A Trip Back East

Some photos from a trip back to New Jersey and New York for the Thanksgiving Holidays.

I didn’t want to go, but Mike talked me into it. Then we made flight reservations before I could change my mind. It would be a short trip. I’d fly out on Wednesday and return on Saturday. Only three nights, and those would be made comfortable with a room at the Glenpointe Marriott in Teaneck, NJ. Dinner with my family at my brother’s house in New Jersey on Thursday, dinner with Mike’s family at a restaurant in Queens on Friday, Dim Sum with family and friends in Ft. Lee, NJ on Saturday morning.

The New York/New Jersey metro area where I grew up and lived most of my life is very different from Wickenburg, AZ, where I live now. So different that I decided to take some photos to try to document some of the differences. I could have done better, but this is what I’ve got to share. This is the view from our hotel room in Teaneck, NJ, on Thursday morning. It had snowed and rained during the night and it was bitter cold that day.

This looks out to the southwest. As you can see, there are lots of tall trees, but they’re pretty much bare in late November. The overall effect is gray. A gray day with gray skies, gray trees, and gray pavement. I hated the gray of the New York metro area in the winter months. But it was the cold that finally chased me out of the area.

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Here’s another look from our hotel room window. This view looks toward the southeast. The highway in the foreground is I-95, which stretches from Maine to Florida. The body of water is some marshland that might just be close enough to the Meadowlands to be considered part of it. The gray buildings poking into the gray sky are the skyscrapers of New York City off in the distance. The pointy one on the left is the Empire State Building, which is now the tallest building in New York again. It formerly held that title from 1934 to 1977, when the World Trade Center was completed. With the WTC gone, this depression-era building is once again the tallest in the city.

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On Friday, we drove to Queens. Here’s a snapshot taken on the Cross Bronx Expressway, which goes from the George Washington Bridge (on the Hudson River), across the top of Manhattan and the middle of the Bronx, to two of the bridges to Long Island: the Whitestone and the Throgs Neck. When I was growing up, this area of the Bronx was filled with burned-out building shells, and we’d often see broken-down or abandoned cars being stripped on the side of the road as we drove through. But the buildings have they’ve since been renovated and people live there once again. Don’t get the idea that this is an up-and-coming area of New York, though. It’s still a poor, crime-ridden area. Ever read Bright Lights, Big City?

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I forgot to take photos the day before, on the way to my brother’s house. We took the New Jersey Turnpike (I-95 down) and there are lots of weird scenic things along that, like the big gas tanks that appeared in a scene of Stephen King’s The Stand and Newark Liberty International Airport. Next time.

Here’s a pretty poor photo of the roadway on the Whitestone Bridge.

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There are three bridges that’ll get you from the Bronx to Queens and Long Island and they’re all pretty similar in appearance: single-span suspension bridges. The Triboro Bridge has some nice art deco touches that make it my favorite of the three bridges, but that one’s much closer to Manhattan, which was out of our way. The Throgs Neck bridge has great views of the Long Island Sound which, in the summer, is full of sailboats and very picturesque. Of course, the Whitestone Bridge does offer the best long-distance views of Manhattan. I took a bunch of photos and this one was the best. It really gives you the flavor of new York from a distance. The tugboat with barge in the foreground, the plane departing La Guardia Airport (out of this shot on the left), and the huge cluster of buildings in midtown Manhattan. You can clearly see the Empire State Building almost dead center and CitiCorp Center (look for the slanted roof to the right). Astoria, Queens is in the foreground, on the other side of the water. And you can just about see the heavy black bridge of the train trestle that parallels the Triboro Bridge. If the World Trade Center were still standing, its towers would appear to the far left in this photo.

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If you’ve never been to New York and you have the opportunity to visit, don’t pass it up. New York is like no other place on earth. As I was telling a Phoenix cab driver just the other day, it’s one of the few U.S. cities that blend old and new in a way that leaves you breathless. Go downtown, to the Wall Street area, and see exactly what they mean by the “Canyons of Wall Street.” The streets are so narrow and the buildings are so tall that light rarely gets down to the street. Although midtown has more tall buildings, the streets are a bit wider. You won’t believe the crowds walking the streets during a weekday lunch hour, the sea of yellow cabs, the bicycle messengers, the street vendors. This time of year, they’re roasting chestnuts near Rockefeller Center and steam is rising from manhole covers and vents on the street.

I do love New York, but I don’t have enough money to live there the way I want to. And New York is one of the grayest places I know.

