Month: September 2022 (Page 1 of 3)

I would love to use today’s post to detail the delightfully gruff port town of Astoria, or my visit to the point where Lewis and Clark met the Pacific, or my disappointment with Portland. I had a really great bit planned where I was going to write in an early nineteenth century style. Alas, fair readers, you will never see such writing, because my anger has been stoked. Oregon has a draconian law that I once knew, then forgot a few years back. It was not until I arrived at the gas station and saw a throng of mustachioed attendants that I remembered: in Oregon, you are not allowed to pump your own gas. 

I find this insulting to my dignity as a human being. Imagine the sheer myopia required to think that pumping gas, of all the facets of driving, is the dangerous part. We, as motorists, regularly drive at life-snuffing speeds on poorly maintained roads, distracted by garish advertisements and audio stimuli, eating and drinking as we please, in cars with active safety recalls and substandard maintenance. This is all legal. The world is fine with people putting themselves and others in extreme, mortal danger on the roads. This is accepted as the price we must pay to drive. But Lord have mercy on my soul if I pump gas into my immobile car. I guess I must have missed all the craters that came from people blowing themselves up at self-serve kiosks. 

Let’s break down Oregon’s reasoning for keeping this law on the books. Number one: safety. Again, once I get home, I will keep my eyes peeled for the folks unwittingly dousing themselves in gas and promptly self-immolating. Number two: the state is afraid that older people would be confused. Look. All due respect to our elderly contingent here on the blog—lovely people, all—but if you cannot figure out how to use the gas kiosk, you should not be driving. This is, in fact, an excellent barometer of determining who still has the cognitive faculty to drive. Good Lord.

Third and final reason: full-service gas stations provide jobs. My response here is twofold. The first half is that, in an ideal society, automation is a good thing. It keeps people from dithering about in mind-numbing jobs (and, to be clear, these guys at the pumps were not enjoying their work), and allows us to pursue more high-minded things like art, travel, spiritual discovery, etc. I do not have the space in this post to explore why this is not the case in our society, why we cling to labor as a definition of self, and why we prop up a capitalist oligarchy Weekend at Bernie’s—style. Instead, I will lean upon my second argument, which is that letting me use the gas nozzle will not eliminate full-service stations. They will still exist! They will survive! My beloved mother can tell you the locations of the full-service stations in New Hampshire, which have not been squashed by self-serve competition. And, just to clarify, there is nothing wrong with full-service stations. I do not think you’re a bad person if you like the convenience offered by these establishments. My quarrel is not with the industry, but with the law. Oregon, stop treating me like a child and give me the freaking pump, so that I don’t have to pay $5.50 a gallon out here. What a concept. I can vape myself to cancer and popcorn lung if I so choose, but woe unto he who squeezes the gas pump, lest some trickle out upon his shoe.

I did find a solution. Oregon’s most rural counties can’t staff their stations (no one wants to work anymore, including me), so if I stay in the eastern part of the state, I can still hold onto a shred of self-respect. I was going to drive down the coast, but no longer. I’m staying in the middle of nowhere, where I can stew in silence. Okay. Going to bed before I give myself a stroke. Good night.

The forests on the Olympic Peninsula are, in a word, dense. Light barely creeps through the conifers to the ground, ferns and shrubs create an impenetrable layer of undergrowth, and in some places, the trees bend over the road and create a natural tunnel. As I drove through these woods back to the main road, my phone dinged. I had received a text alerting me that I had arrived in Canada. Not quite, GPS. International rates will not apply.

A leisurely morning of driving brought me to Forks, Washington. I think this is where the vampires lived in Twilight—couldn’t tell you for sure, that’s not my scene. I did not see any supernatural events, nor did I go to the Twilight Forever Museum, but I did get a pretty good, reasonably priced burger at the drive-in. A welcome start to my return to the road.

Just down the road, I spent an enchanting few hours in the Hoh Rainforest, which receives 140 inches of rain every year. The trees are coated with mosses and lichens, and I finally caught a glimpse of a few banana slugs, which have one lung and 27,000 teeth. The density of the woods continues here. The only space available on the forest floor for new tree growth is on top of other, fallen trees called nurselogs. Even after the nurselogs rot away, the roots remain elevated and visible, giving the giant, centuries-old trees even more character.

I continued south again, taking a beautiful detour to Ruby Beach, where rock spires explode from the surf and tree trunks are tossed about as driftwood. I followed US-101 to Aberdeen, where I initially planned to stay the night. Unfortunately, it’s a bit skeevy, so I’m forging onward to a new location. Tomorrow I’ll break into Oregon.

