Tropic of K

New Orleans is such a photogenic spot I came home with an abundance of photographs, far more than I could fit into my earlier posts.  This is an overflow post to share a few more of my Nola pics.

When I travel, certain places resonate more than others. New Orleans was definitely one of those places.  When this happens, I feel the need to seek out books so I can find out more about the places I’ve just visited.  If I was wired differently, I might find and read these books BEFORE my visit, but I’m never that organized, or even that interested before I go.  I must see a place first and breathe the air and eat the food and imagine what it might be like to live there and this provides the impetus to search for books that will quench my curiosity and fill in the blanks that are bound to exist when you spend a limited time in an interesting place.

After I made it back to Seattle, I searched the Internet and also asked friends to recommend books about New Orleans.  I came up with four.  

My favorite by far was Nine Lives by Dan Baum.  This book interweaves the biographies of nine New Orleans residents and in doing so provides a window into many aspects of life in Nola.  I read about the experiences of a Mardi Gras king and Mardi Gras Indians, a high school band director, a transsexual bar owner, a cop, a coroner/amateur jazz musician (among others) and saw New Orleans through their eyes before, during and after Katrina.  It’s a fabulous book.

And of course, no reading list about New Orleans would be complete without including A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole.  What a wild ride of a book.  I will admit that I was not a complete fan -- I found Ignatius a bit hard to take -- but I fell hard for Jones and perked up every time he brightened the narrative.

I also read a mystery set in New Orleans called Liquor by Poppy Z. Brite.  It isn’t much of a mystery but does contain some great information about the Nola restaurant scene and is fairly entertaining.  (If this seems like weak praise, you are correct.) I took issue with the plot, which is wildly implausible -- the ease with which the two protagonists are able to find funding to open a new restaurant (a successful restaurant owner impulsively decides to bankroll the opening in spite of churlish behavior and a complete absence of gratitude) is hard to accept. And to make the plot even more unlikely, the book ends with a James Beard award for the new restaurant. (Is this a book or a wet dream?) Good points are some entertaining characters, good dialogue and tantalizing descriptions of foodie menu items, so it’s not a total loss.

The last book is one I came across in a second-hand bookstore: Why New Orleans Matters by Tom Piazza.  This is a heartfelt book written by a someone who truly loves New Orleans and was devastated emotionally and financially by Katrina.  In the first section of the book, Piazza writes in great and glowing detail about the music, food, second line funerals, Jazz Fest, and Mardi Gras, as well as candidly discussing many of the issues that plague the city such as poverty and corruption.   The second section describes Piazza’s experiences during and immediately after Katrina and is very moving.

For lunch we walk to Central Grocery to try their famous muffuletta sandwich.  I get half a sandwich, but a quarter would have sufficed because these sandwiches are huge with generous layers of cold cuts and cheese topped with olive salad.  Very tasty but also very filling.  I eat half and save the remainder for tomorrow’s lunch.  The Central Grocery is fun to visit, even if you don’t buy a sandwich there.  It reminded me of small-town grocery stores I used to frequent in my youth, with wood slat floors and the comforting scents of fresh bread and stored food stuffs.

After lunch we browse the French Market where I buy a hammock that reminds me of one I bought years ago during my honeymoon in Mexico.  Then it’s back to the hotel for a lazy afternoon.  During our walk back I see a man dressed head to toe in bright orange feathers and another wearing a huge papier-mâché headdress.  What fun it is to walk through a place where anything goes and you have no idea what you might encounter next.

We have decided that tonight is the night we will seek out a jazz show. Madeleine does the research and finds a place we can walk to. It’s a longish walk on N. Peters Street.  We plan to to arrive at about five because we want an early night.   The first place we stop, Three Muses, is running late and can’t seat us for who knows how long, so when we hear music coming from another spot down the street we head there.  It’s happy hour at the 30-90 Degree Club (longitude and latitude of NOLA) so we order boiled shrimp and drinks and settle in to listen to some great music.

Eventually we head back toward the hotel, planning to grab some supper on the way.  We end up at a touristy restaurant that is nothing special. Our seats are on a balcony over the street which is fun for a while.  There’s a street performer across the street who is singing karaoke very badly but with great verve.  Then I notice that our balcony is canted downward at a scary angle, and I start worrying that it might give way during our meal.   I allow this to bother me far too much while ordering and eating a ho-hum dish of crab etouffee. Our last stop is at Curio (a nice little café and bar close to our hotel – this is my third visit) for a last glass of wine before heading back to the hotel.

For our last day we decide against another tour, although I’m a bit tempted by both the plantation and swamp tours.  But Madeleine puts her foot down and I’m not really all that keen, as we’ve been touring fools so far, and enough is enough.  

With nothing definite in mind, we head out from the hotel.  Almost immediately we happen across an ironmonger’s shop called Bevolo Metal Crafts, with two men welding and working with metal. This holds our attention briefly then it’s back out into the sights and sounds of the French Quarter.

Our wanderings lead us to one of the properties owned by the Historic New Orleans Collection.  It’s part museum, part art gallery with free admission. We tour the eclectic collection that contains many unique exhibits.  I love the mosaic made of photographs (above) – amazingly clever – and the ancient (from 1718) map labeled La Louisiane, when the French territory stretched from Florida to Alberta and from Lake Erie to the Rockies.

There is a projected image of a pianist and horn player containing the names of venues, musicians and attractions that change constantly.

In another room snippets of movies set in The Big Easy are playing.  It is fun to watch for awhile and try to identify them. 

Then we climb to the upper floor where the art gallery contains a nice collection of pieces that reflect New Orleans scenes and characters.  (See below)

We take a cab to the gate of Lafayette Cemetery #1.  Turns out I bought the tickets for tomorrow by accident. Sheesh.  Luckily the tour isn’t overly full, so we are able to take the tour a day early.  

The guide’s first topic is oven burials, which we heard all about last night.  Bodies left one year and day while New Orleans’s heat naturally cremates the body, with only bits of bone left.  Remains swept out, new body put in, etc.  But for some reason, maybe because we’re actually walking in a cemetery, past tombs engraved with a long list of names, in blazing heat (sending my imagination into overdrive) the whole idea of oven burials gets to me today. Bricked up graves, magnolias planted to hide the stench, thousands of people dying from yellow fever – ugh.  Not to mention the fact that our guide also tells us  that it was fairly common for people to be buried alive, so they used to bury bells with a supposedly deceased person in hopes that someone would hear the bell ringing in time to get them out. For someone who suffers from claustrophobia, this story definitely qualifies as TMI.  

Add to this the fact that while I’m listening to the stories about oven burials and the yellow fever that killed so many people the graves were full to overflowing, the sun is bouncing off the white marble graves and also from the white gravel paths, and it feels like I’m getting a double or maybe even a triple dose of sun, from overhead and also from the various reflective surfaces, and the guide is droning away, while the tour group sweats and visibly wilts and OMG, it doesn’t take long before I start wishing I had decided to spend the afternoon doing something else.  

