Blue Highways

I came across this early tome of William Least Heat-Moon. He’s hammered out a sequel fairly recently, if the subject intrigues you.

Bill hit a rough patch and lost about everything of significance to him. With a few hundred bucks and a battered work van, he decided this would be the time to roam the country. The logic may not resonate with you, but I’d worked through similar equations two or three times.

The first time was a couple years into a position with a Fortune 500 company, which was also my first professional job. My marriage was about the same vintage. I wasn’t sure I belonged in either contract.

So, I announced to my spouse that for our next vacation, we would load the car down to the spring stops and just head out west. “No plans, no reservations, no discussions on this?”

“No, no and no.” I was wrong about the last no.

We headed out as soon as the whistle blew one Friday. Made it to a motel in Vandalia, IL. I remember that because I noted it held the same name as a burg not that far from our point of origin. I said that the trip was already taking on mystical qualities and Carol gave me a raised eyebrow look that I would encounter again for years to come.

The next stop was Abilene. Ah, Abilene. Home of Fess Parker and Tex Cobb. Cattle shipping point of the Texas and Pacific Railroad. All that Texas cachet.

Except, we were in Abilene, Kansas. Home of Dwight Eisenhower and a microscopic zoo. You read that right. They couldn’t afford a standard zoo, so they had a room full of microscopes focused on one-cell animals. Could’ve sold some campy tee shirts if they had given it any thought.

We checked into a cheap motel and went out to the pool. Standard procedure is that I would take advantage of this and go around and talk with people. Carol would tent a newspaper over her face and pretend to nap and have no knowledge of me.

I met some people heading to race stock cars in Wichita. Right up my alley. We talked the same language. They invited me to pit crew for them. I raced to share the good news with Carol. It did not impress.

I trudged back to decline. To make up some ground, or change the subject, they offered a piece of advice. Don’t eat breakfast on the interstate. Wait until you see a sign at an exit that says “Mouse Breath, 11 miles” or some such town. Go there. There will be a sign that says “Food” or “Eat.” Have your breakfast there.

We did and had the best breakfast, ever. People kept coming over and talking to us. We were invited to attend a barn razing later in the day. That also failed to impress.

So, we pushed on to Denver, cleaned up in a hotel and dined downtown. The Emerson Street East. One of the best steaks I ever had. Next morning, it was over to Golden and the Coors Brewery tour. I had my heart set on a cold, foamy one, but they only gave out purified spring water at the end. I was thirsty, not looking to iron a shirt.

Keeping the hood ornament pointing north, we came to Estes Park. It was idyllic and worth a few days. The exception was one day we parked at a trailhead. I was swinging my car door shut when Carol, screeched, for the hundredth time this trip, “Do you have your key?” If you think you know someone, take a long car trip with her. I slapped my pocket and continued the arc of the door. The split second before it closed, I heard the warning chime and knew the key I felt in my pants was from the motel.

I had to hike a ways down the road to find a wire hanger and then spend some time working it just right. Carol never touched cameras, but she saw fit to pick up mine and capture this for posterity.

North was working, so we continued up into Wyoming. After Cheyenne, I took to the back roads. Almost a big mistake. Towns were few and far between, and many didn’t have gas pumps. We arrived in Lusk and went to the diner after topping off the tank.

It was like a western movie, especially in contrast to the breakfast in Kansas. People just stared at us. We were seated and the unflinching stares persisted. Not a good place to be a stranger in town.

From there, we went east into South Dakota. Carol wanted to see Mount Rushmore and the Badlands. I had seen enough photos. She insisted and was right.

We also made a stop at General Custer State Park, which boasted you could see up to 123 animals. We saw two. Three, if you counted the cocker spaniel. We encountered sign after sign, “Do not molest the bison.” They were followed by one, “Bison burgers, two miles.”

