Trip Trans America — Final Part
When I reached the Mississippi again I knew my trip was nearing its end. I stopped on its banks to pay final tribute to my mom.
In the twenty months since she’d passed away, I hadn’t known what to do with the ashes she’d left me. Then while planning my trip I realized I wanted them spread far and wide to be recycled back into the world.
I’d set some adrift into the Atlantic on my way out of New York, and more into the Pacific upon my arrival in California. This day I cast the rest into the Mississippi, where some fell to the river bottom and some floated downstream to the sea.
The main bridge into Memphis was closed, cars immobile on its center span.
Memphis’s big pyramid may be a bit kitschy, but it at least recalled the Memphis I’d explored in Assassin’s Creed. That gaming franchise is so geo-historically accurate that I once got déjà vu my first time walking around certain parts of London.
I’ve seen a ton of roadkill on this trip but seeing a dead armadillo made me saddest of all. Likely because my favorite stuffed animal, Army, was lost during our 2001 move to Chicago and never found.
Yet again I passed through Mississippi. This time when I saw signs for Florence Alabama, I instead turned north to meet my mom’s brother in
Savannah, TN
Right as I pulled into the Savannah Classics parking lot my Uncle John stepped out of the front door. We hopped in his pickup truck and drove over to his property nearby to decompress from the long day.
After weaving through the wilderness we arrived at a log cabin. I stepped out of his truck and into the long grass. “Hope you got your snake-safe boots on!” I was wearing flip flops. “Seriously? There are snakes?” “Yep, so look alive!”
My uncle’s colleagues Marty and Paul pulled up in an ATV, fresh off inspecting the land, and we all stood under the cabin’s canopy drinking Bud Lights. They told me of hunting here, often in the morning before work: both deer — evidently what the massive metal hooks hanging outside the cabin are for — and turkey — one of which had “hopped right in front of me while I was sitting in that vehicle right over there; you can’t make that up, killing a turkey on the Kubota bucket.”
After half an hour of chatting, my uncle and I took the Polaris out for a spin. He told me of gas lines and moonshine, the former running under the land and the latter still being found in niches throughout it. We later tried to stop at a corner store to pick up some moonshine but they were closed.
We pulled over in a big clearing. “You ever shot a gun?” “Once or twice, out at my friend’s shooting range in Massachusetts.” “What kind?” “Handguns, a scar rifle, oh and this cool old rifle from WWII.” “How bout a shotgun?” “Nope” “Wanna try?”
On our way back home we stopped by a cattle auction. No in-person bidders, but the auctioneer narrated each sale as it happened, calling out the winning bidder’s number.
It was an orchestra of moo’s.
Back home we enjoyed healthy portions of barbecue, I got a tour of the house, then we sat on the back porch to an orchestra of crickets & frogs. Only by the moonlight could I glimpse the water of the Tennessee River. We took a couple shots with the BB Gun, aiming at a metal sign on a tree. I missed and missed despite careful aim (plunk into the tree, sploosh into the water), whereas my uncle took a single one-handed shot and nailed it. I eventually adjusted and hit the mark.
The house had zero wifi and barely any cell service. Not for lack of effort by my uncle though — the cable companies refuse to lay fiber optic cables in this area, citing lack of profitability. It’s the same problem they once had in rural Texas vis-à-vis electricity, until LBJ became their congressman.
In the morning we stopped by the dam. Viewing from the river side, it was hard to believe a wall of water loomed behind that huge concrete wall. Every house we passed had flood lines and many were on stilts. Unfortunately the boat motel was no longer there — now a relic of the past.
At the Savannah Classics factory I got the full tour, seeing how the hushpuppies get made. The morning was full of smells, tastes, and sights. Sweet potato, sugar, onions, cornmeal. Candied pecans, onion hushpuppies, sweet corn hushpuppies, sweet potato casserole. A casserole blender, a machine bagging hushpuppies in flawless cadence, a growing and then overflowing mound of chopped onions.
It was an orchestra of machinery.
Yes, my eyes teared up quite a bit in the onion room. The workers said that even they never get used to it, spending the first thirty minutes of each working day teary-eyed.