Hi, everyone! I’m feeling just a bit rundown and dog-eared today, so I’m not writing a standard post. Instead, I’m taking the day to read and watch Netflix and play dumb games with little frogs on my iPad, without worrying about moving or doing. Tomorrow should see a return to our regularly scheduled programming.

One of my main goals with this trip has been to visit places that are remote, secluded, and tucked away. Not necessarily places I wouldn’t want to visit, but rather the harder-to-reach locations. I plan on spending some time in Seattle later on in life, so even though I passed through the city today, I didn’t feel a need to go to the Space Needle or A Sound Garden or the Hendrix memorial. What I did need to do on the outskirts of Seattle was celebrate that landmark of American television, Twin Peaks. Allow me to indulge myself for a paragraph.

The “Welcome to Twin Peaks” sign? Gone, but the area still delivers views of the towering Cascades. The waterfall beside the Great Northern in the title sequence? Snoqualmie Falls is a slightly overdeveloped park with a wonderful hiking trail. The Double R? Actually Twede’s Diner, which served a pretty good breakfast along with an okay cup of coffee. My morning tour was silly and a bit sophomoric, but it made me happy. And what is this trip if not a gigantic period of wish fulfillment?

Another trip to the laundromat, and I was off to the Washington Ferry station, located right in downtown Seattle along the Puget Sound. The justifiably grumpy workers guided me into a long grid of cars; after a solid half hour of waiting, we boarded the ferry. I toured the parking lot and the passenger deck during the thirty-five-minute crossing. Some people lounged in booths reading; some people slept in their cars; others just sat in the driver’s seat. This was a commute, and very few people were out on the observation decks watching the journey.

I’m holed up in the surprisingly normal-feeling islands west of Seattle tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll check out Olympic National Park and maybe, finally, see some rain in Washington.

Not every day on the road can be filled with adventure. Today was, due to energy and circumstance, quite tame. I woke up with the sun and finished the drive to Mount Rainier, intending to spend some time in the nearby hamlet of Paradise. The desert had ceded to thick, looming forests by the time I arrived at the park’s southeastern border. I took the turn westward toward Paradise and almost ran into the sign: ROAD CONSTRUCTION. NO THRU TRAFFIC MON—THURS. I trudged north to the next-best option, the Sunrise region. I pulled into the visitor center ready to refill my water jug and head out on a day hike—and, of course, the visitor center had closed for the season. Without sufficient water for the backcountry, I resigned myself to the safety of the nature trail.

Mount Rainier is the most “topographically prominent” mountain in the Lower Forty-Eight, which means that while it’s not the highest in elevation, it is the tallest from bottom to top. It’s considered one of the sixteen or so most dangerous volcanoes in the world; due to the glacial ice on its peak, it would likely produce giant muddy cascades called lahars during an eruption. Lastly, it is incredibly beautiful. I caught it on a good day, with no localized weather clouding my view.

I traded my initial plans for some pragmatic activities. I found a fountain to refill my water jug, and went sock shopping. I watched them with the tenacity of an overcaffeinated parent last time I did laundry, but at least two pairs somehow escaped and ran off to Sock Utopia in the vents. It has been helpful, though, to take my foot off the literal and proverbial gas pedal. I’m still figuring out the ideal balance of exploration and self-care. Tomorrow’s journey, luckily will be both—and it’s THEMED!

Away from Idaho and into Washington. I drove from Coeur d’Aline to the neighboring city of Spokane in search of breakfast and an oil change. Spokane is a rugged town, gritty and dirty but not dreary. The Food Bible continued its hot streak by directing me to Frank’s Diner, a derailed dining car in the middle of town. Servers and short-order cooks worked back-to-back beside the counter, a model of pleasant efficiency. Ever the ascetic, I limited myself to fried green tomatoes in Creole hollandaise with eggs over easy, hash browns, and a grilled biscuit. Onions and gravy were served on the side. The prices were back up to normal, but the food was worth it.

I drove southwest, passing through carefully sculpted hills and fields, and found myself in… another desert. Interrobang. As the temperature sneered its way into the mid-eighties, I frantically Googled Washington’s geography to make sure I hadn’t teleported back to Colorado. It turns out that this part of Washington State, the Colombia Plateau, is situated between the Cascade and Rocky Mountain ranges, sucking up all the precipitation. If that didn’t melt your brain, this mind-boggling Wikipedia article about ecological zoning certainly will:

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_ecoregions_in_the_United_States_(EPA)

I refilled my water bottle and forged westward, passing the first American plutonium refinery and stopping in Yakima. I rested for a couple of hours at a palatial coffee shop that also sold gelato and trading cards. Now I prepare for my last leg of today’s travel, aiming for the base of Mount Rainier. 

