We were the only guests who got to enjoy breakfast at the Mansion View Inn this morning. Like the inn itself, the breakfast was aesthetically beautiful, obviously crafted by someone with an eye for beautiful things. We enjoyed a meal that you can only get when you are the sole guests of someone who loves to entertain. We started with a yogurt, berry, and granola parfait that would have been a satisfying breakfast alone. Then, there was the breakfast main course, a veggie and cheese omelet, roasted potatoes, asparagus spears, bacon, and an artfully arranged selection of yellow and green kiwis. This was more than we could finish, but we made a valiant effort.
We chatted with the couple that had been contracted to manage the bed and breakfast. We talked with them about their kids, jobs, the responsibilities of managing the inn, and our trip. The husband, who had been a commercial photographer, told us about a similar trip he had taken to New Mexico with a friend to shoot a hot air balloon festival. He talked about how much he had enjoyed taking pictures of all the small towns along the way. And we talked about how, given the rising price of gas, the road trip might soon become a dying tradition if it hasn’t already.
After breakfast, we set off toward Strongsville. Strongsville is a suburb south of Cleveland where Aaron grew up and where his parents still live. Shortly after we were east of Toledo, the brilliant sunshine that had followed us all the way from western Oregon began to dim and we found ourselves under Northern Ohio’s characteristic cloud cover. We know better than to complain about this. The weather has been phenomenally cooperative since the beginning of our trip, and we know that we have been lucky. A meteorologist would attribute this weather to the remnants of tropical storm Faye, which lingered over Florida for days and eventually dispersed into clouds and rain over the rest of the country. We assumed that it was just Cleveland’s way of welcoming us back. It’s just not Cleveland unless it’s cloudy.
We saw many of the same things in northern Ohio that we had seen in the rest of the Midwest. We saw many agricultural areas and small towns, but the fields were getting smaller and the towns were getting closer and closer together. The main streets of the towns were getting larger and the buildings were more densely packed. There were fewer town signs, establishing the town as the Honey Capital of the Nation (Randolph, Nebraska, Iowa) or the Jackalope Capital of the World (Douglas, Wyoming). (Wikipedia has a great list of town nicknames http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_city_nicknames_in_the_United_States. A fantastic one that we didn’t get to see is Des Moines “Hartford of the West.” ) But, there were still a few gems. Our favorite was an orange banner strung across the road advertising, with the article-free exuberance that is usually reserved for Chinese take-out menus, “Super Gun Raffle!”
As we’ve noted before, we spend a lot of our time on the road listening to NPR. But occasionally, we realized that we had already listened to that episode of “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me,” or we decided that we just couldn’t listen to another hour of the chattering hydra that is political talk radio. In those instances, one of us would begin flipping through the stations. Aaron has been a radio and TV flipper for as long as I have known him. When the station plays a song he doesn’t like or goes to commercial, he begins flipping through the stations for something better. Sometimes this flipping can last for several minutes and through several cycles of the available radio stations. I, on the other hand, was a stay-the-course radio listener. I would flip through the stations to find out which one had a solid signal and played the kind of music that, on the whole, I liked to listen to, and I stuck with it, even through commercials and annoying songs. In the early days of our courtship, this was the kind of personal difference that lead to stupid, surprisingly heated arguments. I thought I might never get to hear a full song on the radio again. But, somewhere along the way, I stopped minding the flipping and even adopted it myself. I have mellowed significantly in my old age.
In our music listening, it was really amazing how many of the same songs are played over and over again. Anyone who listens to radio understands that some decent songs are overplayed until all of their charm is sapped. In the western Midwest, that song was “I Kissed a Girl and I Liked It,” a pop song destined to be played at thousands of college parties when the Girls Gone Wild set is just drunk enough to take the hint. As we moved east, the overplayed songs changed. “Love Song,” by Sarah Bareilles, though it is no longer new, is still played enough in the eastern Midwest that you can hear it on some station just about any time. In the same set is Coldplay’s “Viva La Vida” (“When I Ruled the World”). There are also a few older songs that have remained popular enough to be a bit overplayed years and sometimes decades after their release. West of Iowa, it was “She’s Got Legs” by ZZ Top, and Sweet Home Alabama. Iowa and eastward, it’s American Pie, and anything by Billy Joel. Queen and Nirvana are pervasive everywhere. Some of these songs are more objectionable than others, but the new songs get the most play by far, and get less enjoyable and more grating every time you hear them.
Around 2:30, we turned off of Route 20 and onto State Route 82 West on our way to Strongsville. Around 3:00, we arrived at our favorite and most frequent lodging spot, “Becky and Ed’s Breakfast and Bed” aka Aaron’s Parents’ House. For months, they had been preparing to throw a party for us on our one night stop. Aaron’s dad, Ed, told us that he had cleaned the porch room, cleaned out the garage, and stained the deck and generally made their already clean house pristine. However, all his efforts had backfired because now the porch was so clean that he wasn’t allowed to smoke his beloved cigars there until winter. It was unnecessary to point out who was enforcing this ban. The consummate hostess, Becky, Aaron’s mom, had made burgers and hot dogs and spent most of the time before the party getting food ready for the guests. About half an hour later, my parents arrived from Granville, Ohio. I was amazed that we had beat them there because my mother has readily admitted that she will probably be early to her own funeral. We all gathered around the kitchen table and talked, mostly about our road trip adventures. In a way, I felt like we had nothing left to tell them. As our parents, they were almost the only people who had the endurance to actually keep up with this novel-sized travel log, and so they already knew almost all of the details of our trip. They had already read most of the stories. But they were kind enough to let us tell them all again.
Eventually, the Eliases’ family friends and our friends from college started arriving. We hadn’t seen most of these people since our wedding almost a year ago, and it was a warm reunion. It was particularly great to see our friends from college and talk about all that was new. People had new jobs. Some had bought their first homes. Some were newlyweds and others were about to be. We looked at pictures, took a few new ones, and generally expressed amazement that time was moving forward.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Day 12: Chicago, Illinois to Toledo, Ohio
The original idea was to get up early enough to miss traffic and to go through any hard neighborhoods while everyone was asleep. But between the wonderfully comfortable featherbeds and Chicago Blue the night before, getting out the door by 7 was out of the question. Instead, we woke up at 7, packed our things and went downstairs to Café Des Architectes for breakfast. After scanning the menu, and still feeling the effects of the cheezborgers the night before, we decided to order the continental breakfast, a basket of bread, croissants, and viennoiseries (pastries) served with juice or coffee. Although the breakfast dishes I saw served to the mostly francophone guests in the restaurant did look delicious, I think the continental breakfast is the best deal by far. The basket is chocked full of tasty offerings. The strong coffee is served in an individual French press with the cream and sugar at the table. We lingered over our breakfast and chatted about the places we had been and what we still to come. The leisurely service probably would have let us stay longer if we had the time.
But for this day, we did not have the time, so we packed up our things, checked out, and drove on. We drove back through the gridded streets of downtown, back to the Congress Parkway and I-290. This allowed us to pick up Route 20 exactly where we had left off. We moved our way through the suburbs, heading south first and then east. As we moved east into the southern side of Chicago, we were fully expecting to find ourselves in a war zone. I don’t know where we came up with this idea. TV. Rumors. Imagination. But there was no war zone, only a neighborhood. Not a wealthy neighborhood and not a white neighborhood, but a functional neighborhood. Although I might have been uncomfortable walking the streets at night, I felt perfectly safe in our car in the middle of the day. As we left Illinois, we moved into Gary, the last link to Chicago’s hard industrial past. We passed the BP Refinery and slogged our way through miles of road construction. The fumes were oppressive.
After we moved away from Gary, it was amazing how quickly the rural landscape returned. Before we reached South Bend, we were again hemmed in by fields of corn and soybeans. As we reached LaGrange and Middlebury, we noticed the traffic suddenly come to a crawl. I leaned out of the window and looked up the berm of the road to see an Amish buggy trotting along on the side of the road. Suddenly, the signs of northern Indiana’s Amish country appeared to be everywhere: men in straw hats working in the fields, Belgian workhorses grazing in pastures, a massive restaurant-lodging-bakery-shopping-wholesale foods complex called Das Dutchman Essenhaus. We also saw curious signs of modernity. Although we saw several families traveling in buggies, we saw many individuals traveling on pretty sophisticated recumbent bicycles. As we absorbed the scenery, we listened to two local activists from San Francisco engaged in a vitriolic debate over a new plan to incorporate bikes into the city’s traffic plan. It was odd to listen to all the thinly veiled attacks on “self-righteous” bikers and “ignorant” drivers, while watching bikes, station wagons, and buggies peacefully and safely share a major road.
Around four we crossed the Ohio border, looking for a bite. We stopped at Spokes Family Restaurant in Pioneer. Spokes Restaurant was in a small building at the intersection of US 20 and State Route 15. The cashier sits immediately to the left of door, in front of an open kitchen and a small counter where four old men in suspenders and trucker hats perch on barstools. To the right, there were two rooms with several booths and small tables. Entering an establishment like this can be a little daunting. When Aaron and I stepped inside, we suddenly felt all eyes on us. We got the feeling that everyone else in the restaurant knew each other and knew that we didn’t quite fit. It didn’t help that we didn’t immediately realize that this was a seat yourself kind of establishment. For an awkward moment, we stood in the doorway, looking at the locals looking at us. However, this moment was fleeting, and we moved to a table in the dinning room. The Spokes Restaurant was about everything you look for in a roadside stop. Simple, tasty, inexpensive sandwiches served with potatoes prepared in every way you can think of. Our waitress, a cheery woman with curled blonde hair and glasses, was quick and friendly. And there was pie. Fresh strawberry pie with massive chunks of fruit and topped with a stylized swirl of whipped cream. As Aaron and I were diving into it, I overheard two men in the booth behind us chatting about our dessert, “Wow, that looks really good. I think I want some of that.” I turned and smiled “Oh yeah, you want some of this.”
We got into Toledo, our stopping place for the evening around 6:30. Wary of our GoogleMap directions, we carefully navigated off of Route 20, onto Central Ave and then Monroe, and then we began scanning the signs for Collingwood. As anyone who has worked their way through an unfamiliar city knows, the street signs are visible before they are legible, and it’s easy to think you’ve got the right street when you find some matching letters. Looking for Collingwood, we passed Glenwood. Then we passed Robinwood. And then—surely, this must be it—Scottwood. And then, as we approached Parkwood, Aaron cried out in exasperation “Oh, come on!” Finally, we turned onto Collingwood. As we moved through the beautiful but slightly faded buildings in Toledo’s Historic Old West End, we came upon an SUV with a tire cover that read, upside down, “If you can read this, please turn me back over.” Spending several hours a day driving, we’ve taken a great interest in amusing car art, so we decided to try to get a picture of the rarest beast, an SUV owner with a sense of humor. However, just as capturing a good shot of the bison proved to be harder than it looked, the driver of the self-deprecating SUV had something of a lead foot and took off as soon as the light changed. Our efficient little Corolla strained to keep up, as we raced through the quiet, historic streets. After screaming past our B&B, we finally recorded the quip for posterity.
We backtracked down Collingwood, and arrived at the Mansion View Inn, a B&B owned by the Toledo Historic West End Neighborhood and run by a member couple. The house is an enormous brick Victorian with gingerbread trim coated in slightly peeling white paint. It is full of impressive dark wood paneling, crafted with the kind of attention to detail that has become prohibitively expensive in all but the most extravagant homes. Our room had a queen bed with a satin cover, shelves and tables packed with antiques and other curiosities, and a private bath with a deep clawfoot tub. The decorative touches were plentiful and steeped in history, but there were also hints at the personalities of the managing couple. Their two cars were parked in the back lot, one with the license plate DOOWOP and the other with PAX ROX and both covered in rainbow and Obama campaign stickers. Interspersed in the National Geographic Magazines and other light reading were openly liberal books critiquing the Bush Administration.
After we had settled in, we decided to go out to see the city a bit and get a bite to eat. the manager who had checked us in, provided us with a print out with descriptions of and directions to their recommended restaurants. We chose a nearby Italian American restaurant. As we followed the directions and found a place to park, I noticed that we didn’t see any people walking around on the sidewalk. As we entered the restaurant, I was taken aback by the emptiness of it. Granted, it was 8 on a weekday night, but there were a couple of business people having drinks at the table outside, a well-dressed couple apparently out for a celebration in the corner, and the clapping of a few devoted fans in separate room listening to the live musical act. As we sipped our drinks under the eerie mural of the New York City skyline prominently featuring the Twin Towers, we watched the waitstaff bring out desserts, frame them in front of a small background, and take pictures for the next menu, but it was slow enough that this didn’t slow down the service at all. As we nibbled on some of the most average pepperoni pizza in all of creation, I leaned into Aaron and whispered, “This place is creepy.” He looked confused. “Where are all the people.”
His expression shifted from confusion to amusement. “What do you mean where are the people? We’re in Toledo at night. There are no people.” I readily admit that Toledo got the short shrift on this trip. It was overshadowed by the fact that we were going to be in Cleveland the next day, having a party with family and friends. Had we been able to stay longer, we would have probably gone to the Art Museum, which is one of the best in the country, or paid homage to Corporal Klinger, Toledo’s favorite fictional native son. But, sadly, all we saw of Toledo was its all but abandoned nightlife.
But for this day, we did not have the time, so we packed up our things, checked out, and drove on. We drove back through the gridded streets of downtown, back to the Congress Parkway and I-290. This allowed us to pick up Route 20 exactly where we had left off. We moved our way through the suburbs, heading south first and then east. As we moved east into the southern side of Chicago, we were fully expecting to find ourselves in a war zone. I don’t know where we came up with this idea. TV. Rumors. Imagination. But there was no war zone, only a neighborhood. Not a wealthy neighborhood and not a white neighborhood, but a functional neighborhood. Although I might have been uncomfortable walking the streets at night, I felt perfectly safe in our car in the middle of the day. As we left Illinois, we moved into Gary, the last link to Chicago’s hard industrial past. We passed the BP Refinery and slogged our way through miles of road construction. The fumes were oppressive.
After we moved away from Gary, it was amazing how quickly the rural landscape returned. Before we reached South Bend, we were again hemmed in by fields of corn and soybeans. As we reached LaGrange and Middlebury, we noticed the traffic suddenly come to a crawl. I leaned out of the window and looked up the berm of the road to see an Amish buggy trotting along on the side of the road. Suddenly, the signs of northern Indiana’s Amish country appeared to be everywhere: men in straw hats working in the fields, Belgian workhorses grazing in pastures, a massive restaurant-lodging-bakery-shopping-wholesale foods complex called Das Dutchman Essenhaus. We also saw curious signs of modernity. Although we saw several families traveling in buggies, we saw many individuals traveling on pretty sophisticated recumbent bicycles. As we absorbed the scenery, we listened to two local activists from San Francisco engaged in a vitriolic debate over a new plan to incorporate bikes into the city’s traffic plan. It was odd to listen to all the thinly veiled attacks on “self-righteous” bikers and “ignorant” drivers, while watching bikes, station wagons, and buggies peacefully and safely share a major road.
Around four we crossed the Ohio border, looking for a bite. We stopped at Spokes Family Restaurant in Pioneer. Spokes Restaurant was in a small building at the intersection of US 20 and State Route 15. The cashier sits immediately to the left of door, in front of an open kitchen and a small counter where four old men in suspenders and trucker hats perch on barstools. To the right, there were two rooms with several booths and small tables. Entering an establishment like this can be a little daunting. When Aaron and I stepped inside, we suddenly felt all eyes on us. We got the feeling that everyone else in the restaurant knew each other and knew that we didn’t quite fit. It didn’t help that we didn’t immediately realize that this was a seat yourself kind of establishment. For an awkward moment, we stood in the doorway, looking at the locals looking at us. However, this moment was fleeting, and we moved to a table in the dinning room. The Spokes Restaurant was about everything you look for in a roadside stop. Simple, tasty, inexpensive sandwiches served with potatoes prepared in every way you can think of. Our waitress, a cheery woman with curled blonde hair and glasses, was quick and friendly. And there was pie. Fresh strawberry pie with massive chunks of fruit and topped with a stylized swirl of whipped cream. As Aaron and I were diving into it, I overheard two men in the booth behind us chatting about our dessert, “Wow, that looks really good. I think I want some of that.” I turned and smiled “Oh yeah, you want some of this.”
We got into Toledo, our stopping place for the evening around 6:30. Wary of our GoogleMap directions, we carefully navigated off of Route 20, onto Central Ave and then Monroe, and then we began scanning the signs for Collingwood. As anyone who has worked their way through an unfamiliar city knows, the street signs are visible before they are legible, and it’s easy to think you’ve got the right street when you find some matching letters. Looking for Collingwood, we passed Glenwood. Then we passed Robinwood. And then—surely, this must be it—Scottwood. And then, as we approached Parkwood, Aaron cried out in exasperation “Oh, come on!” Finally, we turned onto Collingwood. As we moved through the beautiful but slightly faded buildings in Toledo’s Historic Old West End, we came upon an SUV with a tire cover that read, upside down, “If you can read this, please turn me back over.” Spending several hours a day driving, we’ve taken a great interest in amusing car art, so we decided to try to get a picture of the rarest beast, an SUV owner with a sense of humor. However, just as capturing a good shot of the bison proved to be harder than it looked, the driver of the self-deprecating SUV had something of a lead foot and took off as soon as the light changed. Our efficient little Corolla strained to keep up, as we raced through the quiet, historic streets. After screaming past our B&B, we finally recorded the quip for posterity.
We backtracked down Collingwood, and arrived at the Mansion View Inn, a B&B owned by the Toledo Historic West End Neighborhood and run by a member couple. The house is an enormous brick Victorian with gingerbread trim coated in slightly peeling white paint. It is full of impressive dark wood paneling, crafted with the kind of attention to detail that has become prohibitively expensive in all but the most extravagant homes. Our room had a queen bed with a satin cover, shelves and tables packed with antiques and other curiosities, and a private bath with a deep clawfoot tub. The decorative touches were plentiful and steeped in history, but there were also hints at the personalities of the managing couple. Their two cars were parked in the back lot, one with the license plate DOOWOP and the other with PAX ROX and both covered in rainbow and Obama campaign stickers. Interspersed in the National Geographic Magazines and other light reading were openly liberal books critiquing the Bush Administration.
After we had settled in, we decided to go out to see the city a bit and get a bite to eat. the manager who had checked us in, provided us with a print out with descriptions of and directions to their recommended restaurants. We chose a nearby Italian American restaurant. As we followed the directions and found a place to park, I noticed that we didn’t see any people walking around on the sidewalk. As we entered the restaurant, I was taken aback by the emptiness of it. Granted, it was 8 on a weekday night, but there were a couple of business people having drinks at the table outside, a well-dressed couple apparently out for a celebration in the corner, and the clapping of a few devoted fans in separate room listening to the live musical act. As we sipped our drinks under the eerie mural of the New York City skyline prominently featuring the Twin Towers, we watched the waitstaff bring out desserts, frame them in front of a small background, and take pictures for the next menu, but it was slow enough that this didn’t slow down the service at all. As we nibbled on some of the most average pepperoni pizza in all of creation, I leaned into Aaron and whispered, “This place is creepy.” He looked confused. “Where are all the people.”
His expression shifted from confusion to amusement. “What do you mean where are the people? We’re in Toledo at night. There are no people.” I readily admit that Toledo got the short shrift on this trip. It was overshadowed by the fact that we were going to be in Cleveland the next day, having a party with family and friends. Had we been able to stay longer, we would have probably gone to the Art Museum, which is one of the best in the country, or paid homage to Corporal Klinger, Toledo’s favorite fictional native son. But, sadly, all we saw of Toledo was its all but abandoned nightlife.
Day 11: Dubuque, Iowa to Chicago, Illinois
Day 11: Dubuque, Iowa to Chicago, Illinois
We woke as the sunlight streamed into the windows through the lace curtains and slowly filled our room. We made our way down to breakfast around 8:45 There we met the B&B’s other guests, two retired couples from Eau Claire, Wisconsin, on a short antiqueing trip. Although they all seemed interested in perusing the areas many shops, one many was looking for beer glasses from the Star Brewery to add to his collection.