The box room in which shipments come in reminded me of the last scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark. The freezing room in which shipments are sent out into cold trucks was like the underground fort on Hoth. The conveyor belt itself made me feel a vague sense of sadness, vague until I realized it’s cause the first conveyor belt I ever saw was that of Chicken Run.
The tour over, my uncle returned to work and I returned to my car, he to meet me later at his home in
Nashville, TN
Pulling into my aunt & uncle’s driveway brought me right back to my last visit thirteen years ago, when I was thirteen years old. Half a lifetime ago! Oh how much has changed! I felt windswept, as if the percussions on my mind, my body, my soul, had changed me into a whole different person.
My Aunt Louise re-welcomed me into their home. She had a whole itinerary dialed up — but first, some rest. She walked me up to their guest room, a new addition since my last stay.
That room completely rejuvenated me. This was one of the few stops along my trip at which I actually felt at home. It was like being back at a communal family gathering à la at my grandparents’ Crab Tree Farm.
I texted my cousin Camille, now living in DC, that I’m at her house, to which she replied: Actually your mom was in my dream a couple nights ago and I was telling her about how you were on this grand road trip and she looked at me and smiled and just went “I know” and I was like oh of course you know
On the cusp of publishing Part Three of this blog, I had to stop as it was time to leave for drinks downtown with my cousin Augusta and her two friends.
We began on the rooftop of the Bobby Hotel, having time for their bus (but not their cabana) before going downstairs for dinner. The waiter, a Montana native, told us of the hotel’s founders. “So the husband’s name is Bobby?” “Actually no. I think Bobby is more a fictional persona than a real person.” “What!? So disingenuous.”
Wish I could remember what we had for dinner. Think there was some red meat involved but pretty balanced meal other than that. Afterwards we went to Rare Bird, watched the red moon rise, and then decided to check out Broadway.
It was such a madhouse. “How many of these people you think are actually from Tennessee?” “Oh, maybe ten percent?” They came for the live music — not just in every bar but on multiple floors of most. Eventually we found a place that felt a little more lowkey, from which the eyes of a cat overlooked the scene like those of the the Valley of Ashes.
Augusta and I were seated at a hi-top in the midst of a personal conversation when the corner of my eye caught a large shape tipping towards me. My leg broke the fall of a man collapsing to the ground. His friends turned him face-up. His face looked blank, his body limp. Then they confirmed he’s still breathing. I thought they were going to call for a stretcher and ambulance, but after a while he slowly got to his feet, tried to get another drink, met with firm rejection, closed out his tab, and walked out on his two feet.
The next morning I relaxed while my cousins went about their business. I made breakfast, my cousin Malcolm arrived from the airport. I read In Search of Lost Time, Louise went to a meeting. I did yoga, John & Augusta went to trade in an old jeep for a Tesla.
“Now Lyle, you’re the master of these things so we’re going to have to get as much information as we can while you’re here. How do we charge it?”
My Aunt Louise and I drove their new Model Y to the Frist Art Museum together, I playing around with the autopilot a bit. We walked through the former post office’s beautiful art deco interior and into the Mackintosh exhibition. The gallery centered around two sisters and their husbands, Mackintosh being one of them, and how, starting in Scotland, they learned and grew together.
In Kara Walker’s exhibition, I rested while ruminating her claim that A Black Hole Is Everything a Star Longs to Be.
We then drove near Vanderbilt to get drinks with my mom & Louise’s college friend, Lawrence. A little unusually for me, I got a very sugary drink: the Dragon Fruit Margarita. Still not a convert, but this one was so good I quickly got another.
At the Grand Ole Opry we stopped at the concessions before sitting down. “Where are y’all from?” “We’re from Nashville” “We love it when locals come!”
The Grand Ole Opry is a show built for radio, so the acts were quick and the MC prevalent. At one interlude, two men in cowboy hats played violins before the MC channeled what first seemed like his inner comedy host:
“Who’s from my home state of Rhode Island?” Two people clap. “That’s two more than we usually have! New Jersey? Mississippi?” My aunt & uncle clap. “You know what else is in Mississippi? The first football player on a Wheaties box, Walter Payton.” I clap. “The cotton, catfish, and sweet potato capitals of the world. And of course five-hundred-and-thirty-eight.. Dollar Generals. That’s right ladies & gentlemen; don’t try these transitions at home. We’re professionals. But seriously....” And so he continued with the ad.