We didn’t get into the city during this trip. Next time I go back, I’ll take some photos. But you might have to wait a few years. Once in Queens, we hopped on the Cross Island Parkway to go to Mike’s Mom’s apartment. I took this shot out the front window of the car. It’s an interesting example of one of Robert Moses’s parkways. He built them all over Long Island — Queens is on the eastern end of Long Island — and this was probably one of his first. One of the trademarks of his roadways was his stone overpasses. They all look pretty much the same, but they’re really nicely executed. When you look at this photo, it’s hard to imagine that tens of thousands of people live within a mile of where it was taken.

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This stretch of roadway is sunken in and surrounded by trees. Mike and I had our first apartment together about 5 miles further down this road, in Bayside. We had a wonderful view of Littleneck Bay (you’ve heard, perhaps, of Littleneck clams?), but had to listen to a never-ending stream of cars going by far beneath our terrace.

At Mike’s mom’s place, we had bagels for breakfast. This is a photo of me holding a real New York bagel. Notice that it is large and plump. The outside is crusty and the inside is moist and almost doughy. It doesn’t have blueberries or cranberries or any other type of berry in it. This one has sesame seeds (my personal favorite), but they also come plain, egg, poppy seed, salt, pumpernickel, onion, cinnamon raisin, or everything. Everything means seeds, onion, and salt and is a real assault to the taste buds. A common way for a New Yorker to eat a bagel is to slice it open and toast it, then cover each half with cream cheese and slices of lox (smoked salmon). Some people add red onions, capers, and/or tomatoes. (I don’t like tomatoes on my bagels.) A quick spread of cream cheese is referred to as a “schmear” in New York; I prefer a more generous helping. You can’t get a good bagel anywhere outside of the New York metro area, although you can get decent ones here and there. Einstein Brothers makes a decent bagel. Bagels do not come in the grocery freezer section; anything you find there that is labeled a bagel is a mere imitation.

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The next time you go to New York, have a bagel as described above. It’s part of the New York experience and should be required for all serious visitors. And, while you’re at it, take a ride down to the Lower East Side and have a corned beef, pastrami, and tongue on rye sandwich at Katz’s Deli. Get that with mustard. Do not ask for it with mayonnaise; you will be forcibly removed from the premises and publicly laughed at out on the street. A Dr. Brown’s Creme soda is a nice accompaniment — and don’t forget the kosher pickle. Leave the Carnegie Deli for the tourists. What you’ll learn — among other things — is how to properly make a sandwich. There should be more meat than bread. That’s something they just don’t get outside the New York metro area.

But I digress, again. This is a photo of the Throgs Neck Bridge, taken from Mike’s mom’s patio. She’s on the 7th floor and has a nice view out this way. Beyond the bridge is the Long Island Sound. Imagine it with lots of sailboats and you’re imagining the view on a summer Sunday afternoon. Put some green leaves in the tree in the foreground to complete the picture.

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As you can see, it isn’t always grey in New York in the winter. Friday was a very nice day, although it was still bitter cold, with temperatures in the 30s and enough wind to make it feel a lot colder. Of course, it did get gray again on the next day.

Here’s a look at the George Washington Bridge from the foot of the Palisades. The Palisades, in case you’re wondering, are a line of cliffs along the Hudson River in New Jersey. This photo was taken from a boat basin/park area almost directly across the river from the northernmost end of Manhattan. The view is to the southeast.

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The GW Bridge has two decks — upper and lower — and is a major route between New Jersey and eastern New York. It’s actually the first bridge you get to if you sail up the river from New York Harbor. The next bridge is the Tappan Zee, which is at least 20 miles further upriver. To cross the river closer to downtown Manhattan, you can use one of two tunnels: the Lincoln (midtown at around 30th Street) and the Holland (downtown at around Houston).

When I was growing up in New Jersey, my family had a small boat that we used to take out in the river. I’ve been around Manhattan by boat more times than I can count. It’s a neat trip that you can do on the Circle Line tour boats. We also took a few perilous trips into New York Harbor and around the Statue of Liberty. I say perilous because our boat was really small and the water can get rough out in the harbor. I also remember going past Ellis Island long before it was fixed up and opened to the public. I’ve never been on the island, though.

Anyway, all those boat trips started at the base of the George Washington Bridge, on the New Jersey side. I can still remember the smell of the water at low tide, and the look of all those exposed barnacles. And the way the boat floated up and down as it was loosely tied at the boarding area. We didn’t swim in the river back in those days — it was too polluted south of the Tappan Zee — but we did fish in it, although we never ate any of the fish we caught.

