A Race with Old Man Winter

This is what I woke up to. I've seen worse storms, but not so early in the year. And not so far from home. There were about three inches of snow on the ground, but the roads were pretty clear. Most importantly, the temperature was still well below freezing, and a trace amount of snow was still falling at this elevation. If I were to brave the trip westward on lesser highways to Yellowstone park, I would have to cross two mountain passes; one through the Bighorns and one through the Tetons. Those peaks, visible from my parking lot, were shrouded in snowy white clouds.

Let's check to see what the National Weather Service has to say...

HAZARDOUS WEATHER OUTLOOK

ISSUED BY NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE CHEYENNE WY

933 AM MDT THU OCT 8 2009

BIGHORN MOUNTAINS SOUTHEAST-BIGHORN MOUNTAINS WEST-CODY FOOTHILLS-SOUTHEAST BIG HORN BASIN-YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK-

933 AM MDT THU OCT 8 2009

TODAY AND TONIGHT

LIGHT SNOW OR FLURRIES WILL CONTINUE TO TAPER OFF THROUGH MIDDAY

OVER CENTRAL AND NORTHERN WYOMING. ADDITIONAL SNOWFALL AMOUNTS

DURING THAT TIME WILL BE GENERALLY ONE HALF INCH OR LESS. SOME

ROADS WILL CONTINUE TO BE SLICK WITH ICY AND SNOWPACKED CONDITIONS

THROUGH TONIGHT...ESPECIALLY OVER THE MOUNTAINS.

Ominous. This don't look good. Alas, I think Yellowstone will have to wait for another trip, as will the cabin in the mountains of southwest Montana that my friend Gordon had offered up for a day or two. My car was made for enjoying the trip on the Pacific Coast Highway, not pushing through the snowy mountains of the West. Instead, I figured I'd just stick to the Interstates and start making my way through central Montana headed for home. Say, on a lark, since we're on the National Weather Service page anyway, let's check the forecast for Montana...

URGENT - WINTER WEATHER MESSAGE

NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE MISSOULA MT

805 AM MDT THU OCT 8 2009

.A VERY COLD WEATHER SYSTEM WILL BE MOVING ACROSS WESTERN MONTANA

AND NORTH CENTRAL IDAHO THIS EVENING INTO FRIDAY. THIS

SYSTEM WILL PRODUCE A RELATIVELY QUICK SHOT OF SNOW...FOLLOWED BY

STRONG GUSTY NORTHEAST WINDS USHERING A VERY COLD AIR MASS ACROSS

THE CONTINENTAL DIVIDE BY FRIDAY. RECORD BREAKING COLD

TEMPERATURES AND LOW WIND CHILLS ARE POSSIBLE OVER THE WEEKEND.

...WINTER WEATHER ADVISORY REMAINS IN EFFECT FROM 6 PM THIS

EVENING TO 6 PM MDT FRIDAY...

SNOW ACCUMULATIONS OF 3 TO 6 INCHES ARE POSSIBLE BY FRIDAY

MORNING. IN ADDITION TO SNOW...STRONG GUSTY NORTHEAST WINDS 15 TO

25 MPH WITH LOCAL GUSTS TO 35 MPH WILL CREATE BLOWING AND DRIFTING

SNOW. THESE WINDS WILL ALSO RESULT IN LOCAL WIND CHILLS VALUES

APPROACHING 10 DEGREES BELOW ZERO...WHICH ARE EXPECTED TO

CONTINUE INTO FRIDAY.

PRECAUTIONARY/PREPAREDNESS ACTIONS...

A WINTER WEATHER ADVISORY MEANS THAT PERIODS OF SNOW...BLOWING

SNOW...OR FREEZING RAIN WILL CAUSE TRAVEL DIFFICULTIES. BE

PREPARED FOR SLIPPERY ROADS AND LIMITED VISIBILITIES...AND USE

CAUTION WHILE DRIVING.

That seems....worse. A picture is beginning to form as I stare at a map of the country. The passes through Wyoming were filled in with snow last night. Lookout Pass in Montana, the route I-90 takes, is in danger of being slammed with a severe storm some time tonight. If I can't get through that way, my next best option might be all the way in New Mexico many hundreds of miles south. I checked various city forecasts and came to the conclusion that if I could make it to Coeur D'Alene, Idaho I should be home free. The race was on.

I sped north, the Bighorn mountains tracing a wall to my left. I watched the skies over them for some indication of the correctness of my action and was not disappointed. While the lower valleys I drove through as Wyoming turned into Montana were snow free, the peaks were completely socked in.

I felt no disappointment for skipping the wonder of Yellowstone and the serenity of a cabin in the valleys of the mountains. I was now fully committed to skipping those things, but my race gave me a sense of purpose that drowned out any remorse. Plans are plans, and I'm good at making them. But even better yet is having a firm sense of what needs to be done. Filled with resolve, I'm also filled with a sense of being alive. This then is the goal. Know what you're doing, and do it.

Only, remember that bit about me not being too bright? About half an hour into Montana, one comes to the Little Bighorn river, site of one of the greatest Indian victories (or tragic American losses depending on your POV) of the great Indian wars of the 1860s and 70s. How could I not stop?

The Great Sioux Nation was one of the last Native American groups to resist American expansion. Starting in the 1860s they fought a series of wars against the US government. An attempt to resolve conflict, the treaty of Fort Laramie of 1868, failed for various reasons. The result was a renewal of conflict between an alliance of the Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho and the US government aided by various tribes that were enemies of the Sioux, notably the Crow and Arikara. This is known as the Great Sioux War of 1876-77. In late June of 1876, a regiment of the 7th Cavalry under the command of General George Armstrong Custer, an accomplished cavalry commander and Civil War veteran, came across a huge Indian alliance camp in a valley of the Little Bighorn river in what is now south central Montana. Although Custer commanded only about 600 soldiers, auxiliaries, and scouts; he decided to attack the encampment of around 5-7 thousand Indians, including some one to two thousand warriors. The encampment included some of the most effective leaders of the Sioux and the Cheyenne, including Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, Gall, and Lame White Man.

