Copyright © 2002 LeeAnn Heringer
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Copyright © 2002 LeeAnn Heringer
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Chapter One : Where the Stars Sound Like Semis Shifting Their GearsAll our journeys currently start from here, from a white front door in a blue frame. Things begin to pile up in the entryway—suitcases, camera bags, hand bags, computer bags, carry-on bags, gym bags, coats, umbrellas, tents, sleeping bags, ice chests, plastic gear boxes. Not necessarily every item for every trip, but, trust me, there is always the problem of where do you pack the shoes. Always too many shoes. We put things in, we take things out, we argue about the shoes. And finally there's a grand moment where the items are ceremoniously carried from the entryway down the sidewalk and out the gate to our truck or to an airport limo / shock-absorber-less van or to a cab. If we came from a more interesting culture, no doubt we would do this right, drummers and porters, a special chant would be prepared. But being from Northern European farmer stock, we always slip out like thieves. |
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I know too many people out on the road tonight. You probably do as well. People on 1 month, 6 month, 1 year, open ended journeys, drifting clock-wise slowly across the planet. The economy in Silicon Valley has gone sour and, if you're going to be unemployed, it's much more interesting to be an unemployee in foreign country. Better to wait it out in Thailand or Madrid where you have a hope of being a novelty. So, it's difficult to make a 10 day tour of the national parks of northwest Wyoming sound, well, compelling. I, in fact, had been planning on Paris and discovered a wide range of 1 bedroom apartments for no more than we're paying for housing in Wyoming, but when we went to make airline reservations, it was $1600 apiece for coach for the cheapest tickets we could find. It was $5000 apiece for coach from San Francisco to Paris on United. Dean suggested Wyoming instead. And Wyoming is just like Paris, right? Oh, well, don't say you weren't warned on the very first page of this.
We left after work on a Thursday evening in June, just a couple weeks past the summer solstice. The long-slanted dusk hangs in the air. The shadows ahead of us as we face east. The plan is to drive from San Jose to Jackson, Wyoming over the unhurried course of a couple days, starting with a night drive to Reno, NV. The weather was clear, a bit of wind, no moon. Just us and the truckers, a sky full of stars and thousands of CalTrans orange hazard barrels, squeezing us into tight, twisty single lanes. A loaded semi ahead of us. A loaded semi behind. The whiff of overheating asbestos brake linings in the air. Ah, summer, highway construction season in the west. And, if you don't know, let me be the first to tell you, their cone-manship is absolutely fabulous. Is there a special school for that sort of thing? Particularly right around Truckee just past the grade for Donner Summit where one guy was picking up cones and 20 feet further on, another truck was laying 'em down. At 9:30 at night. In complete darkness. |
night drivingI always hear the voices of children (insistent as the calls of crows) above the flap of the evening rushing in through the window. above turning tires. on a road rising and falling sure as an infant's breath. the destination feels farther away at night. as if there's always been something, failling like darkness, between you and me. |
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We arrive in Reno at 10:30 and take the last room with a queen bed at the Motel 6. Apparently, the rodeo is in town. The parking lot is filled with pickup trucks.
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