Here’s a shot of one of the “waterfalls” coming down the Palisades to the Hudson River. It’s really probably just runoff from a storm drain, but when we were kids, it was a waterfall and it was one of the most beautiful things we’d ever seen. My family often drove along the river’s shore road on Sunday outings. That’s back in the days when taking a drive in the family car was a cheap and fun day out. There were no malls, no computer games, no cell phones. We’d get in the car and go for a drive and drink up everything we saw out the window. If it was autumn, we’d go to a place called Tices Farms, which had apples and doughnuts (note the spelling) and cider and pumpkins for sale. When I got out of the car to take this photo, the smell of wet leaves brought me back to a time when we would rake them into huge piles and take turns jumping in them. Leave stems would stick in our sweaters and hair and we’d be breathless in the cool autumn sun. I don’t know if you can see it clearly, but there’s ice in the water in this photo. We’re talking cold enough to make a waterfall freeze. Cold.

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The Palisades area of Bergen County in New Jersey is one of its more historic areas. Originally settled by the Dutch in the 1600s, it was a hotbed of activity during the Revolutionary War. Posted alongside roads all over the area are “Washington’s Retreat Route” signs. Yes. This is the area George Washington retreated from when we weren’t doing very well in the first war with the Brits. Why we need that on signs is beyond me. But the area is also full of walking trails that were probably built during the depression. In more than a few places, you can find stairways and paths that climb the Palisades. This is one example, that follows the road for a short distance before cutting right up the cliff. We did a lot of hiking in the area when we lived there. The views from the top of the Palisades are magnificent.

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I took the shot that appears below from the AirTrain that travels around Newark Airport. That’s New York in the background.
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This photo reminds me of a visit by one of my editors when we still lived in New Jersey. I picked him up at the airport and was driving north along the New Jersey turnpike toward our house. He looked off to the right as we climbed a bit of highway that passed over the marshes at the Meadowlands and said, “What city is that?” He was looking at New York. That’s when I realized that the skyline I’d grown up with wasn’t nearly as familiar to everyone else.

Am I homesick? Maybe a bit. Would I go back to live there again? Nope.

Been there, done that.

A Trip to Sedona

I spend the day in Sedona, waiting for some passengers.

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of flying two very nice people from Canada from Wickenburg to Sedona for the day. We arrived at Sedona Airport, after a scenic flight around Wickenburg, Prescott, and Sedona’s red rocks, around 11:30 AM — just in time for the Pink Jeep Tour shuttle to pick us up and bring us down to the town. My passengers were taking a Jeep Tour; I planned on just hanging around downtown until they were ready to return at 3 or 4 PM. I escorted them to the Jeep Tour desk, reminded them that they could change their reservation, and watched them reserve a Jeep and driver all to themselves for departure at 1 PM. Then I left them to walk around town on my own.

The Pink Jeep Tour company’s offices are in “uptown” Sedona. That’s the heart of the tourist district in the northwest corner of town at the mouth of Oak Creek Canyon. The tourist shops that line both sides of the street there are dwarfed by the massive red rock formations behind them. But all attention in uptown Sedona is concentrated on those shops. I admit that mine was, too.

I hadn’t been to the town of Sedona for years. I’ve been flying in quite regularly with passengers, but I seldom come down off the mesa where the airport is located. There’s a restaurant up there and I usually have breakfast or lunch or whatever while my passengers explore the town on their own. They’re usually gone about 2 hours at the most, so I busy myself with a book while I’m waiting. It’s a nice, relaxing place.

But yesterday, my passengers wanted a longer stay in town. And since the Pink Jeep people offered me a lift in the shuttle, too, I went down the hill with them.

I walked the few blocks of uptown Sedona at a leisurely pace. I saw lots of T-shirt shops and lots of souvenir shops. The usual collection of real and fake Indian crafts and jewelry. Imported Mexican rugs. Jeep tour companies. Reservation centers. The wonderful map and bookstore that had been in one of the shopping areas was gone and I was sorely disappointed. I’d depended on that shop for reading material while I waited and it didn’t appear, at first, as if there were another bookstore in town. I finally found one across the street from the Pink Jeep storefront, the last shop on my walking tour.

My Sedona passengers from last week’s flight had spent only 90 minutes in town before returning to the airport. They called Sedona a “tourist trap.” And frankly, as I walked the streets, I couldn’t argue with them. But I hadn’t really expected it to be any different. I don’t know what they expected. After all, take a beautiful place, make its beauty well-known, and people will flock there. When enough people flock there, the tourist shops will start springing up like mold on old bread. After a while, those shops (like mold) completely cover the area, masking what people found so beautiful in the first place.