Custer divided his command in the face of a numerically superior foe. They teach you not to do this at West Point. But if you do and succeed anyway, like Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson had some 12 years before, you become the stuff of legend. Custer would become legend in a different way. An initial charge by the smaller force of three companies led by Major Marcus Reno was rebuffed with losses. They were driven back to a defensive position on what is now known as Reno Hill and reinforced by the supply train under the command of Captain Fredrick Benteen. The Reno-Benteen force would attempt to relieve Custer's larger force, but were driven back by effective Indian movement and fire. What we know about the large force is based on archeological evidence, conjecture, and distant observations by Reno's men (notably a Crow scout named Curley), as nobody in that group survived.

Custer seems to have fought a running battle up to a hill about 3 miles away, now known as Custer's Hill or Last Stand Hill. They resisted various charges, taking heavy losses throughout. Now, down to just 41 troopers, he ordered the horses shot to form a defensive breastworks. How effectively organized the defense was is a matter of debate, but in any event he was completely overwhelmed within an hour. Faced with the imminent arrival of US reinforcements, Sitting Bull led the camp away the next day, having failed to overwhelm the Reno-Benteen position.

The battlefield historic park is sobering and, in my opinion, tastefully presented. The design was worked on both by the Park service and various native tribes. Last Stand Hill has both a monument to the 7th Cavalry and the Indians who died in the battle. Some time after the battle a detail recovered the bodies of fallen cavalrymen and buried them in a mass grave at the site of Custer's Last Stand. Their locations were meticulously noted, and the battlefield is littered with white markers denoting the position of each soldier's body. The overall impact gave me a tremendous insight into how the day's events unfolded, as well as sense of respect for the people who fought on both sides.

Holy cow! Did I just spend two hours here? Am I trying to get stranded alone in a mountain pass blizzard? Donner, party of five, your table is ready. Only I won't have anyone else with me if it comes down to cannibalism. No time for further stops. Just push on, only pausing to feed the car. Montana is a kingdom of great valleys nestled amidst countless mountain ranges. It goes for hundreds of miles. Towns are far between, but are respectable sized centers of ranching, mining, and agriculture when you come to them. Billings, Bozeman, Butte, and Missoula are all knocked out in course. The skies above the valleys are now shrouded with gray clouds pregnant with winter snow. As I finally climb up into the Bitterroot mountains, night has fully fallen.

At times of heightened tension, your senses kick into overdrive and little things take on significance. I switched the car's computer away from the speedometer and over to the external thermometer. I saw the reading tick down from the low 40s to below the freezing mark. Was that a snowflake? Why can't I get any weather report on the stupid radio? Is the light flashing on that "winter weather conditions" roadside sign? Why haven't I seen any oncoming traffic for the last three minutes? At last, maybe a few hours before the snow, I saw the sign for Lookout Pass, elevation 4710 feet. I rolled west on the downslope, knowing I had made it. A beer at the Coeur D'Alene Best Western was my prize.

The next morning is the final sprint. Coeur D'Alene is only 15 miles from Spokane, the eastern port of entry to Washington. Roll on, Columbia, roll on: I'm home. Descending from the mountains, I drove through the duststorms and fields of winter wheat dotting the Palouse, the great cold desert that makes up the eastern half of Washington. This is the part of the state they don't put on postcards, but it has its picuturesque charms nonetheless. The fine wind-blown silt here covers the few trees and scrubby bushes, making them appear ashen and skeletal. I drove past the exits for towns I have never visited, but whose names are familiar due to their proximity to Seattle: Pasco, Coulee City, Moses Lake. With each exit it felt more and more like home. Across the great gorge of the Columbia, the cascade mountains appeared in the distance and I saw my first douglas firs in five weeks. I flew through Snoqualmie pass to a homecoming of a final stop, presented by my friends Sara Buckwitz and Ben Pollman. They live in Issaquah, a scant ten miles up the plateau from my home in Seattle. The last little push is exhausting but uneventful. Finally, I'm truly home.

It only remains now to document these last legs and to put the trip into perspective. Did I accomplish my goals? Can I even articulate them? This will come to me by and by. I have confidence and I have hope.

Cliffhanger

I stood at the window of a motel off I-29 in Sioux Falls, South Dakota looking at the rain outside. I was preparing for the final stages of a journey which was already longer than I had planned, and still had quite a few days left. The sky was very dark, more like evening than morning. Wind was gusting and the thermometer barely read 40 degrees. I didn't know it yet, but the weather would play a fairly major role as I headed out across the Dakota plains for the west.

There is a lot to do and see in South Dakota. That may sound strange to you, but believe me it's true. The stuff I wanted to see and do was mostly in the western part of the state, so I had hours to drive through rolling prairie before I got to my first stop. I had put up a little poll for my friends on Facebook to pick out the most appealing destinations from a list of possibilities, and Badlands National Park would be the nearest stop. The hours ticked by as I passed by small towns like De Smet, where Laura Ingalls Wilder lived part of her childhood. I passed by cornfields and cattle herds. But mostly, I passed by prairie grass. The weather started to clear and blue skies struggled to escape from the clouds, though the air remained quite cool and windy.

I also passed by something else I have seen a lot of on this trip. I have seen massive road work projects everywhere I have gone. Most of them have signs that say "American Reinvestment and Recovery Act." This is the so-called 'economic stimulus' package at work. I think some bright person put the signs up hoping for a little good PR, like the way all the crates of free stuff we sent to Europe during the Marshall Plan said "Compliments of the United States of America." Sadly the primary impact it has had in my case is causing me to blame Obama for the lousy traffic conditions I have had to endure. More importantly, I have now seen with my own two eyes that the "American Reinvestment and Recovery Act" ain't no Civilian Conservation Corps from the 1930s. If any of you are out of work, I have the following advice: go to South Dakota. There's a stretch of I-90 about 40 miles long that's down to one lane in each direction, and I saw a grand total of five human beings working on it. Five. I counted. And this was the middle of a Monday morning. This is putting America back to work? For my $700,000,000,000 (I like seeing all those zeros instead of just writing 'seven hundred billion dollars') I expect to see work camps and ranks of guys swinging pick axes to make the roads better now. Where is James J. Braddock when we need him?

