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

Wednesday, January 1

Happy New Year! I won't begin to account for the last week. It was filled with the tedious chores and bureaucratic tasks that accompany any relocation. But today we drove to Berkeley to poke around, and came across the Berkeley rose garden:

We slammed on the brakes!

The underlying structure of the garden in winter.

The amphitheater and stoa or loggia

Raspberry swirl ice cream.

A water feature as the amphitheater's stage

Dense vertical ground cover

Pasadena weeps.

I like pale yellow roses: "Sunny Flare"

Sluices and channels in the amphitheater.

The view from the "stage".

A volunteer's car: worth "clicking" to enlarge - très Berkeley

Wednesday, December 25

I abstained from posting on Christmas Day – far too momentous a day for us. Not only was it Christmas, but we completed the final and most dramatic leg of our trip to California.

We left Reno at sunrise, around 7:15 AM, and headed toward the Sierras. We were slowly climbing, even though at times we dropped a thousand feet or so, only to climb higher again. The slopes became steeper and more densely covered with pines and the presence of water was more apparent: creeks raced down and rapids flourished. There was ample evidence of early dams and sluices built to channel water and harness the water’s power for electricity. We reached the California border amidst intermittent freezing fog and then for the most part, the rest of the upward climb to Donner Pass was in dazzling morning sunshine.

Heading west from Reno

In California the Sierra Nevadas are magnificent. Even though there’s been a dearth of precipitation compared with most years, the mountains look fresh and vigorous. It may have been simply that after days of treeless mountains it was a relief to see the heady flourish of evergreen. A few miles after the Donner Pass we stopped again to walk the dogs at a “vista point” (the highway department’s term) where wagon trains halted and individual wagons were lowered several hundred feet to where the trail continued: the slope was too steep for the horses and wagons. I wonder if, as they gazed at the mountains around them, some settlers wondered why they couldn’t just stop here and carve out a new life. But we were tourists; those pioneers had another agenda. Come to think of it, so did we, and we too headed on.

Our first expansive view of California

In the course of nearly forty miles we descended nearly 7000 feet and were soon on the outskirts of Sacramento. We continued on, through California’s version of suburban sprawl, interspersed with clearly vibrant and extensive farming – the great Central Valley. We passed the University of California’s Davis campus, with its agricultural school and – most important to us – it’s enormous veterinary school. It’s canine ophthalmology department, the world’s largest, is where Lucca will continue his post-operative monthly exams after cataract surgery.

Another hour or less and we were over the last mountain pass just outside San Rafael. We cut across a corner of Berkeley and onto the ramp leading to the San Francisco Bay Bridge. The first segment was the newly opened section of bridge, pristine and white, that led to Yerba Buena and Treasure Island. We passed through a tunnel on the island and emerged for the final triple-suspension segments of the bridge. We were immediately struck by how close downtown San Francisco and it’s financial district loomed. We were also confronted by the steepness of its hills. Even from the distance of the bridge the vertical climb of Nob and Telegraph Hills was impressive. And daunting.

All that's left...

Once off the bridge we took the first exit and in a few blocks we were pulling into our building and into our parking space. We picked up our keys from the building’s concierge and within minutes had taken the elevator up, walked the short distance of hallway and unlocked our front door. We stepped in and there it was: San Francisco. It was our Christmas present, and we were delighted!

And grateful the trip was safely over. We were famished.

After a brief unpacking (not much fits in a small car when you're traveling with demanding dachshunds whose idea of travel is not unlike the Royal Progress) Ken and I set out to find a restaurant open on Christmas Day. We walked east on King Street, past the new baseball stadium and onto the Embarcadero.

