Josh Levinger

Memorial Day: the busiest road travel day of the year, and the start of my voyage. Not the best planning perhaps, but it had to do. I left Norwich with Jared, and we drove the first four miles together before I dropped him off at his house. It was a bittersweet goodbye; this should have been our trip together, and it was only due to the vagaries of scheduling that we could not enjoy each other’s company. Maybe next time. Until then, this is my story and we leave this character for his own voyage.

Three hours to Boston, my first time driving in the city where I’ve lived for the past three years. I missed the exit to Cambridge; an inauspicious start. I circled around through Government Center and cursed the designers of that impossibly ugly City Hall. Picked up Chase and Marko at precisely the appointed times, and we were off. That is, once we could find an on-ramp to the Mass Pike. What should have been a few easy turns ended up being a trip through Brookline and into parts unknown. Things were not starting well, but spirits remained high.

Our first fillup was in Southbury CT, the state with perhaps the highest gas prices on the East Coast. We had been warned to avoid paying the steep taxes, but we funded some poor Connecticutian’s college education at $3.15 per gallon. Marko maintained that this isn’t expensive at all compared with his experience of nearly $10 per gallon in Britain. Impressive, but the price still shocked Chase and my American sensibilities. Marko was intrigued by the first full service station he had seen, although he disputed the economics of paying some poor shlub to breath fumes all day.

Had lunch at a stand somewhere in CT; onion rings and a burger, the perfect authentic fast food. Went through New York and eastern Pennsylvania without incident. Some interest in visiting Gettysburg on the way past Harrisburg, but no agreement. Much discussion of the suitability of the -burg suffix for town names in a place where the Germans left long ago.

Arrived at Ken’s house to steaks and wine, as expected. They were delighted to see us, and it was wonderful to have someone else ask the penetrating questions of Marko, so I didn’t have to. Later some of Allie and Jackie’s friends arrived, and we were soundly beaten at Pictionary. I had some difficulty at drawing, due to my handedness and general lack of artistic ability. I was able to decipher some of Chase’s scribblings due to our long hours doing problem sets together.

Left Harrisburg, drove the PA Turnpike to Pittsburgh, paying ten dollars in tolls along the day. Met Grandpa Eddie for lunch at an authentic diner. Marko ordered an open face turkey sandwich, and then tried to eat it with his hands despite it being covered in gravy. A fork and knife was requested, and he ate like the civilized bloke his is. Sally gave us some wonderful cherries, which were devoured somewhere in Indiana. Grandpa gave us precise but convoluted directions back to the highway, which we followed for perhaps five minutes. We then relied on our own map reading skills and interpretation of street signs. We eventually found our way across the Pitt bridge and tunnel, and were headed west again.

Crossed briefly into West Virginia, causing some consternation from Chase as to my direction finding abilities. A consultation of the map revealed that this was the tiny spine of that state that pokes between Pennsylvania and Ohio, and that I was not as incompetent as it may sometimes seem. We stopped at a rest area in the ten miles we were in WV and made some derisive comments, which were not appreciated by other travelers. Back into the car before we got strung up, and into Ohio.

Around Columbus, Indianapolis, and countless other cities which did not arouse the slightest bit of interest. Dinner in at a Bob Evans somewhere in Indiana. Ordered an entire peanut butter pie for dessert, upon calculating that three slices would each cost $2.99, whereas a six slice pie would cost $9.99. Our engineering sensibility was greater than our appetite, and we had to request a pie tin for our booty. Arrived in Springfield to Chase’s adoring parents, not too late for some relaxing conversation around the television.

Awoke to bountiful breakfast prepared by Mrs. Cooper, egg casseroles, biscuits, fruit and turnovers to spare. Met Natasha, soon to graduate high school, and remembered how far we have come in the last three years. A little further to go in the next year, and then our own graduation and introduction to the real world. No need to worry about that now, still have the summer to relax and plan for the future.

Left Chase in Springfield, and set off just the two of us. Slightly easier to hold a conversation with just two, no one set apart in the back, but also no one to pick up the silence. I’m quite comfortable in silence, but unable to tell if my companion is, and so can lead to awkward moments. None with Marko, and so we were well matched.

