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.

The Class of '61

Any class reunion that is not your own is the best class reunion.  Generally not much is asked of the spouse, at least directly, and one's emotional detachment from the proceedings allows for amusing character studies.

Or a license to ignore it all and play Hearts on your iPhone.

But I'm not that certain old man I observed, playing electronic cards from under the tablecloth. I thought that after fifty-five years it was high time my husband went to a class reunion.  So did certain 'girls' who have found him on Facebook in the last few years.  Never mind that he didn't remember any of them.  His memory of high school is simply sitting in classes and working late after school.

"I don't remember anyone."

"But they'll remember you."

I suppose that is not at all reassuring, having people blab at you that you have no recollection of at all.  At first my husband, in his typically frank fashion, simply used this broad truth when he was at a loss on how to respond, but more often than not there was at least a mutual memory to spin off of.  Or deadly curiosity.

Well, I set up that scenario.  I suggested matching shirts that my husband had sewn us several years ago.  Black and tan, with a pattern silhouette of a cowboy and his dog.  Blue jeans.  I wore my boots, which make me about ten inches taller than he is---and taller than most any other man in the room, even if I'm only five-ten without heels.  We entered the restaurant, and above the roar of the crowd came a squeal of delight from across the room.  A pretty lady edged her way towards us, looking much like her 1961 self featured on the name card on her chest.

The shirts in a different setting.

"I'm so glad you two came!" she said, giving us both a big hug.  I knew more or less what the girls on Facebook looked like, and she was not one of them.  In fact she never knew of my husband in high school, but she obviously knew who we were.

"How long have you two been together?"

We told her nineteen years, and that we had drove all the way from California for this occasion.

"California!  You know, as soon as my son graduated from high school, he went straight to California.  What else could he do in 1981?"

I thought there were plenty of closer escape routes in 1981---Boston, New York---but I suppose San Francisco is about the farthest away one can get from a New England mill town.

"Are you on Facebook?" she asked.

"Yes, are you?"

"No, but my son is!  His name is --- "  She had to have been voted the sweetest girl in high school.  Alas, we did not have a yearbook in hand to check on my intuition, but I did take his name down and contacted him on Facebook, joking you know how mothers are.

Another woman called our attention and took our picture from about ten feet away.  As far as I know, my husband never got to talk to her.

Our go-to Facebook girl escorted us to a small table we were to share with her husband.  He was of the small fireplug French farmer type, not handsome but nice looking with a complexion that made him look at least ten years younger.  We took an immediate liking to him, and the feeling was mutual.  Since his wife was on the reunion planning committee, he had been put in charge of the scholarship fundraiser raffle, a task he didn't seem to begrudge a bit.  This is not the first marriage for either one, and there was a sense of honoring each others efforts.  We bought tickets.

There was a man on the reunion planning board that was even more gaga over us than Her Sweetness.  He was yet another man with a good complexion, although not as firmly planted on his face.  His wavy white hair hovered around his head like a halo, giving him a spinster's air. I kept imagining his 'do cropped on the sides, the wave saucy on his forehead, as he kept touching us, hugging us.  Finally he passed by my seated husband again and kissed him on top of his head.  He was that happy that there was an out gay couple at the reunion he helped planned.  We got his story in bits and pieces,  mostly in the present tense: Senior housing, not out in that setting.  Besides the planning group, his church seemed to be his only social venue: "They're very accepting." The pianist for this occasion was the church pianist---a gay teddy bear, a very good player but totally unnecessary in the din.

Oh, the teacher that got arrested for improprieties with male students had to be discussed:

"I hated him," my husband said.

"Oh, I had a crush on him," mused the spinster.  "He gave me a ride once.  Just a few blocks ... "

It seemed the spinster's life had only gone a few blocks in any direction.

Drizella, unseated.

There were people of interest we never met.  One was Cinderella's Wicked Stepsister, Drizella.  She was the spitting image of that Disney character, and she was spitting mad that someone took the seat she has saved at a large table.  She raged at her husband over the indignity of it all, secretly aware that it had been done on purpose.  No one wanted to sit next to her.

Drizella's husband had a similarly long upper lip, but it was not set in umbrage like his wife's, but for the fact that he had very long chest hair that had wandered up his neck like Boston Ivy.  His nose was simply trying to escape the indignity of it all.  I suspect he felt this strange lack of grooming was his one personal victory over Drizella, never realizing that it pleased her by giving her something else to bitch about.

Actually, Mr. Drizella did come up to us with an inquiry.  Unfortunately, my husband was pleasantly occupied with someone else, so I had to field the question.

"My wife wants to know why you're wearing matching shirts."

I regarded him with a mixture of diffidence and disdain:  "Because we came together."

This didn't seem to make sense to him.  Too bad my husband was unavailable.  He would have simply said because we're married and watch Drizil get all flustered.  Ask me a personal question, and you'll get a personal answer.  I can't wait to be old enough not to give a shit.

"What's the pattern?"  As if it was cryptic or something.

I looked down, my hand smoothing my view.  "A cowboy.  And his dog."

I looked back up at him coolly, and having sensed he'd get nothing more from me, Drizil wandered back to Drizella to file his report.