Where wagons were lowered by rope

We realized we were not going to find anything, and rather than replicate the Donner party we turned back, got the car and headed for Chinatown. Once there we found every restaurant open, and while evidence of patronage by Chinese is traditionally a sign of a first rate Chinese restaurant, we were suddenly not in the mood for an authentic cultural experience. And so it was that we happened upon Mangia Tutti, an Italian restaurant near the base of the TransAmerica tower. The proprietor greeted us warmly and said we were wise to come early (it was about 4:30 PM - we had not eaten since breakfast in Reno) because he had 150 reservations due to descend at 6:30. We were charmed by the staff and the food - perhaps the closest experience to the restaurants that delighted us in Italy - and felt afterward that we'd not only had a proper Christmas dinner celebration but also found our first "favorite" Italian restaurant in San Francisco. Who knows what Michelin thinks? Michelin and its stars did not welcome us like family on our first day and first Christmas in San Francisco.

We'll wait until friends come to visit and only then set forth to determine which of the zillions is the best Chinese restaurant in the city. But we're already thinking we need to begin research in earnest to find the best Mexican place in town. And seafood. And French. And, and, and...

More soon. Merry Christmas to you, dear friends.

There's an Italian restaurant somewhere in there...

Tuesday, December 24

Our final full day of travel. Sagebrush is now as common and unremarkable to us as maple trees and hay fields.

Sage brush in Nevada

It seems to be getting better and better. We left Salt Lake City as the sun rose and drove west, skirting the south shore of the Great Salt Lake and heading toward the Bonneville Salt Flats. While much of the high plain or valley in which Salt Lake City lies is absolutely flat (the ancient bed of an inland lake, once larger than the state itself) the horizontal line is punctuated dramatically and often by mountain ranges. And the drive is arrow straight and more than slightly hypnotic.

Straight west from Salt Lake City

When we reach the Nevada border the signs for installing tire chains became regular. Northern Nevada, the Great Basin, is a high still plateau regular punctuated with majestic mountain ranges (covered in snow). The pace of the drive across the state seemed to be: climb through pass through snow-capped mountains, descend into valley and stare in awe at latest range of mountains across the valley, cross the valley (looks close, takes forever) and ascend the next pass. Repeat until Reno is reached.

The sage continued to be the predominant plant material, with mountain cedar running a close second on the lower slopes of the mountains. But as we got further west and further south on Interstate 80 the sage and the cedar grow less dense and the vast valley floors and broad gentle slopes for miles up to the mountains became more and more desert like. As we grew used to the stretches of open Nevada we began to appreciate the subtle colors, the soft greens, the gentle russets, the myriad golds and the rich grays and browns. And the ever present deep blue sky.

Just before the Bonneville Salt Flats

Strewn across the northern tier of Nevada, and sparsely strewn at best, are various towns affiliated if not conceived by oil, energy and mineral companies. Ranching seemed rare at best and any other agricultural endeavor non-existent. We see one lone, but clearly well-fed, coyote along the highway. When one does stop for coffee or for gas, the cafe or the station is sure to have slot machines. Most of the billboards advertise the coveted trinity: "Slots | Cold Beer | Clean Restrooms". We certainly saw an inordinate number of slot machines at every stop, and the beer seemed to be the beverage of choice. The restrooms seemed clean enough for someone who would not see another restroom for 100 miles. I was fascinated by a side road, a two-lane highway heading off into the desert toward Las Vegas, with the sign "Next Gas 134 Miles". We tried to keep the tank at least half-full the entire drive from Salt Lake City.

Toward the East Humboldt Range in Nevada

We're now in Reno, spending the night before we enter the Promised Land. As if in preparation for finally entering California I took the car to a car wash for a much needed cleansing. Think Los Angeles classic car wash with a swarm of immigrants descending on the washed car to wipe it thoroughly dry. Across the major thoroughfare was a massive Costco and across the side street was the entrance to both a Jack-in-the-Box and an In-n-Out Burger. Decidedly one aspect of California culture. Ditto the clean car fetish. The link, for food fanatics of a lesser order: http://www.in-n-out.com

We're tired of driving, the dogs are surely tired of riding, and the hotel routine is getting stale, too. Tomorrow we descend from the Sierra Nevadas, cross the Central Valley, cross San Francisco Bay from Berkeley, and arrive at our destination and our new home.