Enough with the politics, there's sights to see. The Badlands of South Dakota are accessible through a scenic loop you can drive through in an hour or two right off I-90. It's definitely a park made for cars. I learned some geology on this trip. A badland (there are lots of them, evidently, but this one earns the capital letter) is an area of soft sedimentary rock subjected to intense erosion forces of wind and moving water. Unusual formations like mounds, ravines, and these things called 'hoodoos' form as a result. That's a very dry description. This place is creepy. The effect of the South Dakota Badlands is to form a massive cliff running almost 60 miles east-west that separates the high prairie of the Dakotas, Wyoming, and Montana from the low prairies of Nebraska, Kansas, and Oklahoma. The latter are relatively warm and wet and give us wheat. The former are cold and arid and give us cows.

It's not entirely arid. There are some ponderosa pines that are unusual. Their bark is shaggy. There's also a fair amount of scrub grass and a few hardy flowering plants. There are also the ever-present prairie dog towns and signs warning of rattlesnakes. Life finds a way, I suppose.

There's one spot that was particularly poignant. On Christmas Eve in 1890, a Minneconju Lakota (Sioux) leader named Big Foot, suffering from pneumonia, led his group of about 350 over a pass through the badlands. They were headed south, trying to avoid the US 7th Cavalry which had been sent to disarm them and put them back on their reservation. It was unusually cold even for this part of the country at that time of year. It's hard to imagine escorting a bunch of children and old people down this cliff face covered with ice and blowing wind. They made it through the badlands, but the cavalry caught up with them at a place called Wounded Knee on December 29. An incident occurred there, the details of which are a bit murky. Fighting broke out between the soldiers and the Lakota. The soldiers outnumbered the Indians, many of whom were women, children, or elderly. The soldiers were also much more heavily armed, including four light artillery pieces. After a few hours, about 200 Lakota were dead along with about 25 cavalrymen. The dead included Big Foot. Whether this incident should be called "the Battle of Wounded Knee" or, as seems more popular to me, "the Massacre of Wounded Knee" is still debated in some circles. It seems to me to be fair to call it a tragedy, regardless. There is a marker here for Big Foot pass, but a proper memorial is still waiting to be built on Sioux lands to the south.

After the badlands and a brief but inevitable stop at Wall Drugs, I headed straight to Rapid City. This town is the major hub of folks living in and around the Black Hills of the Dakotas and Wyoming. For some reason I wanted to stay at a hotel near downtown for a change, instead of a motel on the interstate. I'm very lucky I did. Rapid City, South Dakota is not a big place. But it has a very nice and walkable downtown built around two major streets. As it so happens, with the help of my home base support crew, I was able to dine at the best foodie place I've been to since Mise en Place in Tampa. The Corn Exchange on Main Street should be sought out with all haste if you find yourself in this fine little town. I had the in-season quail with fig and citrus jam, but I'm pretty sure you can't go wrong with anything on the menu.

In the morning I went south into the Black Hills proper. I'm not given to overly touristy things, but Mt. Rushmore was right on my path. I couldn't NOT stop. Here's my conclusion: Washington and Lincoln look determined, Jefferson looks hopeful, but Roosevelt just looks pissed. It's like somebody stole his canal or something. On the drive up to the mountain I got the next weather-related warning signs I was to receive. There was snow on the ground and it clearly wasn't going away thanks to the distinct chill in the air.

The real object of my drive south was a thing called the Needles Highway which winds through Custer State Park. Lonely Planet, my Facebook survey, and my waitress Carolyn from the Corn Exchange all recommended it very highly. After looking at the Presidents of the United States of America (the non-musical ones) I headed into the park. Unfortunately the northern entrance road was closed due to the snow. Not one to be deterred, I headed all the way around the park and up a state highway to try a different entrance, nearer the start of the scenic route. I got a mile or two up this before I came to yet another gate barring my way. Winters here are harsh, but snow in early October that sticks around is quite uncommon. And I'm told park closures before November are downright rare. Huh, just my bad luck. I finally decided to head north back toward the interstate. While I didn't get to drive the Needles Highway, I was not cheated for beautiful Black Hills scenery.

I stopped for lunch in historic Deadwood, inspiration for the HBO series of the same name. I was a big fan, I couldn't resist. The town isn't much like it was in 1876, but it has remained prosperous. Gambling is legal here and the place is a cross between Vegas and an old west amusement park. Also, Sturgis is the next town over, so there's a lot of entertainment aimed at the Harley Davidson crowd. I had lunch in Charlie Utter's Saloon #10. They have mounted on the wall what purports to be the original wooden headstone that Charlie put up on his friend "Wild Bill" Hickock's grave. It might even be true. I visited the infamous "Boot Hill" and Mt. Moriah cemetery after lunch to pay my respects to Mr. Hickock and to Martha "Calamity" Jane Burke who is buried right next to him.

I then headed out of town for Wyoming. I had one more planned stop before looking for a bed for the night. I wanted to see Devils Tower. Heavy clouds had replaced blue skies right as I entered Deadwood, and by the time I was climbing up the hills in northeast Wyoming they had opened up into snow flurries. But, as I said, I'm not one to be easily deterred. I kept going anyway, my little rollerskate of a car showing only the tiniest signs of slipping. Devils Tower, which the various Native American tribes in the area called "Bear's Teepee" or words to that effect, is a sight to behold. It's an even better sight to behold through a lightly driving snow storm. The tower is what geologists call an "igneous intrusion." You can look it up. Evidently there is lively debate (in geologist circles) as to precisely how the tower formed. Here in the non-academic world, I managed to get all the way up the park and walk part of the 1.3 mile loop trail around it before being driven to shelter from the cold and snow.