We continued across the state and the sun was dipping, along with our energy levels. Carol was lobbying for a stop. But, none of our recent lodging had had air conditioning and I doggedly held I wouldn’t do another night without it. We drove and squabbled on and on. Finally found a place and it was a dump. In the morning, I caught Carol taking pictures for the record. The woman doesn’t pick up a camera her whole life and all of a sudden she’s Ansel Adams.

As we crossed the Minnesota line, I realized I had a friend from college who lived there. We paid a visit and it was fun, but not the magic of the wanderlust. In Illinois, Carol suggested we visit some of her family in Chicago. That pretty well finished off the magic. Good trip, though.

My next ramble started out similar to Heat-Moon’s. A major investor I had in my business turned out to be a fraud. He looted the companies he had some control in and skipped town, leaving others to the creditors, which included taxing authorities.

If this was a Hollywood movie, a cadre of government agents would amass, make some clever deductions and track him down. In reality, they saw it easier to pounce upon those of us who were easily accessible and already his victims.

I fought them off for a year. In the event you didn’t know, when it comes to government agencies, you are guilty until proven innocent. In their tax courts. There is no level playing field.

I managed to beat back the tax jackals, but other debts and legal fees took me down. I was left with a Harley, Kawasaki sport bike and a few hundred bucks. Road trip!

In the movies, I’d do the Harley thing. Peter Fonda. But, I felt the need for catharsis before picking myself off the mat for another round. I needed the raw speed and acceleration of the Kawasaki. So, I packed a few duds and a small tent and rocketed out of town astride the Ninja.

The bike is also a master of the curves, so I followed the winding Ohio River through Indiana and Illinois. I stopped in a small town, just across the Mississippi River and located a rough looking bar. An hour till they opened, so I cruised around and was pulled over.

I had been taking in the sights and told the officer I knew I wasn’t speeding. He said he just wanted to see who I was. They don’t get a lot of people on Jap crotch rockets around here. So much for probable cause and the wisdom of not riding the Harley.

I returned to the bar and it was already doing some business. I watched a spirited game of pool. A few gimlet-eyed regulars stopped and said something like, “You’re the guy been riding around on that rice burner.” It wasn’t a question.

“Word travels fast,” I mentioned to the bartender when he refilled my draft.

“Yep.”

“Friendly town.”

“Wait till you meet Gayle.”

“Who’s Gayle?”

“You’ll see.” Chatty fellow.

A half hour later, Daisy Duke made her entrance. Actually, it was Gayle. From this crowd, I expected unabashed leering and some construction site commentary. But, she was greeted with deference and maybe a hint of fear. She was the owner.

She made a quick trip to check the register and then fixed a baleful eye on me. “What the hell are you doing here?” The consummate hostess.

We exchanged pleasantries until closing time. She lived on a houseboat moored on the river. So did I, for the next two weeks. A little bit of heaven, but not a long term solution. Also, not the cross country jaunt I set out to do, but served the purpose. I returned home and began conjuring up a new business venture.

That process was interrupted a few months later. Laura called and said she didn’t want to spend the holidays in town and wanted to roam the desert. Did I want to ride shotgun? Sounds like a deal.

We were flying into Phoenix and would grab a car there and just head south. I asked if she had made a reservation. What for? Who goes to Phoenix for Christmas?

Three bowl games, that’s who. We wound up taking a cab to a suburb just to find a rental car.

She was hungry, but I insisted we wait until we were well out of town and could find a genuine Mexican restaurant in a small village. As it turns out, there’s nothing like a small village in southern Arizona for a good Vietnamese dinner. I don’t know where the Mexicans went, but the Vietnamese were immigrating here en masse.

We meandered around for a few days and found ourselves at the border. I crossed at Nogales so we could get our genuine Mexican meal. Good move. That would stay with us for weeks to come. But, it was a great rambling trip with many unique experiences. Met a lot of interesting people along the way.

So, I could relate to and enjoy “Blue Highways.” And, I look forward to the author’s recently published sequel. May be time for another road trip for me, as well.