Lunch in Kansas City, Missouri or Kansas, I can’t remember. Our guidebooks each recommended a single place in the whole city, and so we had to find it. The midwest’s best barbecue at Arthur Bently’s. When a 300 pound (20 stone, to use Marko’s units) black man wearing a Chiefs jersey entered, we knew we were in the right place. Had a giant pulled pork sandwich on Wonder Bread with cheap local beer. The wall was adorned with celebrities enjoying Arthur’s ribs, including an sinister looking John Ashcroft.

Onward through Kansas, passing by the Oz museum, as we were still in Kansas and hadn’t a pair of ruby slippers. Drove through a wicked thunderstorm. Attempted photographs of lightning, but my reflexes were never fast enough to capture their fury on film (or 4 GB Microdrive, but that doesn’t have the same ring to it). As quickly as the storm rose, it passed, and the stars appeared. Stopped at Wilson Lake state park, the site of perhaps the only lake in all of Kansas. Marko spent his first night in the car, and I set up the tent in the dark, and climbed in for a fitful sleep.

Woke with the sun and called home while Marko slept. Chatted briefly with our neighbor, a young man from Delaware traveling to Seattle with his dog and a bike on the back of his car. Nice to see that we’re not the only ones enjoying the ride across the country.

Wilson Lake SP, KS

Wilson Lake, the only one in Kansas

Drove through miles of empty Kansas grassland, discussing the American condition and the suitability of farm subsidies. Stopped for lunch at the Real Country Grill in Wakeeny KS, only a spot on the map, and less of a mark on the land. Only a gas station and a place for grub, although some of the best biscuits and gravy I’ve ever had. Far and away better than Bob Evan’s, and a rival to Ruth Powell’s. Cruised across the rest of Kansas, and into Colorado. Excited to see a new state, although little changed until Denver. Through that city, and stopped on the other side at Dinosaur Ridge. Nice to stretch our legs in the cooler mountain air, and see some three toed tracks across ancient seashores. Incredible how much the landscape can change over geologic timescales.

Back in the car, up the mountains and happy to be done with the flatlands. Planned on stopping to commemorate the continental divide, but passed it in a tunnel on I-80, and got to Vail before realizing our misfortune. So no ceremonial marking of that great watershed event, only the knowledge that it was all downhill from here.

Lunch in Grand Junction, CO. Stopped to ask for recommendations for “cheap, local, tasty food” at the youth hostel, and some wise-ass offered Taco Bell. Instead went to an excellent pizza place almost under a bridge. Got an excellent large “all-the-way”, with anchovies and Avalanche on tap. Almost finished the damn thing, but we each gave up on our last piece. It made an excellent breakfast the next morning.

Mesa SP, AZ

Mesa Lake State Park (more TBP)

Through Glenwood Canyon, an impressive engineering feat, and a lot of fun to drive. Turned off I-80 at Mesa, expecting a short drive to a campground. Ended up ascending nearly 4,000 feet to the top of the aforementioned Mesa, and nearly running out of gas. Stopped at Jumbo campground, which appeared closed due to the tree across the entrance. But that wasn’t enough to stop the other occupants, and so we joined them. Met three men around a campfire, next to their motorcycles. They had plenty of bourbon, and offered to share. We weren’t about to turn them down, and we joined their party. It turns out they are aircraft engineers at Boeing, and one of them was MIT Aero/Astro class of ’65. We shared stories of our alma mater, and discussed how it had and hadn’t changed over the last forty years. Four drinks later, after exhausting all possible topics of conversation, I stumbled to the tent, and shivered my way to sleep in the cold mountain air. Although I was wearing a well insulated jacket and sleeping in a down bag, I faired better than Marko, who had only a sweatshirt and the car to keep him warm. We resolved to sleep at lower altitudes in the future.

Woke and said goodbye to our engineer friends. Coasted downhill to the town of Mesa, and bought just enough gas to get back to civilization, where prices would be more reasonable. I hit a small rodent, which died in a valiant effort to cross the road. The first time I’d killed a mammal, and the experience didn’t phase me a bit.