Now I don’t want to give you the idea that Sedona is “ruined.” It isn’t. There are still plenty of beautiful sights around town. Sadly, there are so many people there to view those sites, you’re always part of a crowd. You need to come to Sedona with your own Jeep and a trail map to get away from the herd. Bring a picnic lunch and your camera. And, for heaven’s sake, don’t come on a weekend!

I ran into my passengers on the street just before they went to lunch. They invited me to join them, but I felt as if I would be intruding, so I declined. I had lunch at a tea shop across from the Pink Jeep place and sat outside on a narrow balcony to eat and read the book I’d bought in the bookstore down below. It was windy and rather cold up there, so I didn’t last long.

Afterwards, I went for a walk back the way I’d come. That’s when I saw the Hummer tour sign. They had a 1-hour tour leaving immediately. It was the “Jeep Eater” Tour. Supposedly, this tour took passengers places were Jeeps couldn’t go. I pulled out my credit card and, minutes later, was seated in the front passenger seat of a Hummer, about 6 feet away from its driver. (Okay, so maybe it wasn’t that wide, but it sure seemed like it.) There were two passengers, a couple from Baton Rouge, in the open-air seating behind us. That was it.

The road that Jeeps can’t drive on isn’t in Sedona. It’s halfway back to Cottonwood, off of 89A. It’s a power line road — that’s a road built to maintain a power line — and frankly, there were only about 4 places on the whole ride that I would have been uncomfortable about taking my Jeep. That’s not to say that my Jeep couldn’t have done it. But I’m not sure that it could have done it with me at the wheel. During the whole ride, the driver kept pointing out other roads that the couple from Baton Rouge could explore on their own with the ATV’s they’d trailered up from home. The driver was obviously working hard to add value to the ride and maximize his tip potential. Whatever. It managed to stretch the tour out to 90 minutes, bringing us back to Sedona just when my passengers were due back. In case couldn’t read between the lines in this paragraph, I don’t recommend this tour. It wasn’t worth the $100 I spent on the tour plus tip. But at least I know what it’s like to ride in a real Hummer.

I hurried back toward the Pink Jeep place and found one of my passengers outside a gift shop. His wife was inside, shopping. They’d had a great time and had looked for me to join them before they left. I didn’t tell them about the Hummer.

I left them for a short while to pick up a gift for a friend of mine and a piece of apple pie that was really good. Then we got back on the shuttle, rode up to the airport, and flew home.

I’m glad I got to go to Sedona for the day. I feel all caught up with things down there. And I’m sure I’ll be back soon — not only by helicopter, but perhaps by Jeep to see just what my Jeep can do.

Plane Germs

I fight off a cold I may have caught enroute from Boston to Phoenix.

PhotoLike most people, I hate getting sick. It isn’t just the feeling like crap part of being sick. It’s the knowing that I have so much to do and that doing any of it will exhaust me and prolong my illness. Mike and I took a vacation in Maine last week. We stayed with our friends, John and Lorna, who have a wonderful piece of property on a stream with a dam surrounded by tall trees. The weather in Maine was mostly foggy while we were there, but every once in a while, the fog would lift or clear away and we’d get an outstanding view of the New England countryside or coast.

We left on Friday for Amhurst, MA to visit Mike’s niece, Molly. The drive was wonderful through Maine, with the fog clearing out enough to make it a very pleasant drive. But when we hit New Hampshire and Massachusetts, it became overcast. By the time we reached Amhurst, it was raining. It was terribly humid on Friday — the kind of humidity that makes you sweat no matter how cool it is outside. On Saturday, it was pouring and very cool. But not quite cool enough to give me the chill I normally need to catch cold.

So it must have been the plane ride. Five and a half hours on board, from Boston to Phoenix. Stuck in coach, crammed into a window seat beside Mike on a plane too full for anyone to stretch out. I spent most of the flight reading, despite the nagging headache I’d had since the previous afternoon. I couldn’t even listen to my iPod very long. My head ached.

The air was typical airline air. Who knows where it came from or where it had been? How much of it came from outside the cabin? How much of it was laden with the germs the 100+ other passengers had brought onboard with them?Now don’t get the idea that I’m paranoid about germs. I’m not. I fully believe that everyone should expose themselves to a certain amount of germs just to keep their immune system working. That’s why I don’t go out of my way to use antibacterial soap. And I never really believed that the germs on airplanes could make you sick. To me, it sounded like just another fear fed into society by the media, which loves to keep us scared and tuned in for details.

