Okay, okay -- this post is almost 3 weeks late. But I couldn't *not* post about my last day on the road.
It's true: I drove 16 hours. I was kind of kidding before, but the more I thought about it, the more it made just as much sense for me to sit around in a hotel somewhere outside of Boise not doing anything as it did sitting in my car for a few more hours not doing anything but pressing my foot to the gas.
Alright. Driving is much more stressful than sitting around in a hotel room, and had I known what the last stretch of I-84 was going to be like through the Columbia River Gorge, I probably would've hung out in Boise. But there you go: I did it, I made it and I have that story for the rest of my life.
Right, so I woke up at a Days Inn in Laramie, Wyoming. I first tried staying at a Super 8 when, after passing several signs in the lobby about keeping dogs on leashes and cleaning up after them, I was informed they would not accept cats. Pfffthpt. So down the street to Days Inn, where they allow both dogs and cats to stay the night. I woke up later than I wanted again, not making it out onto the road officially until 8:30 am. As late in the morning as this was, the sun still seemed low, beautiful and stretched out across the crisp morning (I think it was near to 50 degrees). I wasn't prepared in fact. Loading up my car in shorts and a t-shirt, I shivered across the parking lot with my continental breakfast spoils of coffee and a cinnamon raison bagel slathered with what I think was Heinz's version of Philadelphia cream cheese.
Not long after I began I saw my first snow caps far away in the distance. Given how cold I felt earlier, this didn't seem surprising at all. All the way to Utah I noticed what seemed to be useless fencing -- no continuity, one parallel to the other instead of the usual perpendicular to pen something in -- everywhere. Much later I learned that these were not intended for the purposes of confinement, but of hampering the massive snow drifts that close miles and miles of interstate every winter. This must mean they need taller fences.
Oh, the windmills. I was absolutely floored seeing windmills. They're HUGE! I've seen them in pictures, even pictures of hundreds of them in tidy patterns across vast plateaus, but it was not until I actually came upon them myself that I got a clue of how massive they are. I took note of the mile-marker somewhere in Utah when I first noticed their white poles on the horizon. It wasn't until nearly 30 miles later that I was actually passing the structures. Unbelievable. I found their enormity absolutely beautiful. All this made me feel like I was part of some Godfrey Reggio film.
Speaking of beautiful, that's what I thought about Utah. I bypassed Salt Lake City heading north through Ogden, where the land was that of a desert with more snowcaps in the distance. That is a place I'd like to visit again.
Idaho was . . . boring. More long stretches of asphalt straight as an arrow with beautiful topography far off in the distance. The road signs were more fun, however, and I appreciated it. The scraggly brush also made me feel like I should abandon my wagon to go hunt for buffalo in the distance.
As Oregon drew near, I told myself that I was probably in for more boring, and that I should try to stay as objective as possible to the terrain of my new state. Yet almost immediately, and in spite of myself, my heart swelled as the interstate crept north towards the Columbia River, taking me through skinny mountain passes, up along ridges and down to the gigantic river which I followed upstream all the way to Portland.
I admit I was a little peeved that the speed limit dropped from 75 mph (which I had grown quite accustomed to since St. Louis) to Virginia's familiar 65, but given all the crazy turns, I got over that pretty quick. And, much like the West Virginia Turnpike, all the Oregonians were speeding along the Columbia at what must have been almost 80 miles per hour as I remember feeling like I just couldn't keep up.
Not long after entering Oregon I needed to stop to fill up the 'Wo's tank for the last stretch into Portland (that's my Daewo for those of y'all who have not laid eyes on this silver bullet). I did what any naive East Coaster not from New Jersey would do: I got out and prepared to fill 'er up. Not so fast, hot shot! That's right, you can't pump your own gas in Oregon. This was something I failed to notice during my visit a year and a half ago because I flew there. So, I got back into my car, gave the good man my credit card and . . . sat. I was completely thrown off by this new gas station etiquette. See, during the whole trip, fill-ups were what I looked forward to: the walking around, the potty breaks and every now and then, the buying of crap-food inside the almost guaranteed attached convenience store/fast food joint. But I was so thrown off by this new ritual that I just sat there. I mean, do I wait until my tank is full and then park it elsewhere to go inside? Can I leave my car while all this is going on? I now know that the answer to all this is an emphatic yes, but as I later quipped to April, had I known you couldn't pump your own gas in Oregon, I may have reconsidered moving here.
Totally kidding. Honestly, it's kind of nice. I've even started to clean my windows while the attendant does their thing. Oh, and I've also gotten over my visceral urge to tip.
Okay, so I filled up at about dusk with 200+ miles to go. I unfortunately was not able to get any pictures of the gorge because it was so dark and curvy, but this was by far the most amazing part of the entire trip: the Columbia River Gorge is absolutely gorgeous -- pun intended in the Ithica way. I mean, just look at these image results from a Google search. As an aside, before I headed out here, I was curious if there were any Google jobs in the Portland area and thought it strange instead of being in a large city like Portland, they chose this smallish place called The Dalles (rhymes with "The Sal's"). I couldn't figure out why Google would want to put all its Oregon commerce here until I came around a bend and saw the silhouette of Mt. Hood, sharp and menacing, against the purple, 9:30 pm sky. I know nothing about the city itself, but if breathtaking counts as a criterion for where to set down roots, The Dalles seems to have that going for it.
