My guidebook told me that at the Natural Bridge Viewpoint the trail at the south end of the parking lot would take me to a spectacular viewpoint. I grabbed my camera and backpack, and set out. I like “spectacular”. The trail started out fine, then it narrowed. Then it split. I stood for a moment, then decided the most likely way would be toward the sound of the ocean. Although, with these trails, the most likely way is not always the right way—I’d found they can meander in ways you’d never guess, they can go on for miles, they can dwindle [View Full Entry]

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Many Americans, if they think about hostels at all, think of them as something you do in Europe just after college—before you grow up and put away childish things like sharing dorm rooms with strangers. I’m not going to try to convince you that this is always a good thing—hell, I’m not always up for it—but it’s worth thinking about. In Boise, I stayed in a pretty private room in a semi-rural property with lush landscaping for $35. I got to meet the lovely lady who runs the place and feels a sense of mission to make travel more affordable and [View Full Entry]

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When I saw the sign marked “Rest Stop”, I pulled over. North-central Oregon was starting to look like west Texas, and my mind was starting to wander. The signs kept promising “Port” this and “River” that, but I hadn’t seen any water so far. Besides, that ham wouldn’t last much longer unrefrigerated, and I was hungry. I hopped onto a picnic table, made myself a sandwich with a not-quiTe stale baguette, and surveyed the rest stop. This was new territory, subtly different from Idaho and Eastern Oregon. A self-important shaved head guy with h [View Full Entry]

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The scenic viewpoint was several miles off the main road, but how could I resist a place called “Deadman’s Pass”? It was worth the drive: I parked a polite distance from the two other vehicles, grabbed my camera, and ventured out onto the sunny hillside to gape at a beautifully classic Oregon panorama: lush spring wildflowers, framing a view of overlapping lushly forested hills under a perfect blue sky. I’d finished shooting but was still gazing when a man and a dog ventured out of the trees nearby. He called to me, “Hey—did you know there&rsquo [View Full Entry]

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In Idaho, the Mythical Land of my birth, there is a place called Mountain Home, which has a nearby Air Force base. The Air Force sent us elsewhere soon after my birth, so I never got to know the town or the base. For some strange reason, I thought Mountain Home might be in the mountains. “Nope--desert.”” said my sister, who is older and has some memories of the place, including a youthful escape attempt across the burning sands. So, I revised my ideas of the place: it became a vast American Sahara in my mind, with white sands and terrible [View Full Entry]

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When I tell people I prefer t travel alone, some people get it instantly. Others furrow their brows and worry about me, and ask, “But when you see something beautiful, don’t you want to turn to a loved one and share it?” The short answer is, “Yes, of course.” So I do turn to a loved one and make a comment. The only difference is that the people I turn to aren’t there, if you want to be strictly technical about it. I walked along the Tree Molds Trail at 8 am, during my second visit to CRMO in as many [View Full Entry]

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It is dangerous and probably foolhardy to start making generalizations about an unfamiliar place in which you have spent approximately 50 hours. But here I go anyway. Idaho is beautiful, which surprises me. The mountains of the south central are beautiful, as are the semi-desert flatlands around Grandview. And Boise is beautiful, lush and green with trees and a river running through it. I drove to see the purported best view of the town, from Table Rock, northeast of the city. On this sunny 78-degree Sunday, a few other people had the same idea. We came by car, van, bike, and [View Full Entry]

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The song on the radio startled me out of my driving trance. I’d never heard it before—I’d only read about it recently, in a biography of Phil Spector. He didn’t write the song—Carole King, of all people, co-wrote it—but his arrangement and production drained it of any hint of irony. The landscape I drove through showed marks of violence as well: it looked as if glaciers had once plowed through the sandy deserts of the Nevada/Idaho border, leaving jagged canyons. Rivers ripped thorough, cutting gorges, like the one just north of Twin Falls—the one E [View Full Entry]

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But I'll add a few anyway. Evidently all of Nevada is being repaved. I tried to be cranky when my straight highway shot to Elko was impeded by endless road work, but I was in a comfy car munching on a Butterfinger Buzz (yes--a caffeinated candy bar!) looking at snow-covered 9000 mountain peaks around me while listening to Lil Wayner, Booker T, and Massive Attack on satellite radio. But you know what...? Life is good. [View Full Entry]

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406 am: I woke up, the other bed was empty. I considered getting alarmed, but then, this is Little Vegas. There’s nothing too odd or alarming about my sister being out past 4 am. 553 am: I woke up to a commotion in the room next door. Laying quiet I listened, trying to categorize the sounds. It sounded like senior citizens getting rowdy—the muffled sounds that penetrated the walls sounded a lot like the noises on our chartered flight to Reno. The shrill amped-up laughter was that of nice older ladies gone bad, up till dawn working the slots and drinking [View Full Entry]

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