The Rivers of Pangaea
Interstate 80 takes you all the way. There are nearly 2000 miles between Iowa City and Sacramento. If you fill your head with stimulants, you can make the trip in just under two days. The states through which you journey act as did the chapters in that pulp trash novel that kept you up all night. If the chapters were very long, then the miles are the pages. If very short, then words. The mile markers count down driving west. You understand how this makes stopping difficult.
Lisa Frank and I left "the Athens of the Midwest" in the afternoon. The sun had set before we saw Nebraska. Lights of suburbs spread across the landscape as large and christmas-tree-colored as those I remembered from childhood in Southern California, an arch over the interstate which I remember thinking lovely, and a terrifying moment in Dix, where we drove thirty miles down an unpaved road in the wrong direction, almost out of gas as we pulled into a closed station in a town that seemed as abandoned as any in that pulp trash novel that kept you up all night; these are the only impressions I retain of that state.
In Colorado, we swore that we would rest before the Rockies, the first of the two mountain ranges I was terrified to cross. At a gas station, in a wind that threatened to tear that loose tooth from the earth, a man who pretended to understand everything I said replied in broken English and probably tried to tell me when the mountains began. Back on the interstate, afraid of stopping for the night in such a wind, we waited for the mountains to grow from the hilly horizon, and held our breath (figuratively) as we passed the long haul trucks whose trailers were blown into neighboring lanes by the winds I fought to keep the U-haul on the road. We were almost in Wyoming before I was sure that we had crossed the Rockies unaware.
The sun rose in Wyoming. We talked in monologue about Iowa City, Sacramento, family, and each other. Lisa almost talked about her father, then decided not to. The interstate wound in shallow curves through wondrous jutting landscape carved, I thought, by the rivers and winds and ancient turmoils of Pangaea. Every turn revealed new variations on a beautiful theme, and I thought it might be wonderful to live there. (When we stopped to pump gas, the man's man clerk seemed to think little of me and my home-knit cap, and I have decided to judge the people of his state by him.) We entered a tunnel dug through a cliff and held our breath (literally) until we emerged.
At least along I-80, the landscape seems to change as you cross state lines and the only state prettier'n Wyoming is Utah. Twisting through the hills, we were nearly out of gas and worried, with little money and no sign of civilization, when we came to a rest stop at exit (don't remember) and parked our tiny truck by sleeping long-haul Big ones between hills that photographs and words would not do justice. I called my brother (who used to drive one of the Big ones) to ask him where we were and where gas was. He said we'd stopped just shy of Salt Lake City and were actually coming down from the Rockies. We climbed a paved walkway up a hill that was bigger than it looked, and stared down at a valley full of brown and purple trees feeding from a tiny river edged in ice, between on one side red rock formations dotted with dark green bushes and etched with hieroglyphs of topographical change containing faces and overlapping profiles that seemed intentional and, on the other, hills of brown grass dotted with the same dark green and patches of snow. Breathless, I called Cool Jesse to thank him for his assistance and tell him how far we'd come and try to describe the country around me. I think I may have said that this was where God would live. A train came through the valley by the river. There was a white cross on the hill, which upon inspection, proved to be a memorial to a fallen police officer. When and if I die, my ashes will be scattered from here or outer space.
We tried to sleep in the cab for a few hours but found it impossible. Lisa's mother had transferred money to her account, and we got back on the road.
It was dark again before we came to Nevada. We pulled to the side of the road at one point, and sat on the hood, holding each other under a blanket. Lisa found the country the most beautiful of any we'd seen, even in the dark. I wouldn't want to live there. When we stopped for gas, there were a dozen slot machines in the mini-mart, and a small casino on the way to the bathroom. This is not the only reason I wouldn't want to live there, but it is reason enough.