The last part of my trip was a bit of a whirlwind. That is, as the sky got dark, all I could pay attention to were tail lights, street lights and the markings and reflectors on the road. Every mile post ticking down to mile marker 1 -- the exit to the highway leading to my new home -- was painful. It was hour 15 and after three days my ass was really starting to hurt.
At some point during all this -- it may have been before The Dalles or just near Hood River -- Holly decided to get really excited. She began pacing around as much of the perimeter of the car as possible, smashing her face up against every pane of glass and howling as loud as she could. Had I not been traveling with her those other 2 days, I would've guessed it was her first time in a vehicle. It was rather entertaining. She also began batting at tail lights on the windows and dashboard as if they were a two-dimensional projection held there by laser pointer. See, Holly has previously been terrified by laser pointers, so this is good news. There may be hope for a new toy yet.
Interstate 84 ends in the heart of Portland, shooting its travelers north and south, this way and that. Having practically memorized the last set of exits, it felt almost as though I was being pulled along by a series of conveyor belts in some giant factory that knew my exact purpose and where I should be spat out. But as I took my last exit, all that existential, auto-pilot stuff went up in smoke. I got lost.
I drove three days across the country and in the last 2 miles I got lost.
Through no miraculous effort on my part, I stumbled over the right road and finally pulled into the parking lot at the base of our apartment complex. I had used Google's Street View what seemed like a million times to visually walk myself down the street and up to this place, but what is not conveyed in any way shape or form through all those wonderful pictures is how hilly it is. I mean, that this neighborhood is called "Hillsdale" should've given me a clue. It's practically a 45-degree slope from the bottom steps down to the parking lot. I find this kind of cool, but was a bit daunted at 11pm with a cat carrier, suitcase and litter box.
The last story: My roommate and I had spoken earlier in the day and I knew it was pretty likely she wouldn't be there when I arrived, but we had agreed I would call with an ETA once I was pretty close. Having been bone-headed the night before, I neglected to charge my cell phone, so by the time I got there the battery was practically dead. It had just enough juice to call and get Lisa's voicemail. Crap. That meant no way to get in. I began contemplating scouring the perimeter of the buildings for an outside electrical outlet when the thought occurred to me to check for a key. Being the awesome person that she is, Lisa had indeed stowed a key away for me and I was able to bring in the necessities for the night and crash. Crisis averted. (<-- I only say "crisis" 'cause I had to pee.)
It's true: I drove 16 hours. I was kind of kidding before, but the more I thought about it, the more it made just as much sense for me to sit around in a hotel somewhere outside of Boise not doing anything as it did sitting in my car for a few more hours not doing anything but pressing my foot to the gas.
Alright. Driving is much more stressful than sitting around in a hotel room, and had I known what the last stretch of I-84 was going to be like through the Columbia River Gorge, I probably would've hung out in Boise. But there you go: I did it, I made it and I have that story for the rest of my life.
Right, so I woke up at a Days Inn in Laramie, Wyoming. I first tried staying at a Super 8 when, after passing several signs in the lobby about keeping dogs on leashes and cleaning up after them, I was informed they would not accept cats. Pfffthpt. So down the street to Days Inn, where they allow both dogs and cats to stay the night. I woke up later than I wanted again, not making it out onto the road officially until 8:30 am. As late in the morning as this was, the sun still seemed low, beautiful and stretched out across the crisp morning (I think it was near to 50 degrees). I wasn't prepared in fact. Loading up my car in shorts and a t-shirt, I shivered across the parking lot with my continental breakfast spoils of coffee and a cinnamon raison bagel slathered with what I think was Heinz's version of Philadelphia cream cheese.
Not long after I began I saw my first snow caps far away in the distance. Given how cold I felt earlier, this didn't seem surprising at all. All the way to Utah I noticed what seemed to be useless fencing -- no continuity, one parallel to the other instead of the usual perpendicular to pen something in -- everywhere. Much later I learned that these were not intended for the purposes of confinement, but of hampering the massive snow drifts that close miles and miles of interstate every winter. This must mean they need taller fences.
Oh, the windmills. I was absolutely floored seeing windmills. They're HUGE! I've seen them in pictures, even pictures of hundreds of them in tidy patterns across vast plateaus, but it was not until I actually came upon them myself that I got a clue of how massive they are. I took note of the mile-marker somewhere in Utah when I first noticed their white poles on the horizon. It wasn't until nearly 30 miles later that I was actually passing the structures. Unbelievable. I found their enormity absolutely beautiful. All this made me feel like I was part of some Godfrey Reggio film.
Speaking of beautiful, that's what I thought about Utah. I bypassed Salt Lake City heading north through Ogden, where the land was that of a desert with more snowcaps in the distance. That is a place I'd like to visit again.
Idaho was . . . boring. More long stretches of asphalt straight as an arrow with beautiful topography far off in the distance. The road signs were more fun, however, and I appreciated it. The scraggly brush also made me feel like I should abandon my wagon to go hunt for buffalo in the distance.
