The Road, The RV, and Me

As Wanda crossed the border from Wyoming into Montana, her odometer turned over 5,000 miles for this trip. 

Hard to believe, but our adventure is flying by. Almost two-thirds of it has been completed and I am not nearly ready for it to end. Thus, I am already noodling on my next outing. “Alaska” keeps popping into my head, mainly because it was planted there by a group of boondocking brothers -- all from Virginia -- that I met in Capitol Reef National Park.  Considerable research needs to be done before I commit to such a lengthy trek, especially about road conditions and the availability of diesel and propane.   

For the last few days, the internet has been spotty at best so posting has been a challenge.  Just to catch things up a bit, my dear friend, Kim -- who now has her own serious case of RV fever, bid me adieu in Salt Lake City on Sunday.  A few hours later, Frank flew in to take her place.  

We cheated and spent the night in a Marriott near the airport. There, without the threat of filling Wanda’s grey water tank to capacity, I could run hot water to my heart’s content. I was able to stand beneath a ‘real’ showerhead and exfoliate and expunge the red dirt of Utah that had burrowed into my skin and beneath my ragged nails. I have never been so grateful to be clean.

Jack also got a bath, but he was not so thrilled.   

After cold rains in Zion and a windy snow in Bryce Canyon prevented us from venturing too deep on the more famous trails, Kim and I were finally able to get three decent hikes in the high arid desert of Arches National Park.  All were breathtaking (literally,) and worth every step it took to see the sculpted land and delicately balanced boulders. Given my fear of tall buildings, I stood beneath structures and on ledges that I never imagined I could, let alone would. But I had come this far, and I wasn’t going to let these grand moments escape me unlike The Unfortunate Eiffel Tower Incident of 2000.  After Utah, I am almost confident I could go back and try that one again, and this time sans Xanax and champagne. (For the record, they didn’t help one bit.)  

When Frank and I started out the next day, our path towards Wyoming took us through Henry, Idaho where we found a very small café at a marina along Cedar Bay.  While the menu was limited, we found the companionship of our fellow travelers – two couples at the next table -- to be a smorgasbord. 

As it turns out, they were from Roanoke, just slightly more than a hop, skip and jump down the treacherous I-80 from McLean. More Virginians. What are the chances?

Better still, the husbands were brothers who had deep roots to eastern North Carolina. Our conversation turned to every Carolinian’s favorite topic: where to find the best barbecue, east and west. We were like gunslingers, throwing out the names of legendary barbecue pits and places. Bill's. Wilbur's. Stamey's. Lexington. Pow-pow. It ended in a draw, but with the solid agreement that vinegar-based is the right stuff and Parker’s is indeed, “The Mothership.”

By the time all six of us had finished our burgers – the only sane and predictable thing to order in places like this – we had exchanged emails and hugs. Even though the likelihood we will stay in touch is remote, the opportunity for total strangers to find a shared connection and turn into momentary friends is just another reason that I love being on the road.

After our goodbye's, Frank cranked up Wanda and we hurried off. We had to reach Grand Teton National Park by late afternoon. Somehow, I had managed to snag a coveted spot at Colter Bay along Lake Jackson, and I wasn't about to forfeit it. But first, we had to pass through Jackson Hole where, 26 years before, we had enjoyed our first vacation long before "I love you" had been offered from either side. Frank reminded me of one particular afternoon when ‘too much fun’ was being had at Dornan’s, and he had to defend my honor after I inadvertently insulted a man’s Jack and Diet Coke. (Seriously, who desecrates a good bourbon with chemicals?)

On the way through town, we stopped at Albertson’s to gather enough provisions for several days. Good lord, beef was expensive. You would think with all the cows in Wyoming that it wouldn’t be, but you would be wrong.  Apparently, popularity and celebrity sightings bring inflation.  

As we drove towards Jackson Hole’s famous town square, I grew heartsick to see that gross commercialism had sunk its fangs deep into a place where they didn’t belong.  TJMaxx? Cowboys don’t need no stinkin’ TJMaxx. 

We made our reservation in time and got set up on the edge of Lake Johnson’s cerulean waters that mirrored the distance edge of the still-snowy Cathedral Group. A more spectacular view I cannot remember. When we awoke on Tuesday morning, it was so cold that I didn’t want to get out of bed, but managed to do so anyway and started a pot of coffee on Wanda’s small gas cooktop.

While it percolated, Frank read aloud a passage from John Steinbeck’s classic novel, Travels with Charley, a tale of his journey through America with his French poodle of the same name. Appropriately timed for our own travels, Steinbeck describes entering Yellowstone and the misunderstanding he had concerning the ranger’s warning about bears and how Charley’s placid personality changed when he saw them for the first time.   

It was a hilarious interlude, particularly since the rangers at GTNP had essentially done the same with me when we checked in. They explained six ways to Sunday and back again why we should not walk without bear spray; leave food, coolers or grills outside; and never ever let Jack out of our sight.  They said there had already been two reports of bears that day. Then, just for good measure or in case I missed it the first time, they repeated the rules again.

For the sake of contrast, emphatic ‘bear spray advice’ is not what you get at Yosemite. Rather, the park rangers will tell you that their bears are peaceful and will not bother you so please do not carry let alone use bear spray. Maybe it is a California thing. Maybe their bears truly are peaceful, people-avoidant vegetarians. I don't know. But I can advise that you shouldn't let a Yosemite ranger see an aerosol cannister hanging on your gear unless you want a lecture.

Even though Frank, Jack, and I took two walks around Lake Jackson, we did not see any bears, and none came calling during the night. I am not sure if I was relieved or disappointed. (Disappointed, actually.)

Tonight, we are camped just outside of Gallatin Gateway, Montana, almost on top of the Gallatin River which is about to burst its banks due to the runoff from record snows. We followed its winding curves for miles, watching rafts of tourists gleefully proceed towards Class IV rapids with the majority blissfully unaware of the turmoil and terror that awaited. 

This is as good place as any to mention that RV life is not as glamorous or romantic as I might make it seem. There are lots of things that don’t go right. Just ask my friend, Kim. But a lot of things go better than planned, like finding more strangers that were not yet friends including the young father and son we met tonight beside our fire along the churning green waters of the Gallatin.

In honor of his 13th birthday, the father was teaching his son to drum and chant, so we sat and listened as they shared their music and song. Through our conversation, we learned that the father had studied the art of medicinal chanting with shaman in South America and with Native Americans. He said that their wisdom and teachings had saved his life, turning him away from addiction and making him a better person, a better father.

The soft, rhythmic beat of the drum had a tranquility and peace that, when mixed with the wild rushing sounds of the river, made me quite relaxed. I retired for bed thinking how amazing it was that a father was willing to share not only his songs and personal story, but the love and pride he felt for his son. It was a photograph that could not be taken, but a memory to be carried.

This evening is symbolic of my long-held dream to see our America. After decades of flying coast-to-coast, gazing out from oval windows at fields and canyons while musing, “what is down there,” I wanted to put my boots on the ground and experience this land and our people so I could achieve a deeper understanding of both and, in the process, find the medicinal that I so desperately need to become a better version of myself.  

When I get right down to it, this is what the road and my little RV is all about; locating the 'me' that was before I become a wife and a mother, the one that went on carefree trips with abandon. (I know I am only supposed to think that, not say or write it.) With these new journeys, I share my simple, silly posts with the hope they will inspire you to reconnect with yourself; to take an unknown step forward and see where a forgotten road leads.

And, who knows? You might decide you want to take a little ride with Wanda and me. Just ask Kim.