Another day of food! My heart is happy and my stomach is full as I write this. I left Sandpoint for the lakeside city of Coeur d’Alene, French for “Heart of an Awl”. The city shares its name with the Native American tribe that has a reservation to the south. I speared through CDA on US-95 and pulled over at Jimmys Down the Street (again, no apostrophe). The decor was 50s retro, with license plates wallpapering the place. I scanned the menu thoroughly and made my selection, but just as I was ordering, the pecan rolls caught my eye. Mon dieu. They were the size of my head, and only six dollars. I got one with a side of hash browns. It was tasty, if not transcendent, and so filling that I struggled to save face and finish two thirds.

I drove down to the river and joined plenty of locals in some mid-morning exercise. My stroll took me by a modern, geometric neighborhood—a creative condo development. I was surprised to see it in an area that was, to my eyes, content in its tradition. I suspected that these weren’t meant for the locals. A quick trip to Zillow backed up my thesis. A one-bedroom condo was renting for $3,600 a month. I assure you that these are vacation pads for Seattlers and Vancouverites, which is a shame. On a gorgeous September day, all the boats were still docked, their owners back home.

I drove downtown. I have found that every single town west of New York has a self-described Historic Downtown; I’m sure Europe is cackling. I don’t know how historic Coeur d’Alene is, but it is pretty and filled with a comforting energy. It reminds me of a less twisty, more spacious Portsmouth. 

After driving and walking through the streets, I arrived at Hudson’s Hamburgers. The Food Bible lists this as one of the very best cheap restaurants in the country. The menu is simple: hamburger or cheeseburger, single or double, optional pickles and onions. No fries. Three homemade condiments on the counter (two ketchups and a mustard). I put the horseradish mustard and the Secret Ketchup on my cheeseburger and munched. Pretty good. I spent fifteen minutes and five dollars at Hudson’s counter, but I spent a lot longer just thinking about that burger. I couldn’t get it out of my head. Why? It wasn’t the best burger I’ve ever had. I think it’s because this was the archetypal Hamburger Counter, pre-McDonalds era. I partook in this ritual as did my forefathers a century ago. Maybe it was the best burger I ever had.

I’m parked in a terrible spot tonight. It’s smelly and riddled with trash, but I tried some other spots and the roads weren’t nearly as good. I’ll keep the windows closed and roll on to Washington tomorrow.

Today is the first half of my Culinary Tour through the Idaho Panhandle. As previously mentioned, the Food Bible speaks highly of this part of the country. First stop: the Hoot Owl Cafe, a small, homey building off the highway. I accidentally parked in a spot with a sign reading “Reserved for Papa Kohal”; I hurriedly backed into another space and walked in.

The cafe was pleasantly crowded, with some space at the bar. I sat down and ordered one of the specials, the Redneck Benedict, and was presented with two biscuits, fried eggs, sausage patties, and a gargantuan portion of sausage gravy. Deliciously dense. The waitress at the counter chatted with the regulars. The topic of the day was the disrespect that visitors show to the land. As I was wearing my Red Sox sweatshirt, I had to defend the New Englander’s honor and asserted that we did not, in fact, litter and ride our dirt bikes at all hours of the night. Everyone agreed that it must be those Montanan yahoos. I liked the Hoot Owl Cafe.

I felt fairly soggy from such a large breakfast, so I decided to walk it off at the nearby lakeshore park. Nominally, it’s for humans, but the real owners of this place are the ducks, the gulls, and especially the geese that flap about menacingly. In a country filled with grizzlies, rattlesnakes, and Buffalo Bills fans, I fear the goose the most. They terrorized Comm Ave when I was at BU.

I tried my luck again at the Pie Hut, in the heart of Sandpoint’s charming downtown. The booths are all different colors, and are tended by the world’s most chipper waitress. One of the many lunch specials was a half sandwich, a cup of soup, and a slice of pie for ten dollars. All the portions were generous and excellent. I decided on strawberry rhubarb pie as it was the healthiest (both fruit and vegetables in it). The Panhandle has top-tier cooks coming out of the woodwork.

Finally, at my parents’ recommendation, I sat down for an almost-private matinee screening of See How They Run, starring Sam Rockwell, Saoirse Ronan, and the Agatha Christie play The Mousetrap. It’s a fairly well-crafted piece, although I would say that Knives Out is superior in most regards. I was disappointed in the third act’s content, and while I appreciated the movie’s self-referential nature, I thought they could have done even more to embrace The Mousetrap’s DNA. When I write the remake in forty years, I’ll use the ending I whipped up in my head.

