When Interstates Fail

Anyone who has read one of my travelogues knows I avoid the Interstates.  They are boring. If one sees something of interest beyond the fence, they must drive miles around to see it up close---if the point of interest is accessible at all.  Way Out West services are spotty, and the masses are thrown together at preordained stops, and all wanting to be somewhere else.  Eye contact is avoided, the desperate ignored.  Where are we? is the phrase most often overheard.  The Interstate World is very narrow, and very long.

That said, I am thankful the Interstates exist. They handle the majority of our nation's traffic, so the secondary roads I choose to drive are relatively free of the annoyances once so common to cross country travel: The slow truck, the tailgater and head-on collisions.  And while services on these roads between towns have largely disappeared, the ones you find are glad to see you---and you're likely to walk back to your car with a memorable experience.  Or at least an interesting one.

But in the West there is often few choices in getting from A to B in a day or two.  And so I decided this time to not to take that misnomer, The Loneliest Highway in America, US 50, and stick to Interstate 80.  After all, I had never seen the landscape east of Elko, Nevada, and the Interstate is the only way to see it.

Google Maps didn't make it look very attractive.  Interstate 80 appeared to mostly cross sage-dotted alluvial fans bisected by narrow, rocky ranges.  Perhaps if I had played with the 3D effect I would have had a better idea what we were in for, but---as I've said, there are no other choices, so one might as well be disappointed or surprised in the moment of driving.

MAP:

Elko, Nevada to Evanston, Wyoming

Despite the smoke of numerous wildfires in the West, it was a scenic drive east of Elko.  Or at least one wished it was clear enough to really enjoy the snow-streaked Ruby Mountains to the south.  The landscape, dotted with sage but also blotched by invasive platinum blond cheat grass, is indeed a vast alluvial fan---so large in scale that one is rarely aware of the formation but only of going up or down or crossing a plain at a lesser gradient.  It's a high land, and the mountains are always sinking to the horizon.  The mark of civilization is light, and signs of the past seem to disappear fast.  Exits like Beverly Hills lead to nothing more than a canyon oasis for RVs---any forty-year old dreams of a chic ranchette subdivision are as fleeting as the clouds overhead.

We stopped in Wells because gas is cheaper there than Elko.  After filling up our Spark (54 MPG), at one of the truck stops, we wandered north into town.  I'd always been curious about it, especially since a 6.0 earthquake effectively destroyed the old business district in 2008.  The buildings remain, topless, walls torn away to reveal forlorn rooms of abandoned hotels and boarding houses.  The only lasting visible aid given the district are large, heavy duty tarps offering coverage like worn out shower caps.  The buildings are irredeemable, as any real commerce had already waned long before the quake.  Men lurked in the alleys---perhaps squatters.  The business blocks could be no more ghostly if not located at the end of fifty miles of dirt road.  The quake dealt Wells with only its second (and presumably permanent) population decline in its almost 150 year history---quite remarkable for a rural Western town, so often subject to the slightest whims of the economy.

A bank residence.  Wells, Nevada.

Around the corner, facing the railroad tracks---an orientation that became obsolete when cross-country auto travel became common in the 1920s---is a fierce little bank building in the classical mode.  Long since a residence, it is perhaps the only place of note left in town---besides Donna's Ranch half hidden across the tracks.  The Best In The West Since 1869.  A secondary boast is perhaps even more impressive: Open 24 Hours A Day Since 1869.  Which really must be a historical record of some sort for any business.  Although many men of note have passed through the doors, the boxer Jack Dempsey is perhaps the most enduring icon.  His first wife, Maxine, worked there for eight years.  Today, four independent contractors work at Donna's, and if your curiosity must be satisfied, the whole desultory business is explained on their website: Donna's Ranch.

East of Wells Interstate 80 makes a comfortable climb up a canyon to Pequop Summit.  It's quite scenic, the gray, rugged canyon walls dotted with juniper trees and other mountain desert shrubbery.  At the time of our passing, construction moved all the traffic into the eastbound lanes, so as we casually climbed behind laboring semis we could muse over the object they were building over the westbound lanes.  It appeared to be a ginormous corrugated steel tunnel or shed, much taller in clearance than any vehicle needed.  There was no explanation posted, which seemed odd.  It was not until we approached another, completed set of tunnels over the Interstate that we figured it out: a wildlife corridor pass-over.  The steel 'tunnels' are covered with impressive amount of fill, so that crossing over is almost like any other animal trail. I was amazed at the effort, so far away from most people's concern.  Too bad similar efforts can't be pushed through in exurban areas, where wildlife is being cut off from their native territory.

The eastern descent off of Pequop Summit is a surprising drop compared to the climb on the west side.  I threw our Spark into neutral and caught up with passing traffic for free---and even passed it.  To the south is a circa 1930 alignment of old US 40, stripped of its pavement.  It starts off straight enough down in the valley, then struggles about two thirds of the way up and curls about, trying to mount the face of the range.  It's the only old road visible from the Interstate east of Elko.