I pushed on. The snow picked up. I began to collaborate with friends back home on what my prospects were for continuing my trip through Yellowstone and the mountains of Montana as I had planned. I knew I was running a slight risk by starting my road trip in September rather than August, but a winter storm of any magnitude is unusual for this early in the year. When the radio started warning of winter weather travel advisories, I decided to pull over and get a motel room earlier than I had planned. Forget about Cody and the east entrance to Yellowstone, I 'm not sure I won't be snowed in by checkout time. What will happen to our intrepid, headstrong, and overall not-to-bright narrator come morning? If I don't follow up with another post in a few days, send the dogs.

The Past as Friend

I now entered the upper Midwest. This was to be quite a different phase of my trip, and I knew it. The experiences to date had largely been selected on the basis of their newness. Novelty, like the Grand Canyon and the Rockies, won out over even proven good times from memory lane, like Vegas. But the upper Midwest encircling the Great Lakes is 'ma terre natale.' I was born and lived the first 18 years of my life in Indiana, then moved to Illinois for the next nine before giving it all up for the Pacific Northwest. The land is known to me. As are the people. The highest concentration of the many visits I am visiting on this trip is to be found here.

My first stop as I proceeded east to west was the outskirts of Cleveland and one of my best friends from high school Dave Domanski. It has been near enough to twenty years since I had seen Dave in the flesh, and we each had half a lifetime of catching up to do. Dave and his wife Halcyon, their kids Florida and Maxon, their cats, dog, turtle, and chickens live in the town of Burton, Ohio. Burton is in the country outside Cleveland, and they have a great country life. They both teach, Halcyon as a counselor at a local school, Dave teaches people how to install and maintain medical imaging equipment. But that's what they do. When it comes to what they are, Dave and Halcyon are artists. Among the many things Dave produces is fine food, so we stayed in and had home made gumbo one night.

We spent the earlier part of that day exploring the hinterlands to the southeast of Cleveland, in Geauga county. There are a fair number of Amish here, as there were in Indiana where I grew up. It's a very pretty place, and so much like where I grew up one state over. The northern Midwest isn't majestic and oceanlike, as is Kansas. It feels smaller. It has little hillocks and hollows; lakes and little streams that all wind their way ultimately to the Mississippi; oaks and maples and willows. The memory of a place seeps into your bones, like the calcium and iron you consume. It takes up residence in the matrix of your being. It is comprised of atomic particles: the sound of crickets, the smell of autumn woodsmoke, clouds reflected off ponds with lily pads, crisp air and stinging rain on your face. I'm not given to personal nostalgia, but all these things hit me in a wave of understanding where I'm from. Tom Wolfe was wrong. Not only can you go home again, it's possible that you can never leave.

I spent a good day and half or so with the Domanskis before heading west again. The width of Ohio and Indiana is less than I remembered, or maybe my sense of distance has just become distorted by living in the west and being on the road for so long. I drove across Indiana listening to the pre-game show from South Bend, where the Washington Huskies football team was in town to play Notre Dame. Despite having grown up only about a little over an hour away from South Bend, I never really became an ND fan. I did root for them in the late 80s, but that was mainly to annoy one of my roommates who was from Miami. If you are a college football fan you get this reference. In what seemed like no time I was ensconced at my second home, the house of Zoe and Stuart Baum, probably my closest friends for well over 20 years now.

I met Zoe when I was just entering college. Literally. I met her at activities sign-up night during first year student orientation week, the day before classes started. Stuart was traveling and I met him some time thereafter. Zoe is highly educated in the classics and teaches at a local college. Stuart is a marketing guy and all-purpose business man. The entanglement of my own personal history with the two of them is so complete that it would take pages to describe it. Suffice it to say, they have had significant impact on my career, where I live, my professional skills, and my outlook on life. Some people just fit together, and that's how I feel about myself and these two. In the thirteen years I've lived in Seattle, whenever I would visit my friends in Chicago or my family in Indiana, I would stay at their place on the far south side of Chicago. This would once again be my home base for my brief visit here.

I have resisted making a schedule on this trip for reasons that I explained in an earlier post. But I kind of assumed that I would spend several days here, just because there are so many acquaintances to renew in this area. But over the last few days I had begun to feel very road weary. It really started to hit me in Boston and it has grown inexorably since. So I packed a whirlwind of visits into a day and a half. I managed to catch up with college friends who still live in Chicago, like Elisa Vargas who is now a UX designer for Motorola. I didn't know I had friends who wound up in fields that were close to mine. I visited various relatives including my maternal aunt and uncle, my cousin Cindi who's about the same age as me, as well as my father and step-mother. I capped the day off with a visit to another couple of my high school friends, Dana Zurbriggen (Henderson) and Kerry Fitch (Margis) in my old home town of Crown Point, Indiana. Dana, Kerry, Dave Domanski, and I all sat together in Senior English - taught by Diane Sykes from my visit to St. Petersburg. Funny how 1986 all comes together on this trip. These days Dana teaches at the high school we went to, or more precisely to the brand spanking new high school that replaced it. In this way she is the opposite of me. I feel like my ties to my past are broken and stand to be renewed on this trip, while with Dana they couldn't be stronger. We spent the late evening reminiscing and wandering through the scenic town square. Less had changed than I thought might have, but I had to see it to remember it all.

There are more people I could have seen and wanted to see than I would give myself time for. My best friend from elementary school, Joe Walker. More of my college-age friends like John and Mamie Lilovich. My freshman roomie Dan Shmikler. I'm now more than a month into this road trip, and I admit I'm making hard choices between tarrying and heading home. For everyone I didn't get to see: You are missed! I'll be back here again, I promise.