The breakfast was delicious. A puffed pancake, which is a dense eggy confection, dusted with confectioner’s sugar and drizzled with honey syrup, fruit salad, bacon, and blueberry muffins. Susan, one of the innkeepers, persistently offered us all more, but the breakfast was far too filling for anyone to think about seconds.
Because a young couple from Massachusetts is a bit of a surprise at an Iowa B&B, we told them all about our trip on Route 20. They all seemed very interested and we talked about a few of the places we have been and the places still to come. But it was Susan who asked the most salient question, “But, why, exactly?” It took me aback, and I had to admit that I didn’t really know. We rattled off the historical significance of the trail as the longest road in America and the route of Lewis and Clark and the Oregon Trail, but when it came down to it, we decided to go on the trip because we wanted to see the world.
This seemed to make sense to her, and she nodded in understanding. “You know, my mother was a bit of a free spirit,” started as she knitted “and she didn’t stay that way after she was married. I’m not saying anything about marriage, I love my marriage, but she was never really the same after that. When she and my dad were dating in Fort Dodge, one day she got angry at him and said ‘I’m going to Chicago to visit my cousin,’ and she didn’t come back for three years. And they still saw each, he would take the bus in there to go and visit, but she was really out there on her own. And I really think that was the best time of her life. She met a man there named Ray, and we think she really liked Ray, and she bleached her hair. In those days for a woman to bleach her, it was really out there. And, anyway, after three years, my father went to visit her and told her that he had met another woman named Lila and he said ‘I love you, but if you don’t come home, I’m going to marry Lila.’ And so then she came home.”
We all sat back, satisfied that Susan’s mother had returned to Fort Dodge and all was right with the world, but Susan stopped us. “Oh, no, that’s not the end. It gets better. There was no Lila. But mother never found that out until years later. But she came home and decided to get married, but she told Dad that before she got married, she was going to go on the buses and see the whole country. So that’s what she did. She rode the buses everywhere and she saw the whole country and she documented it. She kept notebooks and postcards and everything.” This made me think about the journal entries, pictures, and scraps of paper I had been keeping along the way. I thought about what would be interesting for some curious person to see if they looked at this collection 20 or 50 years from now.
Susan talked more about her mother. “In the last years of her my mother’s life she came here to live with us, and she was just so grateful for everything. And my husband, he was so good to her while she was here. Even years after she had passed on, I just couldn’t be angry at him ever because I remembered how good he had been to my mother.” She smiled and leaned in “of course, that’s worn off by now.”
Susan left the room to bring out the coffee pot. Chuck took up the storytelling reigns. “Yeah, she’s like my wife. You can ask her anything, but you can’t tell her a thing. So I knew we couldn’t tell her to come here, so I just said ‘there’s a room here for you, and you can come whenever you’re ready.’ And one day she called us up and said ‘are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother.’ And I told her that she was no bother, but for the first few weeks she was here, she was still needed a lot of reassurance and was always saying that she didn’t want to be a bother. So I printed out about 20 signs of the computer that said in big letters ‘you’re not a bother’ and I put them everywhere in the house. I put one by her seat in the dining room. I put one in the bathroom, a couple in the living room. And I told her that as long as those signs were up, she was not a bother. She did not have to worry about it until she saw the signs were down.”
After Susan had resumed her seat at the dining room table, we talked a little bit about Boston. It seems that the Susan, Chuck, and the other B&B guests had lived in the Midwest their whole lives, but they had all been to Boston or Cape Cod. Susan told my favorite story about Boston. “Whenever I think about Boston, we went on a trip there a number of years ago, back when I used to smoke cigarettes. And, you could never smoke on the streets of Dubuque because people would see you.” That echoes my experience of living in a small town better than anything else I can think of. The good thing is that everybody knows everybody. And that’s also the bad thing. “But in Boston, there was no one there who knew me, and I could just smoke on the streets anywhere I wanted to. Now, I quit 20 years ago, but I still remember sitting out on the street surrounded by all that brick and smoking on the street, and it just felt so free.”
The Hancock House was a fantastic stop, and it made us wish we had more time to stay in Dubuque. The house was comfortable, beautifully decorated, and well-located for walking through downtown Dubuque and the Historic West 11th Street neighborhood, which is packed with stately Victorian mansions. And the breakfast is delicious. But Susan and Chuck’s hospitality is like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. It is absolutely like staying with those wonderful relatives you kick yourself for not seeing often enough. And what’s more, they create the lively conversation that allows you to get to know the other guests. Truly, a wonderful experience.
We packed up, found our way down the bluff, and picked up Route 20 just as it crossed the Mississippi River into Illinois. We were immediately greeted by the prosperous river town of Galena, dotted with picturesque houses, antique shops and more B&Bs. As we entered the agricultural interior of Illinois, it looked something like Iowa, but a bit different. There were still farms across rolling hills, but there were more trees. There were also bigger houses that were not connected with farms, often packed in neighborhoods on the side of the road. It was almost like a self-consciously cuter, more prosperous version of Iowa. I wondered if maybe we were beginning to see the first influences of Chicago, the biggest city we will go through on our trip. Maybe there was a whole set of Chicago professionals who enjoyed making the drive out here on of the weekend to play country, some just for the other weekend, others probably keeping their main home here.
We saw a lot of advertising concerning cigarettes once we got into Illinois. There must be high tax here than there in neighboring Iowa or Wisconsin, which is just a few miles to the north. We saw a billboard erected by the local law enforcement, warning “Smuggle Cigarettes. Get Burned. Fines up to $45 a pack.” On the other side of the equation, there was a gas station that had a sign featuring a smiley face smoking a cigarette, advertising the cheapest legal cigarettes around.
As we traveled eastward, the farms gradually disappeared and the suburbs of Chicago emerged. Our days of happily cruising Route 20 at 65 or 70 miles an hour were over. The pace was now dictated by stoplights and marked with sharp turns. For those interested, our McDonalds count exploded in Chicago, and by the time we left it was in the upper 30s. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but McDonald’s has largely become an urban and suburban staple. We’ve now seen plenty of towns that are just too small for a McDonalds. We left Route 20 in the western suburbs and took 290 into the city. Suddenly, things began to feel more familiar. We started to see public transportation. Much to Aaron’s delight, drivers became more aggressive and, therefore, more predictable. As we drew in, we got our first glimpse of the Chicago skyline, and I felt the rush of excitement in approaching a city, any city, that I had felt as a child.
We navigated through the construction and bustling traffic and made it to our hotel, the Chicago Sofitel Water Tower. If staying at the Hancock House was like visiting family at some point in the past, staying at the Sofitel was like going to a museum in the not too distant future. Muted, thumping techno music greeted us as we walked past the black floor dotted with translucent blocks that gradually changed color. The service was alert and helpful, but certainly more formal and detached than what we had become used to. We took the elevator up to our room on the 16th floor and went to our room. The best part of the room was the plate glass window that looked out to the other high rise buildings surrounding us, giving us a particularly good view of the Hancock Tower, which was only a few blocks away. The bed was made with white linens and feather beds. Aaron immediately fell onto to it face first and let a out a few low moans of contentment. The bathroom was large and very well appointed, with a tub, a walk-in shower, an expansive countertop and a low-flow toilet with a push button flush (the future is here!) The room was decorated in the sleek, sophisticated manner common to upscale hotels, complete with original artwork, a mirrored closet, a massive flat screen TV, a blocky chaise lounge, and a work station.
We left the Sofitel to walk to a favorite place of ours, Navy Pier. We know it’s not anything close to local color. It just may be the most touristy place in the city. We know. But we went almost 4 years ago when I was looking at law schools and had some really great “cheezborgers” at the Billy Goat Tavern, a tiny diner made famous by a Saturday Night Live skit “Cheezborger. Cheezborger. Cheezborger. No fries, cheeps. No pepsi, coke.” It was a bit before my time, but I’m sure it’s very funny. The original Billy Goat is nowhere near Navy Pier, but this is the one we went to an enjoyed when we were envisioning our potential life in Chicago, so it was original to us. We went in and ordered our double cheezborgers, two paper thin patties with two slices of cheese on a soft, grilled bun. We topped them from the condiment bar with onions, pickles, ketchup, and mustard. Then we took our cheezborgers and cheeps out to the sidewalk patio, and reminisced about trips to Chicago past.
After a walk to digest, we took the red line train to Harrison station, and found Buddy Guy Legends, a popular (if touristy) jazz and blues club. We talked to the bouncer and realized that show would not be on for hours, so we decided to leave it for another time. We went back to the hotel, and spent a little quality time with the giant TV and the very comfortable bed and looked for another place that was a little more convenient. We found Blue Chicago, at the corner of Clark and Superior, about four blocks from our hotel. The club opened at 8. When got there at 8:30, it was still mostly empty. The early crowd moved in and took their places at the tables and booths near the stage. The interior was dark, with exposed brick, paintings of curvy black women singing their hearts out, and a bar under a rotating lamp featuring the Budweiser Clydesdale team. There was an eight dollar cover and a one drink minimum. Around nine, the band moved onto the small stage, two guitars, a bass guitar, and a drum set. The lead guitar, pulled up to the mike and said “We’ll get the blues started slow tonight. That’s how the ladies like it.” He picked out a few warbling lines. “And then it gets faster, and faster, and faster. Yes, that is how the ladies like the blues.” They moved through an instrumental piece, effortlessly improvising riffs and trading melodies seamlessly between them. He looked around and said “There are a lot of outtatowners here tonight. I know ‘cause I can smell that fresh outtatowner money. And it smells sweet.” He moved through the crowd, asking people where they were from. Sure enough, the people in the front of the club were all from out of town. Some were not so far from home: Wisconsin, Rochester, Minnesota. We held up the middleweight division from Boston. He nodded “Go Red Sox.” And there were others much farther from home: Germany, Argentina, Israel.
The band moved through another few warm up pieces, and then it welcomed its lead singer, Grana’ Louise. Louise was a short, black woman, with soft, exaggerated curves and dyed blonde hair wound into tight ringlets. She was not in the forties style uniform that the blues mistresses on the wall wore. She wore white sweat pants and a white souvenir tee shirt from Isla Mujeres Mexico. Even though she was not wearing the blues uniform, she channeled their soul. She started off “Where ya been?” about some good-for-nothin’ man coming home “lookin’ bad enough to scare Dracula away.” The chorus finished with “I don’t know where ya been, but ya best not do it again.” Her songs were both soulful and whimsical and punctuated by gyrating dance moves. She pulled in every person in the club. No one could sit still. Some just tapped their toes or their fingers, other swayed in their booths, or clapped with the rhythm. But no one sat quietly by.
As they finished their first set, she quickly asked for a prayer for some members of the band and close friends who had been in a serious car accident that night and were all in the hospital. She asked us to take a moment of silence and send our good vibes out to them. And the crowd that had been so exuberant before was silent. I did send good thoughts to them. Any people who come and bring joy to a group of strangers deserve as much. After the set break, Aaron and I settled up with the bar tender and went over to Grana’ Louise to buy one of the CDs they had for sale.
She asked “Oh, you leavin’ so soon?” We admitted that we had an early morning ahead of us and wouldn’t be shutting down the bar this time around. “Oh, poo. Well, you call up your boss and you tell them you’re gonna be late.”
We laughed. “It’s my mother-in-law,” I said. “And she will not have any of that.”
We woke as the sunlight streamed into the windows through the lace curtains and slowly filled our room. We made our way down to breakfast around 8:45 There we met the B&B’s other guests, two retired couples from Eau Claire, Wisconsin, on a short antiqueing trip. Although they all seemed interested in perusing the areas many shops, one many was looking for beer glasses from the Star Brewery to add to his collection.
The breakfast was delicious. A puffed pancake, which is a dense eggy confection, dusted with confectioner’s sugar and drizzled with honey syrup, fruit salad, bacon, and blueberry muffins. Susan, one of the innkeepers, persistently offered us all more, but the breakfast was far too filling for anyone to think about seconds.
Because a young couple from Massachusetts is a bit of a surprise at an Iowa B&B, we told them all about our trip on Route 20. They all seemed very interested and we talked about a few of the places we have been and the places still to come. But it was Susan who asked the most salient question, “But, why, exactly?” It took me aback, and I had to admit that I didn’t really know. We rattled off the historical significance of the trail as the longest road in America and the route of Lewis and Clark and the Oregon Trail, but when it came down to it, we decided to go on the trip because we wanted to see the world.
This seemed to make sense to her, and she nodded in understanding. “You know, my mother was a bit of a free spirit,” started as she knitted “and she didn’t stay that way after she was married. I’m not saying anything about marriage, I love my marriage, but she was never really the same after that. When she and my dad were dating in Fort Dodge, one day she got angry at him and said ‘I’m going to Chicago to visit my cousin,’ and she didn’t come back for three years. And they still saw each, he would take the bus in there to go and visit, but she was really out there on her own. And I really think that was the best time of her life. She met a man there named Ray, and we think she really liked Ray, and she bleached her hair. In those days for a woman to bleach her, it was really out there. And, anyway, after three years, my father went to visit her and told her that he had met another woman named Lila and he said ‘I love you, but if you don’t come home, I’m going to marry Lila.’ And so then she came home.”
We all sat back, satisfied that Susan’s mother had returned to Fort Dodge and all was right with the world, but Susan stopped us. “Oh, no, that’s not the end. It gets better. There was no Lila. But mother never found that out until years later. But she came home and decided to get married, but she told Dad that before she got married, she was going to go on the buses and see the whole country. So that’s what she did. She rode the buses everywhere and she saw the whole country and she documented it. She kept notebooks and postcards and everything.” This made me think about the journal entries, pictures, and scraps of paper I had been keeping along the way. I thought about what would be interesting for some curious person to see if they looked at this collection 20 or 50 years from now.
Susan talked more about her mother. “In the last years of her my mother’s life she came here to live with us, and she was just so grateful for everything. And my husband, he was so good to her while she was here. Even years after she had passed on, I just couldn’t be angry at him ever because I remembered how good he had been to my mother.” She smiled and leaned in “of course, that’s worn off by now.”
Susan left the room to bring out the coffee pot. Chuck took up the storytelling reigns. “Yeah, she’s like my wife. You can ask her anything, but you can’t tell her a thing. So I knew we couldn’t tell her to come here, so I just said ‘there’s a room here for you, and you can come whenever you’re ready.’ And one day she called us up and said ‘are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother.’ And I told her that she was no bother, but for the first few weeks she was here, she was still needed a lot of reassurance and was always saying that she didn’t want to be a bother. So I printed out about 20 signs of the computer that said in big letters ‘you’re not a bother’ and I put them everywhere in the house. I put one by her seat in the dining room. I put one in the bathroom, a couple in the living room. And I told her that as long as those signs were up, she was not a bother. She did not have to worry about it until she saw the signs were down.”
After Susan had resumed her seat at the dining room table, we talked a little bit about Boston. It seems that the Susan, Chuck, and the other B&B guests had lived in the Midwest their whole lives, but they had all been to Boston or Cape Cod. Susan told my favorite story about Boston. “Whenever I think about Boston, we went on a trip there a number of years ago, back when I used to smoke cigarettes. And, you could never smoke on the streets of Dubuque because people would see you.” That echoes my experience of living in a small town better than anything else I can think of. The good thing is that everybody knows everybody. And that’s also the bad thing. “But in Boston, there was no one there who knew me, and I could just smoke on the streets anywhere I wanted to. Now, I quit 20 years ago, but I still remember sitting out on the street surrounded by all that brick and smoking on the street, and it just felt so free.”
The Hancock House was a fantastic stop, and it made us wish we had more time to stay in Dubuque. The house was comfortable, beautifully decorated, and well-located for walking through downtown Dubuque and the Historic West 11th Street neighborhood, which is packed with stately Victorian mansions. And the breakfast is delicious. But Susan and Chuck’s hospitality is like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. It is absolutely like staying with those wonderful relatives you kick yourself for not seeing often enough. And what’s more, they create the lively conversation that allows you to get to know the other guests. Truly, a wonderful experience.
We packed up, found our way down the bluff, and picked up Route 20 just as it crossed the Mississippi River into Illinois. We were immediately greeted by the prosperous river town of Galena, dotted with picturesque houses, antique shops and more B&Bs. As we entered the agricultural interior of Illinois, it looked something like Iowa, but a bit different. There were still farms across rolling hills, but there were more trees. There were also bigger houses that were not connected with farms, often packed in neighborhoods on the side of the road. It was almost like a self-consciously cuter, more prosperous version of Iowa. I wondered if maybe we were beginning to see the first influences of Chicago, the biggest city we will go through on our trip. Maybe there was a whole set of Chicago professionals who enjoyed making the drive out here on of the weekend to play country, some just for the other weekend, others probably keeping their main home here.
We saw a lot of advertising concerning cigarettes once we got into Illinois. There must be high tax here than there in neighboring Iowa or Wisconsin, which is just a few miles to the north. We saw a billboard erected by the local law enforcement, warning “Smuggle Cigarettes. Get Burned. Fines up to $45 a pack.” On the other side of the equation, there was a gas station that had a sign featuring a smiley face smoking a cigarette, advertising the cheapest legal cigarettes around.
As we traveled eastward, the farms gradually disappeared and the suburbs of Chicago emerged. Our days of happily cruising Route 20 at 65 or 70 miles an hour were over. The pace was now dictated by stoplights and marked with sharp turns. For those interested, our McDonalds count exploded in Chicago, and by the time we left it was in the upper 30s. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but McDonald’s has largely become an urban and suburban staple. We’ve now seen plenty of towns that are just too small for a McDonalds. We left Route 20 in the western suburbs and took 290 into the city. Suddenly, things began to feel more familiar. We started to see public transportation. Much to Aaron’s delight, drivers became more aggressive and, therefore, more predictable. As we drew in, we got our first glimpse of the Chicago skyline, and I felt the rush of excitement in approaching a city, any city, that I had felt as a child.
We navigated through the construction and bustling traffic and made it to our hotel, the Chicago Sofitel Water Tower. If staying at the Hancock House was like visiting family at some point in the past, staying at the Sofitel was like going to a museum in the not too distant future. Muted, thumping techno music greeted us as we walked past the black floor dotted with translucent blocks that gradually changed color. The service was alert and helpful, but certainly more formal and detached than what we had become used to. We took the elevator up to our room on the 16th floor and went to our room. The best part of the room was the plate glass window that looked out to the other high rise buildings surrounding us, giving us a particularly good view of the Hancock Tower, which was only a few blocks away. The bed was made with white linens and feather beds. Aaron immediately fell onto to it face first and let a out a few low moans of contentment. The bathroom was large and very well appointed, with a tub, a walk-in shower, an expansive countertop and a low-flow toilet with a push button flush (the future is here!) The room was decorated in the sleek, sophisticated manner common to upscale hotels, complete with original artwork, a mirrored closet, a massive flat screen TV, a blocky chaise lounge, and a work station.
We left the Sofitel to walk to a favorite place of ours, Navy Pier. We know it’s not anything close to local color. It just may be the most touristy place in the city. We know. But we went almost 4 years ago when I was looking at law schools and had some really great “cheezborgers” at the Billy Goat Tavern, a tiny diner made famous by a Saturday Night Live skit “Cheezborger. Cheezborger. Cheezborger. No fries, cheeps. No pepsi, coke.” It was a bit before my time, but I’m sure it’s very funny. The original Billy Goat is nowhere near Navy Pier, but this is the one we went to an enjoyed when we were envisioning our potential life in Chicago, so it was original to us. We went in and ordered our double cheezborgers, two paper thin patties with two slices of cheese on a soft, grilled bun. We topped them from the condiment bar with onions, pickles, ketchup, and mustard. Then we took our cheezborgers and cheeps out to the sidewalk patio, and reminisced about trips to Chicago past.