Window Arch

North Window from Below

Out of the rockies and into Utah. Turned off the highway to see Arches National Park, which was worth every extra mile. Red rocks curved across the brilliant blue sky, created only by erosion, not a divine architect. It was great fun to climb on the slickrock, up to the ceiling of one of The Windows, and peer down on the desert from above. Very interesting to see the multitude of foreign tourists coming to see the best of America. A group of elderly German folks was as impressed with the scenery and astonished by the heat as I was. We had a moment of cross cultural understanding over the one water fountain in the park, as we both drank happily from the spigot.

Leaving Arches, we ventured further south to Moab, the home of mountain biking. Lunch at an excellent diner, with an ice cream bar inside for the perfect dessert. A patron there suggested we stop at Dead Horse Point State Park, and we followed his advice. It would be only a short distance out of our way, although 25 miles later we disputed that claim. Atop a mesa, looking down on the Colorado carved lanscape a thousand feet below, we didn’t need to see the Grand Canyon. The mesa came to a neck only five yards wide, which according to legend, cowboys used to trap wild horses, culling the strong ones and leaving the weak to die in the harsh sun far above the river below. Seems like bad business practice, and is probably exaggerated by time.

Marco at Deadhorse Canyon

Taking a panorama (TBP)

Back on the road, and north to Salt Lake City. Took a cutoff through Price, on what we would learn was the deadliest highway in the country. The police officers who stopped us were quite clear that our speed needed to be controlled on the sweeping downhill curves, and we were let go with a stern warning. I guess our stories checked out, and Marko’s accent made us seem as the naive travelers we were.

Keeping our speed in check, and on the lookout for law enforcement, we rolled into Salt Lake City at nightfall. We checked into a cheap downtown motel, showered, and went off looking for what fun there was to be had on a friday night in the Mormon capital of the world. We found a single bar within walking distance, that closed at 11:30. We drank quickly, and were kicked out into the night. Perhaps there was more fun to be had, as the crowd in front of a club indicated, but we were tired and in no mood for dancing.

The next morning, we toured the monstrous temple in the center of SLC. Marko asked serious questions of our cute Finnish tour guide about the religion to which she had committed her life. I wondered why all the guides were young and female, and all the “living prophets” were old and white. The guide tried very hard to demonstrate that they weren’t a cult, and that they take the word of Jesus seriously, but the words rang hollow when compared to the preposterousness of their claims. Perhaps all organized religion seems as odd to the naive observer, but the Mormonism really seems to be a fabrication by Joseph Smith. He must have been quite a smooth talker to get so many to follow him to the desert shores of a salty lake, and settle there to recreate the Garden of Eden. At least there’s decent skiing nearby.

Mormons

Creepy Mormons

Had lunch at a vegetarian restaurant, which appeared to be the coolest place in town judging by its clientele. Had a wonderful pesto pasta, which stopped my hunger but didn’t make me feel as if I was full. We stopped at KFC for seconds on the other side of the Nevada wasteland. Made it across that entire state, surrounded by biker gangs and truckers, all enjoying the scenery once we got off past the Bonneville salt flats. There was little sign of civilization until California, and we were careful to watch the gas gauge.

Stopped for dinner in Truckee, where we ate at an upscale yuppie bar, with a nearly twenty page wine selection. Luckily they also had a wide array of taps, and we toasted to the end of our journey together. Spent the night at Donner Lake State Park, the site of the infamous early pioneer camp. We didn’t resort to cannibalism, although we had discussed our feelings about it, and decided it was perfectly acceptable under the circumstances. One should be able to sign away one’s right not to be eaten, if one so wishes. What sort of country is it where you can’t decide that you want to make someone a tasty meal as your last wish?

Woke surrounded by Sierra pines, and wandered about the campsite while Marko slept in the car. Took some photographs of the pioneer memorial, and then paid the park fee. Our first day in California, and we learned the true expense of the state. Paid $25 for a night sleeping on the ground, where it had been $12 and voluntary in Kansas. Had our first $50 tank of gas, and headed south to Lake Tahoe.

Marco Tahoe

Lake Tahoe

Passed some bike race, with perhaps a thousand participants, all on expensive bikes and not all seemingly fit enough to ride them. Trespassed by some condos and got a look at the lake; not as impressive as I had thought, as least when compared to the emerald eye of Crater Lake in Oregon. Turned around and got back on the highway.