What a relief it is to finally leave the cemetery and walk into the Garden District where there are more trees and shade and far fewer graves.  There are also a vast number of elaborate homes, many of which are owned or used to be owned by famous people such as Nicholas Cage, Ann Rice, Sandra Bullock, John Goodman, Archie Manning and so on.   But even though the houses are fun and the guide is a mine of interesting facts and stories this two hour tour seems far too long, perhaps because of the heat.  I am on the verge of collapse by the time it is over.

Although our reservations at Shaya aren’t for another hour, we decide to grab a cab and go early, thinking at the least we can have a drink at the bar.  Turns out we only have to wait 15 minutes for a table in the cozy courtyard in back of the restaurant.  

We have a lovely meal.  The English pea hummus is fabulous and the pitas are the best I’ve ever eaten, fresh from a large oven where a woman is hand rolling pita dough, tending the oven and turning out basket after basket of hot, delectable pitas that are served at every table and refreshed throughout the meal.  The pitas and hummus are reason enough to eat here, but there are more reasons – an interesting menu and great food and service.  I’m so glad I got a recommendation for Shaya. What a find.  

Once again Madeleine and I feast on the breakfast selection at the Hotel Mazarin while enjoying the charms of the tree-shaded courtyard.  What a great way to start the day.

Then we head out on foot, in the direction of something called River Walk, which we assume is a nice long path on which we can stroll near the Mississippi River. But nope, River Walk is just the name of an outlet mall, so we give it a miss. We give the aquarium next door a miss also, (there are very nice aquariums in both Seattle and Chicago).  And although I would normally want to try my luck, when we hear that Harrah’s Casino is located on the former site of the slave market (bad karma), we give it a miss also.  

There is a wide swath of pavement that stretches from the River Walk Marketplace to the Steamboat Natchez, the sun is shining, the river may be muddy but it also sparkles in the sun, and it feels great to amble along, enjoying the day.  When we come abreast of the Natchez we find a huge line of people waiting to buy tickets for jazz tours.  We do not join this queue as who would want to spend a glorious day in an exciting city waiting in line in the sun?  

There is still a lot of New Orleans to be explored, so we head away from the river and toward the St. Louis Cathedral (official name: Cathedral-Basilica of St. Louis, King of France) where we can sightsee while catching a break from the sun and heat.  The Cathedral was built in 1794 and contains suits of armor, statues, stained glass, and long pews where we can sit for a while and rest up for our next sightseeing venture.  

Jackson Square

Upon exiting the Cathedral we head for the incessantly recommended Café du Monde. On the way there, we walk past Jackson Square and browse through a few shops. My favorite sells several flavors of Tabasco sauce and I still regret failing to buy a few bottles of the more unusual flavors to bring home.  A block more and we reach the exterior patio of Café du Monde.  My heart sinks when I see the mob of people fighting for seats, but luckily, when we venture inside, we find a table easily and are able to order beignets and chicory coffee without undue delay.  

Our order arrives surprisingly quickly—deep-fried pastries layered with powdered sugar that are still warm. They’re good, I’m glad I tried them, but to be honest they aren’t something I will ever need to eat again.  But anyone who likes pastries more than I do should be very happy with this New Orleans treat.  My sister-in-law, for instance, tells me she could eat the beignets at Café du Monde three times a day.  I don’t get it, but even so, decide I really must buy some beignet mix to take home with me as a gift.  Luckily a gift shop nearby sells it, so I’m set.  

The Voodoo Lounge Ghost Tour starts at the Voodoo Lounge (go figure), where pre-tour Hurricanes are available at a discounted price. Our tour guide is charming and funny and a natural raconteur.  He begins by telling us about the New Orleans custom of second line funerals and segues into the topic of oven burials.

Evidently, the above-ground crypts (which are above ground because of the high water table) are used over and over, with a year and a day waiting time required between burials.  Because of the hot and humid climate, the tomb becomes a natural oven, and the body is naturally cremated, (especially handy in the days when the Catholic church did not allow cremation) with only a few bits of bone remaining.  A long -handled brush (hence the saying wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole) is then used to sweep the residue through an opening in the tomb to the bottom of the crypt so the tomb can be reused. It is a common practice to bury all the members of a family—or multiple families—in the same tomb, with names and dates added to plaques on the side of the crypt. 

As the tour continues our guide regales us with a variety of gruesome stories about the buildings we pass.  One of the most unsavory stories concerns the Carter brothers, who kidnapped people, tied them up, and slowly drained and drank their blood.  The brothers were dock workers and considered unremarkable until one of their victims escaped and led the authorities to the Carter apartment where several half-dead victims were discovered.  Tales have arisen about the brothers ever since – some believe they were vampires. Over a hundred people were killed by these fiendish men before their true natures were uncovered.   

Another story involves a couple who tortured slaves, with details so horrific I will not say more. My favorite story is about a restaurant haunted by a former owner of the building, a man who loved  to party and who is affronted that someone would dare to have a party in his house and not invite him to enjoy it.   He vents his fury by tripping waiters and dislodging trays and generally creating havoc.  The solution was to set a place at a table dressed in fine linen, with an excellent bottle of wine opened and a glass poured.  This makes the former owner and partier happy and peaceful.  On occasions when the restaurant has tried to skimp on the wine, there are issues with service all evening.  One by one we peer through a smeared window at the white-clothed table reserved for the resident ghost.

Our guide assures us that if you live in New Orleans for any length of time, you will believe in ghosts.  In fact, for-rent signs frequently specify whether the residence to be let is haunted. 

Halfway through the tour we stop at a bar for a bathroom break and are given the opportunity to order a second drink.  Although the tour lasts almost two hours, which normally would seem overly long, it is so interesting and well-planned that the length seems perfect.  I highly recommend it. 

When the tour ends we find a cab on Canal Street and head to Café Peche in the Garden District.  I can never resist having oysters on the half shell if they are available.  These were tasty and fresh, which in my mind sets the best restaurants apart from all others.  Both Lynn and I got drum for our entrée - a local fish I had never tasted that has an unusual creamy texture and was delicious.  Then we cabbed back to the hotel.  Our driver was highly entertaining which made the short journey a perfect capper to a great day.

The Hotel Mazarin provides an amazing breakfast – a help yourself buffet spread over several tables in a room just off the courtyard.  There are eggs several ways, croissants, bagels, a selection of fruit, cereal, toast, muffins, breakfast meats, juices, pancakes, French toast, yogurt, and more. And the coffee is fabulous.

I fill a plate and a cup and look for a spot in the busy courtyard.  I end up sharing a table with a mother and daughter from Connecticut who give me tips about things to do and places to go.  I appreciate the advice, but already have a long list of tips and suggestions from friends and family.  It seems that everyone wants to chime in with advice when they hear you are planning a visit to New Orleans.

After breakfast I grab a book and take a seat in the lobby to wait for my friend, Madeleine, who is due to arrive at ten. Back when I met Madeleine, she hated her name and went by Lynn. She has since grown to appreciate Madeleine and uses it exclusively.  I have tried to adapt but end up calling her Lynn most of the time.  If I saw her more often maybe I would do better.