After a walk to digest, we took the red line train to Harrison station, and found Buddy Guy Legends, a popular (if touristy) jazz and blues club. We talked to the bouncer and realized that show would not be on for hours, so we decided to leave it for another time. We went back to the hotel, and spent a little quality time with the giant TV and the very comfortable bed and looked for another place that was a little more convenient. We found Blue Chicago, at the corner of Clark and Superior, about four blocks from our hotel. The club opened at 8. When got there at 8:30, it was still mostly empty. The early crowd moved in and took their places at the tables and booths near the stage. The interior was dark, with exposed brick, paintings of curvy black women singing their hearts out, and a bar under a rotating lamp featuring the Budweiser Clydesdale team. There was an eight dollar cover and a one drink minimum. Around nine, the band moved onto the small stage, two guitars, a bass guitar, and a drum set. The lead guitar, pulled up to the mike and said “We’ll get the blues started slow tonight. That’s how the ladies like it.” He picked out a few warbling lines. “And then it gets faster, and faster, and faster. Yes, that is how the ladies like the blues.” They moved through an instrumental piece, effortlessly improvising riffs and trading melodies seamlessly between them. He looked around and said “There are a lot of outtatowners here tonight. I know ‘cause I can smell that fresh outtatowner money. And it smells sweet.” He moved through the crowd, asking people where they were from. Sure enough, the people in the front of the club were all from out of town. Some were not so far from home: Wisconsin, Rochester, Minnesota. We held up the middleweight division from Boston. He nodded “Go Red Sox.” And there were others much farther from home: Germany, Argentina, Israel.
The band moved through another few warm up pieces, and then it welcomed its lead singer, Grana’ Louise. Louise was a short, black woman, with soft, exaggerated curves and dyed blonde hair wound into tight ringlets. She was not in the forties style uniform that the blues mistresses on the wall wore. She wore white sweat pants and a white souvenir tee shirt from Isla Mujeres Mexico. Even though she was not wearing the blues uniform, she channeled their soul. She started off “Where ya been?” about some good-for-nothin’ man coming home “lookin’ bad enough to scare Dracula away.” The chorus finished with “I don’t know where ya been, but ya best not do it again.” Her songs were both soulful and whimsical and punctuated by gyrating dance moves. She pulled in every person in the club. No one could sit still. Some just tapped their toes or their fingers, other swayed in their booths, or clapped with the rhythm. But no one sat quietly by.
As they finished their first set, she quickly asked for a prayer for some members of the band and close friends who had been in a serious car accident that night and were all in the hospital. She asked us to take a moment of silence and send our good vibes out to them. And the crowd that had been so exuberant before was silent. I did send good thoughts to them. Any people who come and bring joy to a group of strangers deserve as much. After the set break, Aaron and I settled up with the bar tender and went over to Grana’ Louise to buy one of the CDs they had for sale.
She asked “Oh, you leavin’ so soon?” We admitted that we had an early morning ahead of us and wouldn’t be shutting down the bar this time around. “Oh, poo. Well, you call up your boss and you tell them you’re gonna be late.”
We laughed. “It’s my mother-in-law,” I said. “And she will not have any of that.”
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Day 10: Sioux City, Iowa to Dubuque, Iowa
Yesterday night, I scanned through our itinerary to estimate our driving time for today. The itinerary said 218 miles. I knew it was right because I had calculated out the distances myself months ahead of time. Based on the speed we had made through Nebraska, we determined that this would take us between four and four and a half hours, an exceptionally easy day. With this in mind, we decided to take it easy. We slept in, checked out at 11, and enjoyed the Sunday buffet brunch, complete with omelet bar, at Kahill’s, the Marina Inn’s restaurant, until 12 when we finally got on the road.
We drove through the verdant farmland of Iowa, more rolling hills covered in patches of corduroy corn and (I think) soybeans. Rather than going directly through many of the towns as it had in Nebraska, Route 20 bypassed many of the small towns in Iowa. In some ways, this made the landscape more homogenous. It was mile after mile of fields punctuated by irrigation equipment and clusters of farm houses and barns. But the many similarities of these farms threw their individual differences into sharp relief. Each farm had its own character, a way to distinguish it from all the rest. Many reflected their individuality through their choice of color. The traditional red and white barns were very popular, but we also saw barns in blues and greens and a whole farm where all the buildings were painted white with purple roofs. Other barns, particularly those in western Iowa, were decorated with art I began calling “Barn Stars” painted squares in quilt-like geometric patterns in bold primary colors. For the moment, I have to confess my ignorance about these symbols, but if I had to guess (I know I don’t have to but I will anyway), I would say they looked German in origin. More info to come on the mysterious “Barn Stars” once I’ve done some research In any case, they are beautiful, intricate, and unique.
We also drove through the middle of a massive collection of graceful, white windmills generating electricity. We had intended to tour a wind farm in Ainsworth, Nebraska, but had not found any number to call for tours. Furthermore, it was Saturday, and the woman we asked at the Super 8 in Ainsworth wisely pointed out that no one was going to be working there on a Saturday. Days of the week become completely meaningless when you’re on vacation. So this was our second chance to get a close look at the development of alternative energy sources in the plains. The contrast between the land that had probably been raising corn for generations and the sleek modern windmills was interesting. We had seen smaller windmills used to operate water wells in fields and pastures all through the west, but the modern windpower mills seemed to be a wholly different animal. Where the water-pumping windmills had been modest in size and almost folksy in design, the newer windmills were soaring public investments in the future of the community. It was encouraging to see that this region had the ingenuity to move toward a new kind of economy without sacrificing its agricultural heritage.
Around one o’ clock, we went through the city of Fort Dodge. Thinking we had all the time in the world, we decided to stop into the Fort Museum. We pulled into the parking lot and entered into the main office and gift shop. We paid our $6 per adult and put our Fort Dodge admission stickers on our shirts. The clerk behind the counter gave us a map with a short description of each building and pointed us to the beginning of the tour. The first half of the tour was a collection of small wood-frame buildings, each representing one of the important institutions in a pioneer town. We first went into the house, a log structure with a living area in the downstairs and a collection of beds in the attic. The church was about the same size as the house, grayed from the weather, and filled with low, uncomfortable benches, a donated organ and a single stained glass window. The hospital was filled with various medical antiques and a smiling female mannequin, long retired from her career in the Sears storefront, in a white lace nurse’s outfit. The smell of medicine was pervasive, but it was not clear whether that smell was emanating from the antiques or whether it had been permanently imbued into the timbers of the building. The most interesting building was the school. It was filled with antique school benches, but more importantly a full collection of educational artifacts from the past hundred years.
After visiting the town, we went to the exhibits in the fort. We visited all the areas of the fort, I quickly skimming the collections and reading only the things I found most interesting, Aaron patiently, conscientiously reading every sign and placard. Among the most interesting rooms were the recently added World War One and Two room and the Cardiff Giant exhibit. The World War One and Two collection was housed in a small, humidity controlled room in the fort. It displayed many patches, medals, and photographs from that era, but the most interesting part was the collection of period uniforms modeled by the colleagues of the nurse mannequin in the town’s pharmacy. With their precipitous cheekbones, vacant eyes, and outdated hairstyles, it made the whole room just a little creepy. The Cardiff Giant display was just outside of the main fort in its own small building. The first thing we saw inside the building was Genesis 6:4 “There were Giants in the earth in those days.” As we turned the corner, we saw a massive sculpture of a man surrounded by a protective barrier. As we would read, we were in the presence of the “real” Cardiff Giant.
A 10-foot petrified giant was unearthed on the property of Stub Newell in Cardiff, New York on October 16, 1869. There was heated debate over what the finding might be. Some “petrofactionists” thought it was a petrified ancient giant like those that had been described in the Bible. Scientific minds believed that it was an ancient sculpture. Dr. John F. Boyton speculated that it had been carved by a Jesuit missionary in the late seventeenth century to impress the natives. In actually, the Cardiff Giant found on that farm had been nothing more than a hoax perpetrated by New York tobacconist, mocking Biblical literalists who believed that giants had actually roamed the earth thousands of years ago.
The limestone stone used to make this masterpiece had been mined in Fort Dodge, Iowa, and so the Fort Museum decided to carve a replica Cardiff Giant of its own. Then, as the story goes, when a young sculptor from the town began to carve the new giant from a piece of stone, his chisel reveal a toe of a petrified man who had been encased in the limestone. As he carefully removed the stone bit by bit, a fully preserved body was revealed, bearing a remarkable resemblance to George Hull’s fake giant. The placard finishes by telling visitors that before them is “the REAL Cardiff Giant and the one in New York is a fake!”
As we were leaving the tour, we went back into the gift shop to ask for lunch recommendations and sign the guest book. We had a short, fruitless discussion with the store clerk about restaurant options in the area. We were looking for loose meat sandwiches, a local specialty recommended to us by the innkeeper at the Morton Mansion in Douglas, Wyoming. The clerk couldn’t think of any place that still served them, mentioning that those were mostly served in southern Iowa. We listened patiently as she helpfully mentioned every fast food and chain restaurant under the sun, and then decided that we had best just move on.
The rolling hills and open landscape eventually lulled me to sleep. After about half an hour, Aaron nudged me and asked, “how much further is it till Des Moines?”
Tired of answering questions about a place we weren’t going to visit, I responded sleepily “Dubuque. We are not going to Des Moines. We are going… to Dubuque.” I sat up and pulled the now tattered road almanac into my lap, flipped the pages to Iowa, counted up the miles remaining. “We probably have about a hundred miles left.”
“How is that possible? We’ve been on the road for hours.”
“Maybe you’ve been driving slower.”
“I’m going 70.”
I consulted the mileage chart at the top of the page. It said that Dubuque was not 218 miles from Sioux City, as my itinerary had confidently recited, but 325 miles. I paused to swallow my pride. “It seems there has been a clerical error.”
“A clerical error?”
“Seems Dubuque is 325 miles from Sioux City.”
“You said it was two hundred.”
“I told you 218. I lied.”
“So we still have an hour and a half?”
“Yeah, just about.” I later figured out what must have happened. In putting together the itinerary, I must have originally scheduled us to stop somewhere else in Iowa, west of Dubuque. When I changed the stop to Dubuque, I must not have changed the mileage, leading to the clerical error. We had originally planned to stop at the Field of Dreams Movie Site in Dyersville, Iowa, about 50 miles west of Dubuque. But because of our side trip to the Fort Dodge Museum, we weren’t going to be able to make it to the Field of Dreams site before it closed at 6. So, the next time you’re in the greater Dyersville area, go to the Field of Dreams Movie Site and take a picture for us.
We got to Dubuque around 6:30 and pulled out our GoogleMaps directions to get to the Hancock House, our B&B resting stop for the night. The instructed us to take the Bryant/N Hill St. exit, to turn onto N Hill St. and to then take a left onto University Ave. We obediently took the right exit and moved slowly along N. Hill St., scanning the signs for University Ave. We passed a half dozen signs and finally N. Hill St. dead ended into a divided street. We turned right because left turns were forbidden and found ourselves on W. 9th St. We worked our way back on to N. Hill street and followed it all the way back, across Route 20, and then onto Bryant St. Still no University Ave. We went back to N. Hill St. and pulled off to an intersection in town. Frustrated, I whipped out my cell phone and called the Hancock House. I reached Chuck, one of the innkeepers, and asked him for directions. I explained to him the way we had come in, and he instantly recognized the route.
“Oh, you’re using the computer directions.”
“Right.”
“That’s bad.”
“Oh.”
He directed us to take Locust St. and then to go up a hill and make a series of turns to avoid the road blockage and find the back entry to the house. I jotted down all the instructions, and told Aaron to go back to Locust St. Aaron turned the car around in a U-turn to try to get back to N. Hill St., and we came face-to-face with a car full of stunned locals. “Oops. One way.” He pulled the car into another U turn, bringing us 360 degrees around. After another few minutes of attempting to find Locust, we called Chuck again, clarified a few points, and began to make some progress. We climbed the steep bluff and navigated the tight turns until we found the Hancock House, a gorgeous Grand Dame Victorian home perched on the bluff overlooking the city.
We dragged our bags onto the wrap-around porch and rang the bell. Susan, a smiling middle-aged woman answered the door “Oh, you made it!” She greeted us with the effusive friendliness and singing Scandinavian-inflected accent that I had associated with Minnesota. We went out to move the car because “you can’t block this driveway because you’ll block in our neighbors, but not over by the yellow house because she doesn’t like to have cars in front of her house.”
After we had moved the car, we went back in the house, but Susan was making a reservation with another couple, so we waited to be checked. Out of a doorway, came a middle aged man with wavy gray hair and glasses. “You’re here!” I instantly recognized the voice as Chuck. “Well, I can get you set up if you don’t mind being checked in by a dirty person. I was over at a friend’s house helping him with the wiring in his house. His wife said now they don’t have to clean the basement because we took all the dirt out on our clothes.” He checked us in and showed us around the house, which was filled with antiques, games, and reading material. He also showed us the guest pantry that had a soda machine, a refrigerator with beer and wine, and a staggering assortment of teas. “Feel free to try anything you like, and be creative.” He gestured toward a sink in the corner “If you don’t like something, that’s what it’s there for. Try again.”
We moved our things into Mrs. Hancock’s Room. The room itself is immense and well furnished with a queen sized bed, a sitting area, a fireplace, and a small television. The bathroom had mosaic floors, a clawfoot tub, an old fashioned toilet with the watertank at the ceiling and chain to flush, and, in a back room, a Jacuzzi tub complete with rubber ducky.
On Chuck’s recommendation, we walked down the bluff (we did not feel like trying to drive again) and through town to the Blackwater Grill at the Bricktown Brewery for dinner. The menu consisted of tasty pub food and, although their beer selection was a little limited that night (it was a Sunday), I had a Vanilla Crème Lager that was really pretty tasty and not overly sweet at all. Coming back from the restroom, Aaron said “One of the staff told me that Jamie Kennedy from Comedy Central is performing upstairs.”
I tried to place the name “Who?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.” Apologies to Jamie Kennedy.
After dinner, we walked back to the Hancock House and took a long relaxing soak in the giant Jacuzzi tub. We had to ask ourselves “Is this heaven?” “No, it’s Iowa.”
We drove through the verdant farmland of Iowa, more rolling hills covered in patches of corduroy corn and (I think) soybeans. Rather than going directly through many of the towns as it had in Nebraska, Route 20 bypassed many of the small towns in Iowa. In some ways, this made the landscape more homogenous. It was mile after mile of fields punctuated by irrigation equipment and clusters of farm houses and barns. But the many similarities of these farms threw their individual differences into sharp relief. Each farm had its own character, a way to distinguish it from all the rest. Many reflected their individuality through their choice of color. The traditional red and white barns were very popular, but we also saw barns in blues and greens and a whole farm where all the buildings were painted white with purple roofs. Other barns, particularly those in western Iowa, were decorated with art I began calling “Barn Stars” painted squares in quilt-like geometric patterns in bold primary colors. For the moment, I have to confess my ignorance about these symbols, but if I had to guess (I know I don’t have to but I will anyway), I would say they looked German in origin. More info to come on the mysterious “Barn Stars” once I’ve done some research In any case, they are beautiful, intricate, and unique.
We also drove through the middle of a massive collection of graceful, white windmills generating electricity. We had intended to tour a wind farm in Ainsworth, Nebraska, but had not found any number to call for tours. Furthermore, it was Saturday, and the woman we asked at the Super 8 in Ainsworth wisely pointed out that no one was going to be working there on a Saturday. Days of the week become completely meaningless when you’re on vacation. So this was our second chance to get a close look at the development of alternative energy sources in the plains. The contrast between the land that had probably been raising corn for generations and the sleek modern windmills was interesting. We had seen smaller windmills used to operate water wells in fields and pastures all through the west, but the modern windpower mills seemed to be a wholly different animal. Where the water-pumping windmills had been modest in size and almost folksy in design, the newer windmills were soaring public investments in the future of the community. It was encouraging to see that this region had the ingenuity to move toward a new kind of economy without sacrificing its agricultural heritage.
Around one o’ clock, we went through the city of Fort Dodge. Thinking we had all the time in the world, we decided to stop into the Fort Museum. We pulled into the parking lot and entered into the main office and gift shop. We paid our $6 per adult and put our Fort Dodge admission stickers on our shirts. The clerk behind the counter gave us a map with a short description of each building and pointed us to the beginning of the tour. The first half of the tour was a collection of small wood-frame buildings, each representing one of the important institutions in a pioneer town. We first went into the house, a log structure with a living area in the downstairs and a collection of beds in the attic. The church was about the same size as the house, grayed from the weather, and filled with low, uncomfortable benches, a donated organ and a single stained glass window. The hospital was filled with various medical antiques and a smiling female mannequin, long retired from her career in the Sears storefront, in a white lace nurse’s outfit. The smell of medicine was pervasive, but it was not clear whether that smell was emanating from the antiques or whether it had been permanently imbued into the timbers of the building. The most interesting building was the school. It was filled with antique school benches, but more importantly a full collection of educational artifacts from the past hundred years.
After visiting the town, we went to the exhibits in the fort. We visited all the areas of the fort, I quickly skimming the collections and reading only the things I found most interesting, Aaron patiently, conscientiously reading every sign and placard. Among the most interesting rooms were the recently added World War One and Two room and the Cardiff Giant exhibit. The World War One and Two collection was housed in a small, humidity controlled room in the fort. It displayed many patches, medals, and photographs from that era, but the most interesting part was the collection of period uniforms modeled by the colleagues of the nurse mannequin in the town’s pharmacy. With their precipitous cheekbones, vacant eyes, and outdated hairstyles, it made the whole room just a little creepy. The Cardiff Giant display was just outside of the main fort in its own small building. The first thing we saw inside the building was Genesis 6:4 “There were Giants in the earth in those days.” As we turned the corner, we saw a massive sculpture of a man surrounded by a protective barrier. As we would read, we were in the presence of the “real” Cardiff Giant.
A 10-foot petrified giant was unearthed on the property of Stub Newell in Cardiff, New York on October 16, 1869. There was heated debate over what the finding might be. Some “petrofactionists” thought it was a petrified ancient giant like those that had been described in the Bible. Scientific minds believed that it was an ancient sculpture. Dr. John F. Boyton speculated that it had been carved by a Jesuit missionary in the late seventeenth century to impress the natives. In actually, the Cardiff Giant found on that farm had been nothing more than a hoax perpetrated by New York tobacconist, mocking Biblical literalists who believed that giants had actually roamed the earth thousands of years ago.
The limestone stone used to make this masterpiece had been mined in Fort Dodge, Iowa, and so the Fort Museum decided to carve a replica Cardiff Giant of its own. Then, as the story goes, when a young sculptor from the town began to carve the new giant from a piece of stone, his chisel reveal a toe of a petrified man who had been encased in the limestone. As he carefully removed the stone bit by bit, a fully preserved body was revealed, bearing a remarkable resemblance to George Hull’s fake giant. The placard finishes by telling visitors that before them is “the REAL Cardiff Giant and the one in New York is a fake!”
As we were leaving the tour, we went back into the gift shop to ask for lunch recommendations and sign the guest book. We had a short, fruitless discussion with the store clerk about restaurant options in the area. We were looking for loose meat sandwiches, a local specialty recommended to us by the innkeeper at the Morton Mansion in Douglas, Wyoming. The clerk couldn’t think of any place that still served them, mentioning that those were mostly served in southern Iowa. We listened patiently as she helpfully mentioned every fast food and chain restaurant under the sun, and then decided that we had best just move on.
The rolling hills and open landscape eventually lulled me to sleep. After about half an hour, Aaron nudged me and asked, “how much further is it till Des Moines?”
Tired of answering questions about a place we weren’t going to visit, I responded sleepily “Dubuque. We are not going to Des Moines. We are going… to Dubuque.” I sat up and pulled the now tattered road almanac into my lap, flipped the pages to Iowa, counted up the miles remaining. “We probably have about a hundred miles left.”
“How is that possible? We’ve been on the road for hours.”
“Maybe you’ve been driving slower.”
“I’m going 70.”
I consulted the mileage chart at the top of the page. It said that Dubuque was not 218 miles from Sioux City, as my itinerary had confidently recited, but 325 miles. I paused to swallow my pride. “It seems there has been a clerical error.”
“A clerical error?”
“Seems Dubuque is 325 miles from Sioux City.”
“You said it was two hundred.”
“I told you 218. I lied.”
“So we still have an hour and a half?”
“Yeah, just about.” I later figured out what must have happened. In putting together the itinerary, I must have originally scheduled us to stop somewhere else in Iowa, west of Dubuque. When I changed the stop to Dubuque, I must not have changed the mileage, leading to the clerical error. We had originally planned to stop at the Field of Dreams Movie Site in Dyersville, Iowa, about 50 miles west of Dubuque. But because of our side trip to the Fort Dodge Museum, we weren’t going to be able to make it to the Field of Dreams site before it closed at 6. So, the next time you’re in the greater Dyersville area, go to the Field of Dreams Movie Site and take a picture for us.
