WASHINGTON STATE TO WINNEMUCCA
My trip started with a mad dash to catch the early morning ferry that runs from Bainbridge Island to Seattle, Washington. I'd commuted on that ferry for more than seven years, and in all that time I think I made it to the boat in a leisurely fashion about three or four times. "Why should now be any different?" I figured as I involuntarily tried to will one of the three stoplights on my route to stay green for just a little bit longer. That's ferry travel. One minute late in the regular world means one minute late to your destination. One minute late in the ferry world means 30 to 40 minutes until the next boat arrives; the ferry pilots are religious about their schedules. One equals forty. Ferry math.
I drove aboard the ferry Wenatchee just as the two-minute-warning went off on the boat horn. "Cool! I'm on schedule" I thought. Habit. I wasn't on any schedule. I had a month of time, and hadn't planned my trip any farther than the Seattle Ferry terminal. I knew I wanted to get to Monument Valley, but that was a few days away. I went upstairs to the cafeteria, got a cup of coffee and a muffin, and decided to figure out where to go that day.
Logic and science were the way to figure out my next destination I reasoned. With that in mind, I spread out a discarded newspaper left on the seat and opened it to the weather page. I crumbled part of my muffin on the "Todays Weather" color map, and watched where the crumbs fell. Yep, let the pastry decide my fate for the day. The "reasonable" crumbs; the ones that represented a days drive, landed on Portland, Oregon (too close), Boise, Idaho (too east), and Reno, Nevada. "OK, Reno or thereabouts" I decided as the pleasant voice on the ferry intercom announced that we were arriving in Seattle. I headed back to the car deck with a plan.
I'd been to Reno many times, so I opted for the "thereabouts" part of the plan. I'd find some place north of Reno and stop there. Winnemucca seemed like a reasonable alternative, and I'd never been there. "OK, Winnemucca it is for the day" I decided. Now, which route to take? I decided to take the eastern Oregon route to stay away from the boredom of Highway 5; the primary North/South route that goes from the North Pole to Antarctica, I think. I'd driven it far too many times between Washington and California and didn't really want to see the same old thing again. This time, I was going to take a different path. I dashed east to Yakima, then turned south through a maze of Washington / Oregon border towns. I got to Pendleton, Oregon and figured that my GPS was pretty much messed up in its digital head; it kept trying to send me to Idaho. I didn't want to go to Idaho that day.
I'd never been to central eastern Oregon before. A lifetime ago I had the opportunity to move there, but circumstances were such that I never made it. I've always wondered what I'd missed, and was looking forward to seeing what another past might have presented me. It was a beautiful ride, and the world there was breathtaking in places. It was kind of sad seeing the countless dilapidated settlements along the way though; victims of the lumber crunch. It was strange to whistle into a speed zone, see signs of a town, yet see no one there. It was very much like a “Twilight Zone” episode. I obeyed the speed limits; 25 through deserted residential streets, but wondered if I could have just blown through without anyone knowing.
The region is largely scrub sagebrush sort of stuff and not much else. Cattle raising seems to be the role nature had for that part of the world. I learned something while traveling through there; pay attention to the ubiquitous “OPEN RANGE LAND” road signs. They aren't a joke. It’s real easy to get up a pretty good clip going down those open, deserted roads. It’s a decidedly bad thing however to round a corner and see two or three cows standing in the middle of the road chewing their cud, looking kind of vacant. An educational corollary to those outback classroom events is that Jeeps don’t skid well, and cows don't move when faced with an oncoming vehicle. After a couple of close calls with some potential bovine targets, I decided to slow down in the turns and prevent the surprises.
There's a lake--Malheur Lake--located out in the middle of eastern Oregon. I know it's a lake, because it was shown in blue on my moving map. Lakes are shown that way, so I kept looking for water. It turns out there was no water in it, and it didn't appear that there had been for quite some time; just a lot of grass and brush. It had a desolate quality about it. It was windy; real windy, and I had my hands full tracking down the narrow highway. It was blowing so hard that the geese trying to fly into the wind were moving in the wrong direction--"backing" across the highway with their wings flapping like crazy. I remember doing touch-and-gos on real windy winter days; an adolescent pup in a tiny underpowered general aviation trainer. If you did it just right, you could hover the airplane motionless over a spot on the runway, or even land rolling backwards if it was blowing hard enough. It was a cheap thrill, and probably not particularly bright. I was surprised to see those geese moving in the wrong direction; pulling the same stunt I can remember doing so long ago. Maybe they were young geese, giggling at the novelty of flying backwards much like I did back then. I'd always figured that birds were smarter than human pilots.
Blasting further South, I looked forward to getting into another state. I was getting tired of eastern Oregon and wanted to stop for the day. The border town of Denio was my gateway into northern Nevada. To say Denio is small is an understatement. I stopped at a grocery store / bar (it was the only place around) to get some dinner. The grocery store part of it was in the back, the bar was in the front. The grocery store consisted of two coolers with an assortment of junk food, soda, and really mature looking fruit. Three drunk—but very pleasant—rednecks were sitting at the bar up front. They nodded hello when I walked in, then resumed their discussion regarding the merits of the different brands of chewing tobacco. After eyeballing my dinner choices, I picked out two of those “apple drink” boxed beverages (the kind with the straw taped to the side) and some "Chili Cheese" cracker things. I paid the jovial but hammered cowboy-hat-wearing cashier (he was also the bartender), and headed on my way.
Back on the road, I popped open one of the apple drinks and took a swig. I sat there with a mouth full of something. I had that uncomfortable feeling that something wasn’t right. I looked at the side of the box, and the expiration date was December, 2000. That would explain the unusual taste and unexpected chunks. Spewing the whole mess out the open window--and down the side of the Jeep--I took a huge gulp of bottled water to purge the nasty slop out of my mouth. Needless to say, my newly-purchased meal went sailing out the window as well.
With an empty stomach, I slipped into Winnemucca as the last light of day faded out. I found a motel and was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.