The Pacific Northwest

I spent July 21-23 wending my way through Napa Vally’s towns and vineyards, then traveled on to visit the Redwoods on California’s coast. I don’t know if it was their immense size or unfathomable age, but I felt a sense of reverence walking among them and settled into a pleasant routine while there. I’d get up in the chilly morning when I could still see my breath, make enough coffee to fill my travel mug and thermos, hike for several hours among the giant trees, then spend the afternoon in the sun on the Pacific coast. Just before sunset I’d grab my book and thermos of warm coffee and sit on a bench by a grassy field to read, look for elk, and watch the sun go down. 

I made noise when I hiked. I could go miles without seeing another human, but something big was definitely using the trails. Whether elk or bear, I didn’t know, but I wasn’t keen to surprise either. As I was coming down from a mountain ridge, in grass so tall I half-expected Humphrey Bogart to pass in the African Queen, I heard an unusual sound, like a creaking door. For a moment I wondered if that’s what elk sound like, then rounded a corner to see a leaning redwood, propped on another redwood which was breaking its fall. While I can’t say whether a tree falling in the forest makes a sound if no one’s there to hear it, if I’m in that forest, there is the distinct sound of running. 

On Saturday, July 26, I headed northeast toward Crater Lake National Park, surprised I couldn’t pump my own gas in Oregon, but pleased over the striking improvement in roadside coffee. On the way, I came across a car wash fundraiser, and gladly supported the Grants Pass High School cheerleaders to perform in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade after they cheerfully scrubbed 20-states-worth of bugs off my windshield. 

I’d learned of Crater Lake through Ken Burns’ 12-hour National Park documentary, which I had to stop watching 4-hours in so I wouldn’t keep adding parks to my itinerary. The crater was formed by a volcanic eruption over 7000 years ago, and filled with precipitation over time. The water looks so pristine and undisturbed I was surprised to learn people can swim in it - and of course I had to. I got up early on July 27, and hiked into the crater wearing several warm layers to ward off the chill. I talked two strangers into getting in with me, and they assured me they'd let a park ranger know if my cold muscles seized up and I sank like a rock. It was exhilarating! The reunion with my fleece and pants was, too.

I dried off and got on the road, bound for Portland. A few days earlier I’d been feeling pleasantly surprised over how smoothly my logistics were going. Soon after, I realized I’d told my Portland friends I was coming in August instead of July. With just 2 days warning, they graciously took me in, encouraging me to use their washer and carving out fridge space for my perishables. They even whipped out a stack of maps and brochures to help plan my Portland sightseeing, and looked up pictures of bear poo so I’d be better able to recognize it in future. 

On Tuesday, July 29, I headed on to Seattle, grabbed a coffee, and started exploring. I came across a disorienting statue of Vladimir Lenin, found a huge stone troll (?!), and received an extra slice of pie at a bakery when the staff saw my struggle to decide between “key lime” and “s’more.” On Wednesday, after a post-pie run, I took a fascinating tour of underground Seattle, learning how the city was razed by fire, then raised by city planners during its rebuilding.

On Thursday, July 31, I headed east toward Glacier National Park in Montana, double-checking the locations of Washington’s wildfires as I planned my route. One of Glacier’s most famous hikes is the Highline Trail, which follows the Continental Divide along a mountain ledge, past waterfalls, over snow, and through fields of wildflowers. I parked the Subaru at the trailhead, put a dry erase board in the window noting the trail I was on and time I’d be back, tied a bandana over my ears for warmth, and set off. About a mile into the hike, I came face-to-face with a large white mountain goat along a narrow path, and quickly backtracked to where I could get up a slope and out of its way. I averted my gaze and spoke calmly in a monotone as he passed. I hadn’t read specific strategies for goats, but figured neither of those could hurt. I later learned that a hiker had encountered a bear along that ledge a few days before, and was thankful I just got a goat.

The night before I left Glacier I found out that a friend I served with in the Peace Corps, and his wife whom I also met in Turkmenistan, were visiting family just miles from where I was camping. We caught up over breakfast on August 3, and they invited me back to their family’s home for a shower, sending me on my way with some freshly picked Montana huckleberries. Cleaner, and very grateful, I headed on toward Yellowstone.