Approaching Reno, things dry out - hillsides like elephant hide

Later that night: Indeed we are in Reno and it's Christmas Eve. We were hungry, it was the dinner hour in at least one of the time zones we've been through. We ventured forth. To a casino (at our sister-in-law's suggestion -"Go to a casino buffet!"). We pulled into the Atlantis Casino and Hotel. The parking lots were jammed but somehow our parking place goddess intervened and we found ourselves squeezing into a narrow spot near the hotel's main entrance. We entered and were hit, assaulted, bombarded by slot machines and various electronic versions of card games and surely every other game of chance devised in the course of history. We found a hotel/casino map and found that restaurants and buffets were strewn about the hotel on nearly every level of the twenty-floor structure. We had read that Toucan Charlie's was voted "best buffet" in Reno every year since the beginning of time. We found the place. A mob scene, with a line not unlike that of a Walmart just before opening on Black Friday. We opted, on another floor, for a regular restaurant. The prices were not unlike Manhattan's. In fact the place, Bistro Napa, could have been in New York save for the fact that we were seated without a reservation (at 5:30 PST who needs a reservation?) and the obvious difference: Californians (and that's who comes to gamble in Nevada on Christmas Eve) don't rise to any occasion in terms of dress, the men especially. But the food: Ken had French onion soup served in - an onion. I had scallop and shrimp ceviche with mango and nasturtiums. Both were all right but it was clear that presentation was intended to trump everything else, including taste. The "Wow" factor seems to be the goal here. Ken had a portobello mushroom vegetarian affair that looked quite good (it was) and I had côte de veau forestiere. We shared a crème brûlée and the check was presented with a salver of shockingly good vanilla cotton candy. The cotton candy was shaped like a matronly beehive and was, perhaps, an homage to some California grandmother with a hair-sprayed pink coiffure. Odd, but tasty and it ushered us back to the parking lot in a very festive mood. Bonus: we found our way back to the hotel without getting lost. And the dogs were sleeping when we walked in, surely while visions of sugar plums danced in their heads. Change that to bones and we have a Christmas Eve. Unorthodox but still filled with the spirit of the season. Merry Christmas!

And imagine coming down the stairs on Christmas morning to this:

Imagine this ten thousand fold

Monday, December 23

We've arrived in Salt Lake City. Despite less than ideal weather the day's leg of our journey was the most spectacular so far. Leaving Cheyenne we crawled along - hoping that the highway would not be closed - through blowing snow and very ugh winds. Every vehicle had its emergency blinking light on which helped greatly since the snow was blinding at times. We finally made it to Laramie and things improved a good deal.

Still windy, but the snow has subsided

There continued to be snow and steering wheel gripping gusts of wind but the drive through the Continental Divide Basin was fascinating. In dividing into two segments in southern Wyoming, the Continental Divide created a broad high plain whose waters drained neither east or west. Not exactly a problem: the area, which is the Red Desert, gets less than 8 inches of rain annually. Most of the ground water is snow melt and mud flats in season are as good as it gets. The area is rich in natural gas, minerals and shale oil/gas. The desert landscape is peppered with energy-related facilities and wind turbines. Given the scale of the landscape this manmade intrusions are not entirely overwhelming, but after a wind turbine-free Nebraska it came as a shock to see legions of tall turbine masts marching across the broad plains. As we drove west toward Rock Springs the landscape began to resemble the American Southwest: mesas, buttes, arroyos and mountains. And finally plant life emerged again, mainly creosote, sage brush and mountain cedar.