We met in a Social Security Claims Rep training class in Chicago in 1976 and have helped each other through marriages, divorces, births, and various adventures and traumas. We text often but live so far apart we only see each other every few years.  I’m looking forward to hanging with her for a few days. When I started this journey, I was happy to have a little alone time, but after ten days of solo roadtripping I’m ready for company.  

As I wait, I make a list of all the sights, foods, and activities that have been recommended by friends and family:

·       Shaya (a restaurant in the Garden District)

·       Café du Monde for the beignets

·       Gumbo House for the gumbo, duh

·       Central Grocery for the muffuletta sandwich

·       Peche Seafood Grill because a friend’s friend, Tim, works behind the bar

·       Bourbon Street at night (check – did this last night) (okay, it was a cursory visit, but I’m good)

·       French Quarter exploration

·       Garden District ditto

·       Ghost tours, plantation tours, swamp tours, cemetery tours

Many, many people have told me how much they love this city.  But a fair number of others have shrugged and said it was nothing special. I’m looking forward to making my own assessment.

Lynn arrives on schedule. It is wonderful to see her; it’s been far too long. She has one tiny suitcase, so it doesn’t take long for her to move in.

In less than an hour we are heading out to explore the French Quarter.  We are lucky in our weather – sun and blue skies yet not too hot or humid. What fun it is, sauntering through shop after shop, examining the unusual merchandise, much of which is unique to this city.  One place sells nothing but Mardi Gras masquerade masks, another specializes in extravagant (truly over the top) lamps and chandeliers, another specializes in elaborate and very expensive Christmas ornaments.  Another shop sells dolls, yet another cigars.  There are dozens of art galleries, antique stores, and more voodoo paraphernalia shops than could possibly be necessary, or so I hope. The more mundane and eclectic gift shops sell costume jewelry, plaques, wall art, furnishings, pralines, Tabasco sauces, glassworks, toys, books, dish towels, beignet mix.  

I graze through the stores, buying gifts and keepsakes while relishing the gaudy colors and even gaudier characters that surround me.  I am loving the quirkiness, the bright colors, the extravagant buildings.

We stop for lunch at the Gumbo House and are lucky to arrive before the rush, so there is only a short wait to be seated.  Our seats are in a partially covered courtyard that is part sun, part shade.  The gumbo is good, but our waiter is not terribly keen and tends to disappear for long stretches.   Even so, it’s fun to drink a little wine, eat a little gumbo and indulge in a little people watching.

It’s only a four-hour drive to the Hotel Mazarin in New Orleans, so I take my time.  It’s almost ten when I head out.  There are storm clouds everywhere except for the tiny sunbreak over me and my Highlander. It’s 70 degrees, with mileage at 2896.

The drive today is unusual because a large portion of it is over water.  There is the  Sabine River Bridge, the Lake Charles Bridge, the Atchafalaya Swamp Freeway – an 18 mile stretch across the Atchafalaya River and its accompanying swamp, and the Pontchartrain Expressway. Many of these sections of freeway are supported by thick concrete pylons and seem to be just barely clearing the water.  It is an unusual landscape to my eyes – especially the section that goes over the swamp - and feels a bit otherworldly.  

I get to NoLA just before 3PM and find my way to the Hotel Mazarin in the French Quarter.  I empty the car of virtually everything and bring it up to the room and stack it in one corner.

At first I am a bit disappointed by the room – it smells musty and has no windows except some that are painted shut and face out onto the 2nd floor walkway above an admittedly charming courtyard.  But the room is furnished handsomely, with several upscale features, and eventually I decide it will be fine.  

I haven’t yet had lunch so that is my first priority.  I walk out into the steamy air and head in the direction suggested by the front desk staff.  There’s a nice place on the corner so I take a seat at the bar and order an oyster BLT. I like both oysters and BLTs, so I’m hoping this will be an appealing combo, but when my meal arrives I realize maybe not so much.  It’s easily solved – I eat the oysters and BLT separately and am a happy camper.  

Then it’s back to the room to settle in.  At this point it is early evening and I’m not in the mood to explore extensively on my own. After so many days of driving I just want to relax for a few hours. So I do a few housekeeping and personal hygiene tasks (freshly painted nails anyone?) while texting madly to friends and family.  At nine I decide to go out for a drink.

I walk in the opposite direction from where I ate lunch and find a bar called The Old Absinthe House (full name: Jean Lafitte’s Old Absinthe House since 1807) and sit at the bar. It is a tiny, dark place, with doors open to the street on two sides, a square bar in the center containing liquor, till, and bartender, and many colorful and crazy themed posters and business cards on the wall. Exactly the kind of place I imagined as the setting for Jones, Darlene and Lana Lee when reading The Confederacy of Dunces.

I order the house specialty, an Absinthe Frappe.  It’s a fun bright green color but tastes foul.  I sip it gingerly while checking out the bartender and clientele.  Visible through the doors across from me are the streetlights and shadows of Bourbon Street which at this hour is clustered with knots of drinkers – mostly men, and feels a bit treacherous.  Hell, the place I’m sitting feels a bit treacherous as well.  But I figure I am far too old and boring to attract any unwanted attention. At times like these it feels good to be anonymous and unremarkable.

Just in case the mood swings I don’t stay long.  After choking down most of the Absinthe Frappe, I order a Planter’s Punch to take back to my room.  I approve of this newly acquired ability to order drinks to go.  Very convenient indeed. Drink in hand I head back to my room to read until midnight.  

After nine days on the road and over 3000 miles I’ve arrived in New Orleans!!  Yippee, skippee!!

I sleep until eight and it feels great – I needed a lie in. 

It’s raining again today. I’ve had several cold and rainy days in a row and am hoping to hit better weather soon.  I leave the Hotel Granluca and Austin with regret and add them to my list of places I want to revisit.  It’s a late start—I don’t get away until about 9:30 and waste another 30 minutes looking for a Starbucks.  A cold brew, breakfast sandwich, and banana bread are just the ticket.  As I’m leaving the drive-through I think to look at the mileage and it’s 2655.  

I head southeast out of Austin on Hwy 290 and at I-10 head east. When I stop for gas, I find a text from my husband warning me about bad weather in Houston.  Must be exceptionally bad if it made the national news.  Sure enough right before I get to Houston the rain cuts loose – downpour doesn’t do it justice – we’re talking deluge  – with windshield wipers on high and barely coping.  I and the rest of the bumper-to-bumper traffic creep carefully through downtown Houston – it’s a total white-out with a few vaguely visible outlines of random skyscrapers.  

East of Houston the weather gets scarier—with several dark funnel shaped clouds hovering just above the car– and me trying to decide what to do if one of them touches down.  Then the rain gets even heavier (but the funnel clouds disappear, thankfully). I move to the right lane and slow to a crawl, take the first exit, and wait out the downpour at a gas station.  