I left Chicago bound for the north woods of Wisconsin and the cornfields of southern Minnesota and northern Iowa. During my stay in Chicago I decided on the last open route question. I have decided skip the more direct route through North Dakota on I-94 in favor of the more scenic route on I-90 through South Dakota. One of the clinchers for this route was something I learned from my dad on this visit. I had always known he was born in Iowa. What I didn't know was that he's from a small town called Estherville just south of the Minnesota border, and less than two hours from Sioux Falls, South Dakota. I figured a visit at least near there was the proper capper to my Midwest mission. Sadly, it was raining quite hard and evening was coming on as I reached Estherville. I saw the cornfiends around which my dad grew up, but not much more of the town. Still, somehow my own sense of profound history now reaches back even further as a result.

Next, I leave reminiscing behind in favor of new northern adventure. I'm posting this in the morning from my motel in Sioux Falls, preparing to strike out into the heart of the west and the north. My convertible is now a liability as some of my destinations are even experiencing early snow. The last days of my trip promise to be energizing and memorable!

From the Big City to the Quiet Country by and by

For most of this trip I have not visited large cities. I was in San Francisco the first night and I flitted around the perimeter of LA. But for the most part, I've been sticking to the byways, the rural areas, and the college towns. I have a strong city boy streak, however, so maybe it was inevitable that I would cave in for a few days. I left Gettysburg bound for Philadelphia, New York city, and points Northeast.

Because I had tarried so long on the road, it was almost 10 o'clock before I was confronted with the traditional choice: Geno's or Pat's King of Steaks for my cheesesteak. Having had Pat's once before, I opted to give Geno's a try. The main difference, as near as I can tell, is that Pat's chops their steak up and Geno's leaves it as more of a whole piece. Here's the thing...and this might only be true for me...I don't think either of them is the best steak in Philadelphia. The best steak I ever had was at a corner deli near some hotel downtown. It was totally unremarkable, and I certainly couldn't tell you the name of the place. It doesn't matter. The point is, by the time something is built up to the point where the name identity, Pat's or Geno's, matters more than the content, I just lose interest. Random corner deli steak is made with lower quality meat by a guy who's just waiting for the lunch rush to end. That's the best steak in Philly for my money. Visiting as if you just lived there is the way I like to do it. Finding things by chance is better than following the guide book. The best stuff is rarely the stuff you hear about.

The next day I cruised up the Jersey turnpike to visit my friends Brian and Karla David-Marshall and spend a day in New York City. I got a later start than anticipated and, long and short of it, I only spent an afternoon and evening in the city visiting a bookstore, having a few cocktails, and going out for some fine Peking Duck. I like taking the subway in New York, really in any major city. People express opinions on the relative strengths and weaknesses of the systems in New York , London, Tokyo, Paris, Chicago...whatever. In one important respect they are all the same. It's as if there are two cities, the above ground one and the subway. The interface between the two worlds is that instant where you climb up the steps and emerge onto the street. Whenever I cross that threshold I'm always disoriented, regardless of how well I know the town. You travel on the train for a while, hopefully going in the general right direction. You get off closer to your inevitable destination than when you started. But eventually you come up into daylight and you don't know precisely which way to turn. It takes me some time to get my bearings, but I always manage.

I have picked up forward momentum again, lost partly during my unexpected stay in Florida. Although I had only the shortest of visits to New York, I wanted to move, move, move. Off I sped to the outskirts of Boston and my friends John Lavery and Shannon May. I know John from my college days. I'm pretty sure I thought he was a jerk when I first met him. How we wound up becoming friends I can't quite explain. But that we are. From John I have learned something extremely important: how you do a thing can matter as much or even more than what you do. For instance, John taught me how to tie a bow tie. It's not enough to merely wear a bow around your neck. One simply must have a proper bow tie, and learn how to tie it oneself. These days, John is devoting his time to being a country squire, as near as I can tell. I arrived just in time to help John unload about half a chord of firewood he was laying in for the fall. Honestly, it felt great to enjoy some work in the fall air, and I am a bit of envious of John's country squire life. They have a very nice house out in the country, in the small town of Carlisle, MA. John has heavily renovated it. They have populated the grounds with various 'producing' animals, notably about a dozen chickens and several bee hives. Urban and part-time farming, especially chickens, seems to be an absolute fad these days. My friend and former co worker Casey Reeter is raising chickens back in Seattle. John and Shannon have theirs. And my friend Dave, from whose house I'm posting, has his. Me, I grew up around enough farms that I think I'm still burned out.

The next day I was moving again. The area around Boston represents the final turn of my lap. From here on out, I'm on the home stretch. I started this final leg with a visit to the historic town of Concord, just south of John and Shannon's place. Concord is the sight of what Emmerson called "The Shot Heard Round The World." In April of 1775, some British regulars were dispatched from their barracks in Boston to investigate rumors of an arms store held by some of the local seditious rebellion lot. If the rumors were true one supposes they were to seize it. Crowds of those seditious folks dogged the British march, some shots were fired at a place called Lexington Green but they amounted to little. In Concord, though, the Minute Men and various militias from Concord, Acton, Lincoln, and the surrounding area confronted the British at The Old North Bridge. Here a bonafide order to fire was given by the American militia major in charge. Three soldiers were killed, and the Brits opted to withdraw rather than fight an actual musket battle with what must have seemed to these regular soldiers like an armed mob. This is generally regarded as the start of the American Revolution. The poor British: at Concord they opted to not massacre the crowd and they lose the PR war and the colony. At Amristar they opt to massacre the crowd and they lose the PR war and the colony. They just can't win for losing!

This was the first of October, and I would spend the day crossing New England and upstate New York bound for the old Northwest Territory. I had meant to start my entire roadtrip earlier. I thought I could split the summer; one half in Seattle and one half traveling the road. But one thing led to another and I find myself on the road as summer has given way to fall. It's ok, and in any event its better than the alternative. For most of my life I have looked forward to the fall. It always seems to be the most reliably good season. New England, they say, is where fall is best appreciated. Indeed, the trees are just starting to come out in all their bright glory here. Maybe two weeks later and it would be even better. This specific day, though, was gray and overcast. Periodically I was subjected to rain. If I'm here a day or two earlier or a day or two later, I might have the picture-postcard-perfect clear skies and bright red and yellow hillsides you see in the brochures.