One performer shared between songs: “For songwriters, a song isn’t done until someone hears it.” For blog writers, too.
Another performer shouted out “to our friends listening in from Spain — he’s a general or something in the space force so he’s busy protecting us and stuff.” Wait seriously?? Audience sure didn’t take it as a joke. They were a husband and wife ensemble, she sporting a mohawk. Their son came out later as guest performer, he singing “our God is an awesome God; He reigns from heaven above…” before hugging each parent and sprinting offstage.
Afterwards I drove with Malcolm and Augusta to Hattie B’s. Their Nashville Hot Chicken sure was hot enough that I didn’t need any Crystal hot sauce, which I’d been introduced to back in June at Champy’s down in Muscle Shoals.
The three of us closed out the night chatting in their kitchen, another feeling that brought me right back to Crab Tree Farm, specifically the Summer House kitchen.
I woke up early the next morning to hit it hard and fast for
Bourbon Country
I had to hit Maker’s Mark before picking up my brother Henry at the Lexington KY airport, as MM is right in-between Lex & Nash. On the way I passed Knob Creek right on the side of the road. Not the distillery, but the former president’s boyhood home.
I arrived to Maker’s just as they began a tour with one vacant spot left. The guide took us around the grounds and through the stillhouse, the warehouse, and the cellar.
I’ll try not to get too academic, but I did learn quite a few fun facts about whiskey. Starting with that bourbon can only be made in the United States. Turns out it’s fitting that “bourbon” ultimately derives its name from France, the progenitors of such regional products as champagne & cognac.
Whiskey is sometimes spelled with an ‘e’ and sometimes without. Why is that? Well the version without is the Scotch spelling. Still unclear to me why, given we’re not in Scotland, Maker’s omits the ‘e’, but hey.
The owner of Star Hill Farm first created Maker’s because “my family’s cowboy whiskey would blow your ears off” and he felt bad always doing that to his guests. The husband Bill made the whiskey and the wife Margie made everything else: the bottle, the name, the brand.
Bill made sure they used super HQ wood. That keeps their bourbon consistent from barrel to barrel, and given they only really make one variety of whiskey, consistency is king. The different varieties you’ll see of Maker’s, such as Maker’s 46, all come from putting different types of wooden sticks into the finished barrel. If you’re really special, they’ll let you choose your own sticks!
Margie made sure they hand dip each and every bottle in red wax, as inspired by her most expensive cognac bottles. The label features her handwritten calligraphy.
Walking through the stillhouse you hear the mill keep churning churning churning. One moment it smells like bread, the next like sour.. something. Suppose it's sour wheat or corn or wood. The musty smell of the barrel room reminded me of the Hermit’s Lodge at CTF. But unlike the latter, the former features a ceiling of Chihuly blown glass.
At last we reached the tasting. “Now keep in mind, when you take a sip you might get a feeling of warmth in your chest; we call that the Kentucky Hug.” Just what John Trevey had said during our tasting five weeks prior in Austin; both times the comment elicited laughs. “This tastes like Christmas” “You’re really gonna like the next one then”
On my way out I had the pleasure of hand dipping my own bottle, which to this day sits in my LA apartment unopened.
The road out of Star Hill Farm had legit one lane, trees obstructing the viz around its myriad twists and turns. A lonely deer poked its head out of a green field to stare at me as I passed. Twice I had to pull over onto the grass to let the car coming towards me pass.
I took the Bluegrass Parkway to the Blue Grass Airport and picked up my brother Henry. We drove right to Wild Turkey.
Crossing the Kentucky River, we noticed some action up on a rickety iron bridge. “Are those bungy jumpers??” Tempted to recreate our experience on the Kawarau Bridge, we mulled it over while sipping rye in the Wild Turkey courtyard, their tastings being booked. “Yeah.. I just don’t think I have the juice today.” “Dude same.” Maybe next time.
After lunch in town we stopped by Four Roses. It was just after 3pm but we found it in the process of closing down. “We can’t just get a drink or something?” “We’re not a bar.” Maybe they should act more like a bar though, as I’d imagine there’s incremental business to be had past the early afternoon. We took the initiative to walk around on our own though, even exploring a building that had left its door open.