We stopped at a liquor store to wait for morning before attempting Donner Pass. The Sierras were trickier than the Rockies, but there had been no reason for my worry. We came into Northern California and Lisa began to recognize the place she was from. It had been almost two days. I had driven more than ever in my life. Though I had been afraid that the claustrophobic cab would lead to arguments, we'd had wonderful conversation the entire drive. I would like to do it again.
Lisa Frank and I left "the Athens of the Midwest" in the afternoon. The sun had set before we saw Nebraska. Lights of suburbs spread across the landscape as large and christmas-tree-colored as those I remembered from childhood in Southern California, an arch over the interstate which I remember thinking lovely, and a terrifying moment in Dix, where we drove thirty miles down an unpaved road in the wrong direction, almost out of gas as we pulled into a closed station in a town that seemed as abandoned as any in that pulp trash novel that kept you up all night; these are the only impressions I retain of that state.
In Colorado, we swore that we would rest before the Rockies, the first of the two mountain ranges I was terrified to cross. At a gas station, in a wind that threatened to tear that loose tooth from the earth, a man who pretended to understand everything I said replied in broken English and probably tried to tell me when the mountains began. Back on the interstate, afraid of stopping for the night in such a wind, we waited for the mountains to grow from the hilly horizon, and held our breath (figuratively) as we passed the long haul trucks whose trailers were blown into neighboring lanes by the winds I fought to keep the U-haul on the road. We were almost in Wyoming before I was sure that we had crossed the Rockies unaware.
The sun rose in Wyoming. We talked in monologue about Iowa City, Sacramento, family, and each other. Lisa almost talked about her father, then decided not to. The interstate wound in shallow curves through wondrous jutting landscape carved, I thought, by the rivers and winds and ancient turmoils of Pangaea. Every turn revealed new variations on a beautiful theme, and I thought it might be wonderful to live there. (When we stopped to pump gas, the man's man clerk seemed to think little of me and my home-knit cap, and I have decided to judge the people of his state by him.) We entered a tunnel dug through a cliff and held our breath (literally) until we emerged.
At least along I-80, the landscape seems to change as you cross state lines and the only state prettier'n Wyoming is Utah. Twisting through the hills, we were nearly out of gas and worried, with little money and no sign of civilization, when we came to a rest stop at exit (don't remember) and parked our tiny truck by sleeping long-haul Big ones between hills that photographs and words would not do justice. I called my brother (who used to drive one of the Big ones) to ask him where we were and where gas was. He said we'd stopped just shy of Salt Lake City and were actually coming down from the Rockies. We climbed a paved walkway up a hill that was bigger than it looked, and stared down at a valley full of brown and purple trees feeding from a tiny river edged in ice, between on one side red rock formations dotted with dark green bushes and etched with hieroglyphs of topographical change containing faces and overlapping profiles that seemed intentional and, on the other, hills of brown grass dotted with the same dark green and patches of snow. Breathless, I called Cool Jesse to thank him for his assistance and tell him how far we'd come and try to describe the country around me. I think I may have said that this was where God would live. A train came through the valley by the river. There was a white cross on the hill, which upon inspection, proved to be a memorial to a fallen police officer. When and if I die, my ashes will be scattered from here or outer space.
We tried to sleep in the cab for a few hours but found it impossible. Lisa's mother had transferred money to her account, and we got back on the road.
It was dark again before we came to Nevada. We pulled to the side of the road at one point, and sat on the hood, holding each other under a blanket. Lisa found the country the most beautiful of any we'd seen, even in the dark. I wouldn't want to live there. When we stopped for gas, there were a dozen slot machines in the mini-mart, and a small casino on the way to the bathroom. This is not the only reason I wouldn't want to live there, but it is reason enough.
We stopped at a liquor store to wait for morning before attempting Donner Pass. The Sierras were trickier than the Rockies, but there had been no reason for my worry. We came into Northern California and Lisa began to recognize the place she was from. It had been almost two days. I had driven more than ever in my life. Though I had been afraid that the claustrophobic cab would lead to arguments, we'd had wonderful conversation the entire drive. I would like to do it again.