By
Susan Wilson
Guest
Columnist
Oak
Bluffs, MA, USA
Six thousand miles, 22
states, many great meals, some less than great; amazing scenery and long
stretches of less than amazing scenery. My husband, David, and I set off from
Woods Hole (we never count the boat trip from the Vineyard) on July 31st
and made our way out West in the best tradition of cross-country adventure. Of
course, my idea of adventure is spotting a novel roadside attraction. That and
arriving safely at our accommodations before dark, and not having to track down
a good restaurant.
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| Susan and David Wilson at Lanes Motor Museum, Nashville, Tennessee |
Rough experience had
taught us that knowing where one is going to lay one’s head down at night is a
prerequisite to a successful trip. On our first trip across country, we naively
thought that we’d just get off the highway and get a room at a good hotel
chain. We dawdled in Niagara Falls, then got back on 90 West heading to Erie,
PA, pulled off at a large, well-lit chain hotel and, guess what, no room. The
semi-helpful desk clerk called around the area but there was literally not a
room available for a hundred-mile radius. What the dickens could have been
going on in Erie, PA, that had all the rooms booked?
Okay, this is where road
trips become interesting. We were told, and have no reason not to believe, that
there was a twins’ convention being held in the vicinity. A very popular twins’
convention. Who knew? Now, mind you, this is years before phones were
information appliances. I sat in the passenger seat while David kept driving,
making phone call after phone call from a list the semi-helpful desk clerk had
given me. What I ended up with was a half-star chain motel in Warrensville
Heights, Ohio, with one room left. A hundred bucks for the night. It was
already past eleven. We had been driving for ten hours and I just wanted to lay
my head down. Until I walked into the place. When your desk clerk is behind
bullet proof glass, it gives you pause. The fact that the clientele handing
around outside the building in the middle of the night seemed a little, how
should I put it diplomatically, umm, sleezy, also gave us pause. Nonetheless,
the idea of sleeping in the car at a rest stop seemed worse. Until we got into
the room.
Threadbare doesn’t even begin to describe the place with its ripped-out
microwave and missing hair dryer. Towels so thin you could see through them if
you had the temerity to actually use the shower. In believing that laying on
top of the bed and using the aforementioned thin towels as covers would be
better than getting between the see-through sheets, that’s what we did. I’ve
since learned the nastiest place on a motel room bed is on top of the covers.
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| Grand Canyon rim |
This most recent trip,
our third cross-country, and I was armed with the Best Western app and we
planned our accommodations from our first night in Wilmington, Delaware to Santa
Fe (where we broke away from Best Western and plumped for two nights in the
venerable St. Francis Hotel in the old town). Beyond to the Grand Canyon, Zion
National Park and Moab, Utah, we went, with foresight and the comfort of
knowing that a bed awaited us at the end of a long day of driving and
sightseeing. When you reach a certain age, certainty is bliss.
But, then, there are
detours. Twice we had to leave the major highway for reasons other than deliberate
destinations. The first time was in Virginia when there had been a major
accident up ahead and the DOT helpfully lit up the alert signs with
notification of it. Having a travel app on the phone that ensured we wouldn’t
actually get lost getting off the highway, we decided that taking an alternate
route was fine. We meandered (at fifty miles per hour) along the back roads of
Virginia, admiring the lush-looking farms, the smoky vapor rising amid rolling
hills. We would have seen some of this from the highway (which itself is pretty
scenic) but being on secondary roads meant that I could admire gardens and the
way the road wound through the gentle hills. To be one with the scenery,
instead of glimpsing it in between breaks between tractor trailers.
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| Interstate 70 toward Moab, Utah |
The second detour was
perhaps more stunning scenery-wise but a whole lot scarier. We’d made the turn East
toward home upon leaving Moab, Utah, and were sailing along Interstate 70 with
a Best Western just beyond Denver, Colorado, our evening’s destination, making
good time, expecting to be settled before dinner. When we got off in Grand
Junction for a break, we were advised by the clerk behind the counter in the
travel center not to get back on the highway. This summer was, if you recall,
the summer of wildfires and the interstate was closed a few miles up ahead. We
should get on the state road and beat the detour. Maybe it was good advice,
we’ll never know.
We got on Colorado State
Highway 133 and began to work our way around the Grand Mesa National Forest. Little
towns, strip malls. Farms, factories. A near death experience.
We’re going along at
fifty, maybe fifty-five, two lanes each way either side of a grassy median. I’m
in the right-hand lane. A guy in an SUV coming out of a side street suddenly
thinks that he has time to cross our two lanes to the break in the median. Well,
he didn’t. Let’s just say that we stopped, the driver next to us stopped, and
that’s what matters. We were close enough to see the horrified expression on
the guy’s face when he realized he couldn’t make it and it was only by the
grace of God that my ABS system worked and that there was no one behind me.
Heart stopping, but we’re
okay. We don’t pause, we keep going. We shake it off. Blood pressure finally
returns to normal. We continue on our way. At times like these you have the
sense that, somehow, God isn’t done with you yet. That there is something else
you are supposed to accomplish in this life. And then you wonder if, had the
worst happened, would your kids wonder what the heck you were doing on Route
133 in Paonia, Colorado? Either way, we were soon beyond Grand Mesa and the
wide, fast road abruptly narrowed to a country lane leading through McClure
Pass into the Rocky Mountains.
I come from New England,
a pass is something Tom Brady throws. This pass was a mile-high, switchback
road through coal country. Still, we were making progress. That is, until we
encountered road work.
The highway man holding
the stop sign is dressed all in gray except for the reflective vest. A dull
white hard hat over long gray-streaked hair. Fairly tall, at least as viewed
from the inside of a low car. His most distinctive characteristic is a long
white beard, a la Gandolf. Or maybe, we joke, he’s been holding that sign for
so long that his beard has grown to epic lengths.
Finally, we are released from
our highway department-imposed stasis and we make our way higher and higher
into the mountains. Tight, narrow curves, steep drops, houses perched on
ledges, and a shallow river below. Beyond and above us, real mountains. Beautiful
country, but not friendly. Remote. Claustrophobic. We don’t even take
pictures.
Maybe half an hour later,
we encounter another construction delay. It’s late afternoon now, and we’re
getting tired. We still have a lot of driving to do before we can lay our heads
down. We’re on scenery overload and no longer comment on the views. We sit,
sipping the dregs of coffee purchased a hundred miles ago.
Ah, finally we’re moving
by inches. Then feet. Woo Hoo!
And there, turning the
sign from “Stop” to “Slow” is…the same man.
We stare at each other. Maybe
we did die. Maybe we’re in limbo, or,
Hell. How is this possible? I don’t want to be dead yet. And I surely don’t
want relentless delays inflicted by a bearded old hippie on a winding mountain
road to be my eternal experience.
We drive past Gandolf. We
try not to stare. Do I imagine that he winks?
One of us says: “If we
see him again, we’ll know we’re dead.”
There was a silent
fifteen minutes when neither of us was sure that we were kidding.
All of the planning, the
calculation of travel times, making advance reservations—playing it safe—suit
my personality. But maybe the deviations make for better stories.
Link:
Susan Wilson
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Susan Wilson is a New York Times bestselling author. Her newest novel, Two Good Dogs, was published in March 2017.