Before checking into our downtown Lexington hotel, we charged the car. Now up to this point, I’d had as clean of a run driving-wise as I ever could have hoped. No empty batteries, no significant delays along the road.
About to unplug from the Meijer parking lot’s supercharger, a middle-aged woman walked past, staring us down from twenty yards away. Her head continued turning as her body moved past, so as to keep us locked in her glare. “What on earth? Is she a witch or something?” If she was a witch, she could have cast no better curse; once on the main road, the car’s tire pressure warning went off and we discovered we had a flat.
It wasn’t yet a total disaster; we had a PSI of 23 and were only 15 minutes from the hotel. But pulling over to a gas station in order to inspect, we did find a massive nail embedded in the tire from which we could hear a hissing. Filled the tire up to 29 PSI, which was as far as it would go, and decided to send it to the hotel.
The PSI went down a bit as we drove, from 29 to 26, but we made it safely to the hotel parking lot. Nothing to do now but submit a Tesla support ticket and see if they can help.
To make up for the tastings Wild Turkey and Four Roses had denied us, we went to a whiskey bar and got flights of each. The server brought them on long wooden planks. “He said these are called slats?” “Wait lemme look it up… nah they’re called staves” “Staves. Alright well slat sounds way cooler to me. You know why? Because Young Thug says slat. Slat slat slat”
Having had our fill of bourbon, we popped over to Henry Clay’s Public House for some live music. Henry and I talked with a blue-haired girl and her dad at the bar, the former’s eight-year-old kid spending that night with her co-parent. “Do you do yoga?” “Yes, actually” “I could just tell. It must be your awareness or openness.” Her dad was super drunk, and at one point he fell to the ground, his false leg coming out, and Henry helped him back up.
Before the night was out we did a little dancing. Then went out to Lexington’s downtown plaza. Like Broadway in Nashville it was a madhouse. People got drinks at the bars and just took them outside; others brought their own; at various points police drove right through the middle. Felt kindof like Fiesta in San Antonio.
Woke up early the next morning to deal with the car situation. I was nervous to see what the tire looked like and rightfully so; it was very flat. Tesla had told me the best they could do is get me towed to a tire shop of my choosing. So I thought why not try to drive it myself? What’s the worst that could happen, it doesn’t work and I have to pull over and get towed anyways? I gave it a shot.
Pulling out of the parking lot, the tire felt surprisingly functional. On the main road I could hear it flapping as I drove, but that’s a small price to pay when you’re moving with 0 PSI.
The tire place was just three miles away, but I didn’t trust the flat to make it all the way there and stopped to attempt filling it at a gas station. Their air machine out of order, I had no choice but to press on.
The tire continued flapping and my heart went to my throat with every bump in the road. Yet somehow I made it to Ken Towery’s Tire & Auto Care. Upon pulling in an attendant pointed at my tire: “hey man.. do you know..” “yep.” They then wheeled out the specialist to make his diagnosis. “You’ve got the tire punctured and the sidewall chewed. Very dangerous to drive on this; it’s hot and could pop at any time.” Welp, doesn’t matter now cause I’d made it.
I went inside to fill out the paperwork. Lady asked for my keys and I opened my wallet to plop down the key card. She looked at me as if from another planet. “Yep, that’s the key, you just press it to the top of the driver’s side door.”
I asked when it’d be ready. “Oh, it’ll probably take an hour.” “Only an hour!” “You wanna wait here?” “Nah I’ll hang back at my hotel”
Back in the room Henry was still sleeping. I cleaned up and packed up and just as he was stirring I got the call. We picked up my ride and sported its brand new tire out to Woodford Reserve.
“Pristine” is how Woodford describes its main building. I’d tend to agree. They didn’t have any tour avails but did have a tasting in about an hour. “While y’all wait, if you wanna get the real Kentucky Experience you gotta head over to our cocktail area. There I got a rye old fashioned and Henry got their Spire. We walked out to the wooden porch, placed our drinks on a barrel, and reclined into rocking chairs. Summer of ‘69 played as we traded sips and gazed at horses grazing in the field. Two other parties came out to join us; coincidentally they too were from Chicago. After all, it’s not that far away.
