Wednesday, August 6

Weary, impatient, having a ball

Indeed posts came to a grinding halt after we left Fargo, North Dakota. In part it was a matter of time, in part in was a matter of less and less to remark upon. Minnesota, and in fairness we confined ourselves to the interstate highway from Fargo to Minneapolis and beyond, was flat, green and dotted with small lakes. I went into a tailspin (and Ken, out of character, joined me) at breakfast when we were delayed by the most incompetent breakfast service at a restaurant in a small Minnesota town. Details are less interesting than the dreaded recounting of someone else's dream, and this nightmare deserves no retelling. But it put us both in a foul mood for the duration of the drive east across the land of 10,000 lakes. Following an appallingly overpacked truck of chickens in too small cages belonging to a Minnesota farm, we were shocked when a crate poorly packed came open and at least one chicken was thrown into oncoming traffic (fortunately managing to get to the shoulder of the road). So I welcomed the moment when we crossed into Wisconsin. We saw little of St. Paul and less of Minneapolis - the suburban stretches did nothing to confirm the cities' reputations for livability. I was not in the mood to give Minnesota another glance.

Wisconsin was a noticeable change -rolling countryside again. And as green as Minnesota. We spent the night in Madison and after a pleasant dinner, and because it was still light outside, drove into downtown Madison, were impressed by the sate's capitol building, and marveled that the University of Wisconsin was so huge.

Madison, Wisconsin

Always daydreaming of further nomadic adventures we were also impressed with the fine collection of early twentieth century domestic architecture, particularly what appeared to have been built as fraternity and sorority houses, and by the many charming small apartment buildings along the lake. We made no offers to purchase.

On Wednesday we headed for Cleveland and at this point the route was one we knew well from our travels to and from Grand Rapids, Michigan. Cleveland, as it always is, was uneventful. The next morning we drove tot Buffalo, on to Albany and arrived Thursday evening in Hawley. The last few days were less adventure, certainly less interesting, and more like an extended commute.

But.

We were shocked at how quickly we settled into our Massachusetts existence, and further shocked that our life on the other side of the country seemed already remote and dreamlike. That is in no way meant to convey that our dream of returning to California, and to San Francisco, has diminished. It has not.

Tuesday, August 5

We left Billings, Montana with a bit of a resigned sense that there wouldn't be much more spectacular scenery encountered. I drove while Ken handled a conference call and regularly switched from his phone to his computer. One of the joys of having very good onboard wi-fi is that Ken cannot monitor my driving as closely, so I was free to adjust my speed to the traffic. Not that there was much traffic, but occasionally there would be a car or truck. In Montana and North Dakota the speed limit is 75 miles per hour, which means that one is generally zipping along at between 80 and 85 miles an hour. These are enormous and vast stretches and the roads are very well-designed and maintained - why not maximize the opportunity? I kept thinking that on these roads, at these speed, commuting to Boston from Hawley would not be unreasonable. None of the drivers was remotely aggressive and just to be sure, someone had erected handsome billboards with enormous white backgrounds and elegant Helvetica type messages in charcoal that read, "Be Nice" or "Be Polite".

Little Big Horn river and battlefield

While we made no major sightseeing stops, we managed to get a sense of the land. There were building lots (20-acre minimum) along the Yellowstone River and I daydreamed about building a small wood and stone (local yellow stone) untilI realized I wasn't seeing any electrical poles, and after I glanced at the gas gauge we were scouring the landscape for any signs of a gas station. It's hardly the most remote part of the United States, but it's a far cry from midtown Manhattan. We were definitely in the northern Great Plains. In Montana we passed through the northern edge of the Custer battlefield along the Little Big Horn. Occasionally the rocky buttes and canyons along the Yellowstone River gave way to stretches of wheat fields or endless range. Crossing into North Dakota we passed through the Teddy Roosevelt National Park and the Painted Canyon before entering the broader, more gentle plains that only grew greener and greener and more and more cultivated.

The Painted Canyon, North Dakota

By the time we reached Fargo it was clear that drought was not an issue: there were numerous small lakes amidst the fields, and the trees along rivers and tributaries were flourishing, displaying vibrant greens.  In drier areas to the west, the colors had tended to be muted greens and sages, all with a silvery cast. One virtue of the open plain is that space is no issue whatsoever: it's like a vast gallery waiting for art to be installed, and clearly that opportunity was accepted by many. We have driven by enormous manmade buffalo, cowboys, dinosaurs and a 12-foot chicken. Small towns here must be burgeoning with budding Oldenburgs.

Salem Sue - world's larger Holstein

Today we'll cross Minnesota via Minneapolis and arrive this evening in Madison, Wisconsin. While we won't yet be in the Eastern Time Zone, this strikes me as being pretty far east and within striking distance of terra cognita. 

Monday, August 4

We left Coeur d'Alene later than usual, but timed it perfectly - the sun was out and as we headed through the upper Idaho panhandle we were rewarded with great views of lake Coeur d'Alene. This part of Idaho is heavily timbered, mountainous and apparently moose-filled.

a small finger of Lake Coeur d'Alene

Moose seem to frequent the highway and night driving must be a terror for man and moose. We climbed up toward the Montana border, though the northern Rockies, and seems to be going through endless passes. Ken was working online and internet service was spotty. Somewhere in the first hundred miles or so of Montana we crossed the Continental Divide and suddenly all that pristine water was heading east. And it is pristine - clear as can be, with rivers and streams and rapids all glistening in the sun.

