South Dakota: Does Not Want Us
We hit SD fairly early (mid afternoon) and figured to make it to Sioux Falls (the Easternmost city) by the time we wanted to stop. We figured wrong—very wrong.
Only twenty miles in, our new radio friend KSKY ("Ever since Goat got a tattoo of Satan on his calf, his daughter still cries when she sees 'Daddy's Evil Leg.'") informed us of a tornado warning (if you're not from the midwest, a "watch" means "ignore us and continue with your lives," a "warning" means "get the fuck to a basement"). Since it was only twenty or so miles down the highway from us, we pull over to a DQ to let it blow over. In the parking lot, we meet a family who had been coming from the east and whose car had been attacked by baseball-sized hail only six or so miles away—the windshield was shattered through in one place, and the rest looked like they had pissed off an entire baseball team. Seems like stopping when we did was a good idea.
As our Blizzards disappeared, the storm did not. Fortunately, one of my dad's good friends, David, lives only twenty miles away—behind us. However, with night drawing nigh and the storm still raging, we couldn't turn down free lodging, and after getting lost in the small town of Spearfish, David came to fetch us. Him and his wife Shelly are fantastically nice, gave us beers, and chatted with us before escorting us to the nearby hotel (their house is being renovated, and rather than let us sleep on the floor or couches, they actually paid to put us up in the hotel—provided I didn't tell my dad, which would set off a veritable war of polite retaliation—shh!)[If you're reading this, Mom, don't tell Dad. But I believe in journalistic responsibility to the truth]. I had a positively surreal experience with the familiar nostalgia of our first Perkins stop (Perkins was my Sharis before Sharis was my Sharis). The next morning, we met them for coffee and breakfast and then went merrily on our way.
Surprisingly, South Dakota is actually one of the more interesting states. We made it to Wall (home of the famous Wall Drug—the mother of all tourist traps), where we wasted an appropriate amount of time with stupid photo ops and browsing the endless gift shop. From there, we decided to plunge into the Badlands (after missing the first turn for it, which meant that when we finally did drive them, we went backwards yet again).
The Badlands are perhaps one of my favorite places (other than Wyoming, of course). This was the place, years ago, where I first decided that I was actually the reincarnation of a mountain goat. While I happened to be wearing flip flops this time (and jeans, and no hat—really, a spur-of-the-moment trip to the Badlands is a bad idea), there was significantly less cavorting on the ridges, it was still fun. There are some gorgeous spots there—one path leads through a sort of cedar-filled glen, and the views are always spectacular. I even found a rock peak so high and narrow that even I felt a bit mortal. It was quite refreshing to stand so surrounded by nothing. And—we even saw a herd of goats.
That night we made it to Sioux Falls—and if my memory serves correctly, it was supremely boring.
Wyoming: Pepsi is Proudly Made There
The plan was to cut up north about midway through the state to hit Thermopolis, which is home to the dinosaur center, and then to continue east. As a result, we ended up on the smaller roads, which were positively gorgeous. There was just so much space. Positively breathtaking (and no, I didn't actually take any pictures. You have the internet, go google it or something). A moment of silence for how much I loved Wyoming.
Sometime in the early afternoon, we were barely into the state, and damn tired. We were grouchy and neither of us wanted to drive, so I decided that it was naptime. The state park we found wanted to charge us to get in, so instead we found a comfy extra-wide shoulder on the road by the highway and took forty winks. I awoke maybe half an hour later (after much fiddling with the windows and trying to ignore the roaring semis) to a highway patrolman knocking at my window. Crap. I frantically checked for posted signs against roadside naps while handing over my license. He assured me he was just checking to make sure we were OK, but then commandeered my license and sat in his car for a good five minutes with it. Finally he returns with a small slip of blue paper—why? Why a ticket??— He goes on to explain that he's checked the small box that states it is not a citation, and he has also meticulously filled in the comment box at the bottom—"Driver was asleep beside the road, I stopped to make sure they were OK." Even more endearing, he shows me the HP dispatch number on the back, and encourages me to call them if I have any problems while I'm in the state. Aww.