Even with rain and storm delays it’s looking like I’ll be in NoLA a day early and I am so ready to be there. I had hoped to make it to Lake Charles tonight, but the storm messed up that plan--I will have to stop in Beaumont instead.  I try to get a room at a Hilton Garden Inn, but they are booked solid due to the storm, so I end up in a marginal Holiday Inn Express. The best part of the day ends up being a meal at a Mexican restaurant called Amacate that is walking distance from my room.  It’s super cheap and good – a decent margarita, great salsa and chips, and tasty chicken mole enchiladas.  

The room is not the best, but at least there are no bugs in the bathtub.   Man oh man, I am so happy to be close to New Orleans.  I call and book an extra night with the Hotel Mazarin.  Four nights in one spot with no daily loading and unloading of bags and cooler.  What a concept.  I can’t wait.

When I check out of my room, the desk clerk asks me about the bathtub bugs and commiserates with me.  She tells me they’ve called an exterminator.  Good idea.

The mileage is at 2236.9, the temp 49.  It is so cold I am wearing a long-sleeved black shirt, a wool hoodie and a fleece vest. Sheesh.

I drive south on Hwy 84 and before you know it I’m in oil country, with oil wells clustered on both sides of the car.  The smell of oil thickens the air and makes it difficult to breathe.  I’d hate to live here and smell this all day every day. I suppose you would get used to it, but it certainly doesn’t appeal.

But I don’t see oil wells often, especially so many at one time, and they are certainly more interesting than the flat farmland I drove through yesterday. (Continued below)

It’s oil wells for several miles, then windmills, then at Sweetwater (great name) I hit lush lake country and carpets of wildflowers.  My GPS sends me on a lot of back roads and two-lane highways, and I don’t mind one bit because my route is strewn with flowers – with both ditches filled to bursting and blooms stretching into the fields as far as I can see. White, yellow, purple, red, blue flowers.  I recognize some because I’ve grown them in my garden: coreopsis, bee balm   and Indian blanket (or Gaillardia) to name a few.  There are also bluebonnets, Indian paintbrush, lantana, butterfly weed, fleabane and many others I am unable to identify. I stop often to take photos but it is impossible to capture the lush feeling of the landscape— my  photos look washed out and bland in comparison to what I am seeing with my eyes. (Continued below)

Due to the frequent stops and detours, not to mention the slower speed necessary when following back roads, it is late when I get to Austin.  In larger cities, Hotel Tonight is a godsend – like tonight, entering an unfamiliar city, clogged with rush hour traffic, the kind of place you would rather not make a wrong turn if you can avoid it, with no idea where motels and hotels might be located.  With Hotel Tonight it is simple – a search reveals a list of possibilities, one of which is the Hotel Granduca with a deluxe rating yet affordable.  Wooee. I could use deluxe about now, so I book a room and follow my GPS instructions to a grand place situated on a hill with a sweeping territorial view.

Hotel Granduca is decorated to look like a swish Italian villa with reproductions of Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa and Ginevra Benci on the umber colored walls, along with thick carpets, grand staircases, potted cypress, courtyards with tiered fountains, and a few modern touches, like a pool table and a saltwater pool.

My room is luxurious, with many added touches, upscale furniture, tiled bathroom – quite a contrast from the disgusting room last night.  I get help with my myriad bags and chill for a while. (Continued below)

I’m tired from driving so am tempted to be lazy and eat at the restaurant on site, but I have a rave recommendation from a friend (the one I’m meeting in New Orleans) for a place called Odd Duck.  The name alone makes me want to make the effort to try it, so I activate my GPS and head out.

I am directed to an interesting section of town called the South Lamar district with many restaurants and an interesting vibe – the kind of area that would be fun to explore.  It’s crazy busy though and parking is hard to come by.  Luckily Odd Duck has valet parking, so I make use of it and go in to see if I can get a meal in spite of the fact that I don’t have a reservation.  They tell me I can have a seat at the bar if I finish by 7:30.  Deal.  

I love foodie restaurants with inventive food combinations and cooking techniques.  After due consideration of an interesting menu, I order a carrot dish made with curried peanuts (got to get my vegetables), and pork with greens and a glass of yummy red wine.  My seat at the bar lends itself to people watching, both patrons and the chefs at work in the kitchen.  For dessert I order beet sherbet on crème fraiche with granola sprinkles and edible flowers.  

My visit to Odd Duck is a rousing success, with great food, ambience ditto, and a server who is efficient and cute, with a rhinestone hoop in her nose and a left arm that is extravagantly tattooed.  Oh to be young again.  

I’m up early and on my way to Santa Fe and the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum.  I find a parking lot close to the museum and walk the two blocks to the entrance. Great timing, I arrive right at 10:00 when the museum opens.  I didn’t dress warm enough though; the temp is in the 40s and there’s a stiff breeze that cuts through my lightweight jacket.  

I visited the museum something like 15 years ago and loved it -- this stop has been planned from the start.  It’s a cozy museum packed with quality O’Keeffe paintings.  When you get tired of standing you can take a seat and watch a film in which Georgia O’Keeffe talks about her life and process. Among other things she says that she never intended for her paintings of flowers to resemble female reproductive organs.  Oh really?  Hmmm.  I suppose it’s possible.

And because I love to buy keepsakes of places I love, this visit is not complete without a stop in the gift shop where I buy postcards, a gorgeous scarf, and a necklace.  Resisted the fridge magnets this time! (Okay, there weren’t any.)

This painting was done during the years O’Keeffe lived in New York. 

My Venezuelan lunch.

After the museum I grab lunch at a Venezuelan restaurant recommended by the museum staff. Never having eaten Venezuelan food before, I order a meal that includes tastes of several Venezuelan specialties.  I am an adventurous eater and have been trying new foods my entire life, nevertheless this meal has tastes and textures that are unique to my experience.  Some are wonderful, others will take some getting used to.  There’s more than I can eat in one sitting – so I get a to-go box, figuring I will eat it on the road.

I am considering a visit to Carlsbad Caverns – I visited it once as a 14-year-old on a family trip and have always wanted to go back.  With Carlsbad Caverns in my GPS I head south on US-285.  I am feeling a bit discombobulated today – using GPS instead of actual maps does not give you a sense of where you are in the world – it’s just the next turn and the next and the next. It is also possible that the altitude in Santa Fe (7199’) is affecting me as I’m feeling woolly-headed and indecisive.

After driving a few miles, I begin to worry that the detour down to Carlsbad might make me late for New Orleans – I am scheduled to meet a friend at the Hotel Mazarin in three days, and half of one of those days has just been devoted to a tour of the O’Keeffe Museum.  If I drive down to Carlsbad (which will take four to six hours) the rest of the day will be gone. Then I’ll need four to six hours to tour the caverns tomorrow.  Even if I stop touring early and start my drive across the vast state of Texas tomorrow afternoon, and even if I drive into the evening, there is no way I can get across the state in just a day and a half.  When I stop for gas, I pull out the old-fashioned paper road maps I got from AAA and zero in on exactly where I am and where I need to go.  This decides the issue for me and reluctantly I change my plans and substitute Austin for Carlsbad Caverns in my GPS. (Several friends have given me rave reviews of Austin and I want to make a flying visit.) My new route sends me to I-40 and then to Hwy 84 which I follow to Lubbock, Texas.