Time is like that. I can feel Time sitting on my shoulders. It urges me forward and reminds me that it's there. But it doesn't help me to figure out what to do. It only warns me of the dire consequences of doing nothing. Stay or go. Take the north or the south road. Study or work or play. Fish or cut bait. Time won't help me figure out the path, it only forces me to do _something_.

But I thoroughly enjoyed what color I could. And by the end of the day, as I was nearing the end of New York state, crossing into Erie Pennsylvania bound for Cleveland, the clouds partially parted. I could see sunlight streaking down to earth, looking the way it does at the end of movies. And although evening was approaching, it felt like a new day.

Dixie

Vic the mechanic finally gave me my car back late in the afternoon on Friday the 25th of September. I was flush with a wave of excitement and liberty. Sure, I was down thousands of dollars that I couldn't really afford. And it's not as if my stay in Tampa and St. Pete had been unpleasant. Quite the opposite in fact. But I was empowered once again to continue my journey, the need for which I cannot understand let alone explain. I sprung away from central Florida promptly, motivated by wheels for wings and a new engine for a beating heart. I migrated to the winding county roads of northeast Florida, where the cypress trees overgrow the roadway like stately roman arches and the Spanish moss reaches down to try to entangle you in the rural charm. But I would not be so restrained, and soon I left Florida behind for the Atlantic coast of Georgia at sunset.

America is a nation of islands bedecking a sea of green and static. The sun had fully set as I bypassed the historic port town of Savannah, Georgia and cruised toward the South Carolina border. Here I experienced a moment that struck me and wills stay with me. I heard the static part against the shores of one of these islands. A Georgia jazz and blues station...I don't know where it was located...was commemorating the birthday of Ray Charles (b. Sep. 23, 1930, Albany, GA) with a weekend of his tunes. I managed to catch the refrains of, notably, "Georgia On My Mind" and "Hit the Road, Jack" through the darkness before the island was behind me and I sailed purposefully on the sea once again.

I reached my destination of Columbia, South Carolina late in the evening, almost midnight. I was here to visit my friend Anthony Nyberg. Anthony is the older brother of Ian, who I visited in Austin about two weeks earlier. These days, Anthony is an associate professor at the business school at the University of South Carolina. He's doing quite well there, if my limited understanding of the mechanisms of academia are to be trusted, and has had a fair amount of his research published lately. I have been friends with the Nyberg boys for 20 years now, since my college days. Anthony knows me as well as anyone, and accordingly had the bourbon ready to pour regardless of the lateness of my arrival. We stayed up chatting until past two.

The next day, after a leisurely weekend brunch, we explored the town of Columbia. The university campus is pretty, as these places usually are. The dominant architecture in the town is neo-classic of the kind that was very popular in America at the end of the 18th century and beginning of the 19th. Lots of colonnaded porches and entablatured roofs. The university itself is made primarily of a kind of yellow-orange brick. They also really like wrought iron fences here, and you can find them all throughout the city.

Columbia is also the state capitol. The capitol building itself isn't as grandiose as the one in Austin. But it is certainly more culturally significant, both historically and currently. South Carolina was the first state to secede from the Union and therefore start the Civil War, an act which would have been passed into law (or outlaw, depending on your point of view) in this very building. Of course, some of that spirit continues to this day. A live controversy of the last decade plus has been that the state government here chooses to fly the flag of the Confederate States of America. Or maybe it's the Confederate battle standard. I couldn't quite tell since there was no wind blowing. This has brought outrage from other sectors of the nation, notably the NAACP which initiated a boycott that I believe is still in place. There is a kind of compromise. Instead of flying the flag from the capitol dome, now they just fly it from a pole on the front lawn, near a statue dedicated to Confederate war veterans. It's a compromise that neither side seems to be happy with, which seems to be a hallmark of all the great compromises.

The next morning I was traveling again, this time for a short drive to Blacksburg, Virginia. Blacksburg is almost due north from Columbia, just across the short western arm of the state of North Carolina. I went past Charlotte at mid-day with only a brief stop for lunch, arriving in Blacksburg before dinner. Here I completed my climb up the Nyberg clan seniority tree, with a visit to Nyberg pater. Martin is an interesting fellow who has worked in business for many years, but is currently a sometimes teacher of business ethics at Virginia Tech. He and his wife Meribe live in a pleasant house a short way from the campus. We had dinner together, and caught the opening of new Ken Burns documentary that I had been hearing about and was quite eager to see. It was all too short of a stay, but my story is running long and I'm beginning to feel it. Besides, on the next part of the drive I would see something I had left behind weeks ago and longed to visit again: mountains!

The Blue Ridge plateau formed the eastern extent of the original 13 colonies, and was the American frontier when America itself started. My trip would take me through the eastern extent of these worn and ancient mountains. They are small mountains, a bit bigger than the western foothills of the cascades around the Issaquah plateau back home. But they are very scenic and offer frequent pleasant vistas. There is a scenic byway that I ventured onto from time to time. Unfortunately, I don't have any pictures to share with you all. There are hardly any opportunities to pull the car over, take in the scenery, and grab a snapshot. It's an experience that must be had live, and not committed to electrons. I was a bit disappointed at first, but as I drove I became philosophical: whose to say that this isn't how the road should be enjoyed? The memory lives in my head for as long as my head lasts. And it will live in granite and wood and grass long after that, waiting to be experienced by others again. Maybe that's just how it's supposed to be.

This segment of my journey, which would carry me out of the South for the first time in weeks, was one where I would indulge my penchant for history. On one of the little scenic byways off the main interstate running through the Blue Ridge, I visited Washington & Lee University in Lexington, Virginia. It was founded as Augusta Academy, was later renamed after the General and first President who gave it a major grant, and then was renamed again to commemorate its later president the former confederate general Robert E. Lee. Lee dedicated his life after the war to education and did a credible job turning the University into a perfectly reasonable private institute of higher learning. He died in 1870, and he and his family (and his horse!) are entombed here in the chapel he had built.