We got to Dubuque around 6:30 and pulled out our GoogleMaps directions to get to the Hancock House, our B&B resting stop for the night. The instructed us to take the Bryant/N Hill St. exit, to turn onto N Hill St. and to then take a left onto University Ave. We obediently took the right exit and moved slowly along N. Hill St., scanning the signs for University Ave. We passed a half dozen signs and finally N. Hill St. dead ended into a divided street. We turned right because left turns were forbidden and found ourselves on W. 9th St. We worked our way back on to N. Hill street and followed it all the way back, across Route 20, and then onto Bryant St. Still no University Ave. We went back to N. Hill St. and pulled off to an intersection in town. Frustrated, I whipped out my cell phone and called the Hancock House. I reached Chuck, one of the innkeepers, and asked him for directions. I explained to him the way we had come in, and he instantly recognized the route.
“Oh, you’re using the computer directions.”
“Right.”
“That’s bad.”
“Oh.”
He directed us to take Locust St. and then to go up a hill and make a series of turns to avoid the road blockage and find the back entry to the house. I jotted down all the instructions, and told Aaron to go back to Locust St. Aaron turned the car around in a U-turn to try to get back to N. Hill St., and we came face-to-face with a car full of stunned locals. “Oops. One way.” He pulled the car into another U turn, bringing us 360 degrees around. After another few minutes of attempting to find Locust, we called Chuck again, clarified a few points, and began to make some progress. We climbed the steep bluff and navigated the tight turns until we found the Hancock House, a gorgeous Grand Dame Victorian home perched on the bluff overlooking the city.
We dragged our bags onto the wrap-around porch and rang the bell. Susan, a smiling middle-aged woman answered the door “Oh, you made it!” She greeted us with the effusive friendliness and singing Scandinavian-inflected accent that I had associated with Minnesota. We went out to move the car because “you can’t block this driveway because you’ll block in our neighbors, but not over by the yellow house because she doesn’t like to have cars in front of her house.”
After we had moved the car, we went back in the house, but Susan was making a reservation with another couple, so we waited to be checked. Out of a doorway, came a middle aged man with wavy gray hair and glasses. “You’re here!” I instantly recognized the voice as Chuck. “Well, I can get you set up if you don’t mind being checked in by a dirty person. I was over at a friend’s house helping him with the wiring in his house. His wife said now they don’t have to clean the basement because we took all the dirt out on our clothes.” He checked us in and showed us around the house, which was filled with antiques, games, and reading material. He also showed us the guest pantry that had a soda machine, a refrigerator with beer and wine, and a staggering assortment of teas. “Feel free to try anything you like, and be creative.” He gestured toward a sink in the corner “If you don’t like something, that’s what it’s there for. Try again.”
We moved our things into Mrs. Hancock’s Room. The room itself is immense and well furnished with a queen sized bed, a sitting area, a fireplace, and a small television. The bathroom had mosaic floors, a clawfoot tub, an old fashioned toilet with the watertank at the ceiling and chain to flush, and, in a back room, a Jacuzzi tub complete with rubber ducky.
On Chuck’s recommendation, we walked down the bluff (we did not feel like trying to drive again) and through town to the Blackwater Grill at the Bricktown Brewery for dinner. The menu consisted of tasty pub food and, although their beer selection was a little limited that night (it was a Sunday), I had a Vanilla Crème Lager that was really pretty tasty and not overly sweet at all. Coming back from the restroom, Aaron said “One of the staff told me that Jamie Kennedy from Comedy Central is performing upstairs.”
I tried to place the name “Who?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.” Apologies to Jamie Kennedy.
After dinner, we walked back to the Hancock House and took a long relaxing soak in the giant Jacuzzi tub. We had to ask ourselves “Is this heaven?” “No, it’s Iowa.”
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Day 9: Valentine, Nebraska to Sioux City, Iowa
From this point on, it looks like the traveling will get a little less demanding every day. There are fewer and fewer miles to cover because I had more towns with lodging to choose from. Aaron and I slept in a bit and made ourselves waffles at the Dunes’ continental breakfast in the lobby. We went back and did the routine morning pack up and got back on the road.
As we headed eastward, the cattle pastures and hayfields gradually disappeared and fields ribbed with lines of corn and other crops rose in their place. The fields lay like embroidered quilts of golden yellow and kelly green over rolling landscape.
Some of our best impressions of the areas we travel through come from the art and the signs we find along the side of the road. People love to decorate their property to show who they are and what they believe. One person painted their utility sheds with silhouettes of children running and large, bushy trees against a sunset background of purples and blues. Another person made a small memorial bearing the names of the Nebraskans lost in the war in Iraq. A few of the ethnically Irish communities have adopted the shamrock as their symbol. O’Neill, Nebraska, painted a giant green shamrock in the middle of their main intersection. American flags and supporting our troops are dominant motifs. In Atkinson, plastic yellow ribbons are tied along white posts and every sign and telephone pole in the city. A home outside of Johnson, had “Support our Troops” written in Christmas lights. A sign near Belden read “One Nation Under GOD. Thank you to all veterans for the freedoms we enjoy. There were also a substantial number of pro-choice themed signs along the side of the road, about the same size as the signs for the town itself and probably erected by churches. Outside of Randolph, one had a single rose and read “Choose Life. Your Mother Did.” A more dramatic display was two trailers in a field, one plastered with graphic pro-life slogans and the other with slogans against homosexual marriage.
Outside Inman, Nebraska, Route 20 splits from the Route 275. For those of you following along on the map, this does not look like a particularly abrupt split. I had been watching the map, and knew it was coming, but couldn’t quite figure out when, so we talked and snacked and kept our eyes open. Suddenly, a small sign on the side of the road dictated “20 =>”, Aaron and I saw it at the same time and he had to turn hard to make the turn. We made it onto Route 20, but not without some reshuffling of the interior of the. Aaron mumbled “Mrph.” I answered “What’s that?” “Ah ohmo dwapf muh twisgif.” “What? You almost dropped your Triscuits?” “Mu-huh.” “But you were able to hang on to them?” “Mu-huh.” “Well, that’s good.” The road is full of traps for the unwary.
We got into South Sioux City, Nebraska, at about 3:30, and checked into the Marina Inn and Conference Center. We immediately noticed the tell-tale signs of a wedding: a small girl in a poofy white dress, and a trail of women in sparkly dresses chasing in her wake, and crowd of bored and uncomfortable men lagging behind. Although the drive to hotel would not suggest it, it’s really quite luxurious. The lobby was large and immaculate, and the room was beautiful. It had a massive flat screen television, a high-speed internet hook-up, a large, comfortable bed, and a massive bathroom with a granite countertop and a large walk-in shower. Perhaps best of all, there was a sliding glass door that led to a small patio that overlooked the Missouri River and Sioux City proper.
After a quick rest to watch the Women’s Volleyball final between Brazil and the USA (it’s amazing how the Olympics can get you to watch sports you wouldn’t dream of watching more than once every four years), we set out in search of dinner. Once again, I consulted the anonymous internet restaurant critics who suggested Sneaky’s Chicken in Sioux City. I looked up the GoogleMap directions, which said that the restaurant was on Route 20 itself, and we headed off. We backtracked to get back on to Route 20, but it looked like an interstate. We were sure it would begin looking like a normal street at any moment. Any time now. After a few minutes, I figured out that Sneaky’s Chicken was on Route 20 Business, not Route 20. Fortunately, I learned this before Route 20 Business and Route 20 intersected, so we were able to get on to Route 20 business and go west through town to get to Sneaky’s Chicken. It was absolutely the long way around. “But,” I reminded Aaron “now we’re on the right side of the street, so you wouldn’t have to make that U-turn.” It all works out.
Sneaky’s Chicken is easy to miss. The sign is small, but visible from the road and has a raccoon as its logo. When we arrived, we only saw the carry-out window at first, and wondered if it only did carry-out business. We almost lost faith when we found the entrance to the lounge, which was the main eat-in dining room. The interior looks like a neighborhood dive, decorated in bright yellow walls with maroon booths on one side and a bar. However, unlike most neighborhood dive bars, the yellow walls are covered in cheery, upbeat quotes and sayings. Near our booth, the entire “I’d like to buy the world a Coke” song was written out. Over the bar, it read “In the beginning there was nothing, and God said “let there be light” and there was and it was good. There was still nothing, but you could see it a lot better.” In the women’s bathroom, next to the mirror, it said “No need for a double take. You are B-E-A-Utiful.” And over the exit, a tribute to another classic Vacation “Wally World, Next 3 Exits.” Sneaky’s specialty was Broasted Chicken. Aaron had asked what exactly broasted chicken was, and I admitted that I didn’t know, but it’s a lot like fried chicken. Actually, after a little research, I learned that the Broaster is a pressure-cooking deep-fat fryer manufactured since 1954 by the Broaster Company in Beloit, Wisconsin. Broaster sells its machines to restaurants along with a special marinade and breading and requires the purchasers of the product to agree to use the Broaster method with their machine.
So for all practical purposes, broasted chicken is basically Midwestern fried chicken. Aaron and I both ordered the broasted chicken meal which came with cole slaw, seasoned potato wedges, and a dinner roll. The chicken was wonderful. Crisp and flavorful on the outside, plump and juicy on the inside, pretty greasy but not offensively so. All the side dishes were good, but the chicken was clearly the spotlight. The service was friendly and the rest of the booths were filled with locals. In short, Sneaky’s is a gem.
After dinner, we went to Lewis and Clark Field to watch the last regular season game of the Sioux City Explorers, Sioux City’s Minor League baseball team, against the Saint Paul Saints. Because they had clinched a spot in the post season the night before, it was a busy night. All the box and reserved seats were sold out, so we had to settle for $6 general admission bleacher seats, which still gave a pretty good view of the game even though we were stuck behind a light that buzzed aggressively after the sun went down. Most of the people around us were families with young children, some still in arms, but there were a handful of young single people mingling in groups. As a young, childless couple, we were odd birds. The weather was perfect for a baseball game, clear, pleasant, with just a bite of chill in the air. The score stayed at zero all for the first four innings, and then in the fifth, the Explorers ran up at 4 run lead. Over the course of the evening, the lead widened to 9-0. Afterward, to celebrate the end of their regular season, the park shot off a number of fireworks choreographed to patriotic music. Minor league baseball is one of the great underappreciated joys of summer. It’s cheap. It’s fun. It’s outside during the season of the year designed for the outdoors. Content, we went back to the hotel and called it a night.
For more on broasted chicken, particularly in the D.C. area, see “This chicken’s not roasted, broiled, or fried. It’s BROASTED. Good Luck finding it, though.” http://www.washingtonpost.com/ac2/wp-dyn?pagename=article&contentId=A26913-2004Apr20
As we headed eastward, the cattle pastures and hayfields gradually disappeared and fields ribbed with lines of corn and other crops rose in their place. The fields lay like embroidered quilts of golden yellow and kelly green over rolling landscape.
Some of our best impressions of the areas we travel through come from the art and the signs we find along the side of the road. People love to decorate their property to show who they are and what they believe. One person painted their utility sheds with silhouettes of children running and large, bushy trees against a sunset background of purples and blues. Another person made a small memorial bearing the names of the Nebraskans lost in the war in Iraq. A few of the ethnically Irish communities have adopted the shamrock as their symbol. O’Neill, Nebraska, painted a giant green shamrock in the middle of their main intersection. American flags and supporting our troops are dominant motifs. In Atkinson, plastic yellow ribbons are tied along white posts and every sign and telephone pole in the city. A home outside of Johnson, had “Support our Troops” written in Christmas lights. A sign near Belden read “One Nation Under GOD. Thank you to all veterans for the freedoms we enjoy. There were also a substantial number of pro-choice themed signs along the side of the road, about the same size as the signs for the town itself and probably erected by churches. Outside of Randolph, one had a single rose and read “Choose Life. Your Mother Did.” A more dramatic display was two trailers in a field, one plastered with graphic pro-life slogans and the other with slogans against homosexual marriage.
Outside Inman, Nebraska, Route 20 splits from the Route 275. For those of you following along on the map, this does not look like a particularly abrupt split. I had been watching the map, and knew it was coming, but couldn’t quite figure out when, so we talked and snacked and kept our eyes open. Suddenly, a small sign on the side of the road dictated “20 =>”, Aaron and I saw it at the same time and he had to turn hard to make the turn. We made it onto Route 20, but not without some reshuffling of the interior of the. Aaron mumbled “Mrph.” I answered “What’s that?” “Ah ohmo dwapf muh twisgif.” “What? You almost dropped your Triscuits?” “Mu-huh.” “But you were able to hang on to them?” “Mu-huh.” “Well, that’s good.” The road is full of traps for the unwary.
We got into South Sioux City, Nebraska, at about 3:30, and checked into the Marina Inn and Conference Center. We immediately noticed the tell-tale signs of a wedding: a small girl in a poofy white dress, and a trail of women in sparkly dresses chasing in her wake, and crowd of bored and uncomfortable men lagging behind. Although the drive to hotel would not suggest it, it’s really quite luxurious. The lobby was large and immaculate, and the room was beautiful. It had a massive flat screen television, a high-speed internet hook-up, a large, comfortable bed, and a massive bathroom with a granite countertop and a large walk-in shower. Perhaps best of all, there was a sliding glass door that led to a small patio that overlooked the Missouri River and Sioux City proper.
After a quick rest to watch the Women’s Volleyball final between Brazil and the USA (it’s amazing how the Olympics can get you to watch sports you wouldn’t dream of watching more than once every four years), we set out in search of dinner. Once again, I consulted the anonymous internet restaurant critics who suggested Sneaky’s Chicken in Sioux City. I looked up the GoogleMap directions, which said that the restaurant was on Route 20 itself, and we headed off. We backtracked to get back on to Route 20, but it looked like an interstate. We were sure it would begin looking like a normal street at any moment. Any time now. After a few minutes, I figured out that Sneaky’s Chicken was on Route 20 Business, not Route 20. Fortunately, I learned this before Route 20 Business and Route 20 intersected, so we were able to get on to Route 20 business and go west through town to get to Sneaky’s Chicken. It was absolutely the long way around. “But,” I reminded Aaron “now we’re on the right side of the street, so you wouldn’t have to make that U-turn.” It all works out.
Sneaky’s Chicken is easy to miss. The sign is small, but visible from the road and has a raccoon as its logo. When we arrived, we only saw the carry-out window at first, and wondered if it only did carry-out business. We almost lost faith when we found the entrance to the lounge, which was the main eat-in dining room. The interior looks like a neighborhood dive, decorated in bright yellow walls with maroon booths on one side and a bar. However, unlike most neighborhood dive bars, the yellow walls are covered in cheery, upbeat quotes and sayings. Near our booth, the entire “I’d like to buy the world a Coke” song was written out. Over the bar, it read “In the beginning there was nothing, and God said “let there be light” and there was and it was good. There was still nothing, but you could see it a lot better.” In the women’s bathroom, next to the mirror, it said “No need for a double take. You are B-E-A-Utiful.” And over the exit, a tribute to another classic Vacation “Wally World, Next 3 Exits.” Sneaky’s specialty was Broasted Chicken. Aaron had asked what exactly broasted chicken was, and I admitted that I didn’t know, but it’s a lot like fried chicken. Actually, after a little research, I learned that the Broaster is a pressure-cooking deep-fat fryer manufactured since 1954 by the Broaster Company in Beloit, Wisconsin. Broaster sells its machines to restaurants along with a special marinade and breading and requires the purchasers of the product to agree to use the Broaster method with their machine.
So for all practical purposes, broasted chicken is basically Midwestern fried chicken. Aaron and I both ordered the broasted chicken meal which came with cole slaw, seasoned potato wedges, and a dinner roll. The chicken was wonderful. Crisp and flavorful on the outside, plump and juicy on the inside, pretty greasy but not offensively so. All the side dishes were good, but the chicken was clearly the spotlight. The service was friendly and the rest of the booths were filled with locals. In short, Sneaky’s is a gem.
After dinner, we went to Lewis and Clark Field to watch the last regular season game of the Sioux City Explorers, Sioux City’s Minor League baseball team, against the Saint Paul Saints. Because they had clinched a spot in the post season the night before, it was a busy night. All the box and reserved seats were sold out, so we had to settle for $6 general admission bleacher seats, which still gave a pretty good view of the game even though we were stuck behind a light that buzzed aggressively after the sun went down. Most of the people around us were families with young children, some still in arms, but there were a handful of young single people mingling in groups. As a young, childless couple, we were odd birds. The weather was perfect for a baseball game, clear, pleasant, with just a bite of chill in the air. The score stayed at zero all for the first four innings, and then in the fifth, the Explorers ran up at 4 run lead. Over the course of the evening, the lead widened to 9-0. Afterward, to celebrate the end of their regular season, the park shot off a number of fireworks choreographed to patriotic music. Minor league baseball is one of the great underappreciated joys of summer. It’s cheap. It’s fun. It’s outside during the season of the year designed for the outdoors. Content, we went back to the hotel and called it a night.
For more on broasted chicken, particularly in the D.C. area, see “This chicken’s not roasted, broiled, or fried. It’s BROASTED. Good Luck finding it, though.” http://www.washingtonpost.com/ac2/wp-dyn?pagename=article&contentId=A26913-2004Apr20
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Day 8: Douglas, Wyoming to Valentine, Nebraska
We came down to the Morton Mansion’s comfortable dining room for a homemade breakfast made by the innkeeper. We were greeted with morning beverages of coffee and juice and a copy of the Casper Star Tribune. Out of consideration for one of the other guests, the innkeeper had to use a bit of ingenuity in creating a meal with no dairy. She made an egg, ham, and potato casserole with optional cheese and salsa and some no dairy apple cinnamon muffins. The other guest eventually came down and joined us for breakfast. John, the oilman from Oklahoma on an extended business trip, came down first followed by an older couple from “the people’s republic” of Boulder, Colorado who had stopped for the night on their way to visit a relative in Montana. Although John had to leave quickly, we lingered and chatted for a while with the couple. We talked about Yellowstone (where they had spent their honeymoon) and about the increasing trend of efficient cars and public transportation. One of the best parts of staying in a bed and breakfast is getting to meet other travelers over a home-cooked meal.
We left Douglas and headed back into the Wyoming back country. Today was going to be a relatively short day, only 240 miles, which at Wyoming highway speeds of 75 miles per hour, would only take about 4 hours, maybe less. As we crossed into Nebraska, we gradually began to notice the towns getting closer together. I wonder if there are people who don’t have a town name in their address, just a state and a zip code, because there are long stretches of ranch land that don’t appear to be in the city limits of any town. After a little consideration, it occurred to me that these people probably had post office boxes, but I enjoyed the though that you might be able to send a letter to “John Jones, Highway 20, Wyoming 82422 .” In Nebraska, the craggy mountains began to shrink and become rolling hills, dotted with yellow wildflowers and herds of cattle.
You may be wondering what we do to entertain ourselves during the hours of back country driving. To pass the time in the car, we’ve started a few running tallies. We have passed 9 McDonalds. We started counting McDonald’s on the assumption that they would vastly outnumber other fast food chains. In retrospect, we should have also been counting Dairy Queens and, surprisingly, Subways. Some towns are just too small to have a McDonalds. They don’t generally show up in towns with populations less than a couple thousand. But Subways can pop up anywhere. We’ve also been on the look out for the smallest towns. So far we have a tie between Emblem and Hiland, Wyoming, both at population 10. Honorable mention to Nenzel, Nebraska, population 13. We may have passed through the smallest of the small already, but we will keep you posted. Also, funniest town sign goes to “Cody, Nebraska: A Town Too Tough To Die.” Because I forgot to bring any CDs on the trip (my bad), we listen to a lot of NPR. I always have the option of taking pictures of anything we drive by, fields, silos, towns, signs, but Aaron has to be a little more original in entertaining himself. Every once in a while, he swerves hard on the empty road. “Tumbleweed?” I ask. Sheepishly, he admits “Yes.” “Did you get it?” Boyish pride “Yes.” And we have a scrap of it in our grill as a trophy.
Eventually, the mountains disappear entirely as Route 20 enters the Sandhills of northern central Nebraska. Chris Welsch, a reporter for the Minneapolis Star-Tribune, said of driving through the grass covered sand dunes that roll ceaselessly toward the horizon “one minute my station wagon was a car, and the next, it was a boat.”