In the tasting room we sat in a circle around our host. She told of Elijah Pepper and Oscar Pepper, of how they make their own barrels, of how they don’t sell or bottle the fifth taste we’d sample. Then she helped acquaint us with the flavors. “Now you’ll see each has its own flavor wheel. That gives you an idea of how different each one tastes, the bourbon being very balanced while for instance the wheat is more fruity. For each one you should take two sips, as your taste won’t attune to the flavors until the second one.”
While tasting the bourbon she too told of the Kentucky Hug. While tasting the rye she elaborated “in other words that’s less of a hug than the bourbon” to which an audience member posited “that’s more of a kiss!” While tasting the wheat, she said that “our master taster says this one smells like a cherry pop tart.” And so it did. That one was our favorite, as it tasted sweet until an aftertaste of spice hit. While tasting the malt, she accurately described it as “like drinking a snickers bar.”
From there we drove to Buffalo Trace, our final distillery of the weekend. We were able to secure a condensed tour. In fact, that weekend I had a different experience at each of the five distilleries: a full tour, just drinks, no drinks but a wander through the grounds, just a tasting, and a condensed tour.
This place had some really cool old-school grounds, man. No wonder that, along with Maker’s and Woodford, they’re a National Historic Landmark.
At the start of the condensed tour the guide asked “Where’s everyone comin’ from?” “Texas” “Cincinnati” “Chicago” “The Open Road”
Buffalo Trace is the only distillery that survived through prohibition (having been given a medicinal whiskey license). It survived a feud between its two main stakeholders, they specifically building their offices so they wouldn’t have to see each other during the day. One eventually bought the other out and the latter founded Castle & Key Distillery, which sounds like what it is: a castle with whiskey in it.
A massive vault contained, amongst other things, bottles from before and during prohibition. Our guide estimated there’s hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of booze in there. Like the Louvre, their works are not for sale.
References to the past adorned their walls: OFC for Old Fired Copper, Stags for its founder Mr. Stagg.
Earlier in the day Henry and I had applied some pretty broad heuristics to estimate how many throws Tom Brady has made in his lifetime. We came to an answer of one million. Well since prohibition, Buff Trace has filled enough barrels for Seven Tom Bradys!
Our guide told us about the many brands under the BT umbrella, about the Single Oak Project, about the legend Pappy Van Winkle, and even about champagne. “These are spun crystal bottles, $3k per pop. I call them divorce bottles because if I ever bought one my wife would....” We laughed.
Their tasting differed quite a bit from Woodford’s: plastic cups rather than glass, a taste of vodka, a root beer float made with bourbon cream.
All I can say about that day is:
How It Started
How It’s Going
Checked in to our downtown Louisville hotel, experienced a little vertigo, and made straight for a steakhouse. The tables were all booked but they had open seats at the bar. It being the last night of the leisure leg of my trip, we ordered accordingly: whiskey on the rocks, east coast oysters, sushi rolls topped with seared filet, fat steaks, a buncha sides.
The style of a mural recalled The Great Gatsby and I remembered this is Daisy Buchanan’s hometown. Not Zelda Fitzgerald’s — she’s from Alabama. We were in more of a lyrical than a literary mood, however. “All the fakes can’t see me while I eat my steakshimi” “Nothing says class like a tall glass” “It was a quip & quap. One person quips, the other person quaps”
Henry had been sitting on a cigar since buying it at Wild Turkey. So we got matches from the restaurant and went out to the riverfront, he succeeding in lighting it in at least half the time it would’ve taken me. Looking across to Indiana I thought of the green light at the end of the dock.
We had our nightcap at the Troll Bar. Some Guinnesses, mostly. Walking back from the bathroom, the bartender asked “You want hushpuppies? 😉” I then remembered I’m wearing my brand-new Savannah Classics t-shirt. “If y’all’s kitchen weren’t closed 😊”
A woman who recognized us from sitting across the bar at the steakhouse came over to chat for a couple minutes. She claimed to be a comedian and even to have her own Netflix show forthcoming, for which she did seem witty enough. To me she said “you must be either a writer or an improv artist” and Henry responded “you’re half right!”
The next morning everything just felt.. off. Starbucks didn’t have any food. Potbelly’s door was open but they weren’t making food yet. Breakfast place wouldn’t let me order from their full menu. I took the cue and we got the f outta there, driving across to Indiana for breakfast before hitting the open road.