But now I’m not so sure.

I arrived home at 10 PM on Saturday. I was fine on Sunday. I woke up a bit early on Monday — okay, so it was 4:00 AM — but felt fine. At about 7 AM, I had a nasty sneezing fit. By 10 AM, my nose was running like a faucet. By noon, my head was aching and my nose was sore from blowing it. By 2 PM, I was at the cold medications counter in Safeway, asking a pharmacist to please help me find the right medicine for my symptoms.

My condition continued to worsen. Mike made us dinner and it took me forever to eat. Ever try to swallow food when your nose is completely stuffed?At 7:30 PM, I went into the bedroom to read. I was asleep 10 minutes later.

I slept sitting up. I know from experience that a postnasal drip can give you a sore throat and cough. I didn’t want to go there. So I slept with my head up and tilted to one side. Thankfully, the nasty stuff in my nose had thickened a bit from the medication and wasn’t drippy. As I write this on Tuesday morning, I still don’t have a sore throat or cough.

But I am on medication. And I decided to take the day off to rest up. That’s the only way I’ll recover.

But why now? Why couldn’t this have happened over the summer when I was goofing off most of the time? Why does it have to happen when I’m working on a book revision and have two editors nagging me for articles? When my helicopter needs to be run up after maintenance so I can do a tour for a woman and her grandson this weekend? When I’m trying to launch a podcast and my voice is too nasal to make recordings?No need to dwell on it. I’ll just settle down on the sofa with a box of Puffs, glass of orange juice, and a good book. I’m taking today off so I can get back to work tomorrow. I’d better be at least a little better by then.

Back to the Desert

Day 13 brings me to the mountainous desert around Salt Lake.

Despite my less than perfect accommodations, I slept reasonably well. I think it’s because of the sound of flowing water that came in through the door to the back deck. I’d left the door open a few inches, trusting the lock on the screen door to keep out any hotel guests who might be wandering around on the deck. I was in the end room, so the chance of someone walking by my door on their way to another room was remote.

I showered. It was the first motel shower I’d encountered in a long time that couldn’t keep a steady water temperature. Every time one of my neighbors flushed the toilet, I’d come close to getting scalded. The third time this happened, I shut the water off and called it quits.

I packed up the car, checked out, and headed south on 89. I had a Doubleshot to meet my caffeine needs. (My friend Lorna, who has been reading these entries faithfully from her home in Maine, e-mailed me to ask what a Doubleshot is. In case you don’t know, here’s the scoop. A Doubleshot is a canned Starbucks coffee drink. It’s an easy way to get a caffeine fix when I’m on the road. I usually buy a couple of them when I’m in a supermarket and keep them in my cooler. When I can’t find decent coffee elsewhere, I drink a doubleshot. I don’t really like them — they’re too sweet for my taste — but they’re easy.)The road began by following the Snake River through a canyon. When it reached the town of Alpine, WY, the Snake River curved to the northwest while I headed south. Alpine was a nice little town with a lot of tasteful new construction and small businesses. The town was very quiet — it wasn’t even 8 AM yet. I almost passed a drive-up coffee stand. When I spotted it, I hit my brakes hard and pulled in for a latte.

The building was tall and it was quite a reach up to the woman inside it. My Clarkston reused coffee grinds experience had left me a little leery of coffee stands, but I had nothing to worry about here. The woman, who was very friendly, made me an excellent large triple latte. I asked her whether she owned the booth and she told me she didn’t. In fact, it was her last day at work. She was moving back to Spokane, WA. The woman who owned the booth was doing okay, but it was hard to do well in the town because of its heavy Mormon population. I later discovered that Mormons don’t drink coffee. I guess a coffee shop in a Mormon town would be like opening up a pork store in New York’s Lower East Side.

From Alpine, I headed due south on 89, which lies on the east side of the Wyoming/Idaho border. I was in farmland again, but at an elevation well over 5,000 feet. Wheat and alfalfa seemed to be the big crops. One alfalfa field had just been cut — probably the previous day — and the smell of the fresh alfalfa was rich and sweet.