I’d always wondered if it’s obvious when you get a flat tire. It was. I pulled off onto the berm, neatly stacked my camping gear along the side of the highway, dug out the spare tire, and - having exhausted all of the steps I knew - consulted the Subaru's owner's manual. Following its clear instructions, I methodically repositioned the car so all 4 tires were on flat asphalt, engaged the emergency brake, assembled the jack, figured out where to put it based on the diagram, and loosened the bolts. Though I was feeling good about how smoothly I was moving through the manual, when a car stopped and a couple got out asking if I needed help, I gladly accepted. We finished changing the tire together, and then I repacked the car and wrestled the punctured tire into the back on top of my camping gear. I then read the remaining instructions, and dutifully wrestled the tire again, moving it to a spot where it would be less likely to kill me in the event of a sudden stop. 

I got back on the road with the hazards on, careful not to exceed 50mph, and eventually reached the next town where I called some repair shops, concluded that none would be open on a Sunday evening in rural Montana, and checked into a hotel.  When I got to the auto repair shop the next day, they had the tire fixed and me back on the road within 30 minutes, no charge. Well rested, freshly showered, and stuffed with continental breakfast, I set off again for Yellowstone. Current mile count: 7800.

Redwood State and National Forests, California

It's hard to judge scale, but these are HUGE!

Redwood State and National Forests, California

California coast

Crater Lake National Park, Oregon

Crater Lake National Park, Oregon

View of Portland, with Mount Hood in the distance

Fremont area of Seattle - I skinned my knee climbing up there!

Highland Trail, Glacier National Park, Montana

looking down on the goat

Highline Trail, Glacier National Park, Montana

some remaining glaciers in Glacier National Park

Farther West

I don’t know if it was the bright lights, or having my own shower, but I loved Las Vegas from the moment the Subaru and I hit the strip. I left Zion National Park in Utah on July 14, and after a quick detour to Hoover Dam, settled into my temporary home at the New York-New York Hotel, filling the wastebasket with ice for my perishables. I happily wandered through hotels and casinos, birdwatching at the Bellagio, admiring the Wynn gardens, and smiling over ingenious bathroom-stall cup holders. I bought a bus pass so I could cover more ground, and met a friendly driver who invited me to see Cirque du Soliel’s tribute to Michael Jackson with him later, before dropping me off on Fremont Street to explore historic Vegas. I hesitated for a second, decided he must have cleared some kind of security screening to drive a bus for the city, and accepted. After all - Vegas! 

On July 16, I moved my perishables back to the travel fridge and returned to the road, grabbing a cronut from the lobby bakery in a last act of glorious decadence. As I drove north through Death Valley, the temperature climbed into the 100s. I prefer driving with the sunroof open and windows down, but when my cell phone overheated and my coffee cup got hotter outside than in, I threw in the sweaty towel and turned on the AC. I drove miles through Nevada without seeing other cars, past exits labeled “no services,” a perplexing sign saying it was illegal to pick up hitchhikers, and then the Nevada State Penitentiary.

As the afternoon progressed, dark clouds rolled in and the temperature plummeted. By the time I reached my campsite on the eastern edge of Yosemite National Park, it was 45 degrees and raining too steadily to put up the tent. I dug out my warmest clothes, fixed and ate dinner under the Subaru’s back hatch, relocated all food and toiletries to the metal “bear box” provided at the site, and carved out room to sleep in the back seat. I crawled into my sleeping bag just as the last light was fading, and awoke in the night to a peaceful campground. Then I set off the car alarm trying to get out to use the bathroom.

Yosemite was gorgeous, and so big I could have easily spent weeks there hiking trails and swimming in mountain lakes. Yet on Saturday, July 19, it was time to head west once more - toward San Jose and San Francisco.

I’d heard of the Winchester House years ago on a television special about “America’s Most Haunted Places,” and knew then I had to see it. Distraught over the deaths of her husband and daughter, Sarah Winchester visited a medium who said she was haunted by the ghosts of those killed by the Winchester Rifle, and that their spirits would come after her, too, unless she moved west and built them a home. Construction started on the house in San Jose in 1884, and continued around the clock until her death 36 years later. The resulting 160 rooms are like an Escher print, with stairways into ceilings, hallways doubling back on themselves, and doorways to nowhere. It was architecturally and psychologically fascinating. 

After I’d taken every tour they offered, I drove on to San Francisco. I parked the Subaru on an enormous hill in front of my Airbnb host Phil’s house, remembering my driver’s ed training as I angled the tires and engaged the emergency brake. I spent a relaxed Sunday strolling the waterfront, admiring murals, trying to glimpse the Golden Gate Bridge through the fog, and rooting for San Francisco at the annual California Firefighters Stickball Tournament. On Monday, July 21, I left San Francisco and headed north toward Napa Valley, deliberately driving across the Golden Gate Bridge so I could see it on my way. Nope. Current mile count: 5700.