The route is long and uninspired – first desert scrub, then farmland with a plethora of tractors and grain elevators.  Maybe if I hadn’t grown up in farm country these views would be new and interesting, but for me they are just same-old, same-old. The dramatic scenery is gone, and I miss it horribly.  I wish I had scheduled more time for the Four Corners area – and I also wish I had time to drive down to Carlsbad.  I promise myself I will come back.  

It is late when I get to Lubbock.  My route through town takes me past what must be the most uninspiring parts of this city – empty storefronts, grain elevators, weedy lots decorated with huge blocks of broken concrete.  One of my aunts married a man from Lubbock back in the day, and she used to talk about how much they hated this place.  She said they left as soon as possible and moved to Burbank -- a small improvement I suppose. I google Lubbock and find out that Texas Tech is located here.  Also, that Buddy Holly hailed from this town and in fact, if you wish, you can tour the Buddy Holly Center, not to mention the American Windmill Museum and the National Ranching Heritage Center.  But I also find an article that claims that Lubbock is the worst  place to live in Texas. So, mixed reviews.

Hotel Tonight finds me a Holiday Inn, but I book in person, using my rewards and AAA cards.  I’ve figured out through trial and error that this will give me the best room for the best rate.  But even though I take these precautions, the room at this Holiday Inn leaves a lot to be desired.  There’s a weird smell that I decide to put up with, and later in the evening when I go to the bathroom the tub is full of bugs that look like tiny earwigs.  I rinse them down the drain and close the drain to prevent more from climbing back into the tub, then call the front desk to complain. They offer to move me to another room, but I’m all settled in and can’t face a move. I know that bugs coming up from the drains is a thing in hot climates and I decide that’s all it is.   It seems my hotel rooms are either fabulous (like last night) or dreadful (like tonight).  That’s a road trip for you, or actually almost any vacation, unless you are willing to pay tip-top dollar.  

I get up and pack, then blithely don shorts, a sleeveless top, and flip-flops.  I eat breakfast, get fresh ice for the Yeti, and it’s not until I head out to fetch the car that I realize it’s 52 degrees and pouring.  I had been so certain I would have the same lovely weather as yesterday I didn’t bother to look outside before getting dressed. Thank goodness I toured Mesa Verde yesterday.  Imagine negotiating those ladders in pouring rain!  

I brave the nasty weather long enough to move the car under the overhang in front of the motel, then go back inside to put on warmer clothes.  It’s 9 by the time I head out for Four Corners.

Four Corners -- this is it folks

Shiprock

View of the Sandia Mountains from my hotel room

Day 6

Mileage is at 1550.7. 

I hadn’t planned on visiting the actual spot where four states meet (Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona and Utah) until my physical therapist told me it was not to be missed. So I’m detouring over on Hwy 160 to check it out.  

The drive to Four Corners is gorgeous.  I keep thinking I should stop to take photos, but the road is two lanes with no shoulder so I put the photos off, telling myself I will take some snaps on the return journey. At a crossroads I manage a brief stop to photograph yet another huge monolith – there are several in the first few miles -- a string of them, heading south.     

The actual location where the four states meet up is on Navajo territory.  I pay five dollars to get in, park in a hard scrabble lot, and walk over to a low building that consists of four unconnected wings. There isn’t much to see – just the four long low empty buildings, a plaque explaining that government surveyors and astronomers established this corner, and a brass and concrete monument on the ground, with lines drawn so visitors can stand in four states at the same time while having their photo taken.  It doesn’t do much for me; in fifteen minutes I’m back on the road.  My GPS is not leading me back the way I came, but toward the town of Shiprock, where I stop for gas and a photo of another amazing monolith that looks like a ship in full sail, hence the name.  

The drive south to Albuquerque goes through another stretch of amazing scenery with more huge rocky prominences scattered across the landscape. The sky is huge with storms brewing along the horizon to the east and the west with vertical streaks where rain is falling. My route is in the center of these storms and is blue-skied.  As I continue south, I drive beneath a handful of storms that come on suddenly with rain pelting my windshield for a few miles and are just as suddenly gone. 

My route for most of the day is over rural, nearly empty highways: 160, 64, and 491, with the last stretch on I-40.  I had hoped to make it to Santa Fe but at four I decide to stop in Albuquerque, too tired to keep driving.  I search for hotels and am tempted by the Sandia Resort and Casino.  Hotel Tonight doesn’t list this hotel, but Hotel.com does and I book a room for an okay price.  Unfortunately when I get to the front desk it turns out I’ve booked a night for the following week.  I have to stop making these snap bookings and getting myself in trouble. Luckily the desk clerk is a very kind man and gives me a room for the night for the same price I got from Hotel.com – such a deal.  Also, luckily, Hotel.com allows you to cancel your room for no fee and I do so immediately.  

I have a fun evening – playing the slots for a while, then eating prime rib in the Bien Shur restaurant on the top floor of the resort.  My room is lovely, with a 180-degree view of the Sandia Mountains and an immense bathroom.

Up close and personal -- my first view of Cliff Palace

I’m up early, hoping to arrive at the park as soon as it opens at 8 AM.  After luxuriating in my hot tub last night, I washed out a few items and hung them to dry.  I am now shocked to find that all of these items dried overnight.  It would take two or maybe three days for them to dry under similar circumstances in Seattle.  I cleverly deduce that this area must be very dry indeed. (Continue reading below.)

Cliff Palace from an overlook

Balcony House through a telescope

Spruce Tree House

DAY FIVE -- A long-held goal realized: Mesa Verde

I eat a quick bowl of oatmeal at Holiday Inn’s free breakfast and head out into a lovely sunny morning. I’ve wanted to visit Mesa Verde for more than 20 years and intend to devote this entire day to it. The last time I drove through here on my way to visit my sister and her new twin girls (who are about to turn 21, OMG)  I didn’t plan well enough and didn’t have time to tour the park, for which you need a  minimum of three hours to see anything at all.  I now plan to make up for that omission.  

I stop at the Park Entrance Station where I get in a short line to buy a ticket for a ranger-led tour. There are three tours listed: Cliff Palace, Balcony House and Long House, however today only the Cliff Palace tour is available.  Signs warn that the tour of Cliff Palace is very strenuous so I fret while waiting in line, worried that the tour might be more than I can handle.  When it’s my turn to talk to the ranger selling tickets, I ask for more details about the tour.  She tells me I will have to negotiate 4 ten-foot ladders and walk over uneven and rocky ground.  I reason (under my breath) that if I managed to climb to the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral only six months ago, I should be able to manage this.  

So you want a ticket? Yes, please.  I expect it to be expensive, but the price is just $5.00.  When I express surprise at the minimal fee, the ranger says, if you want to spend big money you can buy a tour from the private company that contracts out for us. She jerks her head in the direction of a desk manned by someone who does not appear to be a ranger.  I consider this option briefly, but per the sign these tours are long (nine hours!) and involve being driven around the park in a huge bus (I hate being a captive audience) so I decide to explore the rest of the park on my own after seeing the Cliff Palace.  