We stopped for dinner at this buffet in close to the middle of nowhere, whose best trait was that we arrived on "Steak and Steak" night. And they were willing to cook it as rare as possible (read: cold in the middle). It was super tasty, and yes, I'm glad to have re-embraced my carnivorism. We got to Thermopolis late—pulled through thanks to a local radio station having listeners call in with ghost stories— and began the search for a motel. Most were booked, and some were expensive, but we pulled into this adorable ghetto one right as another truck did, and were greeted by a woman searching for "Montana," her dog, which turned out to be a yipper much to small for her name. Lucky us, we got the last room after the truck. And then, due to the further annoyance of us having to find an ATM (the woman wouldn't accept checks from out of state, and didn't have a credit card machine), she cut twenty bucks off our rate. Sweet. But then again, the room had a stove but no fridge, and I ended up having to go back to the car to rescue the glass I got from the Thirsty Lion (all the way back from Brewfest with Ivy) since there weren't even cups in the room. Also, our "free wifi" was courtesy of Taco John's, located in the parking lot.
The next morning was the Dinosaur museum! It was right outside the town ("Dinosaur lovers drink at Corkey's"), so we got there early (for us). Pretty impressive stuff—they had a massive Supersaurus, as well as a T-Rex, set up to look like it was taking down a Triceratops. Also a lab with observation windows, dino eggs, and some other skeletons as well. Overall, pretty cool place. Plus, I found a tiny T-Rex necklace charm in the gift shop, so there.
And finally we left Wyoming (sadly). On the way out, I had another brush with the highway patrol—this time less amiable. Turns out going fifteen over the limit isn't actually a good thing. But after another nail-bitingly long deprivation of my license, I was informed that this was a warning and I should watch my speed. Did I mention I love Wyoming? A final thanks to the radio stations that pulled us through: The Fox, The Wolf, The Eagle, The Hawk, and a veritable menagerie of other wildlife. Honestly, would a little creativity hurt?
Utah: Not Enough Mormons
The first part of Utah is flat, and I mean Flat. Sure, there are mountains surrounding you in the distance, but the immediate landscape is so flat that it's almost obscene. They don't call them salt flats for nothing. In honor of being in the Bonneville Flats, and the Kenny Loggins on the radio, I opened all my windows and floored the gas. We only made it up to 90 mph (oh my poor car).
Utah takes only a few hours to pass through. We stopped in Salt Lake City for food, and were disappointed that we weren't attacked by crazed zealots. At least there was Sonic.
Nevada: Gambling!
We ended up in Reno in the afternoon, and commenced our walking tour of the Littlest Big City—that is to say, we hit up every casino along the main strip. More accurately, I lost (at least) a dollar at The Silverado, something Irish-themed, something pretending to be fancy, the usual mix of everywhere. On the other hand, Mike netted about thirty bucks from our casino tour, which he promptly exchanged for a bottle of rum. The moral? Go to Reno, get free rum.
I can't say that I liked Reno as much as Vegas, it's much too sad. While Vegas is simply a moral vacuum, Reno is more like a gravity well of people. The waitresses are older, or look like they used to be cute, and the people seem older too. On the other hand, the lure of absurdly loud carpets and somewhat over-the-top decorations (the Silverado had a surprisingly large dome inside, filled with a steampunk-esque "mining" contraption) is hard to resist. Even better, they still had older relics of slot machines tucked away in some places, the kind that actually accepts coins and spits them out back at you! (While the video slots are all shiny, and the voucher system is certainly easier to use, there's nothing better than the real—not artificial!—sound of coins hitting metal.)
We made it to the other side of Nevada that night—stopping in the town of Lovelock (the town motto, oh so cleverly, was something about locking up your love there). At a gas station which, inevitably, had three slot machines.
Also of note was when we drove through the town of Battle Mountain, as well as passing the sign for Deeth Starr Valley (!), which gave us no end of amusement.
That night we stayed at the Red Garter in Wendover, on the border of Utah. Wendover is a beautiful oasis of last-stop gambling and gas stations, nothing like the high density of the more popular gambling destinations, but then again, the sign outside our building proudly proclaimed that it was, indeed, a "Casino!"
California: Cue OC Theme Song
It's about a ten-hour drive from Portland to Oakland, where Justin, my first couch to sleep on, lives. I can't say that it was entirely eventful, though there's a nice freedom in taking a long trip on one's own. I prefer it all windows down, music (provided by either tapes from Goodwill or the local country station) blasting, pushing the speed limit, cruise control and seeing just how long my car will go straight with my hands off the wheel.