Passed through Sacremento, and by innumerable fast food joints. Our quest for a decent lunch took us to Berkley, where we figured there would be cheap student grup, and were right. Stuffed ourselves at an Indian buffet, and then over the Bay Bridge into San Francisco. Traffic there was quite exciting, with trolley cars and bike lanes confusing the hell out of me. We finally found Marko’s hostel, and then our stoic farewell. A quick handshake, a promise to keep in touch, and I was alone.

Marco SF

Marko at the journey’s end

It was even more difficult to get out of the city without a navigator, so I focussed on not hitting any pedestrians and hoped the directions would figure themselves out. They did, and I turned south and eventually got on the 101.

Two hours later, past Silicon Valley and Cupertino (resolving to make my hajj there later), and I was through Monterey and on my new doorstep. A shower, dinner, and now I write this account overlooking my first Pacific sunset. Six days, 3921 miles, and over $500 in gas, and I am tired. Eager to start my job, have some fun in the sun, and no longer afraid of any prospective road trip.

World Cup

Walking through the mean streets of Monterey today, I bumped into high school acquantances Ben Wiley and Sam Chamberlain. They were bumming around California with friends Alex and Andrew from Reed. They came out of the woods specifically to watch the World Cup final, and so I couldn’t help but join them at a local drinking establishment. A photographer for a local entertainment rag snapped a picture of our group.

Those penalty shots are bullshit, what a way to ruin the game. Sudden death would make more sense, and allow more opportunities for headbutting. I do love the headbutting.

This weekend, I got hit on more times than I can count, by men. Most of the interns here went to SF, staying on the edge of a bad part of town. One of the girls here is a lesbian, and wanted to see the gay scene. I thought it would be a cultural experience, and went along. Our first night, we went to Castro, the gay district, and asked strangers for recommendations on where to go. A couple at an ice cream parlor, suggestively sharing a cone, told us to go to “The Badlands.” The long line and thumping bass told us that they were right. When we got in, an older guy with boozy breath approached me, and I could tell that he wanted some. I demurred, and instead grabbed the hand of the one available straight girl in our group, and strode off to the dance floor. Others eventually joined us, and we formed a straight haven in the midst of the gay. If you’ve ever seen an episode of “queer as folk”, or know anything about the gay scene, you can probably imagine it. Barechested, sweaty men gyrating, either locking lips with their current partner, or gazing around for another. One large black man told me I was “the prettiest boy out here”, which was flattering. Someone stroked the small of my back, which was a little too much for me. We left after about an hour, having had our fill of Madonna, Cher, Dido, and other divas.

One of the straight, square guys in our group suggested a place up the street, named descriptively enough, “The Bar.” Upon entering, I immediately recognized the scene. This was the flip side of gay male culture. Instead of effeminate, slender men, these were the big, burly, hairy men known as “bears.” I had to piss, and so queued up for a urinal. At the trough, there was a mirror at just the right height for scoping out your neighbor. Luckily, I was flanked by my fellow straight interns, and no one grabbed for my goods. At this point, I was ready to leave, but our square companion, either unable or unwilling to recognize the kind of place we were in, had calmly sat down and ordered a beer. Hilarity ensued, as large men eyed him hungrily. I told him to drink quickly or become someone’s sweetheart, and we got out of there post-haste.

On the street, a naked old man strode confidently past. He was approached minutes later by two officers of the law, who asked him politely to put something on. He produced a flesh colored G-string from God-knows-where, and declared himself appropriately attired. The cops didn’t give him any more trouble.

At this point, it was 2:30, and the straight bars near our hotel were closed. Apparently the whole city closes down at 2, and there isn’t a drop to drink. We retired to our rooms with a final bottle of wine, and to deal with the drunker among us. Someone started a toothpaste fight, which ended with casualties on both sides of the gender divide.