Home
I returned to Chicago two months after driving out, five years to the day after starting my career in New York. We listened to Homecoming as we came within range of the skyline, a song I’d used to play upon flying in over the lake from the east coast.
I’d hoped the end would feel like le retour triomphal. But it didn’t. I just felt beat. Suppose it felt more like an aloha or an arrivederci, homecoming just to leave again.
The first thing I did upon arrival was to collapse onto our back porch, as if at the end of a marathon. Honestly though, I was less tired than I thought I’d be at the end of this. Thought I’d be bone tired, ready to become a hermit for weeks — but by now I was acclimated to this schedule and besides there’s no time to rest.
Henry and I ordered from Uncle Julio’s and spent a chill night on the couch, Olympics on the TV. The next day my Aunt Margaret visited with her two grandchildren and their mother Erin. We played, Miles (the older) and I engaging in stuffed animal warfare, Casey (the younger) absorbed by an eel. The next day I went out to see my grandfather in the suburbs, then some cousins and friends came over for dinner.
Before the clock hit 7am the next morning I was headed
To LA
I thought: this is a business trip, bby. Three full days of driving, two nights at hotels right on the side of the road. I wanted to barely describe this part, implying that the adventure was over and the time for work had begun. But often we don’t shape events, events shape themselves.
At the end of day one I was on track. Got to my Western Nebraska hotel while the sun was still up, did some pre-work for my accounting class, some blog writing, and some yoga. Only notable impression from that day was driving through Omaha again — just your typical déjà vu.
Day two I got up early and ripped again. But then I reached Colorado, where
Mudslides
had closed part of i70 and forced me into a fat detour. After charging in Silverthorne, I turned south onto Route 91, which would add two hours to my trip by routing me in the shape of a hopscotch to Glenwood Springs.
It didn’t feel that slow, at least at first, though I spent plenty of time on one-lane roads and driving through towns. In Leadville a sign apprised me of the fact that I’m over 10k feet high! Indeed it’s the second-highest town in the country.
Approaching Aspen, I spied thunder & lighting up in the mountain pass. Through the rain I drove up a steep hill on switchbacks, at some points quite close to the edge. At least I had a paved road under me. It rained and thundered and.. oh it’s hailing now.
Some believe that “you are what you do.” That day, as that drive’s estimated twelve-hour duration began to balloon, I felt myself an unthinking being driven solely by need & desperation. All that mattered to me was finding food, using the bathroom, and reaching shelter.
At Aspen the rain calmed down as I hit a Main Street traffic jam. I rolled down my windows and soaked in the mountain air, it bringing me back to the moment four weeks before when I’d stepped out of my car in Ketchum.
Finally made it to Glenwood Springs and charged up. Was upset to discover the Chinese restaurant near the supercharger was closed for the gap between lunch and dinner, but I consoled myself with the idea of getting Chinese in Grand Junction. Should be smooth sailing from here, after all. Then as I unplugged, Tesla rerouted me for another hopscotch detour. I checked Google Maps and it said the same. Welp.
I set off like a madman, speeding in silence rather than enjoying the last few songs of My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. Passing cows on a gravel road I tried imagining what this type of trip would have been like pre-interstates — feels as if it might not even be possible. I regretted having booked a hotel all the way in Utah; maybe next time I should just drive as far as I can and then pull over to find a room once tired.
By the time I’d made it onto Route 133 it had started raining again. Well pouring, actually. I exulted in it — what a perfect fit for my mood. Might make this winding drive along mountain roads harder, sure, but I was completely locked in.
And then my luck ran out.
A tow truck two cars ahead of me stopped suddenly and I slammed on the breaks. What the f, dude? And then I saw mud and rock and wood spurting out of the mountainside and onto the road ahead of us. Well then. The car in front of me turned around and went back towards where we’d came. I decided to wait it out a bit and see whether the mudslide would stop and we could make it through; after all, I wasn’t even sure there was another road to Grand Junction. I could of course get to LA by going through Salt Lake City or New Mexico or something, but that would mean a detour of many many hours, more than I had the stomach for counting right now.
