleeping in the desert. I’d wake up confused, remind myself where I was, and go back to the dreams again. At 5am, I had had enough; I probably got an hour of sleep. It was getting light, and the wind was blowing really, really hard. I sat up and saw tons of lightning to the southwest, heading my direction. That decided it; I was getting out of there. I ran to the bathroom, fixed my hair, and got back on the road.

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random notes from my travel journal:

it’s 500 miles to denver, through mountains and nothing. i want to cry.

you know you’re tired when you’re thinking picking up a hitchhiker might be a good idea, so you can share driving.

why do all old ladies have the same hairstyle?

i just heard ‘never surrender’ by corey hart. wow.

i so want to be a trucker. i really, really want to make use of the runaway truck ramp, too.

‘no name, colorado.’ joke towns. ha.

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