my garden has bloomed
 under my family’s care
 while we met Salt Lake
 

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
 

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