My tour is scheduled for 10:00 AM.  After selling me a ticket, the ranger says I have plenty of time to get there as long as I don’t dawdle – it’s an hour-long drive to the top of the mesa.  She gives me a map and marks the spot where the tour will begin.  An hour! Yikes.  I skip the exhibits and head out to my car.  

At the park entrance, I point to the senior pass hanging from my rear-view mirror and ask the ranger if she needs anything else.  At Canyonlands I was waved through on the strength of this pass, but at Mesa Verde I have to show an ID and submit my pass for close scrutiny.  I suppose this is an indication of how popular this park is – nothing is taken for granted.  

To get to the heart of the park, I now follow a road that winds 1500 feet up the side of the mesa. The elevation in Cortez is 6200 feet; now I will be climbing to over 8000.   The road to the top of the mesa must be taken slowly as it is very narrow with hairpin turns.  (For the first years of the park’s existence, this was a graded dirt, one-way road.  Before a vehicle started up the road to the top of the mesa, a telephone call (from a phone box at the bottom) made sure no one was on their way down, then all downwards traffic was held until the caller arrived at the top.  (I learned this fascinating fact by reading a book called “Our Trip to Mesa Verde 1922” that I purchased in the gift shop later.)

I drive straight to the meeting spot for the tour and am the first to arrive.  Due to a recent rockfall that has closed the usual entrance, our tour will enter Cliff Palace at the same place we exit.  Soon there are several of us waiting for the ranger to show up.  I strike up a conversation with a couple of women who appear to be about my age and mention the fact that I am traveling alone.  They are suitably impressed.  I show off a little: travel when you want, where you want, I say, and they nod appreciatively.  I briefly sketch out my route and mention that I stopped to see the Great Salt Lake. They want to know what I thought of it. The question feels loaded so I hedge a bit.  Well it seemed quite nice this time, but my last visit wasn’t quite as positive. (Trying to say both that I liked it and also that I didn’t, so I can take my cue from their reaction. But I never quite decide what they think of the lake or why they asked. I get a sense that they might live near Salt Lake and are not terribly impressed.)

They ask if I have any sunscreen, so I get some out of my car. Then I ask if they have any ibuprofen as the headache I woke up with is unrelenting.  They do.  It’s a good trade and there are smiles all round.  These brief friendly encounters are one of the best parts of travel.   (I realize later that I was probably suffering from low-grade altitude sickness during my stay in Cortez and Mesa Verde.  In spite of taking ibuprofen the headache stayed with me the entire day.)

Our tour guide shows up. At exactly 10 o’clock she leads us down a short trail to the ladders.  She tells us we will go down one by one and after descending we are to follow the path to the right and join her near the ruins where we will wait for everyone to climb down and join us.  There are four 10-foot ladders made out of rounded, bark-free, tourist-worn tree trunks about six inches in width and a yard long which although precipitous are fairly easy to negotiate.  I make the mistake of taking my walking sticks with me (because we were warned that we would have to traverse uneven ground) and they make my descent much clumsier, clanking against the rungs of the ladder and even getting caught up behind them. I have to move carefully and make sure every step is secure and the sticks make it difficult as it seems I am untangling them constantly.  Even with these issues, I’m not the slowest by any means, which is a relief. (Several are slower including a woman with acrophobia who takes so long to descend and needs so much help the ranger has to start the tour without her.)

After successfully negotiating the ladders I follow a well-worn trail around the rock face and suddenly the Cliff Palace ruins are before me – a sandstone city of towers, living and storage rooms, kivas and open work areas.   It looks just like the photos I’ve studied and for some reason this seems incredible – a long-treasured wish suddenly coming true.  After years of wanting to see this site now it’s right in front of me and I’m overwhelmed.

I find it impossible to see these structures and not also feel intrigued by the mysteries that can never be answered.  Why did these ancient people move from the top of the mesa where they had lived from AD 550 to AD 1200 and down into the cliffs? Why did they suddenly abandon the cliff dwellings in AD 1300, leaving behind many prized possessions such as mats, ceramic vessels and stores of food? There are many theories, but it is impossible to answer these questions definitively.  What an enigmatic and evocative place.  

Our ranger is knowledgeable and enthusiastic.  She tells us that Mesa Verde has been a national park since 1906 and that it was the first park established to protect cultural and archaeological treasures rather than natural wonders.  The archaeological sites needed protection as they were increasingly being plundered by travelers and explorers.  Even the man given credit for discovering the ruins – Richard Wetherill—is considered by some to be more plunderer than archaeologist.  

The ruins are empty now, their contents scattered across the country in museums.  It seems a shame that it isn’t possible to see the pottery and other artifacts in the place they originated.  I promise myself that I will visit some of these museums in the near future, to get a better feel for the people who lived here.

But at least the ruins remain.  Our guide tells us that Cliff Palace contains 150 rooms, 75 open areas, and 21 kivas. There are both round and square towers and many storage rooms and granaries.  She shares some of the theories about the use of Cliff Palace – some believe it was a residence for several families, some believe it was largely a ceremonial site with a few people caring for it and living in residence.  Some believe it was used strategically during conflict. When she talks about the reason the inhabitants abandoned these dwellings, she discusses factors that may have contributed to their decision – several years of drought in the years immediately before their departure, for instance.  She concludes by saying she believes they moved on because, based on their culture and beliefs, it was simply time to go.  

Although our guide has a wealth of knowledge about Mesa Verde and the people who lived here, (she tells us she has worked as an archaeologist in this area for years) she is too matter of fact for my liking.  I long to hear someone speculate about the past and weave stories about the people who used to be called the Anasazi. (Researchers and archaeologists stopped using this term when they realized it was a Navajo word meaning ancient enemy.) The current and more accurate name for the people who lived in Mesa Verde is Ancestral Puebloans.

The tour ends and we now have to climb back up the ladders. It’s considerably harder than climbing down, even worse than I anticipated.  I stop between each section of ladder and try to briefly catch my breath—briefly, because I don’t want to be obviously incapable – which has more to do with pride than anything else. There is no question that the altitude is affecting me, especially while climbing these four ten-foot ladders.  When I get to the top I’m gasping, heart racing, and wishing I’d thought to bring along my inhaler, which I rarely need but could really use now.  

There are several benches at the top of the ladders – placed strategically for tourists who need to stop and catch their breath.  I’m surprised to see that it’s not only we older folks who need to rest after the climb—people 30 years younger than me are panting and gasping as well. The unfortunate woman with acrophobia is nowhere to be seen.  