Suddenly it was clear, but not for long

Things to a dramatic change for the, well for the dramatic once we entered Utah: we descended from about 7200 feet in a seemingly endless canyon of deep red rock, with vertical cliffs topped by cedars clinging perilously. Our descent seemed endless and then suddenly we were in Provo and confronted the steep mountain walls of seemingly endless ski areas. Interestingly the condos - a sea of real estate development - blends remarkably well into the mountain sides and is almost a form of architectural camouflage. Apparently our descent had barely begun and as we left Provo for the final drop into Salt Lake City (and the endless descent really was like that encountered on an airline flight) we entered some of the most dramatic valleys of the Wasatch Range. There were all sorts of warning about checking one;s brakes and then we silly drove down and down and down through gorgeous snow covered mountains until the narrow valley suddenly opened to reveal the broad mountain-ringed plain and the Great Salt Lake that is Salt Lake City.

The Bedrock Hilton?

We definitely feel like we're in the west. Tomorrow's 500 mile segment will bring us to Reno, Nevada and immediately after that we'll lose that western sensibility for California's. I don't think of California as western but instead as West Coast. California has as much past as anywhere else, but I sense that we'll also be confronting the future in ways we'll both appreciate and abhor. Of course, that's what the eight month sojourn will allow us to determine. But we're only in Salt Lake City - we have plenty of time to meet a realtor, look at house and become Mormons. A Latter Day Saints aside: at dinner tonight we perused the beer and wine menu (locally brewed beers and a wealth of California wines). One beer in particular stood out - a porter named Nitro-Polygamy Porter. If we don't make it to San Francisco, we could live here...

Instead we'll just hope for a rejuvenating night's sleep and a safe and pleasant Christmas Eve day drive across Utah and Nevada.

Salt Lake City in the distance

Sunday, December 22

Mountain Standard Time. It's cold. Very cold. But the sky is blue and we can see for miles.

Anyone who knows Ken and me knows that, wherever we are, we envision ourselves living there. This afternoon and evening in Cheyenne, Wyoming we drove around the neighborhood north of the state capitol and thought, "Wow! Nice houses: we could live here!" Not yet. But the city has a glorious Romanesque Revival train station and blocks of fantastic late 19th century commercial buildings. Will people come and visit us if we live in Cheyenne or Laramie?

We're tired. We'll sleep on it, and we won't contact a real estate agent. After all we're still on the road.

Mid-Nebraska wheat and corn fields

Earlier today, leaving Lincoln, Nebraska we saw the cornfields and farms dwindling and the ranches and open ranges expanding. What had been a palette of straw yellows, browns and grays (it is winter after all) became at first more brown and gray, but then we realized that every other color was represented as well, albeit subdued by winter. The area around North Platte was gorgeous - Interstate 80 follows the Platte River in western Nebraska. After North Platte there began to be glimpses of the ancient rivers that carved bluffs and small mesas out of the soft rock. By the time we were nearing the Wyoming border the entire landscape looked like a location shot for a western movie. And at a late lunch after arriving in Cheyenne we realized that we were finally in the West: we were beyond the gravitational force field of the East Coast (even west of Chicago you still fell as if you're in familiar territory). Tonight I think we're driving with the only Connecticut license plate in the state.

Western Nebraska ranch land

It's snowing now, a light, soft, dry snowfall - Ken just returned with the dogs: they did not appreciate the light, the soft or the "dry". It was snow, killer of all walks.

The open sky and the enormous horizon are beautiful. Driving across the country has changed in the last 150 years. It's been 50 years since I drove several time across the country with my parents and today the concerns and arrangements one made before departure no longer are there. But even though the drive is an extended commute in a sense, it does unroll slowly enough to notice how the landscape evolves and changes. We're now at 6000 feet and when we look across the fields we can see for miles. We can see the Rockies we'll begin climbing tomorrow. Since the road follows the old trails and railway lines we inevitably see monuments and museums dedicated to those pioneer treks: the point where the rail lines from Omaha and Salt Lake City finally met, the stations where the Pony Express riders changed mounts, and the many trails whose ruts still show the weight of so many wagons. It is beautiful, beautiful country. we look forward to seeing it again when we drive back next year in another season.

Nearing the Wyoming border