Near Merriman (population 118), we stopped at the Arthur Bowring Ranch State Historical Park. The park is a 7,202 acre working ranch originally belonged to Arthur and Eve Bowring, prominent local politicians and devoted ranchers. When we saw the sign for it, we turned off the main road and headed north, coming within 5 miles of the South Dakota border. As we entered the ranch, we were met by a small group of Hereford cattle, grazing near the side of the road. We parked the car and walked toward the visitor center, where we were greeted by a very friendly Boston terrier named Minnie. We went inside and asked the woman at the counter what we could see while we were here. She said there was a video and a museum, but we couldn’t see the rest of the buildings because they were under renovation. The video described the park as a “monument to a way of life” and explained the workings of a cattle ranch and the history of Mr. and Mrs. Bowring. After the video we made a quick of the museum. The most interesting part was a set of books recording the birth of every purebred Hereford since the inception of the breed. Each entry gave the name of the animal, whether it was a cow or bull, when it was calved, and a few other statistics about it. It was amazing that all of this information was gathered and maintained about cows. It’s not anywhere near that easy to find biographical information about people from that long ago. After we left the museum, we took a quick walk around the property. We didn’t see any other visitors while we were there, and judging by the guestbook, the park doesn’t generally get more than one visitor a day. When we stepped outside, we were amazed by the quiet, except for Pink Floyd on the radio of the maintenance workers.
We continued on to Valentine, Nebraska where we checked into the Dunes Lodge, directly on Route 20. Valentine’s main attraction is its water sports on the Niobrara River, but because we only had a few hours, we decided to walk through the town instead. Valentine takes its name very, very seriously. There are hearts painted on the sidewalk. There are hearts on the lampposts. The street signs are red with little hearts. We walked past the bars, the library, the radio station, the post office, the offices of the town accountants and lawyers. And we stopped into the biggest storefront in town, the discount western wear store. We pawed through all the gear we saw, saddles, tack, boots, cowboy hats.
For dinner, we went to the Cedar Canyon Restaurant (formerly the Peppermill Steakhouse) on Main Street. It’s a large complex, with a dining room, a beer garden, and a lounge in separate buildings. A hostess led us past the salad bar and the rotating dessert case into the dining room. The dining room was busy but not packed, a few families, some older couples out on double dates, three teenage girls with blonde hair and raccoon eyes in the corner. The menu had a full compliment of pasta and other entrees, but after driving through cattle country for two days, we knew that ordering the chicken or the fish was a waste of a good meal. At the bottom of the menu, where diners are usually given a boilerplate warning about the dangers of consuming raw or undercooked food, we found a recommendation that steaks be ordered rare, medium rare, or medium. The warning went on to say that if the customer ordered the steak more done than medium the restaurant “respectfully passes all responsibility to the customer.” This place takes steak very seriously. I tried to get a quick photo of the warning, but was caught by our waiter, a thin young man with dark hair and a moustache. He was obviously confused, but knew better than to say anything. I was a little embarrassed that I had blown my cover. I had the Signature Sirloin, rare, and Aaron had the ribeye, medium rare. The soup, salad, and home fries were all fine, but the steaks were really very impressive. First, you get your steak exactly as you ordered it. As a longtime fan of rare steaks, I’ve been to too many overpriced steakhouses that either don’t fully understand the meaning of rare or just don’t execute it. Seared on the outside with a cool, red center. The inside of this baby was like tender beef sashimi. Beautiful. It also had a powerful, beefy flavor, probably attributable to its freshness. Aaron was also very impressed with his ribeye, which was well-marbled and buttery. We split a piece of peach pie a la mode for dessert. Despite the fact that is was cold from being in the rotating display case, the filling was delicious. With all this for $44, we felt like we were getting away with murder. I love the heartland.
We left Douglas and headed back into the Wyoming back country. Today was going to be a relatively short day, only 240 miles, which at Wyoming highway speeds of 75 miles per hour, would only take about 4 hours, maybe less. As we crossed into Nebraska, we gradually began to notice the towns getting closer together. I wonder if there are people who don’t have a town name in their address, just a state and a zip code, because there are long stretches of ranch land that don’t appear to be in the city limits of any town. After a little consideration, it occurred to me that these people probably had post office boxes, but I enjoyed the though that you might be able to send a letter to “John Jones, Highway 20, Wyoming 82422 .” In Nebraska, the craggy mountains began to shrink and become rolling hills, dotted with yellow wildflowers and herds of cattle.
You may be wondering what we do to entertain ourselves during the hours of back country driving. To pass the time in the car, we’ve started a few running tallies. We have passed 9 McDonalds. We started counting McDonald’s on the assumption that they would vastly outnumber other fast food chains. In retrospect, we should have also been counting Dairy Queens and, surprisingly, Subways. Some towns are just too small to have a McDonalds. They don’t generally show up in towns with populations less than a couple thousand. But Subways can pop up anywhere. We’ve also been on the look out for the smallest towns. So far we have a tie between Emblem and Hiland, Wyoming, both at population 10. Honorable mention to Nenzel, Nebraska, population 13. We may have passed through the smallest of the small already, but we will keep you posted. Also, funniest town sign goes to “Cody, Nebraska: A Town Too Tough To Die.” Because I forgot to bring any CDs on the trip (my bad), we listen to a lot of NPR. I always have the option of taking pictures of anything we drive by, fields, silos, towns, signs, but Aaron has to be a little more original in entertaining himself. Every once in a while, he swerves hard on the empty road. “Tumbleweed?” I ask. Sheepishly, he admits “Yes.” “Did you get it?” Boyish pride “Yes.” And we have a scrap of it in our grill as a trophy.
Eventually, the mountains disappear entirely as Route 20 enters the Sandhills of northern central Nebraska. Chris Welsch, a reporter for the Minneapolis Star-Tribune, said of driving through the grass covered sand dunes that roll ceaselessly toward the horizon “one minute my station wagon was a car, and the next, it was a boat.”
Near Merriman (population 118), we stopped at the Arthur Bowring Ranch State Historical Park. The park is a 7,202 acre working ranch originally belonged to Arthur and Eve Bowring, prominent local politicians and devoted ranchers. When we saw the sign for it, we turned off the main road and headed north, coming within 5 miles of the South Dakota border. As we entered the ranch, we were met by a small group of Hereford cattle, grazing near the side of the road. We parked the car and walked toward the visitor center, where we were greeted by a very friendly Boston terrier named Minnie. We went inside and asked the woman at the counter what we could see while we were here. She said there was a video and a museum, but we couldn’t see the rest of the buildings because they were under renovation. The video described the park as a “monument to a way of life” and explained the workings of a cattle ranch and the history of Mr. and Mrs. Bowring. After the video we made a quick of the museum. The most interesting part was a set of books recording the birth of every purebred Hereford since the inception of the breed. Each entry gave the name of the animal, whether it was a cow or bull, when it was calved, and a few other statistics about it. It was amazing that all of this information was gathered and maintained about cows. It’s not anywhere near that easy to find biographical information about people from that long ago. After we left the museum, we took a quick walk around the property. We didn’t see any other visitors while we were there, and judging by the guestbook, the park doesn’t generally get more than one visitor a day. When we stepped outside, we were amazed by the quiet, except for Pink Floyd on the radio of the maintenance workers.
We continued on to Valentine, Nebraska where we checked into the Dunes Lodge, directly on Route 20. Valentine’s main attraction is its water sports on the Niobrara River, but because we only had a few hours, we decided to walk through the town instead. Valentine takes its name very, very seriously. There are hearts painted on the sidewalk. There are hearts on the lampposts. The street signs are red with little hearts. We walked past the bars, the library, the radio station, the post office, the offices of the town accountants and lawyers. And we stopped into the biggest storefront in town, the discount western wear store. We pawed through all the gear we saw, saddles, tack, boots, cowboy hats.
For dinner, we went to the Cedar Canyon Restaurant (formerly the Peppermill Steakhouse) on Main Street. It’s a large complex, with a dining room, a beer garden, and a lounge in separate buildings. A hostess led us past the salad bar and the rotating dessert case into the dining room. The dining room was busy but not packed, a few families, some older couples out on double dates, three teenage girls with blonde hair and raccoon eyes in the corner. The menu had a full compliment of pasta and other entrees, but after driving through cattle country for two days, we knew that ordering the chicken or the fish was a waste of a good meal. At the bottom of the menu, where diners are usually given a boilerplate warning about the dangers of consuming raw or undercooked food, we found a recommendation that steaks be ordered rare, medium rare, or medium. The warning went on to say that if the customer ordered the steak more done than medium the restaurant “respectfully passes all responsibility to the customer.” This place takes steak very seriously. I tried to get a quick photo of the warning, but was caught by our waiter, a thin young man with dark hair and a moustache. He was obviously confused, but knew better than to say anything. I was a little embarrassed that I had blown my cover. I had the Signature Sirloin, rare, and Aaron had the ribeye, medium rare. The soup, salad, and home fries were all fine, but the steaks were really very impressive. First, you get your steak exactly as you ordered it. As a longtime fan of rare steaks, I’ve been to too many overpriced steakhouses that either don’t fully understand the meaning of rare or just don’t execute it. Seared on the outside with a cool, red center. The inside of this baby was like tender beef sashimi. Beautiful. It also had a powerful, beefy flavor, probably attributable to its freshness. Aaron was also very impressed with his ribeye, which was well-marbled and buttery. We split a piece of peach pie a la mode for dessert. Despite the fact that is was cold from being in the rotating display case, the filling was delicious. With all this for $44, we felt like we were getting away with murder. I love the heartland.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Day 7: Yellowstone National Park to Douglas, Wyoming
In order to take a second shot at the Canyon section of the park, we had a light breakfast and checked out early. As noted earlier, Yellowstone is something like Disney’s version of the wilderness, all the way down to the international waitstaff at the hotel dining room. This morning, we saw many of the same servers we had seen the night before. We were seated by Jin from Malaysia and served by Edyta from Poland. After breakfast, we made a quick stop at the hotel gift shop. We picked up a postcard for Mary, our landlady back in Somerville, a couple gifts for family, and a few selections from the ample huckleberry section. Apparently, huckleberries are the trademark fruit of this region, and Yellowstone sold just about everything you could think of in huckleberry flavor: coffee, tea, honey, and espresso beans, pretzels, and, of course, huckleberries covered in huckleberry chocolate. We took our gear and goodies back to the car and headed northward.
Seeing Yellowstone before 9 is a completely different experience than seeing it in the heat of the day. The light filtering through the clouds and the trees is soft and peaceful, and the crowds, while still present, are much smaller than they are at midday. We saw the same herd of bison along the side of the road, but there was almost no line of traffic waiting to see them. Ambivalent to the presence of humans, the bison continued exactly as they had during the primetime show in the afternoon, eating, rolling in dust, and still ignoring us. We approached Canyon Village and took the road to Artist’s point. The name is very appropriate because the view of the massive canyon and the crashing waterfall in the distance is inspiring. Once again, Yellowstone makes a brilliant photographer out of the rank amateur.
After we took in the views and got our pictures, we walked back down the path toward the parking lot. By that point, it was ten o’ clock, and the people watching had already picked up. License plates from numerous states (mostly Idaho, Wyoming, Colorado, and Montana, but also some from as far away as Florida, Texas, and Connecticut) began filling up the parking lot, bringing tourists eager for their glimpse of the wilderness. As it happened, many of them got closer than they expected to. A thin female deer wandered out of the trees and into the parking lot. She instantly attracted a small crowd of people edging ever closer with their cameras as she casually walked toward the wooded area across the lot. A couple children almost got close enough to pet her. Of course, this animal is not a pet. She is wild and could probably give a vicious kick if she were frightened. But this does not stop the tourists from pushing their luck. As we drove southward toward the eastern exit of the park, we saw two more hilarious examples of this phenomenon. Working our way through the bison once again, we saw two bison standing directly in front of an SUV on a pull-off. The driver of the SUV had stood up in the vehicle and was sticking up out of the sunroof. Her passenger was leaning out of the window, about eye to eye with the animals. Thankfully, the passenger had the sense to snap herself back in when started casually walking away. Then, while working our way through one of the tell-tale lines of traffic, we eventually saw a small black bear on the side of the road. As the bear nonchalantly walked through the forest, about twenty feet from the road, a crowd of half-a-dozen tourists sprinted behind it, cameras flashing. I can understand slowing down in your car, both to take pictures of these animals and to make sure you don’t hit them if they move quickly into the road. But running alongside a predator is where I absolutely draw the line.
On the eastern side of Yellowstone, we drove along the northern edge of the Lake Yellowstone. The sky was mostly sunny, but the wind had picked up enough to create white caps on the waves of the lake, making it almost look like the ocean. We also passed through several miles of forest that had been damaged by fire.
After we left Yellowstone, we drove through Shoshone National Forest. Although there was no visible wildlife and more commercial tourist establishments, the scenery was just as spectacular and, because it didn’t seem as carefully choreographed as Yellowstone, it felt wilder. There were fewer lakes and rivers, but there were more jagged cliffs soaring on either side of the winding road.
We left the forest area and the rolling grassland of cattle country replaced the trees, but the immense cliffs, mesas, and rock outcroppings were still very much a part of the landscape. Many of the rocks were painted with red, orange, and violet striations. In any other part of the country, these areas would be protected somehow. They would at least be state parks. But in Wyoming, this is just what land looks like.
Around 3:30, we stopped in Thermopolis, which a cliff just outside of town will tell you is the “Home of the World’s Largest Mineral Hot Spring.” The Hot Springs State Park is just off Route 20 and home to a perplexing variety of hot baths open to the public. We pulled up to the first one we saw, Star Plunge. We approached an elderly man at the counter and asked about the facilities and he told us about the indoor and outdoor mineral pools that were kept at around 94 degrees and a hot tub that was kept much hotter. “Some days it’s 102, but I’ve seen it round 104 and 105. You just don’t know. And everybody takes it different. I can’t take it at 104, but my wife can. It’s different between men and women and your skin tone.” We were convinced. We rented two towels, changed, and went to the pools. I was worried that visiting a hot spring on a 90 degree day might not be as refreshing as we hoped. The sulphur smell was initially so strong that I thought I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it, but I got used to it after a few minutes. The water was not oppressively hot but about as warm as a comfortable bath. After a few minutes in the pool, Aaron and I were approached by a bald, elderly man who had driven in from over the mountains. He asked us about where we were from and what Aaron did (he didn’t ask me) and then told us about his ideas on electricity, individual windmills for houses like the ones they used in the 30s, and his ideas on the government’s role in “the nine-eleven.” He also told us his favorite joke “Why won’t they let me stand next to the governor of Wyoming? Because these two bald heads would look like Dolly Parton with her shirt off!”
We arrived in Douglas, Wyoming, our resting place for the night, around 6:30. We got off of the highway and immediately encountered construction and a detour. We dutifully followed the detour through a small residential neighborhood, across an overpass, down the main street through town, and then right back onto Route 20 on the other side of town. We knew we would have to turn around and try again, and to improve our chances, we pulled into a liquor store to ask for directions. We asked the elderly lady behind the counter how to get to E. Center Street. She waved that off and asked “What are you looking for?” We told her we were looking for the Morton Mansion B&B. She recognized the place instantly and gave us directions that turned out to be right but sounded suspect at first. “You go up where the detour was, and you know it kind of snakes up like this, then over the bridge, you remember the bridge, and then there’s a stop sign, and you go straight through and then you left at the light, and the next light, you take a right, and it’s down the block.” We had followed the entirety of the detour and remembered no bridge and no stop sign. We never did see the stop sign, but we did find the Morton Mansion.
On the recommendation of the innkeeper, we went to a diner in town for dinner. Because Wyoming has not yet passed legislation to prohibit smoking in restaurants, the non smoking section was isolated in a fish bowl from the rest of the restaurant. Aaron ordered a steak and onion rings and I ordered a chicken fried steak. The idea of a chicken fried steak had been kicking around in my head since the innkeeper mentioned that it was one of the restaurant’s specialties, and my mouth was all set for that crispy golden goodness smothered in white sawmill gravy with a side of mashed potatoes. When it arrived, it looked nothing like a chicken fried steak. The breading was closer to breadcrumbs than a batter, which really ruined the whole experience, and to add insult to injury, the gravy was pinkish like there was some tomato or red pepper in it. Aaron told me that the mashed potatoes were good, but I was too disappointed to notice.
Then, on the recommendation of a businessman from Oklahoma we met at the B&B, we went to the Plains Motel Ice Cream parlor. The Plains Motel is a full complex that includes a motel, a restaurant, a store, and an ice cream parlor. The interior was decorated like a 1900s soda fountain. We ordered our ice cream cones and went out to the deck to enjoy them. Although it was in the high 80s, it was still very comfortable outside. It was so comfortable, in fact, that we had to check three different thermometers to be sure that it was really that hot. We concluded that this must be the “dry heat” people in the west talk about. If this is dry heat, I’d really hate to see the dry cold.
Seeing Yellowstone before 9 is a completely different experience than seeing it in the heat of the day. The light filtering through the clouds and the trees is soft and peaceful, and the crowds, while still present, are much smaller than they are at midday. We saw the same herd of bison along the side of the road, but there was almost no line of traffic waiting to see them. Ambivalent to the presence of humans, the bison continued exactly as they had during the primetime show in the afternoon, eating, rolling in dust, and still ignoring us. We approached Canyon Village and took the road to Artist’s point. The name is very appropriate because the view of the massive canyon and the crashing waterfall in the distance is inspiring. Once again, Yellowstone makes a brilliant photographer out of the rank amateur.
After we took in the views and got our pictures, we walked back down the path toward the parking lot. By that point, it was ten o’ clock, and the people watching had already picked up. License plates from numerous states (mostly Idaho, Wyoming, Colorado, and Montana, but also some from as far away as Florida, Texas, and Connecticut) began filling up the parking lot, bringing tourists eager for their glimpse of the wilderness. As it happened, many of them got closer than they expected to. A thin female deer wandered out of the trees and into the parking lot. She instantly attracted a small crowd of people edging ever closer with their cameras as she casually walked toward the wooded area across the lot. A couple children almost got close enough to pet her. Of course, this animal is not a pet. She is wild and could probably give a vicious kick if she were frightened. But this does not stop the tourists from pushing their luck. As we drove southward toward the eastern exit of the park, we saw two more hilarious examples of this phenomenon. Working our way through the bison once again, we saw two bison standing directly in front of an SUV on a pull-off. The driver of the SUV had stood up in the vehicle and was sticking up out of the sunroof. Her passenger was leaning out of the window, about eye to eye with the animals. Thankfully, the passenger had the sense to snap herself back in when started casually walking away. Then, while working our way through one of the tell-tale lines of traffic, we eventually saw a small black bear on the side of the road. As the bear nonchalantly walked through the forest, about twenty feet from the road, a crowd of half-a-dozen tourists sprinted behind it, cameras flashing. I can understand slowing down in your car, both to take pictures of these animals and to make sure you don’t hit them if they move quickly into the road. But running alongside a predator is where I absolutely draw the line.
On the eastern side of Yellowstone, we drove along the northern edge of the Lake Yellowstone. The sky was mostly sunny, but the wind had picked up enough to create white caps on the waves of the lake, making it almost look like the ocean. We also passed through several miles of forest that had been damaged by fire.
After we left Yellowstone, we drove through Shoshone National Forest. Although there was no visible wildlife and more commercial tourist establishments, the scenery was just as spectacular and, because it didn’t seem as carefully choreographed as Yellowstone, it felt wilder. There were fewer lakes and rivers, but there were more jagged cliffs soaring on either side of the winding road.
We left the forest area and the rolling grassland of cattle country replaced the trees, but the immense cliffs, mesas, and rock outcroppings were still very much a part of the landscape. Many of the rocks were painted with red, orange, and violet striations. In any other part of the country, these areas would be protected somehow. They would at least be state parks. But in Wyoming, this is just what land looks like.