I stopped at the Rogue River rest stop (by far the prettiest), and cursed myself for not taking the Medford Dairy Queen stop, as Northern California seems to have none.
I got to the Oakland area on schedule, and was only moderately lost in the Maze (the entanglement of multiple highways including the 880 and 580, some of the ones I required).
I found Justin, and we immediately departed for poker night at his friend's house. While Texas Hold 'Em isn't my strong suit (excuse the pun), I did decently enough, though it wouldn't have mattered since Justin was bankrolling my night. After, I got a mini tour of the area (Berkeley, and lots of fog), and then we chatted like schoolgirls until late.
Going to Santa Barbara should have been brutal on so little sleep, but, as I was still operating alone, I had a long breakfast at Denny's with a book about fighting giant ants, and I was ready for the day. It was more uneventfulness (Pismo Beach for ice cream by the ocean, and sand irrevocably in my hair), and then SB. Lexie and I had fancy schmancy cocktails and went shopping, and I felt more girly than I have in months.
The worst leg was going to San Diego, was it was dark, and I had to brave the LA drivers. But thankfully, Laura was waiting up for my with a plate of fries and Brown Sauce—and after checking in with the parents, I was down for the count.
San Diego
San Diego was more of the same: we went shopping, went out with her friends, went to the beach. It was fun, good to see my sister, though we will never see eye-to-eye on cell phone etiquette.
Los Angeles
Los Angeles was full of good Mexican food (I figured I had to get my fill before the Midwest), and in general seeing everybody. Maggie and I went to Santa Monica, which was full of people-watching and the most un-charismatic magician ever. We could actually hear him complaining into his microphone about the crowd and how dumb they were. We did an outing to 107 as well, though it was full of hipsters (surprising for a weekday). And thank god for Chano's.
Up and Out
We stopped by Lexie's to drop off Mike's car, wasted time hanging out, and didn't even make it to Sacramento the first night. But the next day we pushed into Nevada, stopping by in the Donner Pass area to eat lunch (cause the Donner Party, get it? Eh?) and buy more tapes at a little music store in the middle of nowhere.
Portland and Roscoe
For my last day in Portland, Kayce and I indulged in a little thievery. Dad's prized rhinoceros, Roscoe, the 150 pound, five foot long and three foot high, Aluminum statue, had been begging to be let loose all summer. So we obliged.
We ended up dragging him down McLoughlin (the Statue of Liberty, the Bomber Restaurant, and that Totem Pole) in her truck, and then headed to the zoo. There, he made the day of a handful of children whose parents jumped on the learning opportunity ("What's that, honey? A rhinoceros! Do you remember seeing his family inside?") and was generally petted and loved all around (though we never even made it past the admissions). Sadly, the zoo has no sense of humor, and we were informed by an entirely too serious security guard that we would have to leave and take Roscoe with us.
To cheer ourselves up after such a downer, we headed downtown. Parking was a challenge, so we ended up having to carry him two blocks to get to the front of Powell's, which drew our fair share of amused looks and the admiration of the Greenpeace canvassers. From there, we got him down to the waterfront (by now, lifting him in and out of the truck was becoming more of a challenge, though thanks to the grace of Darrin we weren't entirely sapped), where he stopped by the Smallest Park in the World, and then frolicked in the fountain.
Before heading home, we made a last stop at Voodoo Doughnuts, where the girl working the counter was not only kind enough to let us take him into their very small quarters, but also fished through the doughnuts to find those with the largest holes, that would most easily fit onto his horn.
Roscoe was then returned to the garage—just in time, since Dad was getting suspicious (when my mom finally told him that he wasn't allowed to go in, his first response was to ask, "Did somebody hit Roscoe?"). Let me just say that it is very hard to keep a straight face when you're standing by a metal rhino with doughnuts on its horn and waiting for someone to notice.
When he finally did, he flipped through the Polaroids slowly, until finally commenting, "These look like Polaroids." "That would be because they are," I replied. "Well then how did you do it?"
Finally we convinced him that it was real, and now we are the heroes of our neighborhood.
There was a Sharis run, cut short by overzealous mom-ing that led to a curfew, and then the next morning, bright and early, I loaded up the car and headed out.