The next day, there was a call for sightseeing. Half the group wanted to see some tall colonial ships and hit the wax museum. The lesbian wanted to see the “Fetish Festival.” Guess which one I chose? Back to the bad part of town, we could hear the fetish fest before we could see it. The throbbing bass, and the lines of Village People lookalikes lead us there. We paid our $5, for charity, and entered the closed off block. I saw more naked men in that hour than I had ever seen before, or ever plan to see again. There was the standard leather stuff, a few master/slave combinations, and a drag queen or two. But the most popular costume was nude, or nearly so. One man wearing red leather straps that held up his equipment, wondered aloud if he was “coming on too strong.” On the other hand, a straight woman said that “the most disgusting thing she had seen all day was two barefoot people.”

We perused the shops, and considered the merits of leather cuffs, studded versus Xena-style. I tried to get her to buy a collar and chain. She convinced me to try on a kilt, which was out of my price range even after some serious haggling. I did find a sweet belt buckle, with a menacing bear in a natural background. I liked that it was subtle, and would work in any suitably masculine context. I bought it.

We rendezvoused with the rest of the crew, and returned to Monterey flush with our new acquisitions: my buckle, a souvenir paddle, a really explicit comic book, and memories of things that I can’t unsee. I’m still straight, but I’m not narrow.

Finishing my final piece of work for Clay, and filling out an evaluation form, gives me an opportunity to reflect on the internship experience. Certainly better than last summer, due to the pay, climate, and social circle. But I still don’t feel like I accomplished much. Sure, I wrote several short briefs which aided Clay’s research, and may be published on the web. But there were days where I didn’t really do much of anything. Janet reminds me that this is part of entering the work world, finding ones place in the capitalist machine. But if I have to be a cog, I’d rather be doing something I really enjoy doing, so I’m motivated by more than pay or the threat of being found out to be a slacker. I’d rather be actually doing cool stuff than just writing about it. Reconsidering the think tank/academia route, and re-enamored of building the future. As always, plans are subject to change. But at least I have this to fall back on.

Spent the last few days at the NASA Next Generation Exploration Conference. Yeah, I’m a dork. But unlike say, a Star Trek convention, the people at this epic gathering of dweebdom actually know something about seeking out new life, and boldly going where no one has gone before. The opportunity to chat with the chief mars scientist at JPL over a couple of beers is the impetus I need to continue pursuing an engineering education. Grades be damned, full speed ahead.

Ames Zepplin Hangar

After departing with my head full of stars, I stopped by Walnut Creek for a goodbye dinner with John and Joanne. Went to a very nice Thai place in Lawrenceville, where I ordered a dish that was far too hot. John told me I look like his maternal grandfather, who he will track down a picture of. It’s so funny making these new family connections, discovering genetic links I hadn’t known before. Worth more thought than these pages will hold.

Drove north from the Bay Area, out of the last real city I’ll see until Minneapolis. Sped across the central valley on I-5, where the average speed seemed to be 85. It’s hard to concentrate at that speed on a straight road at night, so I pulled off in Corning at a small state park. It’ll cost $14 to pitch a tent in a field, but that’s better than some dirty motel for thrice the price. Sitting in the dark, writing to the chirping crickets and the passing cars. Nice to see the stars again, after the interminable fog in Monterey. Off tomorrow to Lassen Volcano National Park, and then to Portland, where James awaits my triumphal arrival.

Devil’s Bumpass Devil’s Bumpass	Boiling Lake Boiling Lake
Fumarole Fumarole	Lassen Peak Wildflowers

I was awakened by the voice of the Park Ranger, demanding my campsite fee at 7 in the morning. Why it couldn’t wait until I had pants on, I’ll never know. I paid the man my $14, and departed poste-haste. Driving North on I-5, I reached Lassen fairly quickly: up and up and up the mountains, past fields strewn with lava rocks. I took one quick hike into the Devil’s Bumpass, joining countless German and Indian tourists on the boardwalks, safe above the sulfuric gases. The boiling ponds and churning fumaroles partly sated my need to see Yellowstone.

Leaving Lassen, I stopped at a neighborhood (read: empty) Pizza Joint in some mountain town. The teenaged pizza girl shyly took my order, and I waited for the pie. In my haste to go to the bathroom, I neglected to lock the door, leading to an exceedingly awkward encounter, with a now even more shy girl. I tried to make light of the situation, but she just blushed and handed me my food, never to speak of it again.