I have not yet eaten enough of Idaho’s cuisine. Tomorrow, I pilgrimage to Couer d’Alene and see how many restaurants I can hit in a day.

This morning, the weather announced that I was officially out of the rain shadow of the Rockies. It poured and poured and poured. Not a good day for exploring Glacier, or for exploring Whitefish, or for photos. Instead, I slept in and left my sleeping bag at the princely hour of ten in the morning. Off to town, where I shopped for groceries and got a haircut. I don’t know where Great Clips finds their stylists, but they are consistently excellent choppers. Thanks, Brenda.

I also spent some time admiring the license plates. Montana has over 280 plate options, and most are absolutely gorgeous, especially the painted nature scenes. When my stomach started to rumble, I swung by the Wich Haus for lunch, and was greeted by a line stretching through a modest dining room. Polka music streamed from the speakers as I waited for my meal. The dining room was crammed, so I took my smoked chicken sandwich and potato salad to the car. Absolutely phenomenal. Everyone should put capers in their potato salad. Whitefish, Montana: the new food capital of the country.

Alas! It was time to move on. I slogged through the rain as I drove west on US-2 through Marion and Libby. The towns became more rundown, and the Montana tradition of combining gas stations and casinos continues. Eventually, the rain let up, and the road started following a railroad track and a clear, bruising river. I found a place to park and hiked down the slope and across the tracks. Clambering out onto a steep rock face, I found myself alone appreciating the wild grace of Kootenai Falls.

I kept on going until I crossed into the Idaho Panhandle, stopping for the night in the town of Bonners Ferry. This town feels right to me. People seem quietly happy. It’s unpretentious and clean. I think I’m going to like this part of the world.

Browning is an interesting town. It’s not especially well-off financially, and dogs roam everywhere—I’m not sure if they’re strays or if their owners have very long leashes—but there’s a tremendous sense of place here. The Blackfeet Nation publicly displays art, tradition, and confidence. They also have an incredible deal at the grocery store where, at the end of the night, they package up huge plates of leftover hot food and sell them for five dollars. I eschewed the creamed corn and those terrible stewed apples with burn cinnamon for the appetizer sampler: popcorn chicken, jalapeño poppers, mozzarella sticks, egg rolls, and a bean burrito. I ate half for dinner, prayed that my arteries wouldn’t ossify overnight, and allowed the rest to refrigerate in the frosty interior of my car. Easy breakfast.

Today’s trip was to Glacier National Park. First, I’ll touch on the scenery. It is not as interactive or as varied as Yellowstone, nor as intricate as Meow Wolf, but the eastern half of the park features the most dramatic, constant, and enchanting Mountains-And-Lakes that I have experienced so far. The mountains tower. The lakes sparkle. It is a place to walk, to bask, and to linger. Crowds were manageable. I enjoyed my hike to Hidden Lake, but equally enjoyed sitting at Two Medicine Lake and reading on a pullout of the beautifully named Going-to-the-Sun Road.

The other side of Glacier is its history. For centuries, this land was used by and had spiritual significance for the Blackfeet, Kootenai, Salish, and Pend d’Oreille peoples. Glacier was originally included as part of the Blackfeet Reservation, but was purchased in 1895. Many details of this deal were murky. Some Blackfeet believed that the sale was a 99-year lease; others, that the sale was solely of the mountains above the timber line for mining purposes. The deal that showed up in Washington detailed a full sale. 

Some quotes from the exhibits inside the visitor center, created in collaboration with native tribes:

“The Kootenai recognize the irony of the Going-to-the-Sun Road. It is a huge scar on the landscape that cuts right through the heart of Glacier. But without it there would be fewer visitors and less support for keeping Glacier National Park pristine.”

“The Blackfeet recognize the various ways in which people with different cultures, practices, and beliefs assign significance to the same piece of land.

The landscape of Glacier is the source of our oldest and most venerated ceremony, the Beaver Bundle. The inception of the national park concept preserved the landscape, but excluded Blackfeet cultural and spiritual practices. The Blackfeet still retain hope to use the park area, maybe through future cooperative agreements.”

I planned to return to the west side of Glacier for a second day, but as I was leaving the park, the road turned absolutely horrid. The Corolla wept. I began to doubt if I should come back, a thought I kept pondering as I drove to the absolutely stunning town of Whitefish for dinner. This is what modernity and tradition combined should look like. Clouds spotted the violet sky as I walked into the Buffalo Café. The layout is reminiscent of a 99, but cleaner. The music grooved. A tastefully conceived picture of Snowboarder Jesus hung on the wall next to me. A couple came in with a small child, and the staff brought out a bin of toys. My burger was huge and delicious. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll explore Whitefish instead