Hotel Oasis, circa 1950.

We swooped into Oasis like a descending eagle, duly noting the large, derelict building just north of the Interstate as we flew by.  I would have taken a look if I didn't have to drive nine miles just to turn around.  Which is, perhaps, the reason for the eventual demise of the Hotel Oasis and all the accompanying businesses.  The Vegas-esque success of West Wendover to the east on the Nevada/Utah border was certainly no help.  But even without that Americans on the Interstate rarely get out of their car, and when they do, it's usually for a national franchise.

There are two more broad valleys to cross before one unceremoniously plummets into West Wendover.  The landscape has forgone all earthly pretense by this time. The Interstate cuts through the jagged lunar-like mountains and darts out onto the endless, glistening salt flats.  The casinos attempts to surburbanize the immediate surroundings only make it seem more like a spaceport.  It does not matter, as life is spent indoors here.  A large sign advertised Penn & Teller, and I had to think a moment aren't they hot in Vegas? only to realize that was probably ten years ago.  I think I rather be Charo in Laughlin than Penn & Teller in West Wendover.  At least she'd have a nice view out of the window of her declasse hotel suite to soften the thud of hitting bottom.

The Bonneville Salt Flats hold interest for a few minutes---and maybe a few minutes more if it's clear and the mountain ranges rise crisply out of the glistening white expanse.  But it was not clear, only glare on glare, and it was a good time to hand over the wheel at the rest stop and nap for awhile.

There were several false promises of the Watsach Front through the haze, but once we escaped the Interstate at Magna and passed by the molybdenum plant we popped out into the sprawl that is Greater Salt Lake.  The Watsach was unmistakable, even through the smog.  There is much talk of how cosmopolitan Salt Lake City is now, and it appears so---with all the adjacent annoyances of traffic, ugly shopping centers and endless town homes hopscotched across the weedy plains.  I had planned on some thrift shopping and a lunch at some local place of interest, but the heat and wind just made me cranky for a big salad.  Besides, our Android powered navigation was not cooperating in giving us such details, so after picking up some milk and cheese for our electric cooler at a WinCo, we drove on to the next shopping mall and had salads in an overly refrigerated Black Bear Diner.  Our waitress was from San Bernadino and probably self-medicating.  Or should have been.  Her attention varied from zero to overly personal, but she got the job done, the salads were good and there was enough left over to put in our cooler for later.  Which, unknown to us at the time, came in very handy.

I chose to dogleg through downtown Salt Lake, passing by the University of Utah and up and out via Emigration Canyon. It was a fairly uninteresting drive through town, my attention mostly given to being in the right lane at the right time while trying to stay out of the locals way.  Above the University is a famous spot called This Is The Place Heritage Park, where Brigham Young proclaimed It is enough. This is the right place. Drive on. This proclamation was shortened to This Is The Place as it was relayed back through the wagon train.  Somehow I think those poor Mormons would have turned their handcarts around if they faced that sight now for the first time.

We rounded another climbing curve on the boulevard and came upon a perfect match of our purple Spark, right down to the sunroof.  It was the first time we've seen one, so I honked a greeting---but even though the horn commands like a Buick, it did not arouse the driver from his texting.

Emigration Canyon is interesting, inasmuch that it reminds me of Laurel Canyon in Los Angeles.  Not so intimate in scale, but a motley assemblage of homes, from old weekend cabins to mansions---the residents of many persuasions, as indicated by a rainbow flag.  Eventually civilization is left behind, and the road curls on up above the smog and into the cool blue ether at Live Mountain Summit.  A turn onto Utah 65 continued our climb to Big Mountain Pass (elevation 7420 feet) covered with spruce and aspen groves.  The heat returned as we dropped down to East Canyon Reservoir, but at least the air was clean and the wind was tamed to a breeze.

Modern Motel, Echo, Utah, circa 1962.

At Henefer we continued east on old US 30, which runs adjacent to Interstate 84 and 80.  At Echo the old road widens briefly to four lanes divided, showcasing a short stretch of postwar roadside Americana that no longer serves the public but is still in reasonably good shape.  This incarnation of US 30 likely had a very brief heyday, say circa 1950-60, before the Interstate took all the traffic away.