Zion National Park, Utah

Zion National Park, Utah

Fremont Street, Las Vegas, Nevada

Yosemite National Park, California

Yosemite National Park, California

Yosemite National Park, California

the view from my picnic table near Yosemite

The Winchester House, San Jose, California

Mission District, San Francisco, California

Mission District, San Francisco, California

Mission District, San Francisco, California

The West

I drove southwest on July 3, across Kansas, into the narrow bit of Oklahoma, and on to New Mexico, fascinated by how the land changed from rolling green hills, to flat golden fields, to billowing brown dust. When I stopped to get gas and check oil a friendly man in an NRA hat inquired if I needed help. We chatted for a minute, and when he learned my cross-country plans, he asked if I was “packing”. I smiled, shook my head, and told him “no, but I have a whistle.” His look suggested he didn’t think I’d clear Kansas.

During the drive my iPhone navigation app started using “east” and “west” interchangeably, which kept me alert as I pressed on toward Cimarron, New Mexico. When I got to my campground, the woman at registration gave me the familiar warning to store all food in the car, explaining they have a bear which frequents their dumpster and once walked on some campers who took food into their tent. I looked around, saw I was the only tent in a sea of RVs, and closest to the dumpster, and stuck my sunblock and toothpaste in the car, just in case.

On Friday, July 4, I drove farther into New Mexico, through the Rocky Mountains, with each bend in the road revealing breathtaking views of pine covered ridges, rushing mountain streams, and sheer rock walls. I was on my way to Ghost Ranch.

Established in the 1930s, Ghost Ranch has hosted famous guests like Charles Lindbergh and Cary Grant, offered respite to the atomic bomb builders, served as home and inspiration to Georgia O’Keeffe, and provided the backdrop to movies like City Slickers and Indiana Jones. More importantly in my world, it’s where my parents first met, working one summer during college. 

I chose a quiet campsite facing a mountain called Pedernal, which O’Keeffe painted often. I was again racing the rain as I put up my tent, backing into the same cactus twice. As I sat that night reading, the wind gusts were so strong that once I actually thought someone had fallen against the canvas, onto my back. I turned off my lantern wondering if the tent would stay up through the night. It did, though the storm wrenched 3 of 8 stakes from the ground. 

I spent July 5 and 6 exploring the ranch, meeting staff and other guests, and hiking. I’d heard about an old monastery nearby, so set off Sunday afternoon down a 13-mile dead-end dirt road to visit. It wasn’t until mile 11 that I started to worry about just showing up. My anxiety and curiosity grew in equal measure as I parked the car and walked the final half mile on foot, down a maze-like gravel path with large wooden crosses at every turn. I was relieved when I finally arrived to find welcoming Benedictines and a gift shop. 

On Monday, July 7, I drove into Santa Fe for an oil change and walk through the artsy downtown, then visited Los Alamos, the birthplace of the atomic bomb. The logistics of how Los Alamos was built, run, and kept secret were fascinating; even birth certificates listed a PO box instead of town name. Yet though I was glad I visited, and amicably snapped a photo for a smiling family in front of a replica of one of the bombs, it was sobering and Oppenheimer’s quote from the Hindu Bhagavad Gita echoed in my mind: “Now I am become Death, the destroyer of Worlds.” I returned to Ghost Ranch in time to have dinner in the dining hall, borrow a video about Georgia O’Keeffe from the ranch library, and watch Pedernal’s violet hues deepen one last time as the sun disappeared over the horizon.

I left Ghost Ranch on July 8, heading northwest toward Mesa Verde in Colorado, and its Native American cliff dwellings, built by the Ancestral Pueblo people between 1200 and 1280. I stopped for lunch and supplies at a cafe/grocery a few miles from the park. When the woman working the checkout learned I’d be camping at Mesa Verde, she encouraged me to take more cheesy bread from the salad bar, and instructed me to listen during the night, saying it was a spiritual place. I promised I would, and mentally added spirits to my list of things to listen for at night, alone, in my tent. 

I got up before dawn on July 9, packed up my campsite by lantern light, and drove deeper into the park to see the cliff dwellings from a distance before joining a tour into the one dwelling tourists can enter. Ranger Jim hummed the Indiana Jones theme as we climbed a 32-foot ladder, on the side of a 700-foot cliff. I didn’t love that part, but getting inside was worth it, and the crawl out through an 18-inch wide tunnel was easier.