I think I was in Afton when I saw the car wash and pulled in. I’d managed to call Megg on my cell phone and arrange to go to her house in North Salt Lake City that afternoon. My car was dirty and I didn’t want to make a bad impression. So I washed it for the third time on my trip. This time, it was the dirtiest it had been so far. The bug situation in Idaho, Montana, and Wyoming is bad and the front of the car was pretty much plastered with dead bugs of all shapes, sizes, and colors. It took six minutes worth of car wash time to get it all off. I dried it with my rags and dusted off the dashboard. Much better.

I crossed into Idaho at Geneva Summit, which was 6,938 feet. That put me into a long valley with a succession of towns: Montpelier, Ovid, Paris, St. Charles, Fish Haven, and Garden City. Every town I drove through was remarkably quiet — nothing seemed to be open. Except the church, of course. All the church parking lots were full and I saw more than a few well-dressed people out on the streets, walking to or from church. Things changed a bit when I got near Bear Lake. Lots of people were out and about at the lake, in boats and in public access areas. There was a lot of housing on the lake side of the road with plenty of Private and No Beach Access signs to keep people out.

Bear Lake

Somewhere between Fish Haven and Garden City, I passed into Utah, the ninth state I’d visited on my trip. At Garden City, I got on route 30 and followed that around the south end of the lake. I climbed a hill and immediately realized that I had slipped into high desert terrain. The vegetation on both sides of the road consisted of tall grass, sage, and a variety of other desert plants. I was getting closer to home, leaving the water wonderland I’d enjoyed since entering Oregon more than a week before. I felt disappointed and did not look forward to what I’d drive through ahead: dry desert, hot sun, empty riverbeds. I realized that I’d fallen out of love with the desert.

I turned right on route 16 with a bunch of other cars, heading southbound. More farmland, but not much more. I passed the bunch of cars, tired of breathing their exhaust. Later, I turned right again onto route 39, heading west. The road climbed and climbed and climbed. I kept checking my GPS for elevation information and the number kept going up. I was certain that when I reached the top of the mountains, there would be a lookout where I could see Salt Lake. I crossed over the Monte Cristo Summit, at 9000 feet, and started down. There was no lookout. The road dropped into a canyon with a small stream on either side. It twisted and turned as it descended. I passed two pickup trucks and some kind of Volkswagen — a Jetta, maybe? — blew past me.

I spotted a restaurant on the left and made a harrowing turn into a parking space. I needed a bathroom and lunch, in that order. I asked for them in reverse order. It would be a 20 minute wait to eat outside on the patio, which looked like a good place to eat. I got directions to the ladies room and while I was doing my business, decided I didn’t feel like waiting. Instead, I’d find a shady spot in a park and eat some of the food in my cooler. So I left and continued on my way.

Trouble was, there was no shady spot in a park. All I passed were campgrounds, and since it was Sunday at midday, all of the campgrounds were full. So I kept driving.

The road dumped me down in Ogden. I got on a main avenue that was also labeled route 89 and headed south toward Salt Lake. I wasn’t in a hurry. I was supposed to meet Megg at around four and it was only 1:30. That meant I had time to kill.

I should have killed time up in Ogden, because when I got closer to North Salt Lake, all of the shops and businesses were closed again. It would not be a good place to kill time. I drove all the way down to the city, then came all the way back up to Bountiful, where I found a Barnes and Noble that was open. I killed over an hour in there, buying books for myself (as if I needed them) and for Megg’s son, Cooper. Then I hopped over to the Taco Bell for a bite to eat. Then I drove around some more. It was around four and I was in a Smith’s parking lot, after buying two pies for Megg and her family, when I finally connected with Megg. I was five minutes from her house. She gave me directions and I made my way over there.

Megg is one of my editors. She works with me on my Quicken Official Guide books, which I’ve been revising faithfully since the Quicken 99 edition back in 1998. Megg hasn’t been stuck with me that long. She inherited me from my first editor on that book, Joanne, about five years ago.

Megg has a lovely and very large house on a hill overlooking the North Salt Lake area. Excellent views, plenty of space. And a very comfy guest room. I met her son and her husband. I then proceeded to join her for a very relaxing afternoon and evening.

Elk and Bison and Bears — Oh, My!

Day 12 takes me through two national parks on my way south.

I slept better at Lynn’s house than anywhere I’d been so far. The bed was warm and cosy, the air was clean and fresh, and the sound of the creek rushing by the house was the perfect white noise for sleep.

I got up my usual time and soon realized that Lynn was awake, too. I had some coffee and Lynn had some tea and we chatted. Then I went up to take a shower while she put the horses back out to pasture.