The mudslide was gaining strength rather than abating though, and the impassible part of the road started to widen, creeping towards us and forcing us to back up. Alright, time to cut my losses and re-evaluate, time to go back to Glenwood Springs. But just as I was turning around, another mudslide triggered behind me, trapping us within a two-hundred-yard stretch of road.
It was me, the tow truck, and one other sedan. Two mudslides within minutes of each other trapping us in-between — what are the odds? A few seconds quicker or slower and I’d have escaped ahead or behind of the trap.
The other sedan tried the only outlet accessible to us, Avalanche Creek Road. But within minutes he’d returned from an apparent dead end.
Of course I had no cell service.
The three of us posted on the shoulder of the road so as to avoid the mud. We just sat and waited, spending thirty or so minutes glancing back and forth at each mudslide; from our angle on a bend in the road we could see them both, but neither of the cars piled up behind each mudslide could see the other.
Quickly gave up hope of going forwards; that thing was straight-up impassible, deep mud filled with rocks & branches stretching out as long as a football field. Nothing to do but wait though. Having no internet I couldn’t even look at alternate routes yet, though as I said, at this point SLC or NM looked to be the only moves. Regardless, priority number one is to get the f**k out of here — nothing else matters till then. This is totally out of my hands now. At some point they have to send help, right? Fatuous to think I could make this day’s trip in twelve hours, that I could make it the whole summer without any serious incidents. How little control one man has against fate and the elements. The best laid plans of mice and men…
The rain abated to the point where the mudslides stopped getting worse. I got out to get a closer look at the situation up ahead. Might as well see exactly what we’re dealing with. The other two drivers got out too.
We walked up to each other and started laughing. This is crazy! No way we’re going to get past the mud up ahead.
The truck driver asked where we’re headed. “Grand Junction — got diverted to this route by the mudslides on i70.” The other sedan driver said “Same! Me and my wife are taking our daughter home from the doctor and just want to get home.” The trucker responded “Oh i70 to Grand Junction is open. I was just there — it’s still closed going east but not west.” “What!?!? F***ing Google. Well if we ever get out of here I’ll give it a try.” “Ugh. It really sucks because my destination is right on the other side of the mud. But we might be able to get out the other way if we can move that huge tree branch.” “Might as well give it a try!”
We pulled up to a woman wading towards us through knee-deep muck. An inauspicious sign for our cars, till we realized she’d been wading off-road and that on-road it only went up halfway my shins. “I live right over there!” “How far down? There’s another mudslide blocking the way right up ahead.” “On Avalanche Creek Road. I have to go get my dogs, they’re home all alone!” “Ah you should be good then.” “You guys are stuck? How are you going to get out?” “Just gonna try clearing that branch and see if we can drive over the mud.” “Well good luck! If you need anything, please come ask, I’m at the white house, third one down on the left.”
Indeed, I say try driving over the mud because there was far too much for us to clear with our bare hands. I took my sandals off and waded in, working together with the truck driver to move the tree branch and then individually to move the biggest of the rocks (there being far too many to move all the rocks). It hurt a bit walking in there without shoes, the muck so full of pebbles and rocks that I could only walk very gingerly. Didn’t get cut or anything though. After ten minutes of clearing, the tow trucker said “I’m going to give it a shot.”
He sure ripped it in there. His tires locked up shortly after he reached the muddy portion, and you could hear his engine whine, but then he found traction and somehow made it through.
So ok, it’s possible. Big tall heavy vehicle like that though probably has a far greater chance than my little EV. Then a pickup truck started towards us from the other side, emboldened by the tow truck’s success and evidently unaware of the second mudslide. Treading the path paved by the tow truck, he made it over.
At this point I’m thinking it could be possible for me to make it. I conferred with the other sedan. “You gonna try it?” “Ehh I don’t know man.” So it looked like the pickup truck was going to be the closest comp I could get. I thought what’s the worst thing that could happen, I get stuck? I’m already stuck. I decided to let it rip.
Got into my car, backed up to build some momentum, and hit the accelerator. Tires started to stall almost immediately upon hitting the mud, but then thanks to the many rocks & pebbles underneath they started to gain traction. At few points were all of my tires working together. But the rocks & pebbles held together by the mud made a wet gravel road of sorts, and it was just enough. I made it through.