Further north on I-5, I passed by the staggering mass of Mt. Shasta. I stopped in the rest area in Weed, CA, but wasn’t brave enough to ask a fellow tourist to take my picture in front of the sign. I thought they’d infer that I’m the immature college student that I am.

On to Portland, where I met James at the Mexican wedding he was bartending. I had expected a certain level of stereotypes at this event, but nowhere near the level of the truth. All James was dispensing was a keg of Coors Light. The men all wore polyester pants, gigantic belt buckles, and cowboy hats-cum-sombreros. The dancing seemed to consist of the women whirling and the men whooping. I resolved to serve only cheap beer at my wedding, to ensure the appropriate level of enthusiasm displayed by this crowd.

Got on the road at 11, which was pretty good given the previous night. We went to an excellent breakfast place in Portland, and began the drive east. Along the mighty Columbia, past the dams that tame it, and the requisite reminiscing about the MECC game Oregon Trail and the rafting of said river. Into Washington, and had dinner at Jake’s Cafe, where I got a heaping pile of roast beef, and an equal amount of sass from the waitress. She threatened to sit on James because he ordered a milkshake; her mass was sufficient to cause him serious harm.

James Peeing on Idaho

James Peeing on Idaho

Across the panhandle of Idaho, where I took an excellent picture in which James happens to be peeing. He claimed a need to mark his territory. Just across the border in Montana, we stopped at Yaak campground, where there wasn’t another soul.

Yaak River

Yaak

We scrounged wood from other campsites and made a fire. Neglecting to take any bear precautions, I began getting a little anxious as the night wore on, and we munched chocolate cookies by the fire. Then the train came through, which I swore was bearing down right through the campsite. We wandered toward the river, and saw the next train illuminate the valley with its headlights, reminding me of the Polar Express. There was also the claim that we saw the Northern Lights. We did each see the same colors, of the same shape, in the same area of the sky. However, our minds were not completely clear, and one cannot dismiss the power of persuasion. Either way, the sight was breathtaking, before I remembered that we were being stalked by bears. James tells me I slept fitfully.

Departing Yaak, we drove further into Montana, and up to Glacier National Park. My parents still talk about the hike they took here thirty years ago, so I figured it was a must see. We got our backcountry permits, having to sit through an instructional video detailing exactly how to avoid seeing, and then be mauled by, or fight back against a bear. The message wasn’t entirely clear. Around to the other side of the park, where our assigned campsite was, and five miles in, we didn’t see any bears. The scenery, though, was spectacular.

No Name Lake

No Name Lake

The lake (which apparently has no name), sits at the base of a tremendous sheer cliff, the subject of much later discussion as to its climbability. The consensus was no, although our 25 feet of food-hanging line might be good enough to attack an imagined Nazi bunker on the other side of the lake. Those Germans are everywhere. As the stars appeared one by one, and the temperature dropped precipitously, we postponed our assault for the morning.

Arising to the shrieks of our Japanese neighbors at the campsite, we struck camp, left our bags, and ascended to the Bonner Pass. Up 2000 feet to the Continental Divide, we could see into the next glacially carved valley. Impressive enough, but we decided to continue upward, climbing the col to Mt. Helen, at 8500 ft. There was no trail to the summit, but it was above treeline, and we figured the views would be worth risking our lives. Actually the weather was clear and the incline wasn’t severe. We did stay away from the cliff edge, and kept an eye on the horizon for threatening clouds. The pictures speak for themselves.

Panorama from Mt Helen
On Top of Mt Helen	Glacier
James Descending	James at Bonner Pass

After the morning’s hike, we trekked back to the car, and drove across the Going To the Sun Road. The vistas here were spectacular, but somehow less satisfying than the ones we earned with our sweat earlier that day. Eventually, we became tired of awe-inspiring terrain, and left the park in search of huckleberry milkshakes. We found salvation at a roadside stand, where a boy of perhaps 11 played James for a fool. He claimed that their prices had gone up substantially because “their cows were sick.” He calmly gave James about half the change expected for a $20. James told him they should update their signs. Then the boy smirked, and gave us the rest of the change. James guffawed, and congratulated the boy on his budding hucksterism.