Around 3:30, we stopped in Thermopolis, which a cliff just outside of town will tell you is the “Home of the World’s Largest Mineral Hot Spring.” The Hot Springs State Park is just off Route 20 and home to a perplexing variety of hot baths open to the public. We pulled up to the first one we saw, Star Plunge. We approached an elderly man at the counter and asked about the facilities and he told us about the indoor and outdoor mineral pools that were kept at around 94 degrees and a hot tub that was kept much hotter. “Some days it’s 102, but I’ve seen it round 104 and 105. You just don’t know. And everybody takes it different. I can’t take it at 104, but my wife can. It’s different between men and women and your skin tone.” We were convinced. We rented two towels, changed, and went to the pools. I was worried that visiting a hot spring on a 90 degree day might not be as refreshing as we hoped. The sulphur smell was initially so strong that I thought I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it, but I got used to it after a few minutes. The water was not oppressively hot but about as warm as a comfortable bath. After a few minutes in the pool, Aaron and I were approached by a bald, elderly man who had driven in from over the mountains. He asked us about where we were from and what Aaron did (he didn’t ask me) and then told us about his ideas on electricity, individual windmills for houses like the ones they used in the 30s, and his ideas on the government’s role in “the nine-eleven.” He also told us his favorite joke “Why won’t they let me stand next to the governor of Wyoming? Because these two bald heads would look like Dolly Parton with her shirt off!”
We arrived in Douglas, Wyoming, our resting place for the night, around 6:30. We got off of the highway and immediately encountered construction and a detour. We dutifully followed the detour through a small residential neighborhood, across an overpass, down the main street through town, and then right back onto Route 20 on the other side of town. We knew we would have to turn around and try again, and to improve our chances, we pulled into a liquor store to ask for directions. We asked the elderly lady behind the counter how to get to E. Center Street. She waved that off and asked “What are you looking for?” We told her we were looking for the Morton Mansion B&B. She recognized the place instantly and gave us directions that turned out to be right but sounded suspect at first. “You go up where the detour was, and you know it kind of snakes up like this, then over the bridge, you remember the bridge, and then there’s a stop sign, and you go straight through and then you left at the light, and the next light, you take a right, and it’s down the block.” We had followed the entirety of the detour and remembered no bridge and no stop sign. We never did see the stop sign, but we did find the Morton Mansion.
On the recommendation of the innkeeper, we went to a diner in town for dinner. Because Wyoming has not yet passed legislation to prohibit smoking in restaurants, the non smoking section was isolated in a fish bowl from the rest of the restaurant. Aaron ordered a steak and onion rings and I ordered a chicken fried steak. The idea of a chicken fried steak had been kicking around in my head since the innkeeper mentioned that it was one of the restaurant’s specialties, and my mouth was all set for that crispy golden goodness smothered in white sawmill gravy with a side of mashed potatoes. When it arrived, it looked nothing like a chicken fried steak. The breading was closer to breadcrumbs than a batter, which really ruined the whole experience, and to add insult to injury, the gravy was pinkish like there was some tomato or red pepper in it. Aaron told me that the mashed potatoes were good, but I was too disappointed to notice.
Then, on the recommendation of a businessman from Oklahoma we met at the B&B, we went to the Plains Motel Ice Cream parlor. The Plains Motel is a full complex that includes a motel, a restaurant, a store, and an ice cream parlor. The interior was decorated like a 1900s soda fountain. We ordered our ice cream cones and went out to the deck to enjoy them. Although it was in the high 80s, it was still very comfortable outside. It was so comfortable, in fact, that we had to check three different thermometers to be sure that it was really that hot. We concluded that this must be the “dry heat” people in the west talk about. If this is dry heat, I’d really hate to see the dry cold.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Day 6: Mack's Inn, Idaho to Yellowstone National Park
Because we had unwisely left the windows in the cabin open when we went to sleep the night before, the cabin was a chilly 59 degrees--just like our apartment in winter-- when the alarm went off at 8. And just like our apartment in winter, the warm, cozy bed was entirely too tempting. Because Yellowstone was only about 30 miles away, we decided to sleep in a little. Sleeping in under a warm blanket in a cold little cabin is one of the most satisfying indulgences imaginable.
After we finally checked out, we headed toward the town of West Yellowstone, Montana. Route 20 only crosses through about 10 miles of Montana before entering Wyoming in the Park. The town of West Yellowstone, which is just outside the boundary of the park, is a little bit of 50’s motor tourist Mecca. Although there are large chain hotels there, there are also places like the Pioneer Motor Court and Trappers Family Restaurant where guests are greeted by large plastic bison at the front door. For breakfast, we stopped at the Running Bear Pancake House. Although the menu was extensive, when in a pancake house, one feels compelled to order the pancakes. I got the buckwheat pancakes and Aaron got blueberry butter milk pancake. Our waitress, with tight, dyed-red corkscrewed hair, a wide smile, and a soft Carribean accent, served the dishes with maple syrup and boysenberry syrup. She strongly encouraged us to try the boysenberry. “It’s a whole good better than the maple, I think.” She was certainly right. It was sweet and fruity with tart bite. While my buckwheat pancake was good, Aaron’s buttermilk pancake was much better, soft as a cloud with a decadent buttery flavor. This was excellent fuel for the day ahead.
Yellowstone is many things. First and foremost, it is enormous. It is far, far more than anyone could see in one day. Second, it is really more park than anything else. If Disney were to put together a national park, it would look a lot like Yellowstone. Unless you hit the hiking trails and get off of the main roads, you’re never able to ignore your fellow tourists and maintain the illusion that the place you are seeing is anything close to a wilderness.
However, once you get past the inherent corniness of the place, it is very enjoyable, and the corniness becomes part of that enjoyment. We spent most of our morning in Lower and Midway Geyser Basins, admiring the splashing water and steam and the brilliant colors created by the thermophilic bacteria in the hot pools. Yellowstone is one of those places with such astounding physical beauty that every man, woman, and child with a camera begins to believe that they are a brilliant photographer. Even you, yes you, with the broad sunhat and the pink KoolPix camera, you are capturing dazzling images that will wow your friends when you return home. And you may even be able to convince the folks back home that you hiked miles into the wilderness to capture these photos. But do not be fooled, these people are not brilliant photographers and they did no such hiking. The broad boardwalk leads the throngs of tourists into the geyser areas and allows them to get very close to the geyser but warns them in numerous languages that the area is dangerous. However, even average photographers can capture impressive photographs, particularly of the Grand Prismatic Spring which looks like a steaming rainbow of turquoise, green, yellow and red trapped in a deep hole. These areas also have many small geysers. When approached Shell Spring, one of these small geysers in Biscuit Basin, we thought that maybe it was a dead or dying spring, judging from the small bit of water jumping from one side. Then, before our eyes, the hole began to fill. The steam poured out and the water sprung violently into the air. For a moment, it seemed possible that we were watching the beginning of a geologic cataclysm. And then, cataclysm averted, the water receded back into the hole. We were so impressed by this that we watched it move through the whole cycle again.
Afterward, we went to see the granddaddy of all attractions at Yellowstone, Old Faithful. Old Faithful is not just a natural wonder, it is a whole complex with acreage of parking, a lodge, a restaurant, a gas station, a souvenir shop, and an interactive visitors center. After was made our way through these distractions, we found a crowd of several hundred visitors crowding around a little fenced off mound, belching steam into the air. Old Faithful was due to erupt within 15 minutes of 2:33, so we took a seat on a log away from the crowds and we watched and waited. Occasionally, a stir would run through the crowd as a few small spurts of water rose from the mound, but the excitement quickly subsided. We also saw one family who realized that it could blow at any minute sprint from the parking lot only to find themselves waiting with the rest of us. After about 2:40, a few visitors weak of heart and short of patience began to leave, apparently concluding that Old Faithful was either highly overrated or not so faithful as they had been lead to believe. Eventually, it did erupt, shooting a column of water and steam a hundred feet into the air in spectacular fashion. I heard stunned children shout from the crowd “that is SO COOL!” and cynical children mutter “They do it with TNT.”
Once the geyser show had ended and the exodus had left the pavilion, we drove to the Lake Yellowstone Hotel on Lake Yellowstone. The hotel, the oldest lodging in the Park, is a massive complex all painted in bright yellow. The hotel looks like a facility designed by the federal government (although it appears to now be run by a private company) it is comfortable, functional, and conveniently located but a bit institutional, lacking in imagination and individual touches, kind of like a dormitory. After we checked in, we drove north to the Canyon. On our way, we noticed traffic coming to a complete stop. On the side of the road was a large LED road construction sign, reading “Slow. Bison Crossing Ahead.” Sure enough, several cars ahead of us, there was a bison in the middle of the road. Aaron and I were stunned that they could get a warning sign out that quickly. Then we saw another bison, laying placidly in a field. And then a handful more across a river, and then dozens of them on both sides of the road. The sign had not been placed for the crossing of one bison, but because there was a whole herd crossing. While watching the bison eat, roll in the dust, and generally ignore us, the real wildlife watching was the people. People were leaning out of their windows, out of the sunroofs, and some exiting their cars in a frenzied attempt to experience the wildlife. Between the immense snorting roadblocks and the photo trigger happy looky-loos (myself included), traffic slowed to an absolute crawl. After about forty-five minutes, we gave up, turned around, and made our way back to the hotel.
We had dinner in the Hotel dining room. We initially had some problems making reservations (when we asked for reservations at 7:30, we were told that we could have 5:30 or 9:15), but we were able to get in at a reasonable time. The meal was excellent, with the standout being the bison prime rib entrée. Maybe it was the complex, gamey flavor or the fact that he really hates to be stuck in traffic, but Aaron was able to finish all of his and about a third of mine. We rolled back to the room and without internet or TV to keep us awake, promptly fell asleep.
After we finally checked out, we headed toward the town of West Yellowstone, Montana. Route 20 only crosses through about 10 miles of Montana before entering Wyoming in the Park. The town of West Yellowstone, which is just outside the boundary of the park, is a little bit of 50’s motor tourist Mecca. Although there are large chain hotels there, there are also places like the Pioneer Motor Court and Trappers Family Restaurant where guests are greeted by large plastic bison at the front door. For breakfast, we stopped at the Running Bear Pancake House. Although the menu was extensive, when in a pancake house, one feels compelled to order the pancakes. I got the buckwheat pancakes and Aaron got blueberry butter milk pancake. Our waitress, with tight, dyed-red corkscrewed hair, a wide smile, and a soft Carribean accent, served the dishes with maple syrup and boysenberry syrup. She strongly encouraged us to try the boysenberry. “It’s a whole good better than the maple, I think.” She was certainly right. It was sweet and fruity with tart bite. While my buckwheat pancake was good, Aaron’s buttermilk pancake was much better, soft as a cloud with a decadent buttery flavor. This was excellent fuel for the day ahead.
Yellowstone is many things. First and foremost, it is enormous. It is far, far more than anyone could see in one day. Second, it is really more park than anything else. If Disney were to put together a national park, it would look a lot like Yellowstone. Unless you hit the hiking trails and get off of the main roads, you’re never able to ignore your fellow tourists and maintain the illusion that the place you are seeing is anything close to a wilderness.
However, once you get past the inherent corniness of the place, it is very enjoyable, and the corniness becomes part of that enjoyment. We spent most of our morning in Lower and Midway Geyser Basins, admiring the splashing water and steam and the brilliant colors created by the thermophilic bacteria in the hot pools. Yellowstone is one of those places with such astounding physical beauty that every man, woman, and child with a camera begins to believe that they are a brilliant photographer. Even you, yes you, with the broad sunhat and the pink KoolPix camera, you are capturing dazzling images that will wow your friends when you return home. And you may even be able to convince the folks back home that you hiked miles into the wilderness to capture these photos. But do not be fooled, these people are not brilliant photographers and they did no such hiking. The broad boardwalk leads the throngs of tourists into the geyser areas and allows them to get very close to the geyser but warns them in numerous languages that the area is dangerous. However, even average photographers can capture impressive photographs, particularly of the Grand Prismatic Spring which looks like a steaming rainbow of turquoise, green, yellow and red trapped in a deep hole. These areas also have many small geysers. When approached Shell Spring, one of these small geysers in Biscuit Basin, we thought that maybe it was a dead or dying spring, judging from the small bit of water jumping from one side. Then, before our eyes, the hole began to fill. The steam poured out and the water sprung violently into the air. For a moment, it seemed possible that we were watching the beginning of a geologic cataclysm. And then, cataclysm averted, the water receded back into the hole. We were so impressed by this that we watched it move through the whole cycle again.
Afterward, we went to see the granddaddy of all attractions at Yellowstone, Old Faithful. Old Faithful is not just a natural wonder, it is a whole complex with acreage of parking, a lodge, a restaurant, a gas station, a souvenir shop, and an interactive visitors center. After was made our way through these distractions, we found a crowd of several hundred visitors crowding around a little fenced off mound, belching steam into the air. Old Faithful was due to erupt within 15 minutes of 2:33, so we took a seat on a log away from the crowds and we watched and waited. Occasionally, a stir would run through the crowd as a few small spurts of water rose from the mound, but the excitement quickly subsided. We also saw one family who realized that it could blow at any minute sprint from the parking lot only to find themselves waiting with the rest of us. After about 2:40, a few visitors weak of heart and short of patience began to leave, apparently concluding that Old Faithful was either highly overrated or not so faithful as they had been lead to believe. Eventually, it did erupt, shooting a column of water and steam a hundred feet into the air in spectacular fashion. I heard stunned children shout from the crowd “that is SO COOL!” and cynical children mutter “They do it with TNT.”
Once the geyser show had ended and the exodus had left the pavilion, we drove to the Lake Yellowstone Hotel on Lake Yellowstone. The hotel, the oldest lodging in the Park, is a massive complex all painted in bright yellow. The hotel looks like a facility designed by the federal government (although it appears to now be run by a private company) it is comfortable, functional, and conveniently located but a bit institutional, lacking in imagination and individual touches, kind of like a dormitory. After we checked in, we drove north to the Canyon. On our way, we noticed traffic coming to a complete stop. On the side of the road was a large LED road construction sign, reading “Slow. Bison Crossing Ahead.” Sure enough, several cars ahead of us, there was a bison in the middle of the road. Aaron and I were stunned that they could get a warning sign out that quickly. Then we saw another bison, laying placidly in a field. And then a handful more across a river, and then dozens of them on both sides of the road. The sign had not been placed for the crossing of one bison, but because there was a whole herd crossing. While watching the bison eat, roll in the dust, and generally ignore us, the real wildlife watching was the people. People were leaning out of their windows, out of the sunroofs, and some exiting their cars in a frenzied attempt to experience the wildlife. Between the immense snorting roadblocks and the photo trigger happy looky-loos (myself included), traffic slowed to an absolute crawl. After about forty-five minutes, we gave up, turned around, and made our way back to the hotel.
We had dinner in the Hotel dining room. We initially had some problems making reservations (when we asked for reservations at 7:30, we were told that we could have 5:30 or 9:15), but we were able to get in at a reasonable time. The meal was excellent, with the standout being the bison prime rib entrée. Maybe it was the complex, gamey flavor or the fact that he really hates to be stuck in traffic, but Aaron was able to finish all of his and about a third of mine. We rolled back to the room and without internet or TV to keep us awake, promptly fell asleep.
Day 5: Boise, Idaho to Mack's Inn, Idaho
Sadly, the J.J. Shaw House was not serving breakfast this morning because one of the innkeepers was taking her daughter to college for the first time, so Aaron and I had to find other breakfast. On the recommendation of various internet restaurant reviewers, we chose Goldy’s Breakfast Bistro in historic downtown Boise, within view of the Idaho Statehouse. It is located, appropriately enough, on Capitol Boulevard, which was identifiable on the Boise city map in our 50-state and Canada atlas. Unfortunately, most of the streets close to the B&B were not on the map. While Route 20 was easy to stay on and easy to exit in Boise, it was not particularly easy to get back on. After some backtracking, meandering, and sharp tongued comments about each other’s navigating abilities, Aaron and I were finally able to make our way to Goldy’s.
The storefront itself is relatively small and easy for the inattentive to miss. Inside, there is a main dining area with a few tables, a counter, the cashier, and the kitchen. We were in the additional tables up the stairs. The menu is massive, but the greatest opportunity for creativity is in the make-your-own combo section. There is a list of meats, potatoes, and breads which can be served with eggs, an omelet, chicken fried steak, a salmon filet and probably a few other things I can’t remember. I had two eggs over easy with Goldy’s special potatoes, sage pork sausage, and cinnamon raisin walnut toast. Aaron had an omelet with bacon, potatoes, and a pancake. The meal that comes is intimidating, even to seasoned food pros like ourselves. If you really want to clean your plate, begin training with that competitive hot dog eater from Japan, because there is no hope for us mere mortals. While all the food was delicious, the breakfast meats really stole the show. Both the pork sausage and the bacon were perfectly cooked and incredibly flavorful. A few of the online reviewers touted Goldy’s as the greatest breakfast in America. Because we still have a lot of traveling to do, I’m not willing to go that far. Not just yet.
It was amazing how quickly the city of Boise ended and the vast, open hillsides resumed. The landscape was more of the same thing we had already seen in eastern Oregon and western Idaho: vast stretches of agricultural land surrounded by mountains and covered by a massive sky.
After several hours, the landscaped changed abruptly. Suddenly, instead of rolling tan grass land, there was nothing but mounds of coal black gravel as far as the eye could see. It looked like the whole area had been burned, but in fact, this was Craters of the Moon National Monument. When I had seen this name on the map, I expected that we would drive by a large crater. Maybe there was some large crater off the road, but if I had to guess, I would say that it earned this name because it looked like a little piece of outer space landed in Idaho.
Later we passed through Arco, Idaho. From the road, Arco’s most impressive sight is a mountain that rises above the city that has numbers that appear to be the years of graduating classes on it. If this were just a year or two, it would be average graffiti, but the mountain had at least two dozen numbers easily visible from the road, the earliest I could find being 31. It was very memorable show of town history.
A few miles outside of Arco, we saw that traffic, which generally zips along at 75 miles per hour, had come to a complete stop. We were directly behind a cement truck and had no view of what was going on ahead of us. It became clear after a few minutes that we weren’t going anywhere quickly, so we opened the windows, turned off the car, and finished off the cinnamon raisin walnut toast that remained from breakfast. With the car quieted, the vast emptiness of the landscape finally set in. It made me wonder how the pioneers, making around 15 miles a day I think, survived the trek with their any of their sanity remaining. They certainly had no Christian radio (which has been absolutely dominant for the past few days) or digital cameras to entertain them and fewer landmarks to remind them that they were, in fact, making progress. It boggles the mind. Eventually, a white truck with spinning lights and a sign reading “Pilot Car-Follow Me” pulled to the head of the line of cars and lead us through a construction zone. Apparently, creating a detour was just infeasible in an area with so few roads, so they just let traffic build up in one direction and the pilot car lead one group at a time. This seems like a sensible enough solution, but it is a little scary for out-of-towners worried that they might be stranded there forever. In the construction area, they had tarred the road sprinkled a layer of gravel on it. As we got out of the construction zone, the traffic ahead of us began to pick up speed. We began to hear the pieces of gravel hitting the undercarriage of our car and being flicked at us by the cement truck. Inevitably, a large piece eventually popped up and chipped the windshield. Aaron and I smiled and high fived each other. Here’s to getting the insurance.
We pulled over in Idaho Falls to get gas and check for any other damage. We did not see any other places the gravel had dinged the car, but we were truly amazed at the biodiversity that had been splattered across the front of our car, looking like a Jackson Pollock work on the white grill. Some of the bugs that had gone to their great reward were still recognizable as a moth or a grasshopper. Most were just smudges. Out of sick fascination, we decided that we wouldn’t wash the car the entire trip, just to see how bad it got. But we would have to start cleaning off the windshield. Otherwise we might be blinded by the time we hit Iowa.
As we approached the eastern end of Idaho and Yellowstone National Park, Lodgepole Pines returned to the landscape, replacing the farmland. We stopped at Mack’s Inn, a Motel/RV/Cabin/Dinner Theater resort outside of Island Park (population 215. Home to the world’s longest Main Street at 33 miles). Although we passed a sign for the town of Mack’s Inn as we approached Mack’s Inn, it seems like the town does not include anything but the resort. Because the resort was founded over a hundred years ago, it is conceivable that creating the town of Mack’s Inn might have been a brilliant publicity trick to get the resort literally on the map (that’s how I found it). We checked in made our way to our cabin. The cabins in our area were made of logs and painted brick red. On the inside, there was a single room with a queen bed, a coffee table, a small couch, and a fridge, and a bathroom built out of brick that appears to have been added later, but probably not much later. The shower was a metal box that was bolted to the floor but not to any of exterior walls. The toilet had a little strip of paper around the closed seat that reassuringly read “Sanitized.”