A man wearing a yellow vest got out of his pickup truck to talk to me; he looked to be some sort of emergency patrolman. “You coming from the other direction?” “No, actually was coming from this way, but about two hundred yards up ahead mud started spurting out of the side of he mountain.” “So there’s another mudslide up there?” “Yeah, just me and that tow truck and this other guy got stuck between the two.” “Did anyone get buried?” “Not that I saw.” “Ok. We’re going to go over there. Thank you.”
The sedan behind me, encouraged by my success, made the attempt and successfully so. I noticed my muddy sandals on their dashboard. “Omg thanks!! Totally forgot those — was so focused on getting the car over.” “Safe travels man. We’re going to try i70 West from Glenwood Springs.” “Same!”
Driving out past the backup of about a hundred cars, I stopped a few times to explain the situation to inquisitive drivers. I warned they’d need to wait for a plow before having any chance of getting though. A few shared that, same as me, they’d been trying to get to Grand Junction when Google Maps diverted them south.
Beyond the line of cars, sirens blazed towards from whence I came: two sheriffs and an EMS. Feels good to be free.
Google and Tesla still refused to map me towards i70, so I did it myself manually just looking at the map. To them it was a dead road whereas the now-blocked stretch of Route 133 was a live one. How wrong they were; I reached the westbound entrance of 70 and it was wide open.
I was on cloud nine. I hit play on the album I’d paused hours ago and it resumed with Hell of a Life.
A Black Model 3 Tesla, the only difference from mine being its Colorado vanity plates (“SSHHHH”) pulled even with me to wave and smile. I waved and smiled back.
From the highway I could see the mountains I’d just been trapped in, lighting and rain still looming over them. Then part of the storm hit us too. Sheets of rain made the visibility so poor that most others pulled over. I kept going; I’m done being stopped. Then, right as Lost in the World started playing, I broke free from the storm. Felt like the Millennium Falcon as it escapes the exploding Death Star. It was unreal, like a dream.
Cavities in the side of a rock gaped at me like faces in a crowd. At sunset, lighting flashed over dark mountains. I had a storm to my left, a horizon to my right.
I arrived in Grand Junction and charged it up, taking stock of all the dried mud. It stuck me that seeing those mudslides was like seeing a butte in the process of being made. That right there is how it happens — one mudslide at a time.
Later I enjoyed some news clippings detailing the damage:
Highway 133 reopens Saturday morning after mudslides near Redstone Friday
PHOTOS: Flash floods, mudslides tear through Colorado
I’d escaped the “absolutely epic” amount of debris and now was back on track for the final stretch
To LA
Finally I was free of doubting how or when I’d make it through; I could almost taste it. On the road to my final hotel of the trip I could see a whole hemisphere of stars out of the corner of my eye. Lighting ahead of me pierced the darkness. I passed rocks looming in the night like tombs, a Black Dragon view area.
My eighteen-hour drive ended at midnight at the Super 8 of Richfield UT. I slept for a bit then woke up early for the final stretch. My route downward to LA looked like a dragon’s swoop.
Two Hell’s Angels ripped through the center stripe between two cars. Seven skydivers with orange parachutes swirled in the distance. A car behind me looked as though it were straight out of Mad Max.
Before long, I’d reached the hazy hills of LA.
From the twenty-first of May to the thirty-first of July, I drove 13,000 miles. I spent 54 nights on the road, almost exactly half of which were spent solo. On one stretch I spent 13 of 14 nights with people, on another I spent 12 consecutive nights alone. I traveled through 34 states, I visited my 49th US state (see you next, Alaska!). I stayed in airbnbs, in hotels, in friends’ homes. I hiked, I ate, I drank, I gambled, I talked, I read, I wrote. I explored. I got one speeding ticket and one flat tire, I took at least five roadside cat naps, I never ran out of battery but did get stuck once. At the beginning I slunk from shade to shade in Longwood Gardens, by the end I sought out the sun.
What’s this all to say? Whatever I am — whether a Southerner or a Chicagoain or a Mainer or a New Yorker or an Angeleno — or simply an American — there’s no place like home. But my home isn’t in just one place. It’s spread out, much as since my mom died I’ve spread out my affections, my conversations, my confessions. For some, the long road never ends. And perhaps it shouldn’t.