She drove me to a town called Alder for breakfast. On the way, we stopped at a town called Laurin (which is not pronounced the way it’s spelled, but I can’t remember how to pronounce it) where Lynn showed me two small houses that had been built inside metal grain silos. She said that when she and Ray had farmed down near Klamath Falls, they’d had a bunch of those silos and never knew what to do with them — they didn’t grow grain and no one else in the area did either, anymore. This seemed to be a perfect solution.

We had egg sandwiches at a local farmer cafe and I picked up the tab. Then we went back to her place, where I packed up the car, said goodbye, and headed out.

I gassed up in Sheridan, at the only gas station. I then retraced our miles through Laurin and Alder on route 278. Along the way, I saw a bald eagle. It looked exactly like all the photos I’d seen of bald eagles, but it was picking on some road kill when I approached. It flew off to wait atop a fence post until I was gone so it could continue its meal.

I passed Nevada City along the way. My map indicates that it’s a ghost town, but there was plenty of activity there. Perhaps someone had fixed up the buildings alongside the road as a tourist attraction? Or built them from scratch to look like old western buildings? In either case, there were an awful lot of them and they were right on the road. A sign said that there would be living history events that day. A bunch of tourists had already gathered, including three motorcyclists who had found it necessary to take up a full parking spot for each of their Harleys. Ah, the good old American “I’m all that matters” attitude in action.

A few minutes later, I passed Virginia City, which has to be the most authentic western town I’ve seen so far. There were plenty of old buildings, in wonderful condition, housing shops and museums. Makes me sick to remember how Wickenburg tries to promote itself as “the west’s most western town,” when I pass through one that makes Wickenburg look like a shadowy imitation of something out of a sixties western. Somehow, the fast food joints ruin the effect.

Quake LakeI reached Ennis, which Lynn had told me was very touristy. I didn’t really notice that, but I made my turn there, so I may have missed that part of town. I was still on route 287, but it was heading southbound now. After a while, the road joined up with the Madison River, which I followed for quite some time. When I got to the turnoff for Quake Lake, I turned in. Lynn had told me a little about the place and said she’d wanted to see it when she and Ray had driven past. Ray hadn’t been interested at the time, so they’d gone past without stopping. The place was situated in a canyon where the Madison River flows. In the late 1950s, an earthquake had caused a landslide that dumped debris into the river bed. Twenty-eight people had been killed, although I don’t know how. Perhaps they were on the road there? In any case, the natural dam caused by the landslide had created Quake Lake. I read all this on the sign outside the visitor center. It was all I needed to know, so I didn’t go in. I took a picture of the little lake, then got back into the car and continued on the road as it wound alongside it. There were lots of dead trees sticking out of the water. I imagined a heavily forested canyon suddenly filled with water and the slow death of the trees that were submerged.

The road passed on the north side of Hebron Lake, a manmade lake along the Madison River. There were lots of homes on its shores, a few marinas, and some fishermen. Then, at the junction for route 191, I turned right, heading south.

My car’s odometer turned 14,000 miles about a mile outside of West Yellowstone, MT.

I was going to just drive through West Yellowstone when I spotted an IMAX theater. I enjoy IMAX movies — except the 3D ones, which look blurry to me — so I pulled in. They were showing three different movies: Yellowstone, Lewis and Clark, and Coral Reef. Although I wanted to see Lewis and Clark, Yellowstone was next up, so I bought a ticket to that. Since my cell phone finally had a decent signal, I called Mike while I waited and left him a message telling him where I was and where I was going.

The movie was good. Grand Canyon, which plays at Tusayan near the South Rim, was better, though.

YellowstoneI headed into the park, crossing over the border into Wyoming, the eighth state I’d visited so far. My National Parks pass got me in without a fee. (It works at Yellowstone but not Mt. St. Helens? What kind of bull is that?) I took the map and gave it a quick look. My objective was not to visit the park. My objective was to take a nice, scenic ride south toward Salt Lake City. The problem was, it was a Saturday in August. The park was full. And the tourists were of the most annoying variety: drive-through tourists who will stop their car anyplace someone else has stopped, just to take a picture of whatever that other person is taking a picture of. When I wanted to drive slowly, there was someone on my butt. When I wanted to drive faster, there was someone in front of me. When I wanted to stop in a place where no one else was stopped, two or three other cars immediately appeared, spewing occupants armed with cameras to take the same picture I was trying to take. At one point, I reached a traffic jam on a narrow, one-way road as at least 30 cars had stopped to photograph a grizzly bear on the other side of a creek. I was so wigged out by the crowd that I neither stopped nor saw the bear.

