patches remind us
of the beauty we’ve witnessed
replicated here
There are no road trip realities today. There is only gratitude. One: that I researched from four library books and knew to get online in the first few days of January in order to reserve this spot. Two: that my girls, after two weeks of hiking and biking, didn’t bicker a single time on the 5.6-mile Boy Scout Tree Trail. Three: that we have this beach, this mostly-empty, questionably-warm, Northern California beach, to end our road trip with swimming and joy. Four: that we live in America, and there is still hope for us to preserve these spaces, these natural landscapes, that are the core of who we are.
It is too perfect. We met a family on the trail pulling a trailer and trekking from St. Paul. “No one in Minnesota does things like this.”
I hear it often. “You’re doing what? And for HOW LONG?”
It’s only 4000 miles this year. CHILL. Because along the road, the curving, yellow-belted, picking-blueberries-in-Oregon road, we’ve seen a million views of what the world looks like. Of how tall trees can grow, of how far states will go to preserve this beauty (not a single plastic bag in three states), of how quiet and loud and loving humanity can be.
Tony’s Crab Shack in Brandon where my daughters were praised (and probably ignited an idea) for ordering both a whole crab AND the kids’ mac and cheese, ONLY because they wanted to put crab meat in their macaroni. The fruit seller in Pike Place Market who spent three summers as a counselor at a camp on Orcas Island, and praised me for securing a campsite in Moran State Park (another early January reservation). The Californians chatting on the river beach about every little hope (“Spicer quit today!”) that they can muster from “this administration.” My gay cousin in Portland who’s never had a houseguest in eight years, even his parents, and showed me all the best breweries in town, the best food, the best bookstore, the best way to navigate (by bicycle) the Willamette (pronounced Will-AM-it, Damnit!) Loop.
What would you see if you had three daughters and ten doses of courage? If you knew you could climb those switchbacks, camp without fear, and trust the world?
These are some of many sights. Breathe in the Pacific, listen to the breeze among the trees, and pretend, for a moment, you could live the best life.
Trust me. The Earth had skyscrapers long before Man thought to build one.
I made these reservations nine months ago, right around election time. I had all the hopes of winning: the perfect candidate, the perfect road trip, the vacation of our dreams…
On a budget, of course. The Generation X, Millennial, Hillary-LOST budget. The hopes-of-next-summer-in-Spain budget. The “Why are you taking a trip this year instead of saving for next year?” Budget.
That is probably why I picked that motel in Yakima that was literally just a few dollars more than camping in Washington State Parks (I mean, seriously? $45 a night for campgrounds that have neither electricity nor showers?). The one in the questionable neighborhood, with PWT tenants, people screaming all night (“Puta Madre!!”) and a room that smelled like a combination between bleach cleaner and piss?
That is probably why I picked the “hostel” in the Olympic Peninsula. $10 per person per night? An old eccentric man who literally opened two bedrooms of his small ranch and provided my family with chores of wheeling a fallen alder out of the woods?
That is probably why I found a cute little Seattle bungalow on Airbnb that apparently did NOT have a laundry room after two nights of camping and forced me to wash three loads of five people’s laundry in the all-too-fancy remodeled sink, hanging them on the beautiful cedar deck to dry overnight.
That is probably why I found a campsite in early June when my Columbia River Gorge hostel called to tell me they’d sold the property and canceled my reservation … A campsite still available to reserve in June for a July entry should come with a giant red flag: “Nestled between Interstate 84 and a train track with a railroad crossing, the trucks and honking trains will surely keep you awake in all the dark hours of the night when you thought sleep would give you peace.”
So here I am. Nestled along a river whose wind blows east while the current moves west. Waiting for the moment when we need to leave to drive an hour and a half to the capital of Oregon to stay, god forbid, in a hotel that has a room full of washers and dryers. To wish, nine months later, that I had foresight for the lack of washers and dryers, for the constant disappointment of a lost candidate, a dream vacation, of the realities of a road trip.
Just take a look at that view.
With low skies and an eternal longing, we drive along twenty switchbacks to the top of the mountain. We pass two cyclists whose pathway has not been blocked by road construction. It is our last morning here, though I could stay forever.
