Exploring the five famed parks in Utah is, I think, the main attraction for most, and it is incredible, but even after all those sights, the trip isn’t over. I’m still thousands of miles away from home, and my car is working beautifully, though her insides are covered in layers of multi-coloured dust. I still have 2 weeks before I have to go back up north for work.
So, from Utah’s Bryce Canyon, I drive north. My guide book says that there is a stretch of Hwy 89 that is beautiful, pristine, a reminder of the old way of life. Also, driving up 89 I get to avoid the I-15: I’ve seen enough of the motorway, and nothing will beat the stretch of I-15 motorway between Utah and Nevada.
By late afternoon I’m driving in the Manti-La Sal Forest. It is delightful to be back amongst green, but this proves to a popular place and it takes me a little while to find a campground, a little far from the main road, but it is worth it because I happen to drive into a campground where campers bring their horses. I’m greeted by a friendly campground host who directs me to a peaceful site, where I watch the sun set.
I drive around Salt Lake City, avoiding it completely. Aside from Las Vegas, I haven’t been to a city all summer, and I don’t have any urge to visit one now. Instead, and complete out of the way, I make the long drive out east to the Bonneville flats.
The salt flats are like nothing I’ve seen before. Different, completely, from the salt basins at Death Valley National Park, because here, people and cars get to see what it feels like to be on the flats, unrestricted. I choose not to drive my car onto the flats – salt can’t be good for it, and I’m not ready to part with all the red dust my Civic’s collected. But I do take my shoes off, and run (yes, I actually run) around the flats. I wander and run and skip and hop far from edge, until all the other tourists are as small as ants. I breathe in the air; I let the salt sting my feet. I play, though the heat makes me dizzy.
It’s hard to drive away from this playground, but I haven’t got a site sorted for the night, and want to drive a little further west, past Salt Lake City.
My next big find is Flaming Gorge on the border of Wyoming and Utah. It’s another place I did not know existed until I drove and turned the pages of my Atlas to see what’s coming next. This is why I’m such a fan of driving with an actual Road Atlas: the hard copy, the pages wrinkled, torn and worn are my constant companion in the passenger seat that force me to create my own route, allowing me to take detours without automatically re-routing to whatever I’ve decided my final destination tol be. With a Road Atlas, there isn’t a final destination, and there’s a freedom in that. Also, a little frustration – Flaming Gorge is a popular place, and by the time I get to the gorge, all the campgrounds are taken. It takes me a little bit of driving to find one with an empty lot, by which time I am hungry, and my hunger is fuelling my annoyance at not having planned this whole trip better. Of course, the annoyance is completely gone by the time camp’s set up and I have warm food set out on the picnic table, ready to be eaten. By this time, the sun is setting, and I’m glad that I didn’t plan anything – with a plan, I would never have ended up here.
A few years ago I drove through Wyoming, but did not have a chance to make it to Cheyenne, so this time, I detour, again. But there’s not much I can say about Cheyenne. It lacks the small town charm of Deadwood, and since the motorcycle rallies are all done, the craziness of Sturgis is also missing. I’m tired, too, and all of a sudden, cold. I load up on a bunch of Wyoming paraphernalia that continues to adorn my car, my phone, my agenda, and my computer – everywhere I look, I’m reminded of Wyoming.
From Cheyenne, I have a straight, long drive to Minnesota – it is always a good idea to end a long road trip by attending the Minnesota State Fair, but I’ve driven through Nebraska once already, and am not eager for the long drive along the I-80. But here, again, strangers save me. Back at the Grand Canyon a ride of bikers from Nebraska tell me where I should go. Drive north at Ogallala, they say, don’t miss the lake, they say, then drive along Hwy 2, they say.
Of course I listen because, in my experience, listening to strangers on the road is pretty much always a good idea.
And it proves true – the strangers know what they’re talking about, because I would never have looked at the map and gone to Lake McConaughy. At the park office, I buy a pass for an overnight stay. I ask the ranger about the sites. She says, you can camp anywhere along the shore, marking on my map a long stretch of beach, here and there and elsewhere.
School has already started in Nebraska, so the recreation areas are empty. I find a stretch of beach all to myself; I am more than 200 meters away from my nearest neighbours, a few people in a trailer who are also camping on the beach, their fishing poles perched by the water front.
I worry that once my civic drives down to the beach I won’t be able to get her back out, so it takes a little time to find just the right path down for her. I won’t lie – I do panic about not being able to drive off the beach for some time.
First things first, the hammock comes out, along with a beer and a book. Perfection.
Another stranger enters my life, to brighten my late afternoon. Jerry is driving an old, open Jeep up and down the beach. Between his feet he has a cooler full of Coors Light. In one hand he’s got a lit cigarette. He drives up and down three times before pulling in close. He offers me a hand in welcome, and a beer, and proceeds to tell me why he loves Nebraska and the lake. He tells me about his son who’s studying in Salt Lake City, about the family business in growing milkweed, and how he, now the head of the family, plans on expanding the business. He weaves a story of his life, once and again stopping to ask about mine. He’s a fast talker, excited and full of life. I talk to him long enough that the water I’m boiling for my store-bought tortellini, boils out. Jerry drives up and down the beach a few more times, waving each time, before he finally calls out a good night and I never see him again, though I am now interested in milk weed.
The beach is quiet at night. It’s so quiet that, though I am tired and full, it takes me a very long time to fall asleep. This is a public beach, and how do I know I’m safe here? It turns out, I am.
Following the advice of the bikers, I drive along Hwy 2, then 20, until I end up on the 60 driving through a corner of Iowa where I stop for the night, in a forest so lush and fresh and green that I want to roll around in the grass.
I nest in Minneapolis for a few days where my dear friends allow me to rest, and fill my head with more stories. We ride our bikes to the State Fair, eat fried cheese curds and enjoy, for a little while, the crowds.
It takes me another 2 days of driving, and being stuck in one very long Chicago traffic jam, to get home.