This was the start of my "backward through time" Civil War journey. My trip took me northward through the Shenandoah valley, past the famous sites and of the Stonewall Jackson valley campaign and the infamous Sheridan valley campaign. Why Thomas Jackson's campaign is famous and Phil Sheridan's is infamous is a curious study for another time.

But these were appetizers. I arrived at the main course in the mid afternoon: Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. This is the site of the bloodiest battle in our quarter of the globe. It was also the turning point of a war that defined the nation. It's Borodino and El Alamein and Midway all rolled into one. I spent a little time exploring the town, but found my way to the visitor's center to get the self-guided audio auto tour. This is the way to experience the place, as the battlefield was much bigger than I had imagined it: over 25 square miles.

I'm not one to indulge in jingoism. I'm certainly not ashamed of my country, but I'm given to agree with Dr. Johnson's quote: "Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel." However, it has now happened to me twice on this trip that I have felt profoundly American. The first time was at Grand Canyon National Park. The second time was here. Actually visiting the site of the battle made famous in many a book and film gave me a perspective - literally and figuratively - that I had never had. The park service has done a very good job laying out the history and contour of the battle. And the land has changed very little. There are even plaques set up so that you can see a photograph taken from the 1860s and see that the vista, sometimes down to the smallest detail, remains the same to this day.

It becomes easy to imagine the feelings of the soldiers and officers. I stood on Oak Hill, where the rebels poured fire on the exposed elements of the union army. I wandered about Little Round Top, on the exact spot where the 20th Maine stopped the Confederate advance and Col. Chamberlain ordered the battalion to fix bayonets. I experienced where Lee stood to observe Pickett's charge. It didn't seem like it should be impossible.

I don't know why I have such at attraction to history. I have engaged on this trip, in large part, to try to understand what it is that makes me happy. I have come to some insights, but in so many ways I'm inscrutable to myself. I can say, though, that this culmination of my trip through Dixie was the perfect signpost. Maybe someday I'll even understand why.

I had thought I'd spend an hour or so at Gettysburg. I left after five, and only because the sun was setting. I left these great sites of a conflict a century and half old to return to the task at hand. I had an appointment with the great white way.

Around Tampa

My friend Sheldon, my unexpected host for the surprise week of immobility, is a real foodie. Early on in the week, when it appeared that there would be a few guests in town for just a few days, Sheldon had arranged a few dinners at suitably foodie places.

The first evening, Sheldon, Gretchyn, Scott, and I went out to Mise en Place. It's one of the finest meals I've ever had, forget about just this trip. The menu rotates frequently, so I don't think I can recommend something you should get. I can recommend that you go there and be adventurous, though. I had the pate in banana mole, just to give you an idea of what you're in for. The following night, now with Aaron Forsythe, we visited Bern's Steakhouse, evidently the premier such place in Tampa. It certainly earns its reputation. The steak itself was quite good by high-end steakhouse standards, but the really memorable parts of the evening were the tour of the wine cellar, consisting of literally hundreds of thousands of bottles, followed by desert and coffee in the special desert rooms. I kid you not.

But after those first couple nights I was quite glad to drop out of 'being entertained' mode and drop happily and comfortably into 'hanging out' mode. Aaron left on Sunday, followed by Scott on Monday. The three of us remaining enjoyed a relatively quiet time of some nights staying in, some nights going out simply. A great deal of relaxation was had all around, especially with the pool and the spa in the back patio.

I'm telling you, there are things that can be quite nice about Florida.

Early in the week I started to walk around the general area a bit. Tampa isn't the type of town where people live in the city and have a vibrant downtown and what not. It's more of a gated community and shopping center kind of scene. At least in this part of town. The communities are built new here. A good job has been done to incorporate the natural surroundings into the neighborhoods. For example, there are numerous ponds and wetlands amongst the houses. Wildlife is all over, like these herons. Plus cranes and ibises. They have 'missing pet' problems here as well, which are probably attributable to alligators.

It's a state crime to disturb alligators, as the signs around the neighborhood point out. But I think that if they really meant that, they wouldn't have built the elementary school right across the street from this particular pond! I was hoping to get a glimpse of one of the little fellows, as I figure that photography isn't all that disturbing. Unfortunately, I never caught sight of one. I did make a count of the household cats every day. No worries on that front.

A small perk is that there's a brand new LA Fitness just about a mile down the street. I got in my first real workout since I left Seattle. Felt like three weeks had gone by, too.

Through the wonder that is Facebook, I have slowly but surely over the last year or two been renewing acquaintances with friends from many years ago, as have so many other people. I had mostly fallen out of contact with even my closest friends from high school. On this unexpected visit, I got a real, offline benefit from this phenomenon. One of my high school teachers, of whom I was particularly fond, had retired to the environs of St. Petersburg with her husband a few years ago. Diane Skyes taught art as well as a class called 'Senior English' which was a kind of college prep humanities class combining art, history, and literature. That class in particular is one of the more defining moments in my education and probably had the greatest impact on my decision to study anthropology in college.

Diane and David were kind enough to come all the way out to Tampa to pick me up and go with me for lunch in St. Pete, followed by a visit to the Dali museum. That is certainly a visit I recommend. It's a quite manageable sized collection, about 2-3 hours to enjoy nicely. It has some very early examples of his art, including some impressionist and cubist things he did when he was a teenager and learning his craft. Who knew? Plus, of course, a wide selection of his surrealist work and even some of the glasswork he did from the 60s through the 80s.

Florida at it's best...at it's most characteristic...is done up in pastels of pink and turquoise and yellow. Only this state can pull this off, I think. The colors bake and sparkle in the sun, and it all feels right. In any other environment I would find it gaudy. I think seeing my old art teacher put me in a suitable mind to contemplate this.