At the top of the mountain on day three, the clouds hover over the sound and threaten rain that will not make an entrance. By mid afternoon we will be bottlenecked in Seattle traffic, the clouds will clear, and our only view will be of the Space Needle from I-5’s perspective.
But for now, I soak up five minutes of LTE to finish up some work and argue with adults about what constitutes a substantive post; I take a picture for tourists who can see the island they were on yesterday and want it for their Christmas card; I take a picture of my family, sans me, with the gray skies and San Juans a perfect background for anyone wanting a perfect background.
We are trapped here, in these low skies and this photo, for an eternal moment of perfection, of cool Washington air and windless peace; of nature and man (with the stone tower built by the CCC to give us the best view), of the climb that I was denied and that my Pilot conquered easily; of the love for all that is beautiful on this earth.
sometimes surprise hills
have the finest river views
and cool swimming holes
Seattle is sweet
but I’m dreaming of islands
with bridges to jump
from desert to sea
in a day’s drive through one state
(miracles exist)
rainforests between
to prove heaven lives on earth
(nature is my god)
we found our daddy
after cherry shopping; lake;
beyond evergreens
a driftwood dinner
no one could have predicted
in another life
yet here we’ll find sleep
all together in one room
at earth’s clouded edge
The beauty of the road is so much more than views. It is the elevation loss and gain that sneaks up on you as quickly as the road snakes its way along the Snake River.
It is the surprise of the desert that has made its rural-America mark in southeastern Oregon.
It is the spontaneity of stopping at state parks for a peek at history and scenery so breathtaking you feel you’ve stepped into a mini Grand Canyon.
It is the trail our ancestors walked upon that you place your weary soles on now, however twisted and stolen it may be. It is still a silent beauty resting behind a sleepy Americana town, waiting for rediscovery and firsthand learning for three young women.
It is the creek sparkling in the hotter-than-expected northwestern sun, and the quick dip that makes an afternoon sparkle just as brightly.
It is the curve that moves from summit to limitless landscapes, to the expansive end of the Oregon Trail, played out in a quilt of farm fields, and the hope they held for a better life.
The road brings beauty, and within this beauty lies everything you’d expect and wouldn’t expect: children bickering, bits and pieces of trash and clothing piled up in the backseats, state lines that bear no stoppable signs, audiobooks and downloaded movies, snapshots taken from a moving vehicle, trucks that hog both lanes, treeless mountains and endless vineyards, poverty and wealth found behind fences and up on winery hilltops.
The road brings more than views of tall pines, sagebrush-only molehills, and sleepy rivers. It brings us all a new world view where we search for ourselves and find ourselves in each other. Where children find joy in only their siblings’ company, where the road promises a pool at the end of the day and a reality check about small city poverty to remind us of what we have.
Can you see it from an airplane, from a train ride, from a walk down the block?
Never quite like the views you’ll find when you hit the open road. The views of nature, of civilization… of yourself.
You just need one set of keys, a whole lot of gumption, and a pair of soul-searching eyes, and you can find yourself a whole new world view.
Ingredients:
1 Honda Pilot, filled to the brim
6 cups unsweetened black tea
1 aluminum and nylon tent
5 down sleeping bags (that you’ll regret in bearing-down Idaho heat)
5 air mats
4 road warriors
Instructions:
Preheat summer to 98 degrees. Set alarm for 5:16. Fanagle three tween/teens out of their crack-of-dawn stupor. After emptying the cat litter, watering the lawn, and grading three papers, fold tufts of oldest daughter’s hair into two French braids.
Load the Pilot with said ingredients. Use whatever utensils are at your disposal to shift items until they snugly roast inside.
Snake through rush hour in two overcrowded Colorado cities; don’t over-stir. When the summer heat has reached 98 degrees, spin the tires on the open road.
Pause cook time just three times to add more fuel and remove unwanted bits from all ingredients.
If you follow these instructions exactly, you’ll be able to baste your finest cuts in the pool after four states, five mountain ranges, and seven hundred miles in just eleven hours.
Serve on a picnic table in the shade. Bon appetit.
cousins and sunsets
are better than fireworks
on a summer night
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