Huckleberry Heaven

Huckleberry Heaven

Had buffalo burgers for dinner, and drove south trying to find the real thing. We arrived at the National Bison Range near closing, and were unable to find the campsites there that the map promised. We cursed the Montana Department of Transportation, which seems to be very good at tearing up roads, but not so skilled at mending them. So we left, bison unseen, through interminable construction and found a commercial site for far too much money. An early morning loomed, so James could catch the 7:30 bus, and so I slept fitfully again.

Clark’s Signature

Clark’s John Hancock

Woke at 5:30 to get James to the bus. Unfortunately, there were no seats available. Due to scheduling constraints, James had to be back in Portland by the next day, so he paid out the wazoo for a flight. I departed Missoula, and began the long drive east, alone. All the way through Montana, passing the western mountains, and into the plains, through Butte, Billings, and Bozeman. Stopped at Pompey’s Pillar, where Clark signed a rock on his journey through.

Saloon in Custer, MT

Junction Saloon

Had lunch at the Junction City Saloon in Custer, MT. A one street town, with a prominent warning about the dangers of meth, the saloon was the only open establishment. No swinging wooden doors, but there were three burly men who looked at me askance as I entered. The barkeep asked me what I wanted, and I had the special pork chop sandwich. I perused the wall of tickets to hard-rock concerts (Judas Priest, Scorpions, et al); this was a real classy joint. I brought in my Sunday New York Times and read the magazine while I ate the the terrible sandwich. The experience was worth every penny.

Impending Storm

Impending storm

Stopped at the National Grasslands, which as far as I can tell is a National Park without any trees. Had dinner with the very friendly rabbits around my camp. Watched a thunderstorm roll across the plain, and proceed to rock my tent. I let the sound of the rain wash away the seven hundred miles of driving I’d done that day.

North Dakota

Nothing in either direction

North Dakota is boring, really boring. Four hundred miles of grass and little else.

Drove through another thunderstorm on my way to Minneapolis. Hannah’s flight was delayed, and I spent two hours in the Mall of America. The depravity of consumerism was totally overwhelming, although I did spend an enjoyable time perusing the Lego store. Everyone has their weakness, mine just happens to be the genesis of my engineering education.

Met Hannah at 11pm, after we had both traveled twelve hours, although she made slightly more mileage than I had. Collapsed at a hotel just outside of the cities, spending way more than I had hoped. But it did have wireless internet, so I got some good uploading done.

Wisconsin is also really boring, just with trees instead of grass. Had some of the worst food of the trip. Breakfast at a Swedish diner in Lindstrom; all I wanted was Lingonberry pancakes, but the griddle was closed five minutes before we walked in. Had Lingonberry-less french toast with fake syrup instead: less than awe-inspiring. Lunch at the Friendly Restaurant, where the potato salad was some unholy combination of German and American style: smothered in mayonnaise, but tangy as hell. Wisconsin is weird.

Hannah in front of the Logging Museum

World’s smallest logging museum

Visited the Logging Museum in Rhinelander, WI. Learned all about Lumberjack Lingo, the process of hauling ice overland, and model trains. Reminded me of the old folk song ‘The Frozen Logger’, as sung to me by my 5th grade teacher Mr. Millstone. I found a great live recording of the Grateful Dead performing this at the Internet Archive.

Stopped at an EconoLodge just after the Michigan border. Had planned to camp, but I didn’t want to sleep on the rain-soaked ground. Ate excellent cookies at 9pm, and watched television late into the evening. Try that camping!

Mr Sub

Mr Sub

Crossed into Canada, and quickly at a “another proud canadian franchise” of Mr. Sub. They sure are proud to be Canadian. Hannah and I tried to remember the words to “Oh Canada”, but that’s about as far as we got after “our home and native land.” We added our own lyrics extolling the values of Tim Horton’s, moose crossings, and the word “aboot”. But seriously, there’s nothing in Canada.

It continued to rain, but we stopped at a campground in Ontario. The Canadian idea of camping seems to be closer to the Europeans, where there is one gigantic campground, with assigned spaces, and a “comfort center” with showers and laundry. But at least it was cheaper than a hotel.

Drove through Ottowa and Montreal, had an expensive dinner at a touristy restaurant, and made it through the border without being strip searched. Rain continued unabated. Got home late at night and collapsed. Good to be in my own bed after so many nights on the ground.