I left Mesa Verde around lunchtime, Grand Canyon bound, making a quick stop en-route to visit the Four Corners, where Colorado, New Mexico, Utah and Arizona meet. I was tired. When the radio failed, I popped in the road trip CDs my Open Society Public Health Program colleagues made me. And when I started to get drowsy, I stopped for gas and coffee, pouring from a dark pot labeled “jolt” which revived me. Somewhere in Arizona I hit a bird, and passed a few miles worrying that it may have ricocheted through the sunroof and be somewhere in the car... And then I saw the Grand Canyon, and forgot the bird, my fatigue, and everything else as I took it in. Teddy Roosevelt was right: “You cannot improve on it.”

On July 10, I took at 7-mile hike along “Hermit Road” on the South Rim, and on July 11, I ventured into the canyon itself on a 9-mile hike. The way down was breathtaking; the way up was, too, given the altitude, grade, and heat. About a mile from the top I came across a father with two little girls who asked me to get him medical help. I had almost no cell reception in the canyon itself, but ascended as fast as I could and called a 911 dispatcher at the top, who immediately sent a ranger. I returned to my tent, passed out for an hour, took a $2 shower, and then warmed some leftover stew for dinner. I wasn’t so worried about bears at the Grand Canyon, but the aggressive ravens were as big as dogs.

On Saturday, July 12, I left Arizona heading north toward Zion National Park in Utah, driving through stunning rock formations and a harrowing mile-long tunnel, built in 1930 when cars were much smaller. I’d decided to spend an extra night at Zion, and luckily secured the last tent site available, C27, with the understanding that I’d need to pack up and move to my reserved site the next day. Miraculously, C27 was my reserved site, but the ranger warned me it had a lot of ants. I sprayed my tent with a special insect repellant for fabrics which seems to have deterred them from climbing it, then crouched on the picnic table bench to keep them from climbing me as I cooked pancakes and eggs for dinner on my propane stove. It made me miss the ravens. Current mile count: 4452.

Eagles Nest, New Mexico 

New Mexico

my Ghost Ranch campsite, with Pedernal in the distance

Chimney Rock, Ghost Ranch, New Mexico

Ghost Ranch, New Mexico

waiting out a thunderstorm during a Ghost Ranch hike 

"Little Boy" and "Fat Man" replicas, Los Alamos, New Mexico

Cliff Palace, Mesa Verde, Colorado

Grand Canyon National Park, Arizona

home away from home

eggs and pancakes, Zion National Park, Utah 

The South and Midwest

I awoke one night while I was planning this trip with an epiphany: I don’t have to travel in straight lines, looking for the shortest or fastest routes. It was liberating! It also explains some weaving across the South and Midwest.

I spent June 19 to 22 in the Atlanta area catching up with friends who assured me it was normal for their washing machine to self-clean, which it did the moment I finished using it. Refreshed and de-grimed, I set off for New Orleans on Sunday, June 22, making stops in Mississippi to see the presidential back-scratching post in Lucedale (“just your typical downtown community back-scratching post until Ronald Reagan came to town”), and the house in Biloxi where Jefferson Davis lived after the Civil War.

In New Orleans, I stayed with Quinn and Andy, a couple I found through Airbnb, who work for the National Park Service and as a hotel concierge, respectively. Both were great resources on NOLA’s history and sites, each night asking about my plans for the coming day, making suggestions, then filling me in on World Cup standings. They lent me a bike which I road all over town, exploring the French Quarter, touring the Garden District, visiting city parks, and comparing pralines. They also explained the rivalry between two neighborhood bars, and their sandwiches. I enthusiastically threw my support behind Parasol’s (which looks like someone’s garage) and its roast beef po’boy.

On Wednesday, June 25, I headed south to Jean Laffite National Park, calling the park for directions when my iPhone routing left me in front of a desolate power station in the middle of a swamp. The ranger I spoke to asked if I’d used google maps, chuckled, then navigated me in. I spent the morning hiking along bayous, keeping watch for alligators, and talking with an equally astounded ranger about how a National Park can continue to be named after a slave trader. I drove on for delicious gumbo and jumbalya at a restaurant I wouldn’t have found, nor thought served food, if not for Quinn’s recommendation. That night Andy mapped out an evening of jazz for me in the bars along Frenchman Street, and Quinn fed me frittata with andouille sausage when I returned too late for a po’boy.