After a quick walk around the campus, we went to the Mack’s Inn Dinner Theater. We got there a little early, even for our 6:15 dinner, and found a number of older couples outside and two employees chatting while one casually strummed the banjo. We entered promptly at 6:15 to find western decorated room with 40 place settings on long tables. We were seated across from a young Mormon couple from Pocatello on their honeymoon and a retired couple that lived half the year in Texas and half the year in Yukon, Idaho. We talked and joked through the simple, hearty dinner of prime rib, corn, baked beans, a potato, dinner rolls, and a salad, with ice cream and a cookie for dessert. We told our dinner companions about our cross country trip and how we had driven in from Boise. They groaned about how boring that drive must have been. We nodded in agreement, too embarassed to admit that we had been taking pictures of the landscape the whole time.
After dinner, the young people who had been our servers left the dining room and began the evening’s production of Phantom of the Grand Ole Opry. The story begins as Billy Ray Doofus, a lanky young man in a plaid shirt and a mullet, Winona Jugg, a woman in red corkscrew wig with brilliant blue eyeshadow and a pillow padded bust, and costume mistress Frau Knockwurst, a woman in a black Betty Page wig with an accent that sounded like Boris and Natasha, are preparing for a show in the Opry which has just been bought by Andrew Firim and Raoul Delacourt from New York City. Andrew Firim was a bald man in a suit with an ineffective punch and a British accent and Raoul Delacourt was a clumsy, wildly effeminate character obsessed with his long, silky wig of hair. Realizing that these caricatures were an accurate projection of how the crowd thought of people from the east coast, Aaron and I decided that it would be best not to tell anyone else that we were from Boston. Thank God the rental car has Washington plates. When Winona is threatened by the ghost that lives in the Opry, she is replaced by Christine, a young chorus girl who won first prize (the first season of HeeHaw on Dee-Vee-Dee) in the karaoke contest at the Flying J truckstop in Tupelo. Christine has developed a beautiful country singing voice under the tutelage of the Phantom, whom she knows as the Angel of Music. The Phantom goes insane with jealousy when Christine falls in love with Raoul. Hilarity ensues. The cast was very entertaining, but they were a bit upstaged by a little girl in the second row who shouted out perfectly timed quips that threw both the actors and the audience into the giggles. For example, when Frau Knockwurst, who is desperate for a solo song but cannot carry a tune in a bucket, begins to sing and the rest of the cast cringes. Frau Knockwurst protests “I have been told I have the voice of an angel.” The girl in the audience shouts “You Don’t!” The audience bursts out in laughter and the cast, stifling smiles, struggles to move on. Part of the fun was that the cast did not take the production too seriously. Early in the show, Andrew Firim received a letter from the Phantom. The mysterious letter was delivered by a plastic mechanical arm through a window in the set, accompanied by an announcement “You’ve Got Mail.” When one of the cast members asked why the letter had arrived in such a strange way, the others responded in unison “because here at Mack’s Inn, we put the special in special effects.” After the show ended, Andrew Durant, who played the Phantom and owns the theater along with his wife Julie, sincerely thanked the audience for coming and, as the owner, asked that anyone who was at all unhappy let him know how to make the experience better. He also encouraged anyone who enjoyed the show to tell all their friends about it, so here goes: The Mack’s Inn Dinner Theatre is deliriously silly family fun and a truly unique experience. As the woman from Texas told me at intermission “I betcha don’t see anything like that in Boston.”
The storefront itself is relatively small and easy for the inattentive to miss. Inside, there is a main dining area with a few tables, a counter, the cashier, and the kitchen. We were in the additional tables up the stairs. The menu is massive, but the greatest opportunity for creativity is in the make-your-own combo section. There is a list of meats, potatoes, and breads which can be served with eggs, an omelet, chicken fried steak, a salmon filet and probably a few other things I can’t remember. I had two eggs over easy with Goldy’s special potatoes, sage pork sausage, and cinnamon raisin walnut toast. Aaron had an omelet with bacon, potatoes, and a pancake. The meal that comes is intimidating, even to seasoned food pros like ourselves. If you really want to clean your plate, begin training with that competitive hot dog eater from Japan, because there is no hope for us mere mortals. While all the food was delicious, the breakfast meats really stole the show. Both the pork sausage and the bacon were perfectly cooked and incredibly flavorful. A few of the online reviewers touted Goldy’s as the greatest breakfast in America. Because we still have a lot of traveling to do, I’m not willing to go that far. Not just yet.
It was amazing how quickly the city of Boise ended and the vast, open hillsides resumed. The landscape was more of the same thing we had already seen in eastern Oregon and western Idaho: vast stretches of agricultural land surrounded by mountains and covered by a massive sky.
After several hours, the landscaped changed abruptly. Suddenly, instead of rolling tan grass land, there was nothing but mounds of coal black gravel as far as the eye could see. It looked like the whole area had been burned, but in fact, this was Craters of the Moon National Monument. When I had seen this name on the map, I expected that we would drive by a large crater. Maybe there was some large crater off the road, but if I had to guess, I would say that it earned this name because it looked like a little piece of outer space landed in Idaho.
Later we passed through Arco, Idaho. From the road, Arco’s most impressive sight is a mountain that rises above the city that has numbers that appear to be the years of graduating classes on it. If this were just a year or two, it would be average graffiti, but the mountain had at least two dozen numbers easily visible from the road, the earliest I could find being 31. It was very memorable show of town history.
A few miles outside of Arco, we saw that traffic, which generally zips along at 75 miles per hour, had come to a complete stop. We were directly behind a cement truck and had no view of what was going on ahead of us. It became clear after a few minutes that we weren’t going anywhere quickly, so we opened the windows, turned off the car, and finished off the cinnamon raisin walnut toast that remained from breakfast. With the car quieted, the vast emptiness of the landscape finally set in. It made me wonder how the pioneers, making around 15 miles a day I think, survived the trek with their any of their sanity remaining. They certainly had no Christian radio (which has been absolutely dominant for the past few days) or digital cameras to entertain them and fewer landmarks to remind them that they were, in fact, making progress. It boggles the mind. Eventually, a white truck with spinning lights and a sign reading “Pilot Car-Follow Me” pulled to the head of the line of cars and lead us through a construction zone. Apparently, creating a detour was just infeasible in an area with so few roads, so they just let traffic build up in one direction and the pilot car lead one group at a time. This seems like a sensible enough solution, but it is a little scary for out-of-towners worried that they might be stranded there forever. In the construction area, they had tarred the road sprinkled a layer of gravel on it. As we got out of the construction zone, the traffic ahead of us began to pick up speed. We began to hear the pieces of gravel hitting the undercarriage of our car and being flicked at us by the cement truck. Inevitably, a large piece eventually popped up and chipped the windshield. Aaron and I smiled and high fived each other. Here’s to getting the insurance.
We pulled over in Idaho Falls to get gas and check for any other damage. We did not see any other places the gravel had dinged the car, but we were truly amazed at the biodiversity that had been splattered across the front of our car, looking like a Jackson Pollock work on the white grill. Some of the bugs that had gone to their great reward were still recognizable as a moth or a grasshopper. Most were just smudges. Out of sick fascination, we decided that we wouldn’t wash the car the entire trip, just to see how bad it got. But we would have to start cleaning off the windshield. Otherwise we might be blinded by the time we hit Iowa.
As we approached the eastern end of Idaho and Yellowstone National Park, Lodgepole Pines returned to the landscape, replacing the farmland. We stopped at Mack’s Inn, a Motel/RV/Cabin/Dinner Theater resort outside of Island Park (population 215. Home to the world’s longest Main Street at 33 miles). Although we passed a sign for the town of Mack’s Inn as we approached Mack’s Inn, it seems like the town does not include anything but the resort. Because the resort was founded over a hundred years ago, it is conceivable that creating the town of Mack’s Inn might have been a brilliant publicity trick to get the resort literally on the map (that’s how I found it). We checked in made our way to our cabin. The cabins in our area were made of logs and painted brick red. On the inside, there was a single room with a queen bed, a coffee table, a small couch, and a fridge, and a bathroom built out of brick that appears to have been added later, but probably not much later. The shower was a metal box that was bolted to the floor but not to any of exterior walls. The toilet had a little strip of paper around the closed seat that reassuringly read “Sanitized.”
After a quick walk around the campus, we went to the Mack’s Inn Dinner Theater. We got there a little early, even for our 6:15 dinner, and found a number of older couples outside and two employees chatting while one casually strummed the banjo. We entered promptly at 6:15 to find western decorated room with 40 place settings on long tables. We were seated across from a young Mormon couple from Pocatello on their honeymoon and a retired couple that lived half the year in Texas and half the year in Yukon, Idaho. We talked and joked through the simple, hearty dinner of prime rib, corn, baked beans, a potato, dinner rolls, and a salad, with ice cream and a cookie for dessert. We told our dinner companions about our cross country trip and how we had driven in from Boise. They groaned about how boring that drive must have been. We nodded in agreement, too embarassed to admit that we had been taking pictures of the landscape the whole time.
After dinner, the young people who had been our servers left the dining room and began the evening’s production of Phantom of the Grand Ole Opry. The story begins as Billy Ray Doofus, a lanky young man in a plaid shirt and a mullet, Winona Jugg, a woman in red corkscrew wig with brilliant blue eyeshadow and a pillow padded bust, and costume mistress Frau Knockwurst, a woman in a black Betty Page wig with an accent that sounded like Boris and Natasha, are preparing for a show in the Opry which has just been bought by Andrew Firim and Raoul Delacourt from New York City. Andrew Firim was a bald man in a suit with an ineffective punch and a British accent and Raoul Delacourt was a clumsy, wildly effeminate character obsessed with his long, silky wig of hair. Realizing that these caricatures were an accurate projection of how the crowd thought of people from the east coast, Aaron and I decided that it would be best not to tell anyone else that we were from Boston. Thank God the rental car has Washington plates. When Winona is threatened by the ghost that lives in the Opry, she is replaced by Christine, a young chorus girl who won first prize (the first season of HeeHaw on Dee-Vee-Dee) in the karaoke contest at the Flying J truckstop in Tupelo. Christine has developed a beautiful country singing voice under the tutelage of the Phantom, whom she knows as the Angel of Music. The Phantom goes insane with jealousy when Christine falls in love with Raoul. Hilarity ensues. The cast was very entertaining, but they were a bit upstaged by a little girl in the second row who shouted out perfectly timed quips that threw both the actors and the audience into the giggles. For example, when Frau Knockwurst, who is desperate for a solo song but cannot carry a tune in a bucket, begins to sing and the rest of the cast cringes. Frau Knockwurst protests “I have been told I have the voice of an angel.” The girl in the audience shouts “You Don’t!” The audience bursts out in laughter and the cast, stifling smiles, struggles to move on. Part of the fun was that the cast did not take the production too seriously. Early in the show, Andrew Firim received a letter from the Phantom. The mysterious letter was delivered by a plastic mechanical arm through a window in the set, accompanied by an announcement “You’ve Got Mail.” When one of the cast members asked why the letter had arrived in such a strange way, the others responded in unison “because here at Mack’s Inn, we put the special in special effects.” After the show ended, Andrew Durant, who played the Phantom and owns the theater along with his wife Julie, sincerely thanked the audience for coming and, as the owner, asked that anyone who was at all unhappy let him know how to make the experience better. He also encouraged anyone who enjoyed the show to tell all their friends about it, so here goes: The Mack’s Inn Dinner Theatre is deliriously silly family fun and a truly unique experience. As the woman from Texas told me at intermission “I betcha don’t see anything like that in Boston.”
Day 4: Suttle Lake, Oregon to Boise, Idaho
Day 4: Suttle Lake, Oregon, to Boise, Idaho
Note: Finding any internet at all has proven a challenge, and finding fast enough internet to allow me to upload pictures with any speed is almost impossible. It may be a while before I can publish any more pics. Sorry.
As we packed up our things, we thought of all the people we knew who would thoroughly appreciate the Lodge at Suttle Lake and how, someday, we would have to come back for a longer stay. We walked back down to the Boathouse for breakfast because guests of the resort receive a coupon for a 50% discount on breakfast. As kind of a breakfast appetizer, they brought out a fruit plate for each of us, two pieces of fry bread dusted with powdered sugar, and marionberry jam. I don’t now what exactly marionberries are, but they are very popular around here. I had a breakfast burrito with chicken, chorizo, avocado, egg, and cheese, topped with tomato salsa. Aaron had a bacon, cheese, and mushroom omelet with hashbrowns. It was all very good and plenty of food to avoid stops for the rest of the day.
As we checked out, the clerk talked cordially with us about our stay and gave a small box of snacks as parting gift. Aaron and I looked at each other in amazement and, when got back to the car, wondered aloud “Best Hotel Ever?” We’re not hard to please.
As we left the Deschutes National Forest, the trees thinned and the farmland returned, but you could still see the snowcapped mountains in the distance. As we drove east, the farmland got sparser and sparser, and scrubby plants and small, gnarled trees replaced the meadows and towering pines. Furthermore, all evidence of human life vanished except for some barbed wire fences and a few power lines. All of this under a sky threatening to rain made for an eerie scene. The towns that had been listed on the map were barely more than a few buildings, most of which were closed. The strangest one we saw was Hampton, Oregon, which, at least from Route 20 appeared to be nothing more than an abandoned gas station.
After we got east of Burns, Oregon, the clouds lifted and the landscape became more arid. But for the Malheur River, which followed along the edge of the road, there was almost no evidence of water on large, gravelly mountains on either side of the road. This leg of the journey was marked with minutes of silence as the radio scanner turned over and over in search of a single signal.
As we approached Idaho, the land became dominantly agricultural. Although there were many crops that were familiar to us (mostly corn and wheat), there was one we couldn’t recognize. It was low to the ground and looked like small clumps of grass. After a better look, we saw bulbs coming out of the ground and concluded that these were probably onions. We later came upon a billboard confirming our suspicions. We were in “Onion Country, U.S.A.”
As we got closer to Boise, probably the largest city we had seen since leaving Seattle, the small farm communities of Onion Country gave way to suburban developments indistinguishable from every other suburban community in the country. We made our way into Boise and checked into the J.J. Shaw House Bed and Breakfast. We were warmly greeted by the innkeepers and shown up to Shaw’s Retreat, the attic that had been converted into a suite. The suite was very large, with a king sized bed, a sitting area , and a private bathroom in the back. The room’s décor was Victorian and unapologetically feminine, with bold floral wallpaper and silk flowers hanging from the rafters over the bed. In addition to the plentiful reading material (including numerous National Geographics and an amusing coffee table book entitled “Wedding Bell Blues: 100 Years of Our Great Romance with Marriage”), there was a binder about the Angel Inn Network, a charity effort started by the inn’s owners and managers Junia, Norma, and Serena Stevens (I believe they are mother, daughter, and granddaughter). As a member of the Angel Inn Network, the inn donates a portion of its income to help the poor. The ultimate goal of the network is to establish a website of other Angel Inns to allow travelers to reserve a room at an inn to help the poorest of the poor. The J.J. Shaw House is currently working with Cross International and donates a monthly portion of room revenue to provide young women in Belize with education, clothing, and hot meals. I’ve never seen any program like this, but it is a fantastic idea and I hope it catches on.
For the evening’s entertainment, we went to the Western Idaho State Fair which we had passed on our way into Boise. The fair was every bit what one would expect, acres of land teeming booths, food concessions, neon lit rides, a petting zoo (including the world’s largest hog at 1,000 lbs), and agricultural pavilion for judging and auctioning off livestock. Our first stop was the large ferris wheel which was nice but a little bit tame. The next ride we found was called the Crazy Train. A train of about six trapezoid shaped cars rode along a vertical oval track, flipping end over end. Then the track itself started rotating on a horizontal axis. The whole effect made the spectator think, “oh, no way I’m getting on that,” but then you had no choice but to get on. We climbed up the stairs and piled into the two person car which had a glass front and faced another trapezoid car with two girls. The worker came and swung the creaking top shut and worn padding clamped down on our thighs. This was nothing like the sanitized safety of the wonders of engineering at a large amusement park. Part of the thrill was that lingering thought that the ride might just be as dangerous as it looked. As the train began to climb the tracks upward, the car facing us tilted in toward us and finally landed on our car, bringing us with 8 inches of the noses of our new best friends, the girls in the car facing ours. The ride threw us around the track and against each other for about ninety second (though it felt like much longer). We finally got out jangled, dizzy, and very happy with our $10 investment.
To settle our heads, we went over to the cattle auction. We watched as young members of the local 4-H club lead their dairy cows around a small arena. Although the auctioneer’s melodic ramblings were initially unintelligible, we quickly caught on and learned that most of these animals were being sold for between $3000 and $3500. We thought that perhaps we could find a cheaper souvenir.
After the auction, we watched a comic juggler performing in small pavilion. He started off with small tricks like juggling metal cups and pins. The act naturally progressed to ever more impressive stunts, but what the juggler had not anticipated was as the evening drew on, the wind picked up, making the most difficult tricks even more impressive. For a finale, he juggled a pink flamingo (particularly challenging in the wind), a machete (real? Who knows?) and a black of Spam. As he was juggling these objects he took two hearty bites of the Spam. Anything for a laugh.
Next we toured the food concessions for dinner. Most of what we found was typical carnival fare: sausage sandwiches, elephant ears, French fries, Icees. But we did see a few local items that we had not seen in other carnivals: Basque chorizo, churros, and, most enticing of all, the TaterPig. The Idaho TaterPig is a sausage served within a loaded baked potato. While Aaron stuck with the tried and true German sausage sandwich, I could not leave Boise without trying a TaterPig. It was exactly what you would expect. All the gooey goodness that is generally packed into the poor unsuspecting potato, except you got a prize in the middle. It was absolutely a full meal in itself.
After dinner we toured the winning vegetable entries (the largest cabbage was probably the most impressive) and returned to the J.J. Shaw House for the night.
Note: Finding any internet at all has proven a challenge, and finding fast enough internet to allow me to upload pictures with any speed is almost impossible. It may be a while before I can publish any more pics. Sorry.
As we packed up our things, we thought of all the people we knew who would thoroughly appreciate the Lodge at Suttle Lake and how, someday, we would have to come back for a longer stay. We walked back down to the Boathouse for breakfast because guests of the resort receive a coupon for a 50% discount on breakfast. As kind of a breakfast appetizer, they brought out a fruit plate for each of us, two pieces of fry bread dusted with powdered sugar, and marionberry jam. I don’t now what exactly marionberries are, but they are very popular around here. I had a breakfast burrito with chicken, chorizo, avocado, egg, and cheese, topped with tomato salsa. Aaron had a bacon, cheese, and mushroom omelet with hashbrowns. It was all very good and plenty of food to avoid stops for the rest of the day.
As we checked out, the clerk talked cordially with us about our stay and gave a small box of snacks as parting gift. Aaron and I looked at each other in amazement and, when got back to the car, wondered aloud “Best Hotel Ever?” We’re not hard to please.
As we left the Deschutes National Forest, the trees thinned and the farmland returned, but you could still see the snowcapped mountains in the distance. As we drove east, the farmland got sparser and sparser, and scrubby plants and small, gnarled trees replaced the meadows and towering pines. Furthermore, all evidence of human life vanished except for some barbed wire fences and a few power lines. All of this under a sky threatening to rain made for an eerie scene. The towns that had been listed on the map were barely more than a few buildings, most of which were closed. The strangest one we saw was Hampton, Oregon, which, at least from Route 20 appeared to be nothing more than an abandoned gas station.
After we got east of Burns, Oregon, the clouds lifted and the landscape became more arid. But for the Malheur River, which followed along the edge of the road, there was almost no evidence of water on large, gravelly mountains on either side of the road. This leg of the journey was marked with minutes of silence as the radio scanner turned over and over in search of a single signal.
As we approached Idaho, the land became dominantly agricultural. Although there were many crops that were familiar to us (mostly corn and wheat), there was one we couldn’t recognize. It was low to the ground and looked like small clumps of grass. After a better look, we saw bulbs coming out of the ground and concluded that these were probably onions. We later came upon a billboard confirming our suspicions. We were in “Onion Country, U.S.A.”