The landscape at Echo grows colorful, as one expects Utah to be, and even more so as one continues close to the red cliffs east on old US 30.  Eventually this 1930s alignment rejoins Interstate 80 (the circa 1920 alignment is abandoned alongside the railroad tracks), and with no alternative that is the way we went.  We were enjoying the fact that we were within a dozen miles of our destination, Evanston, when we skimmed around a curve and found the Interstate had come to a halt ahead of us.  I coasted to a stop and turned off the engine.  No traffic came from the other direction.  Not a good sign.  We were entering another construction zone that suggested two way traffic on one side of the freeway, with the other side torn up.  Another bad sign.  I switched from SiriusXM to AM, but KSL in Salt Lake was only reporting on local traffic woes.  The sun was burning me, so I switched seats with my husband.  Against my advice, he pushed the OnStar button, and the man on the other end was of no help at all once he figured out where we were: beyond all secondary roads, and he didn't know the cause of the problem.  A few cars started using the emergency u turn in the division strip to go back down the canyon.  Since I was not in the drivers seat, we sat.  Emergency vehicles passed us on the shoulder.  An hour passed.  Finally we started creeping up to the next rural interchange to nowhere, where a policeman was turning everyone around.  A semi had gone through the temporary barrier head-on into a car.  Word was passed down like it was on the emigrant train, but the energy was anything but jubilant.  Truckers pull over to nap off the expected six to eight hour wait.  Motorists were a little less laid back.

Before the Interstate blockage, this lovely scenery east of Echo.

"NO!" the policeman yelled at a passing car.  "DON'T DRIVE ONTO THE WESTBOUND LANES!  THEY'RE BLOCKED BY EMERGENCY AND CONSTRUCTION EQUIPMENT" 

He ran his hand through his hair in exasperation and sighed as he explained for the umpteenth time to the next car that there was no detour available.  Well, by his manner you could tell there was something of one, but nothing he'd want to send hundreds of impatient, inexperienced drivers over.

"I'm not sitting here in the dark with a bunch of crazed urbanites pissing in the brush," I growled to my husband.  "There is a way around, but it's long.  So what?"  I added, showing him the map.  "I rather be driving and getting to our non-refundable room that sitting here. I drove that road once some 25 years ago.  We should get into Evanston by midnight." 

This detour was 127 miles long: DETOUR

We headed back down to Echo, passing the backup that now extended for some five miles.  We got off the Interstate at Coalville and I kicked my husband out of the driver's seat.  I filled the gas tank, as I knew there was no more gas for the next hundred miles.  After I got back into the car and as my husband lingered in the store in search of ice cream bars, a lady in a champagne colored Cadillac pulled up beside me and started filling up, too.

"Are you driving up to Upton?" she asked.  Apparently our California plate let her guess at our predicament.

I glanced down at the Official Utah Highway Map in my lap. "Uh, no."  I had seen that shorter route she mentioned, but the pavement ended at the Wyoming border, and I wasn't looking for that kind of adventure after sundown. 

"Oh, I thought we could go along together.  I was talking to my father in Evanston, and he gave me the directions, but I don't know.  I've never taken that road before."

"We're going via Kamas."

"Oh, that's a nice drive.  Long, but you won't have any problems."  She looked down onto my lap.  "Can I look at your map?"

"Sure," I replied, and handed it over.  She studied it, but I'm not sure if she knew what it meant with the line goes from solid black to thin broken parallel lines.  At least she was driving a Cadillac, and OnStar would find her if she got lost or stuck somewhere.

KSL was finally reporting the Interstate closure at the Utah/Wyoming border.  I kept it on AM, jogging between Salt Lake, Los Angeles and Seattle stations, even if the radio's performance was annoying compared to the GM/Delco product I have enjoyed in the past---or even the radio in the ten year old Prius we just traded in.  Satellite radio is just another step removed from your surroundings.

It was well past sunset when we entered the Watsach National Forest, but twilight lingered for a good hour and a half, pink and turquoise and lovely.  The gloaming veiled the fact that the forest was not nearly as nice at it was when I last came through in the 1990s.  Bark beetle had destroyed most of the old growth, and they stood like gray skeletons over a younger and fortunately relatively healthy forest.  The forest was also packed with vacationers, their eyes aglitter from our headlights like so much wildlife.  We climbed and climbed, and the air grew cold as we topped out at over 10,000 feet.

The downgrade into Wyoming on Utah 150 is steeper than the ascent, and a few people had found our detour from the opposite direction.  First there was a large semi crawling along, and then a Greyhound bus with PORTLAND glowing above the windshield.  It was hardly doing better than the semi, and one can imagine the unrest on board after some ten miles at maybe less than twice that speed.  And then there were the curves on the other side to look forward to.  Fourth gear and calculated braking held our Spark back at around sixty.  The high beams picked out roadside reflectors at more than a mile away, which was reassuring, but I was a bit anxious about deer jumping out onto the highway.

The road flattened out into a more gradual, rolling decent.  Eventually we passed the spot where the map said the road from Upton came in, but now in studying Google maps it suggests the main unpaved road went straight into Evanston.  I wonder how clear that was with only a strip of dull yellow left on the western horizon.  At any rate, we made it onto the empty streets of Evanston and into our motel room by 10:45 pm, which was well ahead of what I anticipated.  I ate the rest of my salad and promptly went to bed.