Here’s the whole trip, out west and back east, by the numbers:

- Miles: 8333
- Dollars of gas: $981.83
- Days of driving: 17
- States and provinces: 25 (VT, NH, MA, NY, PA, WV, OH, IN, IL, MO, KS, CO, UT, NV, CA, OR, WA, ID, MT, ND, MN, WI, MI, ON, QB, VT)
- Continental Divide crossings: 6
- National parks visited: 7
- Small animals crushed: 2
- Interdictions by law enforcement: 4
- Tickets issued: 1
- Going to look for America: priceless

Finished thesis to the best of my ability, and sent a complete draft to my advisor. Sold my large belongings and packed the rest into the car heading west. Sort of melancholy to leave, but I’ll be back in two weeks to tie up loose ends, so it’s not really goodbye yet.

Leaving Somerville

Ruth was excited about Cleveland, but I was underwhelmed. Maybe it was because we were there on a Sunday night. Did have a good steak dinner at a microbrewery, walking back to our hotel through the deserted streets.

General Cleaveland

Maybe this is my coastal elitism, but I had no idea Chicago had such a dense urban core. I had suspected maybe a dozen skyscrapers, but was amazed to see at least fifty while on an architecture boat cruise. One of the pleasures of traveling with an urban planner.

Rutherford B Hayes Presidential Library

Chicago

At the "Denny’s in the Sky"

Chicago Dog

Most of what I know of Milwaukee I learned from Alice Cooper in Wayne’s World. Turns out it’s actually a cool town. Stayed with some couch surfers Ruth met on her last midwestern tour. We went down to the waterfront to listen to a blues band and watch old white people dance, then to a german bar to play ridiculously dangerous bar games and drink too much. In all, a fine evening.

Mars Cheese Castle

Hammerschlagen

Dead Squirrel Bar

Drove across Wisconsin and Minnesota today, making it to the South Dakota state line by nightfall. Tom Friedman was right, the world is flat.

Deke Slayton

Prairie God?

Ruth and Cornelius

Mars Cheese Castle

Saw the best of South Dakota today: Sioux Falls, 400 miles of I-90, the ur-tourist trap at Wall Drug, the sudden rise of the Badlands from the plains, a decommissioned nuclear missile at the Minuteman National Historical Site, buffalo BBQ in Rapid City, and Mount Rushmore at night. Went for a swim in our hotel pool to relax, only to be told that it was closed to due child vomit ten minutes after we got in. I wondered why it was that color…

Badlands

Minuteman Silo

Dinosaur at Wall Drug

Ruth and President Polk

Mt Rushmore

Crazy Horse

Finally got to the mountains!

Alpine Views

Continental Divide

Moose

Meese

Following my foolish tradition of traveling to the desert every summer, I somehow convinced Ruth to hike 15 miles in the 100 degree heat. Because we only had one sturdy pack, I carried the majority of the weight. By the last mile, I acknowledged the justice of her skepticism. Still, the photos speak for themselves.

Hiking in Zion NP

View from our campsite

Ruth is skeptical of hiking

Rattlesnake!

Almost there

Jumped out of a perfectly good airplane this morning. My instructor, Leonard, was also a former aero engineering student, so we had a nice relaxing technical talk about the safety systems and the aircraft capabilities on the way up. Before we slid out the door he said: “whatever happens, I’m coming down with you.” True to his word, we landed safely. Checked another item one off the lifelong to-do list.

Assume the position

Going up

Looking out

Heading down

Shocking Freefall

A little bit of drool

Steering the chute

Still psyched

As before, by the numbers:

• 4326.4 mi on 140.25 gallons of gas, for an avg 30.84 mpg
• 18 states (NH MA CT NY NJ PA OH IN IL WI MN SD NE CO UT AZ (briefly, spent no $) NV and finally CA
• 15 days
• five moose
• 400+ buffalo
• one five foot rattlesnake
• 287 MIT nerds in Vegas
• 15,000 foot skydive
• and two badass new room-mates

Flying back to Boston tonight finish up at the lab, so my west coast residence isn’t quite permanent yet, but I’ll leave my heart (and all my stuff) in Berkeley.