A tiny woman then came up to inspect our shirts.  She was a seamstress, so apparently she had the right to do so.  Her own costume were expertly tailored, but not timeless.  Her brown A-line skirt that reached just below her knees and fussy patterned blouse screeched 1977.  Her cute little body and unlined face would have been a knockout in a dark sheath dress, but it was plain to see that she had no idea on how to be anything but dowdy.  She grabbed my wrist to inspect my cuffs, ran her fingers over the yoke and turned out the collar at my throat.  She pronounced all to be very good.

"And you're from California, so you can name your price," she said, turning to my husband.  "I gave up sewing garments.  People here pay more for slipcovers than wedding dresses."

In my telling you may think this reunion was full of seventy-three-year-olds fresh from frolicking in the the fountain of youth, despite their shortcomings in personal style, but there were indeed some gargoyles of both sexes, as well as people who looked fabulous yet old.

The buffet meal was fantastic, especially considering that the whole shindig cost only $25 a head.  My twentieth had cost $60 apiece for crappy food and a crappier d.j.  My thirtieth didn't even happen because of indecisive egos.  Obviously our parents have better budgetary skills---and they know how to K.I.S.S. and make up.

A man paused at our table.  His beauty had gone a bit pudgy, but that only made him look fifteen years younger.

"I saw you two eating breakfast this morning.  I was at Jean's, too, with some friends."

I had a vague recollection of him, sitting nearby with several men of similar eye appeal.  We were all dressed more casual at the time, so we had caught his eye even without the shirts.  He now looked a bit senatorial in a jacket and tie.

"Where are you staying?" He seemed to be following his intuition.

"Motel 6," we answered unabashedly.

"So am I," he replied, not so relaxed over that declasse fact.  "I have my new cocker spaniel with me, and as you know, that's about the only place that's pet friendly. What room are you in?"

"123."

"117," he chuckled.

He seemed reluctant to go more into depth, so he simply laid his hand softly on my shoulder and then moved on.  However, this was not the last my husband saw of him.

It was time for the raffle, and Facebook Girl really needed a cigarette.

"I'm taking your husband out into the parking lot with me," she growled in my ear.  "I need to talk to him.  You have the raffle tickets..." she added, as half an apology.

"Don't worry about me, dear," I replied, patting her arm.

Sitting alone at the table, the subject of idle speculation around the room, was slightly unnerving.  My tickets and my glass of water were my only props.  I didn't win the box of taffy, the coffee mug and other silly prizes---and the grand prize, announced at the last minute as $290 cash---went to Drizil!  I'm sure it was the D's social score of the decade.

Long after the raffle had ended my husband finally reappeared. He assured me that my patience would be rewarded: "Have I got some stories to tell you later."

I told him about the D's social triumph.

"So that's why Drizella was so happy when she reached out and said hello to me when I came back in," my husband mused wryly.

As I mentioned earlier, this is not Facebook Girl's first marriage.  Her husband has children from a previous marriage, the youngest a son about five years younger than myself.  This son came out to his mother and brother and was very poorly received, so he was terrified of coming out to his father.  Facebook Girl convinced him that Dad would be alright with it, and he was and is very supportive of his son.  Perhaps to a fault, for the son has a penchant for Puerto Ricans and makes life decisions based on his loins, so they've had to bail him out several times.  "And we're too old to bail him out anymore."  So, upon hearing at the table of my husband's semi-retired drug rehab therapist status, I imagine Facebook Girl was eager to vent a story not many people care to hear, and to discuss strategy.

The simple fact that his son was gay had come up at the table.  "I just wish he'd find someone nice," Dad had said, glancing over at me.  "It's tough to grow old alone."  His tenderness expressed was now tempered by my knowledge of his fear and frustration of maybe not being able to help his son again.

The man who saw us at breakfast was out in the parking lot, too.  After Facebook Girl was finished, he still lingered, so my husband approached him.

"So," the man began.  "How long have you been out of the closet?"

And so two late bloomers compared notes.  Although this man had numerous affairs in high school.

The Boy Most Likely

"He was VIP in school," my husband recalled.  "Handsome, smart, popular, involved in many clubs.  The Boy Most Likely."

So to speak ...


Mr. VIP named the names of the dead he had done in high school, but was otherwise polite.  "Several are here, after all," he demurred.  "With their wives."  So he was a gentlemen in a precarious retro social position, and thus very discreet.  I wondered if I had had such an illustrious high school career that I would ever go back, although I guess he was also reliving the secret thrill of it all.  And obviously he still had friends locally, judging by the boys at breakfast.  Of course I cannot be sure they're 'boys', but they all seemed pretty much peas in a pod---poised, restrained.  Although Mr. VIP now lived in the Big City, there was something unworldly about him, that despite his sexy past he was perhaps closer to the aforementioned Spinster's life than one can readily imagine.

Being an afternoon event in a restaurant, the reunion promptly began to unravel within a couple of hours.  We lingered, among the last to leave as the dinner reservations started arriving.  The ladies leaving remembered my husband from grammar school, the old neighborhood, the grocery store he worked at---or simply said you're cuter now than you were in high school.  So true of many of us who suffered At Seventeen.

"So, are you coming to the sixtieth?" asked Facebook Girl.

"Yes," my husband grinned.  "I think we will."

"Good!"

"Good!" I echoed.  "That means a a new pair of matching shirts for us!"