Throughout the week, I heard back from Vic the mechanic several times. The news hasn't been great, but hasn't been disastrous. The delivery of the new engine got pushed back a day to Friday. Thursday I heard I also needed a new flywheel, but that it wouldn't cause any more time delay. As I type this Thursday night, I remain guardedly hopeful that I'll be on the road again in less than 24 hours.

I've learned something the progress of this trip from the stay. I write better when I have hours of uninterrupted time to just contemplate and consider. Not even actively, mind you. What I would call passive thinking. The kind of thing you do when you're on the road for long stretches, with no television or swimming pool or dinner plans to distract you. I'm eager to get moving again. I imagined this update being done earlier, but I just couldn't muster up the framework to do it. Determination of the quality and entertainment value once I did get around to it is left as an exercise to the reader.

I'm also starting to actually miss my home. I think the little taste of sedentary life here has made me pine for my own walls and my own stuff. It is indeed to time to move on.

Only the Good Die Young

I suppose my troubles actually started in the couple days leading up to the start of this road trip. Although my start date was delayed twice by various unfortunate events, nonetheless I was still pressed for time as departure day approached. One of the errands I meant to run back in Seattle was an oil change. My last one had been in April when I had the routine 20,000 mile maintenance done. Before that it was January. But, it fell by the wayside. No matter, I thought, I'll have the car with me on the road. I'll just get an oil change on one of the slow days. Maybe when I get to Tampa and the half way point.

I'm a fairly responsible driver. The unfortunate incident in California two weeks ago aside, I rarely if ever get tickets. I haven't been an accident since I was 24, when I smacked into a gigantic Caddy with a little plastic Mitsubishi in Key West. On this trip, I had tires that were less than 8 months old, I had the checkup under my belt, and I was paying attention to the gauges and general performance of the car.

Some time after I arrived in Florida (I actually don't remember whether it was the evening of Wednesday, September 16 or the following morning), I saw the oil warning indicator flicker on for a split second then go off. This drew my attention to the oil pressure gauge, which I noticed for the first time was quite low, about 30-40 psi. It should be around 60, and had been the numerous times I looked at it during the trip. I figured it was a good thing I was as close to Tampa as I was, only about 6 hours, so I could take the car in for service.

This I did the morning after arriving at Sheldon's. As it so happens, Sheldon and his wife Gretchyn also own a couple of Nissans, so they recommended the service department at the dealer only a few miles from their house. It was a pleasant morning and I drove the Z down the quiet roads of their development with the windows down. Away from the noise of the highway and the rain-mandated rolled up windows of the day before, I now heard a distinct and quite loud rattle coming from the front end of the car as I made my way to the dealership. Upon arrival and meeting with Vic the mechanic, I relayed all the observations I had made up to that point. Vic immediately looked concerned.

After five minutes, Vic comes up to me in the lobby and says, "Ummm, sir, there's no oil AT ALL in your engine." You know that feeling you get when you're riding the rollercoaster, and you're toward the back of the train and the front cars have already gone over? Yeah, it felt like that. Vaguely sickened but always ready with the snappy rejoinder, I was able to muster, "So....what are you saying?" He was too polite to say, "Well, it means two things. You're screwed and I just made my bonus."

I don't know exactly what happened. I'm fairly certain it was NOT a total lack of maintenance. As I mentioned, I had taken it in twice for oil changes this year already. Granted, by manufacturer recommendation, it should have been three. But I don't think I'm really alone in not quite adhering to that schedule. It is true that I had just driven about 4000 miles, part of the way through the desert. This is hard on the poor beast. I should have been giving it extra love, not just shy of routine. However, I had been monitoring the oil pressure at various times and it did not show a steady decline over time. Rather it experienced a sudden jump down one day. This leads me to believe something catastrophic occurred. Perhaps I blew out a gasket somewhere on the trip. I never noticed an oil slick at any point under the car (although I could have missed it, I suppose). If this is what happened, it could have occurred while I was actually driving.

But regardless of the origins of the problem, I could not refuse to accept to the situation. I'm over 3000 miles from home, I have inadequate service records (which, truthfully, I don't do a good job of keeping anyway), I have a car that's out of warranty by a scant couple months, and I'm frankly lucky that I didn't throw a rod in the middle of the interstate, 30 miles from civilization bereft of cell phone coverage. Vic fiddled around with the car for most of the day but then gave me the prognosis I knew was coming: I had to replace the engine at a cost of over $8k plus labor.

I considered, for the briefest of moments just driving out with a new car. They had a shiny new 370Z, the trim that replaced my 350 this model year. But this was never really an option. I can't exactly afford a new sports car given my current income situation. The blue book value on my 350 is well over the cost of the replacement motor, so it makes financial sense to do the repair. And, most importantly, the 370 doesn't come in a convertible.

Engine replacement it was to be. The estimate from Vic is that the car should be ready to go on Thursday or Friday, making for an unexpected one week stay in Tampa. On the upside, they're going to replace the clutch with no additional labor cost since, y'know, they're going to have the darn thing up on a rack with the engine completely removed anyway. So why not?

Needless to say, Friday was a long and stressful day. In the evening we were joined by my former co-worker Aaron Forsythe, in town to help out at a Magic tournament. Sheldon, Aaron, Scott Larabee and I went out to dinner with a couple of Sheldon's local friends and I worked very hard to not let my gloomy outlook bring the whole group down. As the evening progressed I grew more philosophical. First off, I frankly got lucky. For all I know, I drove the thing 200 miles with no oil in the engine. It could have just as easily seized up, caught fire, or God knows what else. While I'd like to be annoyed with Nissan for "letting" this happen just after I got out of warranty, I should really thank the engineers who designed such a hardy power plant. For another, it's not like I'm spending a week in a prison in Turkey. The weather in Tampa is a little sticky as summer comes to an end, but it's sunny and warm and all around pleasant. I don't have to buy a motel room and be lonely for a week, since I'm being hosted by Sheldon and Gretchyn.

Oh, and on the purely materialistic side; there is the 400 square foot pool, jacuzzi, patio grill, and well stocked bar. It's time for this road trip to take a truly unexpected turn.