As Oregon drew near, I told myself that I was probably in for more boring, and that I should try to stay as objective as possible to the terrain of my new state. Yet almost immediately, and in spite of myself, my heart swelled as the interstate crept north towards the Columbia River, taking me through skinny mountain passes, up along ridges and down to the gigantic river which I followed upstream all the way to Portland.
I admit I was a little peeved that the speed limit dropped from 75 mph (which I had grown quite accustomed to since St. Louis) to Virginia's familiar 65, but given all the crazy turns, I got over that pretty quick. And, much like the West Virginia Turnpike, all the Oregonians were speeding along the Columbia at what must have been almost 80 miles per hour as I remember feeling like I just couldn't keep up.
Not long after entering Oregon I needed to stop to fill up the 'Wo's tank for the last stretch into Portland (that's my Daewo for those of y'all who have not laid eyes on this silver bullet). I did what any naive East Coaster not from New Jersey would do: I got out and prepared to fill 'er up. Not so fast, hot shot! That's right, you can't pump your own gas in Oregon. This was something I failed to notice during my visit a year and a half ago because I flew there. So, I got back into my car, gave the good man my credit card and . . . sat. I was completely thrown off by this new gas station etiquette. See, during the whole trip, fill-ups were what I looked forward to: the walking around, the potty breaks and every now and then, the buying of crap-food inside the almost guaranteed attached convenience store/fast food joint. But I was so thrown off by this new ritual that I just sat there. I mean, do I wait until my tank is full and then park it elsewhere to go inside? Can I leave my car while all this is going on? I now know that the answer to all this is an emphatic yes, but as I later quipped to April, had I known you couldn't pump your own gas in Oregon, I may have reconsidered moving here.
Totally kidding. Honestly, it's kind of nice. I've even started to clean my windows while the attendant does their thing. Oh, and I've also gotten over my visceral urge to tip.
Okay, so I filled up at about dusk with 200+ miles to go. I unfortunately was not able to get any pictures of the gorge because it was so dark and curvy, but this was by far the most amazing part of the entire trip: the Columbia River Gorge is absolutely gorgeous -- pun intended in the Ithica way. I mean, just look at these image results from a Google search. As an aside, before I headed out here, I was curious if there were any Google jobs in the Portland area and thought it strange instead of being in a large city like Portland, they chose this smallish place called The Dalles (rhymes with "The Sal's"). I couldn't figure out why Google would want to put all its Oregon commerce here until I came around a bend and saw the silhouette of Mt. Hood, sharp and menacing, against the purple, 9:30 pm sky. I know nothing about the city itself, but if breathtaking counts as a criterion for where to set down roots, The Dalles seems to have that going for it.
The last part of my trip was a bit of a whirlwind. That is, as the sky got dark, all I could pay attention to were tail lights, street lights and the markings and reflectors on the road. Every mile post ticking down to mile marker 1 -- the exit to the highway leading to my new home -- was painful. It was hour 15 and after three days my ass was really starting to hurt.
At some point during all this -- it may have been before The Dalles or just near Hood River -- Holly decided to get really excited. She began pacing around as much of the perimeter of the car as possible, smashing her face up against every pane of glass and howling as loud as she could. Had I not been traveling with her those other 2 days, I would've guessed it was her first time in a vehicle. It was rather entertaining. She also began batting at tail lights on the windows and dashboard as if they were a two-dimensional projection held there by laser pointer. See, Holly has previously been terrified by laser pointers, so this is good news. There may be hope for a new toy yet.
Interstate 84 ends in the heart of Portland, shooting its travelers north and south, this way and that. Having practically memorized the last set of exits, it felt almost as though I was being pulled along by a series of conveyor belts in some giant factory that knew my exact purpose and where I should be spat out. But as I took my last exit, all that existential, auto-pilot stuff went up in smoke. I got lost.
I drove three days across the country and in the last 2 miles I got lost.
Through no miraculous effort on my part, I stumbled over the right road and finally pulled into the parking lot at the base of our apartment complex. I had used Google's Street View what seemed like a million times to visually walk myself down the street and up to this place, but what is not conveyed in any way shape or form through all those wonderful pictures is how hilly it is. I mean, that this neighborhood is called "Hillsdale" should've given me a clue. It's practically a 45-degree slope from the bottom steps down to the parking lot. I find this kind of cool, but was a bit daunted at 11pm with a cat carrier, suitcase and litter box.
The last story: My roommate and I had spoken earlier in the day and I knew it was pretty likely she wouldn't be there when I arrived, but we had agreed I would call with an ETA once I was pretty close. Having been bone-headed the night before, I neglected to charge my cell phone, so by the time I got there the battery was practically dead. It had just enough juice to call and get Lisa's voicemail. Crap. That meant no way to get in. I began contemplating scouring the perimeter of the buildings for an outside electrical outlet when the thought occurred to me to check for a key. Being the awesome person that she is, Lisa had indeed stowed a key away for me and I was able to bring in the necessities for the night and crash. Crisis averted. (<-- I only say "crisis" 'cause I had to pee.)
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