I return to my car, with plans to drive around the top of the mesa and see as much of the park as is possible in a day of touring.  There is so much more to see – the park contains 5000 archeological sites, including 600 cliff dwellings.  Of course, only a small fraction of these are available to tour – but even so, there is far more than can be seen in one day: Spruce Tree House, Fire House Ruins, Square Tower House Overlook, Oak Tree House Ruins, Sunset House, Balcony House, Mesa Top, Long House, Step House – the list goes on and on.   I do my best and drive to as many of these as I can.  One of the highlights of Mesa Verde is Balcony House, so I walk out about ¾ of a mile to a spot where you can view it from across a canyon.  There is a telescope you can train on the site for a closer look and I manage to take a photograph through this telescope.    (The round photo above.)

I also check out the Mesa Top ruins, where the Ancestral Puebloans lived hundreds of years longer than they lived in the cliff dwellings, and drive both the Cliff Palace and Mesa Top Loops, stopping frequently to walk to overlooks and examine excavated ruins.

It is late in the afternoon when I make it to the Chapin Mesa Archaeological Museum.  Spruce Tree House Overlook is nearby and there is a lovely paved path on which you can walk down for a closer look but by this point I am so exhausted I don’t feel able to walk even this short distance.  (For someone who can only manage a flying visit, this is definitely the place to go – The Spruce Tree House is an impressive site and easy to get to, plus it is within walking distance of a café, museum and bookstore. If you were pressed for time you could hit just this one area of the park.)

Although feeling very tired I manage to visit the bookstore, where I overdo it as usual and buy four (!) books about Mesa Verde because I am still longing for more – I want something I can take with me and savor after this day is over.  Also, I hope the books will satisfy some of the curiosity I still feel about the people who lived here and their fate.  

One of the books is simply for fun: a Nevada Barr mystery (this is a fun series with a female protagonist who is a ranger who moves from national park to national park, solving a different mystery in each.  I had read the mystery set in Mesa Verde many years earlier – (so long ago I could no longer remember who-done-it.)  It was fun to reread and this time around be able to recognize many of the landmarks and know that I had actually set foot in many of them!)

I also buy a very short tract written by three young women who visited the park in 1920 (they walked to Mesa Verde from their homes in Colorado), another book based on interviews with Marietta Wetherill, wife of Richard who excavated extensively here and in Chaco Canyon.  My fourth book ends up being the best of the lot – I buy it because it appears to be a book that will satisfy my craving for more detailed information about the people who lived here -- a book that will bring those early days to life and provide answers or at least speculation about their lives and motivations: “House of Rain” by Craig Childs.  The research and effort that went into his book is astounding.  What a luxury to have someone do extensive research (including many long walks across the desert), interview archaeologists and scientists, and pull together all of these many threads of knowledge into a cohesive whole. Even better, Childs can write like a dream—the kind of writing you just fall into.  I highly recommend it.

In addition to these books I buy souvenirs for myself and family, then head over to the cafe and grab a late lunch.  By this point I’ve reached the end of my endurance and am ready to head back to my hot tub.  I’ve seen a lot, and even though I can’t see everything (I don’t make it to the Wetherill Mesa, where Step House and Long House are located), I have finally satisfied some of my curiosity about Mesa Verde.  I drive down off the mesa and return to my motel room, so exhausted I don’t have the energy to walk across the parking lot for a meal.  

Monitor and Merrimac

Views along Hwy 6

Canyonlands National Park

More Canyonlands

Random gorgeousness along my route south. 

Day Four

Mileage: 1096.8

I’m on the road by 7:25 AM and headed for Four Corners and Mesa Verde.  It’s south on I-15 for a few miles, then southeast on Hwy 6. The day starts cold but warms quickly. Hwy 6 narrows to two lanes but passing lanes are frequent.  I am alert and well-rested today with eight hours of sleep under my belt and a captivating landscape that holds my attention.  

I find it easier to stay awake while driving on an ever-changing highway rather than on an interstate where driving is just so monotonous, passing one semi after another and continually adjusting the speed setting on your cruise control so you can actually cruise. 

But the beautiful landscape is the main thing that keeps me focused. Mountains, huge walls of layered and sculptured rock, a different gorgeous view around every turn with the views getting more dramatic the longer I drive. I stop frequently to take photos and drink in long draughts of the lovely vistas, eventually stopping at a rest area situated very high, with gorgeous views, to eat my picnic lunch.

Then it’s back on the road where Hwy 6 merges with Hwy 191, a short stint on I-70, then it’s 191 again. I’m making good time, so when I see the sign for Canyonlands National Park, I impulsively take the exit.

Canyonlands is truly worth the detour.  The scenery during my drive south was impressive, but the vistas at Canyonland far exceed what I’ve seen so far, with  jaw-dropping panoramas at every turn-off. Even before I officially enter the park there is a turn-off  to view two dramatic monoliths known as Monitor and Merrimac (named for the two Civil War ironclad battleships that these gargantuan rocks resemble).

I find my Senior National Parks pass (what a deal – I got it just before the price went up), hang it from my rear-view mirror and continue driving skyward.  The ranger at the entrance waves me through.  Canyonlands National Park contains 337,598 acres of canyons, mesas, buttes, fins, arches and spires. There are two entries into the park: Island in the Sky and The Needles.  I only manage to tour one section: Island in the Sky. I spend a couple of hours, driving from viewpoint to viewpoint, entranced and enchanted.  I make it all the way to the Grand View Point, at the end of the two-wheel-drive road, with many stops in between. You could spend days exploring this breathtaking park but I can only spare a couple of hours before I have to head back to Hwy 191 and turn south toward Moab.

I put Mesa Verde in the GPS on my phone and continue south.  It’s almost six when I get to Cortez.  Once again I attempt to find a room using Hotel Tonight, but am told that all rooms are booked.  Because I am driving past a Holiday Inn and also because I happen to be a member of their rewards club, I decide to check to see if I can possibly score a room.   By golly there is a room, and not just any room either, it’s a King Deluxe with a hot tub in the room for a reasonable price.  I reserve it for two nights.  From this experience I deduce that although rooms allocated to Hotel Tonight may be sold out, not necessarily all of the rooms in the hotel are sold.  I also deduce that I can get a better price and a nicer room as a rewards club member than I can get via Hotel Tonight. Something to keep in mind as I continue my journey.

The Great Salt Lake was part of prehistoric Lake Bonneville. 

Day Three:  

I am very stiff from driving and longing for a swim. The hotel pool is super clean but too tiny to swim laps so I compromise and do water walking exercises for half an hour.  This puts me on the road (I-84) later than usual – 9:00 AM.  I forget to write down mileage until I’ve been on the road about 45 minutes.  It is 844.7 at that point.  

It is very sunny and I am driving through flat farmland that reminds me of Iowa, land of my youth.  On second thought not all that much like Iowa as the horizon is ringed with mountains. Many fields are covered in a low carpet of purple flowers.  What were these flowers?  Unfortunately I never figured this out.

I cross into Utah.  Almost immediately I see a sign: Get the US out of the UN. Every few miles there is a billboard that screams Jesus Lives. I’m in foreign territory here and this impression is amplified by the content of the radio stations that I cycle through, searching for oldies.  I find sermons, hymns, country music, and right-wing talk radio, none of which appeals.  I turn off the radio and keep driving.  