We drove through Missoula, Butte, and Bozeman, finally arriving in Billings. The first three towns clearly were established to capitalize on the silver and gold in the surrounding mountains. Unfortunately the mining done today (the Anaconda mines are nearby) is nothing but an affront to Mother Nature. Somewhere after Bozeman, possibly near Livingston, the topography shifted from the foothills of the Rockies to the more open Great Plains. We were past the mountain passes and instead the dominant geographic formation were the mesas and canyon walls, carved into the beautiful yellowstone rocks. We crossed the Yellowstone River a few times. One river, the Clark, we easily crossed more than a dozen times as it meandered eastward - this has been Lewis and Clark territory ever since Oregon. And let's remember Sacajawea, too. At one point I wondered at the length of the Yellowstone realized it was instead the Missouri, which begins its course in Montana.

The Missouri River in Montana

 We both suffered from sniffles and sneezes as we entered the Great Plains. There wasn't much dust and no smoke, there didn't appear to be pollen wafting about, and we knew we weren't coming down with colds. Instead, to our horror, we understood that we would never be real cowboys: we were allergic to buffalo.

Bison on the edge of the Great Plains

Looking toward Yellowstone from the north

Livingston caught our interest: it was where the trains used to stop - it was the northern arrival point for visitors to Yellowstone Park. Both Ken and I had been there as kids; Ken remembered having (twice!) the fried chicken at the railroad station's restaurant. He insists it was the best fried chicken he'd ever eaten. He thought it as an eight-year old, and he thinks it still.

At one point near Livingston the mass of mountains seems to part and one can glimpse into the heart of northern Yellowstone Park, easily twenty or thirty miles away. The valley that unfolds, lined even in August with snow-capped mountains, is spectacular. One can only envy, no matter how grueling the traveling conditions, those first few people who set eyes on the western environments. Montana has been one breath-taking vista after another.

Cultural, there's not much out here: we encountered a Christian motorcycle club camping at one rest area, a very early wood station wagon (no later than, say, 1918) carrying three Moslem women in full purdah, and several billboards advertising the "Testicle Festival" later in August. We assume the festival is centered on castrating bulls, but were not inclined to inquire or linger. Today we head slightly northward through northeastern Montana and into North Dakota. We aim to reach Fargo this evening. Since we've all seen the Coen brothers' movie, we know that in Fargo we'll rejoin the culture of the East Coast.

Sunday, August 3

There had been neither time nor energy to post during our first days on the road. On Wednesday we both woke at 3:30AM energized primarily by fear that we had yet to gain control of the move. Everything (well, nearly everything) was packed but there could have been plenty of loose ends and unexpected discoveries. Earlier crises surrounding coordination of the elevator and the loading dock at our building had been resolved. A quick survey showed that everything really, really was packed and account for, and we had a reasonably solid sense of how the day would proceed. And the movers arrived earlier than expected!

The routine now is to thoroughly pad and wrap everything, and that takes a while. But once everything was ready, the apartment emptied quickly. Quickly is a relative term - we did not get into the car and begin our journey until 4:00PM, just in time to join the crowds leaving the adjacent baseball game (the Giants beat the Pirates!) and the chaos of drivers who are San Francisco's regular rush hour. What should have been a three hour drive to Redding instead took 5 hours. And the temperatures rose from a comfortable and typical 63ºF in the city to 100ºF in the Central Valley. One was keenly aware of the drought. What we mainly saw were grove after grove of olive trees - and places offering olive oils and olive oil tastings.

The next day, Thursday, further impressed upon us the scarcity of water. Driving toward Mount Shasta, the second highest peak in the Cascade range, we saw very little snow on the upper slopes of the old volcano. Lake Shasta was even more depressing - it's waters are at 35% capacity and falling. It struck us that state borders must have been drawn based upon weather patterns, since crossing into Oregon marked a noticeable change: things were green and only got greener. The farmlands of the Willamette Valley were a far broader and more robust version of the Pioneer Valley in Massachusetts. The place seemed capable of growing any and everything. Ken pointed out the endless hazelnut groves. Assuming cocoa harvests elsewhere remain solid, the outlook for candy bars looks very good indeed.

Mount Hood and downtown Portland from the Pittock mansion

Arriving in Portland we stayed at our favorite dog-friendly hotel chain and enjoyed a day of visiting and touring with our sister-in-law's parents, Don and Anne Frank. On Friday they took us to the Pittock mansion, built before the First World War by the newspaper magnate who catapulted ownership of the Oregonian into vaster timber and railroad holdings. The house is larger than it looks or feels: it is instead a surprisingly modern and comfortable house for an extended family. It was one of the few docent-guided house tours I've found delightful. And the views of downtown Portland and the surrounding neighborhoods of the city gave us our bearings.