As we got closer to Boise, probably the largest city we had seen since leaving Seattle, the small farm communities of Onion Country gave way to suburban developments indistinguishable from every other suburban community in the country. We made our way into Boise and checked into the J.J. Shaw House Bed and Breakfast. We were warmly greeted by the innkeepers and shown up to Shaw’s Retreat, the attic that had been converted into a suite. The suite was very large, with a king sized bed, a sitting area , and a private bathroom in the back. The room’s décor was Victorian and unapologetically feminine, with bold floral wallpaper and silk flowers hanging from the rafters over the bed. In addition to the plentiful reading material (including numerous National Geographics and an amusing coffee table book entitled “Wedding Bell Blues: 100 Years of Our Great Romance with Marriage”), there was a binder about the Angel Inn Network, a charity effort started by the inn’s owners and managers Junia, Norma, and Serena Stevens (I believe they are mother, daughter, and granddaughter). As a member of the Angel Inn Network, the inn donates a portion of its income to help the poor. The ultimate goal of the network is to establish a website of other Angel Inns to allow travelers to reserve a room at an inn to help the poorest of the poor. The J.J. Shaw House is currently working with Cross International and donates a monthly portion of room revenue to provide young women in Belize with education, clothing, and hot meals. I’ve never seen any program like this, but it is a fantastic idea and I hope it catches on.
For the evening’s entertainment, we went to the Western Idaho State Fair which we had passed on our way into Boise. The fair was every bit what one would expect, acres of land teeming booths, food concessions, neon lit rides, a petting zoo (including the world’s largest hog at 1,000 lbs), and agricultural pavilion for judging and auctioning off livestock. Our first stop was the large ferris wheel which was nice but a little bit tame. The next ride we found was called the Crazy Train. A train of about six trapezoid shaped cars rode along a vertical oval track, flipping end over end. Then the track itself started rotating on a horizontal axis. The whole effect made the spectator think, “oh, no way I’m getting on that,” but then you had no choice but to get on. We climbed up the stairs and piled into the two person car which had a glass front and faced another trapezoid car with two girls. The worker came and swung the creaking top shut and worn padding clamped down on our thighs. This was nothing like the sanitized safety of the wonders of engineering at a large amusement park. Part of the thrill was that lingering thought that the ride might just be as dangerous as it looked. As the train began to climb the tracks upward, the car facing us tilted in toward us and finally landed on our car, bringing us with 8 inches of the noses of our new best friends, the girls in the car facing ours. The ride threw us around the track and against each other for about ninety second (though it felt like much longer). We finally got out jangled, dizzy, and very happy with our $10 investment.
To settle our heads, we went over to the cattle auction. We watched as young members of the local 4-H club lead their dairy cows around a small arena. Although the auctioneer’s melodic ramblings were initially unintelligible, we quickly caught on and learned that most of these animals were being sold for between $3000 and $3500. We thought that perhaps we could find a cheaper souvenir.
After the auction, we watched a comic juggler performing in small pavilion. He started off with small tricks like juggling metal cups and pins. The act naturally progressed to ever more impressive stunts, but what the juggler had not anticipated was as the evening drew on, the wind picked up, making the most difficult tricks even more impressive. For a finale, he juggled a pink flamingo (particularly challenging in the wind), a machete (real? Who knows?) and a black of Spam. As he was juggling these objects he took two hearty bites of the Spam. Anything for a laugh.
Next we toured the food concessions for dinner. Most of what we found was typical carnival fare: sausage sandwiches, elephant ears, French fries, Icees. But we did see a few local items that we had not seen in other carnivals: Basque chorizo, churros, and, most enticing of all, the TaterPig. The Idaho TaterPig is a sausage served within a loaded baked potato. While Aaron stuck with the tried and true German sausage sandwich, I could not leave Boise without trying a TaterPig. It was exactly what you would expect. All the gooey goodness that is generally packed into the poor unsuspecting potato, except you got a prize in the middle. It was absolutely a full meal in itself.
After dinner we toured the winning vegetable entries (the largest cabbage was probably the most impressive) and returned to the J.J. Shaw House for the night.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Day 3: Newport, Oregon, to Suttle Lake, Oregon
Day 3, Newport, Oregon to Suttle Lake, Oregon
As soon as I woke up, I immediately dashed to the window to see if the fog from last night had lifted. We had called Newport Tradewinds Deep Sea Fishing the night before to try to schedule a crabbing expedition. Although there was no crabbing boat scheduled, we could reserve a spot on the 1:30 whale watching trip, but it might be cancelled if the visibility was too poor. On seeing that the fog was as dense as ever, I did not expect to see my hand in front of me, much less a whale.
After a very good continental breakfast at the Elizabeth Street Inn consisting of warm scones, hard-boiled eggs, fruit, and rich local strawberry yogurt, we went out in search of wireless internet and a way to bide our time until the afternoon. We eventually found a Starbucks where we could plug in and post our previous entries. At about 1:00, I called Tradewinds and they told me yes, the whale watching trip was on, but we should get moving quickly because parking was very sparse in the Historic Bayfront area. We scrambled to finish our internet projects and hurried out to the car. The Bayfront was easy enough to find, just turn left and keep going down toward the water. It was a small, crowded street lined with fishing expedition companies, seafood restaurants, and souvenir shops. However, by the time I got there, I had completely forgotten the name of the fishing charter I had now called on three separate occasions. I had Aaron drop me off at the first fishing charter company and go off to find a parking space. As I approached the door, I noticed that the sign read “Whale Watching 1:00.” This was not a good sign. I timidly snuck in and told the clerk “We might have a reservation with you. For whale watching?” Seeing me instantly for the helpless tourist I was, she was able to look at the phone number in my cell phone and tell me that company I had called was three blocks up the street. I thanked her, left the shop, and waited for Aaron. I eventually saw him approaching from the direction of the place that actually had our reservation, so I started jogging toward him, holding up my hand, gesturing him to “Stop!” We turned around and, against all odds, made in onto our boat on time.
Our vessel was a small fishing boat. It was clear that this outfit was primarily a fishing company that occasionally took out whale watching tours to get a little extra cash. After a quick orientation by the captain (“If you feel queasy, you can go to this side of the boat, or that side of the boat, or the back of the boat, but, please, not into the cabin. And that rule about don’t spit into the wind, it applies here, too.), we left the dock and set out towards the end of the jetties. We saw a substantial amount of wildlife before we reached the open sea, a huge variety of pelicans and other sea birds and the head of a sea lion. As we reached the tip of the jetty, we stood against the railing of the boat, eagerly scanning the surface of the water for a plume or a fin. The water was very choppy and in the small boat, the motion was dramatic. Aaron and I sat down on the bench on the deck and continued to look for signs of life. And the motion of the boat continued. Up and down, back and forth. The silvery gray water flecked with slate waves began to play tricks on our hopeful eyes. Every wave, bird, and buoy began to look like the back of a whale. The constant rocking and the dim, unchanging surroundings made us both a little sick but mostly sleepy. After about an hour of staring out into the nothing, something caught my eye. A small black hump broke the surface of the water and then disappeared. I sat up straight and strained to see it again, when both Aaron and I saw it come up a second time, we stood up and pointed and uttered something like “Whale… out… there.” The boat came to a halt and the other passengers crowded to the edge. After a few seconds of nothing, I grumbled that the stupid thing would make a liar out of me. And sure enough, no one saw the phantom bump in the water again. Aaron and I talked about what it might have been: a wave, the head of a sea lion, a diving bird, maybe a shoe. It certainly could have been any one of those things, but that doesn’t really make for a very good story. We decided that it was most likely a sea monster. That’s the story, and we’re sticking to it.
To get back into the bay, we had to move directly against the wind. While it had been cool the entire trip, it suddenly became cold. Very cold. We huddled together for warmth, but to no avail. The end of the jetty was a very welcome sight. The winds and the swells calmed. Aaron sat up and declared “I am not of seafaring stock.”
At the beginning of the boat tour, I saw one of the other passengers with a bowl of clam chowder. By the time we got back to the dock, nothing in the world sounded as wonderful as a hot bowl of chowder. We walked up to street level and went into Mo’s, the seafood restaurant next door. The sign on the door described Mo, the restaurant’s founder, as “a crusty, chain smoking, big-hearted town mother” who passed away in 1992. We went inside and asked the woman at the counter whether we could get some chowder to go. She pointed to the three sizes against the wall: the cup, the bowl, and the family size. I debated aloud whether I should get the cup or the bowl, and she said “if you get the cup, you’ll be coming back.” Aaron and I got two bowls. She added “would you like it with a scoop of bay shrimp over the top? It’s to die for.” Of course, we agreed. We took our warm plastic containers of creamy seafood goodness back up the hill to our car and settled in for lunch. The New England style chowder was, in fact, to die for. The tiny shrimp were incredibly tender and flavorful and the soup was dense, filled with potatoes, bacon, and clams. It revived us, and gave us the energy to finally start driving east on Route 20.
Route 20 begins at a very average intersection with Route 101 in Newport, but after less than five miles, it is quickly enveloped by thick, misty coastal rainforests. It remains dark and damp as you climb through the Cascade Mountains, and then, just as you get past the first large ridge, the clouds break and the sun comes out. Seeing the sun after two days in Newport is a tremendous relief because by then I had begun to wonder whether it had died and the report had simply failed to make the news. Once we came into the sun, the landscape changed dramatically. Although there were still towering mountains in the background, vast rolling farmland dotted with small towns made up the foreground.
This lasted until we reached the Willamette National Forest. The forest is composed of steep mountains blanketed in acres of towering evergreen trees. As you open your window, the sharp fresh scent of a pine forest pours in, refreshing but almost overwhelming. The road weaved through these forests for miles, teasing us with spectacular views that were gone too quickly to capture in a photo. About 30 miles west of Sisters, Oregon, we came upon a starkly different landscape: acres of forests that had been burned to almost nothing. It was hard to tell whether this had been a natural fire or a controlled burn, but either way, the results were dramatic.
Around seven o’ clock, we arrived at the Lodge at Suttle Lake. The resort has a large main building surrounded by a dozen small cabins and one teepee (not really culturally accurate, but still looked like a fun place to spend the night). We entered the main lodge through a massive wooden door, carved with images of Native Americans and local wildlife. The interior of the lodge was impressive, but still very inviting. We approached a small desk near the entrance to claim our reservations. The two clerks talked amongst themselves, flipping through folders. On finding our reservation, one looked to the other and said “Running Water?” The other nodded. Thinking this referred to an amenity of the room, we were very pleased because we were not prepared to stay anywhere without running water. It turned out that “Running Water” was actually the name of the room. Thinking back, I’m sure all the rooms had running water.
After checking into the room, we left to take in some quick sightseeing before dinner. The location of the resort is serenity itself, perched on a small lake surrounded by the massive evergreen trees that looked even more spectacular in person than they had from the road. Our trip was cut short by sudden wind and lightning, so headed to the Boathouse, the resort restaurant, for dinner.
The Boathouse is not very large and reservations are recommended. However, the meal is well worth the effort. I started with a mixed green salad with chili roasted walnuts, dried cranberries, apple slices, and a few crumbles of some very tasty bleu cheese. Aaron had a beef and vegetable soup. For entrees, I had a roasted Wild Alaskan salmon with melon salsa, basmati rice, and summer squash. The salsa and the sides were very good, but the fish itself was the real star. It had a tender, buttery consistency and a delicate flavor. Aaron ordered a scallop, shrimp, and crab tortellini in a dill and harvarti cheese sauce. Initially, they made a mistake and brought out the vegetarian lasagna, which looked very good, but was not very carnivore friendly. When the pasta eventually came out it was excellent. For dessert, we split a berry mousse. Very satisfied, we made the long (not really all that long) walk back to Running Water and quickly fell asleep.
As soon as we arrived at Suttle Lake, we knew that the 14 hours we would be spending here were woefully insufficient. One of the downsides to a vacation like this is that we never feel like we have time enough to see everything we want to see. Making this trip with time to savor every small town and linger in the best places might take months or even years. Still, there is always the promise of the next day’s adventures to move us eastward.
Links
Newport Tradewinds Deep Sea Fishing
http://www.newporttradewinds.com/
Mo's Chowder
www.moschowder.com
Willamette National Forest
http://www.fs.fed.us/r6/willamette/
The Lodge at Suttle Lake
http://www.thelodgeatsuttlelake.com/
As soon as I woke up, I immediately dashed to the window to see if the fog from last night had lifted. We had called Newport Tradewinds Deep Sea Fishing the night before to try to schedule a crabbing expedition. Although there was no crabbing boat scheduled, we could reserve a spot on the 1:30 whale watching trip, but it might be cancelled if the visibility was too poor. On seeing that the fog was as dense as ever, I did not expect to see my hand in front of me, much less a whale.
After a very good continental breakfast at the Elizabeth Street Inn consisting of warm scones, hard-boiled eggs, fruit, and rich local strawberry yogurt, we went out in search of wireless internet and a way to bide our time until the afternoon. We eventually found a Starbucks where we could plug in and post our previous entries. At about 1:00, I called Tradewinds and they told me yes, the whale watching trip was on, but we should get moving quickly because parking was very sparse in the Historic Bayfront area. We scrambled to finish our internet projects and hurried out to the car. The Bayfront was easy enough to find, just turn left and keep going down toward the water. It was a small, crowded street lined with fishing expedition companies, seafood restaurants, and souvenir shops. However, by the time I got there, I had completely forgotten the name of the fishing charter I had now called on three separate occasions. I had Aaron drop me off at the first fishing charter company and go off to find a parking space. As I approached the door, I noticed that the sign read “Whale Watching 1:00.” This was not a good sign. I timidly snuck in and told the clerk “We might have a reservation with you. For whale watching?” Seeing me instantly for the helpless tourist I was, she was able to look at the phone number in my cell phone and tell me that company I had called was three blocks up the street. I thanked her, left the shop, and waited for Aaron. I eventually saw him approaching from the direction of the place that actually had our reservation, so I started jogging toward him, holding up my hand, gesturing him to “Stop!” We turned around and, against all odds, made in onto our boat on time.
Our vessel was a small fishing boat. It was clear that this outfit was primarily a fishing company that occasionally took out whale watching tours to get a little extra cash. After a quick orientation by the captain (“If you feel queasy, you can go to this side of the boat, or that side of the boat, or the back of the boat, but, please, not into the cabin. And that rule about don’t spit into the wind, it applies here, too.), we left the dock and set out towards the end of the jetties. We saw a substantial amount of wildlife before we reached the open sea, a huge variety of pelicans and other sea birds and the head of a sea lion. As we reached the tip of the jetty, we stood against the railing of the boat, eagerly scanning the surface of the water for a plume or a fin. The water was very choppy and in the small boat, the motion was dramatic. Aaron and I sat down on the bench on the deck and continued to look for signs of life. And the motion of the boat continued. Up and down, back and forth. The silvery gray water flecked with slate waves began to play tricks on our hopeful eyes. Every wave, bird, and buoy began to look like the back of a whale. The constant rocking and the dim, unchanging surroundings made us both a little sick but mostly sleepy. After about an hour of staring out into the nothing, something caught my eye. A small black hump broke the surface of the water and then disappeared. I sat up straight and strained to see it again, when both Aaron and I saw it come up a second time, we stood up and pointed and uttered something like “Whale… out… there.” The boat came to a halt and the other passengers crowded to the edge. After a few seconds of nothing, I grumbled that the stupid thing would make a liar out of me. And sure enough, no one saw the phantom bump in the water again. Aaron and I talked about what it might have been: a wave, the head of a sea lion, a diving bird, maybe a shoe. It certainly could have been any one of those things, but that doesn’t really make for a very good story. We decided that it was most likely a sea monster. That’s the story, and we’re sticking to it.
To get back into the bay, we had to move directly against the wind. While it had been cool the entire trip, it suddenly became cold. Very cold. We huddled together for warmth, but to no avail. The end of the jetty was a very welcome sight. The winds and the swells calmed. Aaron sat up and declared “I am not of seafaring stock.”
At the beginning of the boat tour, I saw one of the other passengers with a bowl of clam chowder. By the time we got back to the dock, nothing in the world sounded as wonderful as a hot bowl of chowder. We walked up to street level and went into Mo’s, the seafood restaurant next door. The sign on the door described Mo, the restaurant’s founder, as “a crusty, chain smoking, big-hearted town mother” who passed away in 1992. We went inside and asked the woman at the counter whether we could get some chowder to go. She pointed to the three sizes against the wall: the cup, the bowl, and the family size. I debated aloud whether I should get the cup or the bowl, and she said “if you get the cup, you’ll be coming back.” Aaron and I got two bowls. She added “would you like it with a scoop of bay shrimp over the top? It’s to die for.” Of course, we agreed. We took our warm plastic containers of creamy seafood goodness back up the hill to our car and settled in for lunch. The New England style chowder was, in fact, to die for. The tiny shrimp were incredibly tender and flavorful and the soup was dense, filled with potatoes, bacon, and clams. It revived us, and gave us the energy to finally start driving east on Route 20.
Route 20 begins at a very average intersection with Route 101 in Newport, but after less than five miles, it is quickly enveloped by thick, misty coastal rainforests. It remains dark and damp as you climb through the Cascade Mountains, and then, just as you get past the first large ridge, the clouds break and the sun comes out. Seeing the sun after two days in Newport is a tremendous relief because by then I had begun to wonder whether it had died and the report had simply failed to make the news. Once we came into the sun, the landscape changed dramatically. Although there were still towering mountains in the background, vast rolling farmland dotted with small towns made up the foreground.
This lasted until we reached the Willamette National Forest. The forest is composed of steep mountains blanketed in acres of towering evergreen trees. As you open your window, the sharp fresh scent of a pine forest pours in, refreshing but almost overwhelming. The road weaved through these forests for miles, teasing us with spectacular views that were gone too quickly to capture in a photo. About 30 miles west of Sisters, Oregon, we came upon a starkly different landscape: acres of forests that had been burned to almost nothing. It was hard to tell whether this had been a natural fire or a controlled burn, but either way, the results were dramatic.
Around seven o’ clock, we arrived at the Lodge at Suttle Lake. The resort has a large main building surrounded by a dozen small cabins and one teepee (not really culturally accurate, but still looked like a fun place to spend the night). We entered the main lodge through a massive wooden door, carved with images of Native Americans and local wildlife. The interior of the lodge was impressive, but still very inviting. We approached a small desk near the entrance to claim our reservations. The two clerks talked amongst themselves, flipping through folders. On finding our reservation, one looked to the other and said “Running Water?” The other nodded. Thinking this referred to an amenity of the room, we were very pleased because we were not prepared to stay anywhere without running water. It turned out that “Running Water” was actually the name of the room. Thinking back, I’m sure all the rooms had running water.
After checking into the room, we left to take in some quick sightseeing before dinner. The location of the resort is serenity itself, perched on a small lake surrounded by the massive evergreen trees that looked even more spectacular in person than they had from the road. Our trip was cut short by sudden wind and lightning, so headed to the Boathouse, the resort restaurant, for dinner.
The Boathouse is not very large and reservations are recommended. However, the meal is well worth the effort. I started with a mixed green salad with chili roasted walnuts, dried cranberries, apple slices, and a few crumbles of some very tasty bleu cheese. Aaron had a beef and vegetable soup. For entrees, I had a roasted Wild Alaskan salmon with melon salsa, basmati rice, and summer squash. The salsa and the sides were very good, but the fish itself was the real star. It had a tender, buttery consistency and a delicate flavor. Aaron ordered a scallop, shrimp, and crab tortellini in a dill and harvarti cheese sauce. Initially, they made a mistake and brought out the vegetarian lasagna, which looked very good, but was not very carnivore friendly. When the pasta eventually came out it was excellent. For dessert, we split a berry mousse. Very satisfied, we made the long (not really all that long) walk back to Running Water and quickly fell asleep.
As soon as we arrived at Suttle Lake, we knew that the 14 hours we would be spending here were woefully insufficient. One of the downsides to a vacation like this is that we never feel like we have time enough to see everything we want to see. Making this trip with time to savor every small town and linger in the best places might take months or even years. Still, there is always the promise of the next day’s adventures to move us eastward.
Links
Newport Tradewinds Deep Sea Fishing
http://www.newporttradewinds.com/
Mo's Chowder
www.moschowder.com
Willamette National Forest
http://www.fs.fed.us/r6/willamette/
The Lodge at Suttle Lake
http://www.thelodgeatsuttlelake.com/
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