BisonI did see plenty of elk, though. The first herd was right inside the park, grazing along the Madison River. I guess seeing tourists have tamed them, to a certain extent, because some very gutsy tourists were approaching quite close and the elk didn’t seem to care. I also saw a few bison. Most of the bison, as I recall, are on the grassy east side of the park. I was on the west side. I saw four individual animals, each of which were the subject of many tourist photos. But the one that amazed me the most was the one walking alongside the road in a forested area. I think he was lost. But he was walking on the pavement, forcing vehicles to go around him. That, of course, caused a traffic jam because everyone wants the thrill of driving alongside a walking bison. When it was my turn to pass him, I didn’t stop. I just aimed my camera and pushed the button while I kept driving. He was so close that someone sitting in my passenger seat could have reached out and touched him. Although he didn’t seem interested in me (or anyone else), I could imagine what those horns would do to my car’s paint job if he decided he didn’t like the color red. I wondered what he thought of the long line of campers and SUVs and cars filing past him in slow motion. I also wondered where he was going. Probably to the administrative offices to complain about all the traffic and exhaust.

Old FaithfulI took the exit to the Old Faithful Inn, in search of a decent lunch. I got a great parking spot in the shade and got out with my camera. There was a huge crowd of people sitting on benches, facing the Old Faithful Geiser, which was spewing out various amounts of steam to keep them entertained. I tried two places and found a cafeteria and a buffet. I checked out the buffet and was surprised to find that the cafeteria food had looked better (although it didn’t smell better). As I was walking back to my car, Old Faithful let go and I managed to get a bunch of good photos. It was still bubbling water when I left. ChipmunkI also managed to get a photo of this little fellow. It’s unfortunate, but people at national parks find it necessary to feed the wildlife. As a result, they become tame, like this guy probably was, and they forget how to forage for themselves. In the winter, when there are fewer tourists around, they starve. That is if they don’t get sick and die from the junk the tourists feed them.

I found a restaurant with table service at the Snow Lodge. I had a nice salad with warm goat cheese cakes on it. Tasty. Then I got back into the car and made my way out, before a new post Old Faithful eruption could start another traffic jam.

I followed the signs to Grant Village, crossing the Continental Divide twice along the way. At one point, I caught a glimpse of Yellowstone Lake. I was surprised — I didn’t remember it being so big. And I saw plenty of evidence of forest fires: where I’d first come into the park, near Old Faithful, and now as I left the park, driving toward the South Entrance. I passed Lewis Falls, on the Snake River, the first waterfall Mike and I had seen when we’d come into the park from the south years before. I clearly remember the fresh forest fire damage at the falls — there was nothing alive back then. Now the dead trees were still there, but new pines were growing in. It would take a long time for the park’s forests to recover.

Grand TetonsThe road followed the Snake River down to Jackson Lake and Grand Teton National Park. The main feature of Grand Teton is the mountain with the same name, on the southwest side of the lake. It’s 13,770 feet tall, very rocky, and has a glacier not far from the top. In this photo, it’s the mountain that’s farthest away. It was after 3 PM and the sun was moving to the west, making it difficult to get a good photo of the mountains from the east. I followed the road, choosing the path that kept me close to the lake rather than the faster road that went direct to Jackson. A scenic drive.

I passed through the southern boundary of the park and, a while later, was approaching Jackson. By this time, I was exhausted. I’d left the top down most of the day and I had been slow-roasted by the sun. All I wanted was a clean, quiet motel room. I stopped about about a half-dozen places on the north side of town and was told that they only rooms left were either smoking or very expensive. I drove through Jackson, figuring I’d find a place somewhere outside of town, on the south side. Jackson, WY, is a tourist processing plant. Tourists go there, park their vehicles, and then proceed through a series of shops and restaurants and tourist attractions designed to wring their money out of them. I couldn’t believe the number of people on the streets. Traffic was horrendous. And I couldn’t understand what attracted these people, like flies to honey. The real tourist attraction was north of town, the lakes and mountains and wildlife. Gift shops and cheap t-shirt joints can be found anywhere. When I finally got out of town, I was glad I hadn’t found a room there.

I wound up at a motel along a creek, just where the creek merges with the Snake River. I took an upstairs room facing the creek. After getting some dinner at a restaurant 3 miles away, I sat on my patio with my maps and a bottle of wine, trying to figure out where I’d go next. I was on my way home — that was for sure. After nearly two weeks and over 3,000 miles on the road, I was ready for my own bed.