Jake's Crawfish 1892

Lunch was at Jake's [1892] Crawfish, a landmark seafood restaurant in downtown Portland that was true to it's claim of offering outstanding fish. It was a remarkable immersion into an earlier era when people could relax and enjoy a feast of local bounty. Dessert would have rendered us immobile for the remainder of the day; instead we walked around the Pearl district and made a pilgrimage to Powell's Books (as vast as one would imagine), Pioneer Square, and the nearby hive of food trucks under the shading street trees where young chefs offered office workers and street artists a global culinary tour. We were amazed and almost, almost wished we'd had the capacity to sample some of the foods. There was even a food cart specializing in Transylvanian foods (no vampire blood sausages - instead a very appealing schnitzel in a lettuce wrap that seemed to be everyone's favorite) as well as the usual South and Central American vendors, the Pacific rim menu, and Middle Eastern, south Asian and Australian renditions of their classic street foods. Fortunately someone remembered French crêpes, too.

We left the food carts and the gobbling hordes and headed for the Willamette river and a boat cruise. The leisurely afternoon sail allowed us to deepen our sense of how the city was organized and see the extensive riverfront revitalization occurring still. Anne cooked a marvelous dinner that evening that underscored how fabulous the local bounty could be in the hands of a skilled chef. We ate very, very well.

On Saturday we left Portland and began the real journey back East in earnest. We allowed ourselves one brief but exceptionally worthwhile detour: Multnomah Falls. Not broad like Victoria or even Niagara Falls, Multnomah's claim is height and grace. The initial plunge of several hundred feet into a pool is graced by a second drop into a shaded pool in which enormous koi flourish. The falls are probably one of many smaller waters that feed the Columbia River Gorge. The Columbia itself was stunning - imagine a vaster Hudson river (near Bear Mountain) with mountains and outcrops on steroids. And green - unless the rocky faces were too steep, every inch was covered in dense green growth.

We continued east, entering the high desert of eastern Oregon and then cut up into Washington where the landscape slowly turned greener again and the evidence of large-scale agriculture was obvious. We drove through Spokane and have stopped in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho for the night. Tomorrow: Billings, Montana.

Sunday, July 27

Moving day is drawing closer. Today is the San Francisco Marathon, which we've been catching glimpses of whenever we look up from our packing. I wouldn't say our packing has been frenzied, nor overly organized, merely steady. But when we look out toward the Embarcadero, we're reminded that we have our own marathon approaching. On Wednesday afternoon we leave San Francisco and if all goes according to plan, we'll arrive in Portland Oregon on Thursday afternoon.

Friday, January 3

The last day of Ken's "vacation" before starting work, Friday was the day to get the car registered in California. The state's DMV, the city's only office, is located in an urban residential neighborhood near the panhandle of Golden Gate Park. We drove, found the parking lot filled and instead parked on a perilously steep side street. We did what everyone was doing - went to the end of the line.

After an hour in sunshine we neared the front door!

It was 9:00AM. At 4:00PM we emerged with our license plates in hand. The tediousness and seeming inefficiency had nothing to do with the overburdened staff and everything to do with the fact that California, and so many other states, passed a proposition to limit taxes: the DMV is woefully underfunded for the job they're expected to perform. The facility is clearly outdated and inadequate for the numbers of people to be served. I looked at our fellow DMV patrons - a depressingly motley assortment of misfits, oddballs and sociopaths - and thought, "This is the anti-tax Tea Party's grass roots." The DMV employees were doing their best to serve what appeared to be the clientele of a methadone clinic. Okay, there were some perfectly fine souls in one with us as well: folks from New Hampshire registering their vehicle, a worker from Mexico applying for a license, an elderly schoolteacher renewing her permit. But - and here's why I salute the state employees - we discovered (actually the DMV staff discovered) that we had been erroneously overcharged $2000 when we purchased our Ford from the Stamford dealer. This was discovered when the calculations of Connecticut sales and California excise taxes were being determined. We also learned that the Stamford dealer had transposed our birth dates on the Connecticut records. At any rate, despite voter opposition to supporting government services, we left the DMV very happy. We had our plates and we had the information to claim our $2000 from the car dealer. But the entire day of line-standing made me decide not to rush into registering the dogs...

Our plates are standard issue:

Thursday, January 2

Lucca, wonder dog and world traveler, had cataract surgery at Cornell University in November. All went well and he breezed through three post-operation check-ups. But just to be sure, he had a penultimate check-up at the UC Davis veterinary hospital, the world's largest canine ophthalmological center. Davis is located just west of Sacramento. Ken and I drove with both dogs, and while I remained with Lucca during his appointment, Ken and Marco explored UC Davis' botanical garden, nurseries and greenhouses. We want to go back - they have a plant sale coming up and were in the midst of preparing drought-resistant plant materials for public sale. Many of the plant materials appealed very much to us, partly by virtue of their textures, and partly because of the many shades of green a broad selection of would present. [Click any of the photos below to enlarge.]

It made us want to garden in California

So many textures, colors and shapes

A gorgeous plant - such a fresh green

We liked this lavender, too

A final favorite - Cape Balsam

Their promise: easy to grow!

Back seat, heading back home - exhausted