There’s a constant, monotonous thump from the substandard road surface, interspersed with long waits and slow going for road construction.  I encountered an interesting tradition while driving in Idaho – the minute it became clear that road construction would shortly become an issue, traffic obediently moved into the appropriate lane, leaving the other lane completely open for miles.  The occasional car sped along in this lane to merge farther up the road, but this was surprisingly rare.  Frequently, semis rolled slowly in the open lane, effectively blocking any car from cheating in this manner.  I was equal parts outraged and amused when a boxy Yugo passed the semi on the right shoulder and sped ahead in the empty lane.  

Usually these lane closures were due to road construction, but one of the worst -- the line of cars stretching to the horizon, and as I mounted the rise, to the next horizon, and so on – was due to road sweeping.   Seriously? Is road sweeping the interstates a thing in Idaho?    

Drivers in Utah are not as polite. The closer I get to Ogden, the crazier they drive.  Road conditions are poor, construction frequent (with no polite queuing here), the speed limit is treated as an impertinent suggestion, and the roads are hectic with traffic.  To make matters worse, this deterioration in road conditions is accompanied by the onset of extreme lethargy.  I eat the remaining beef jerky and buy my first ever energy drink and choke some down (it tastes foul).   Coincidentally, Utah is the only place where I see signs warning against driving while drowsy. “Drowsy driving causes crashes.” “Sleep Smart, Drive Smart.” “Are You Too Tired to Drive?” “Drowsy Drivers Use Next Exit.”

Could my exhaustion have something to do with the power of suggestion? Surely not.  But there’s no denying that I feel so tired I might be drugged, with limbs heavy and thinking cloudy. I pull off the road at a rest area and do some stretches and jumping jacks.  While there I strike up a conversation with a woman who is trying to find I-15.  We sort that out and then I am back on the road until exhaustion overcomes me again.  I pull off and find a small patch of shade behind a Subway, recline my seat, and drop into the kind of sleep where you wake completely disoriented, not knowing where you are or what time it might be.   Only a half hour’s worth but I feel rejuvenated.  Thinking that I owe something to the Subway in return for the nap, I go in and get a meatball sandwich. Luckily there’s a Starbucks close and I get coffee too (the heck with this no coffee nonsense, what was I thinking?)  Then I’m back on the road.  

At Salt Lake City I detour West on I-80 to check out the Great Salt Lake.  It is my second visit – last time was also a brief detour while driving through Utah on my way to somewhere else. My memories are of foul-smelling shallow water with flies buzzing over the sand.  This visit is more positive. I follow signs for a State Park but on the way come across a vast parking area near a building that is used as a concert venue and appears to be owned privately.  Several cars are parked near dunes that mark the lake shore. It is not the edge of the lake now, as sand flats the length of a football field extend between the dunes and the water. Several people are walking out onto these sand flats toward where the blue lake water has receded. I join them, walking out onto the sand in flip flops. There are several damp patches in this stretch of sand, and when I walk through the boggy bits my flip flops and feet acquire a white coating of salt.  (Interesting fact: although I wash this salt off several times, it takes something like six tries to get rid of the white residue.  And the salt makes my feet so dry the skin starts peeling.  Good grief.)

Walking out on the sand puts me at the level of the lake.  It’s a lovely spot with the bright blue of the lake rimmed with white sand, grass dried to a lovely amber, and lilac mountains.  I walk out about halfway, then return to my car to continue on to the State Park where I pay $3 to enter.  There I find a busy marina and an information center where I buy postcards and fridge magnets.  (I have a ridiculous infatuation with fridge magnets. I love ‘em.) I read that the Great Salt Lake is a remnant of a prehistoric lake called Bonneville.   I believe it – the place has a definite prehistoric vibe. 

The current lake averages 15% salinity and contains no fish, only algae, brine fly-larvae and brine shrimp. I notice a salt processing plant nearby.   One of these days I hope to do justice to this interesting area, but today I have other goals in mind that pull me back to the road.  

I backtrack on I-80 to I-15 and continue South.  Unfortunately, I don’t get far before extreme exhaustion ambushes me again.  This is just not my day.  I exit at Provo and use Hotel Tonight to find the closest motel to my location.  This happens to be a Sleep Inn and is the cheapest night on my trip.  It also turns out to be one of the coldest: 45 degrees with cold, slanting rain that cuts loose while I am unpacking the car.  I rest for an hour or so, then venture out for a meal and supplies for tomorrow.  I suspect that eateries will be few and far between during my drive south on US Highway 6 so I buy a baguette, a package of ham, organic mayo, several local beers (to drink after I stop driving for the day), and some radishes and apples so I can picnic on the road.

Bend (I passed on the nitro-hemp coffee.)

Mileage 343.7. 

I leave Bend at 7:20 AM after buying tea and gas. I am trying not to drink coffee, but it’s challenging. Protein also helps me stay awake so yesterday ate a package of beef jerky but already getting sick of eating it -- it’s too salty.  

It suddenly occurs to me that Bend is a somewhat unusual name so while I am getting gas (love the fact that Oregon requires attendants to pump gas for you) I Google to find out the origin. Turns out it used to be called Farewell Bend because this is one of the few places where the Deschutes River is fordable, but the US Postal Service thought that name was too long and shortened it to Bend. What do you know?

I head east on Hwy 20 toward Idaho.  It’s a gorgeous drive, with two huge white-topped mountains filling the horizon behind me.   Roads are nearly empty most of the way and I love driving on nearly empty roads.  Not many rest areas or gas stations though so hopefully no urgent calls of nature this morning.

It’s a long haul, much farther than it looks – those mountains seem to be in the rear view forever. Then the road turns North and runs along Willow Spring Creek for several miles.  The landscape becomes greener.  I’m enchanted by the greening landscape and pull off the road to take some photos.  It’s not until I’ve pulled into a large graveled turnoff next to the creek that I notice one of the trees has a couple of hundred pairs of shoes dangling from its limbs.  Many, many, many pairs of shoes.  Maybe this is where the local teenagers hang out, drink too many beers and then decide to throw their shoes into a tree. Maybe the shoes were thrown by recent graduates.  Maybe they were thrown to commemorate deaths of friends, although there seem to be too many for that. Wikipedia states confidently that there are 76 shoe trees in the U.S.  What are the odds this tree in Eastern Oregon got counted?  77 shoe trees then.  At least. 

I stop for a surprisingly good BLT at a tiny place that calls itself an oasis, then Hwy 20 morphs into Hwy 26 and soon I am merging onto I-84 and crossing the Snake River into Idaho. I make it to Boise fairly quickly but feel too tired to cope with rush hour traffic (yes there is a rush hour in Boise), so keep driving. 

Several long stretches of road construction slow my progress. I would love to stop for the night but hotels are few and far between and I end up driving all the way to Twin Falls. I pull the car in at the information center, check out the view (impressive) and book the Hilton Garden Inn using Hotel Tonight.  A bit pricey – this ended up being the most expensive hotel on my trip-- but very comfy and welcoming.