I left New Orleans early Thursday, stopping in Brookhaven, Mississippi to see a giant coffee pot atop a tiny restaurant, before heading on to Memphis to meet a friend’s plane at the airport. We spent the weekend absorbing civil rights history, learning the evolution of soul, and sampling BBQ. An employee at the National Civil Rights Museum mentioned that the average person spends two hours touring it; we spent three, broke for lunch, and went back.

On Sunday, June 29, I awoke to the sound of heavy rain and thunder. As I turned on the coffee maker in the semi-darkness, I felt a drop of water hit my hand, looked up to see it was coming from the ceiling, and alerted our Airbnb hosts who sprang into action with buckets and towels. Because of road closures and flooding, it took me over an hour to get out of Memphis, with water so deep I felt like I was riding a flume each time I entered an intersection. The flooding continued throughout eastern Arkansas, but eased as I drove west, with the sun shining by the time I reached Oklahoma. 

I spent the night in Tulsa in a Swedish couple’s pool house, then did a quick tour of downtown, stood in the enormous Golden Driller’s shadow (the fourth largest statue in the US!), and took a jaunt down Route 66 to visit the Blue Whale of Catoosa. I then headed north toward Kansas, listening to a mix of wheat yield stats and country music, and marveling over how long it had been since I’d seen another car. 

I spent three days east of Wichita, visiting a friend who was visiting her parents. We explored the Flint Hills proving Kansas isn’t flat, saw a wind farm up close, watched a neighborhood softball game, and helped shovel gravel for the foundation of a metal shop. My friend’s mom tried to teach me to crochet and, after several hours and communal skepticism, I finally produced a small, triangular potholder. I set off for New Mexico on Thursday, July 3, with a skein of yarn, crochet needle, and Christmas plan. Current mile count: 3440.

presidential back-scratching post, Lucedale, Mississippi

Jean Lafitte National Park, Louisiana

There was a second shot where he turned toward me, but it was blurry from my backpedaling.

jazz on Frenchman Street, New Orleans, Louisiana

giant coffee pot, Brookhaven, Mississippi

The Lorraine Motel, National Civil Rights Museum, Memphis, Tennessee

The Golden Driller, Tulsa, Oklahoma, with my purse on his foot to show scale!

The Blue Whale of Catoosa, Route 66, Oklahoma

The Flint Hills, Kansas

Beaumont, Kansas

Benedict, Kansas

The East Coast

Hello from the road! After several days of excited tent cleaning, Subaru packing, and supply gathering I set out from my folks place in PA on Friday, June 13. I eased into the road trip rhythm with a short drive to Maryland and spent the weekend catching up with friends there and in Washington, DC. 

On Monday afternoon I headed to Shenandoah National Park in Virginia for my first night of camping. I picked up perishables and firewood en-route, found the campground, set up my tent, and got a fire going with the second match. Around the time I was crawling into my sleeping bag for the night the first rain drops started; shortly after a thunderstorm raged. As I felt the drops forcing their way through the tent’s nylon I remembered that you can see how close lightening is by counting the number of seconds between the flash and thunder. I tried it, only got to “one”, and hurriedly inch-wormed my way as far as possible from my metal nightstand. 

I awoke on Tuesday surprisingly dry, with puddles all over my tent. I toweled things off, treated myself to a 5-minute, coin-operated shower, then set off for the Great Smoky Mountains National Park in Tennessee. The only hiccup came when I stopped for gas and the lever that opens the Subaru’s fuel tank jammed. After conferring with the owner’s manual, and a patron at the next pump who agreed “you can’t do much without gas,” I pried the tank open with a screw driver against a dish cloth and got back on the highway feeling wild. As I settled into campsite number two, I strapped an extra tarp to the top of my tent, just in case.

On Wednesday, June 18, I hiked in the familiar forests of the Appalachian Trail, passing the occasional youth group who politely ma'amed me as I climbed to the ridge. On Thursday, I traveled south through the mountains to my friends’ home in Atlanta, past medians filled with wildflowers. No shower facilities in the Smokies, so I doused myself with Febreze and hoped for the best. Current mile count: 874.

In Pennsylvania, about to set off!

jumper cables, hatchet and A Concise History of the Modern World stored with the spare tire

a morning run in Great Falls National Park, Maryland

The Shenandoah Valley

Shenandoah National Park, Virginia

the kitchen box

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

morning coffee

hiking in the Smoky Mountains

picnic lunch, en-route to Atlanta