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Published: August 8th 2008
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Bike Races Along I-90 in Washington
Now close your eyes and imagine this on I-95 in Connecticut. What's hot: Interstate 90.
What's not: The return drive.
Travel lesson of the day: There’s more to see!
from Kathy:
As we drove away from the boat at 10 a.m., Paul said, “Goodbye, Pacific Ocean.”
It brought a touch of mortality to this trip, for most of which I’ve been in a state of never-endingness. With this goodbye, I realize we are now turning back towards home.
Now we are on Rt. 90 W in Seattle, WA, which will take us halfway across the country. We already have about 5,150 miles on the trip odometer and that doesn’t count the 1100 miles each way to Alaska and the Yukon. We have been in our little bubble-for-four, aka the Floonian Roadster, off and on since July 6. Who are we? A reluctant 18-year-old, a 15-year-old in hot pursuit of Ultimate Scrabble, a mom and a dad, and a couple of toy mascots for comic relief. We have passed perhaps 1 million cars—maybe more, every one of them containing someone on the way to somewhere to do something. We’ve been in wilderness, lava fields, mountaintops, by waterfalls, in caves, on plains, in valleys, cities,
Gold Again
Once again, we are reminded at a roadside stop of the importance of gold fever in the history of this entire region. towns, countryside, farmland, by wind farms, and every other terrain you can name. We have hit every McDonald’s restroom from here to there. There are charge bills awaiting us back home for a cruise, gasoline, endless diner meals, and hotels. We tell the kids we hope they enjoyed it—this was their college education. Only joking.
They have gotten a lot of practice rolling their eyeballs on this trip.
Paul and I had seriously discussed the possibility of the boys and me flying to Pittsburgh to join my family for Grandma Groll’s 80th birthday party, skipping the return drive.
“I’ll meet you there,” he said.
I’m wasn’t sure if he wanted us to fly so he could travel alone for a while or if he was just being open to whatever we wanted. Paul refuses to fly these days, given the inescapable, unpleasant prospects of air travel. The rest of us were willing to fly (“Yeah, just send me back home,” JJ suggested over and over) but somehow nothing ever got done about booking some tickets.
We all settle into the reality that we will be driving—together—back across the country. If Paul wanted to travel alone, he needed to be more definite about it. If JJ wanted to get voted off the Floonian Roadster early, he needed to be a more difficult travel companion. Scott never complained, he just played Scrabble.
I hit a moment of panic and then I got excited … We had driven to San Francisco by Route 80. We had driven to Seattle largely on the coast highway. Now, we would be on Route 90 …
There’s more to see!
We left Seattle via floating bridge—that’s right, a major highway floating right on the water, no bridge supports.
No sooner did we leave the city than a large sign announced “Bikes on Road.” Cyclists were racing alongside I-90, hundreds of them. Can you imagine that along I-95 in Connecticut?
Not too far from Seattle, Paul stopped to stock up on wine at Washington prices. Both Oregon and Washington have many vineyards and the prices are, in some cases, one-third to one-half what we’re used to paying in Connecticut. Go figure.
We crossed the Stuart Range in Washington and met a troop of Boy Scouts on their way to Idaho summer camp. Every boy on the bus was in full-dress uniform, as were several bus loads of Scouts we encountered along the way.
JJ and I talked with a Scout in full-dress uniform (aka “Class A”) about his upcoming Eagle project. After the boy returns to his bus, JJ ponders aloud: “Haven’t they heard of Class B uniforms?” The informal green t-shirt used so often by his own troop was not a bad thing in JJ’s book.
The Roadster climbed into the higher elevation of western Washington, where the trees disappear. Grant County, WA, announces itself with a road sign as the top potato-growing county in the U.S. A flashing sign announces that “Farmers Recycle Water Five Times.” I can only imagine what local issue this sign is speaking to.
There are crop names on the endless fence lines.
In Coeur D’Alene, ID, there is an enormous car dealership for electric cars.
As we drive, the endless fields remind me of a phrase: “wider than the sky.” (Borrowing a line from an Emily Dickinson poem.) The farmhouses are ever so far apart.
“How would you like to grow up on one of these farms?” I ask the boys.
“I wouldn’t,” JJ replies. “There would be nothing to do.”
Indeed, I wonder what there is for the kids or the adults to do—aside the massive amount of work a farm requires. Friends? School? Shopping? Medical care? I’m sure they’re worked it all out. Maybe someday I’ll return and try to understand the answers.
We cross the Montana border. Some legislature (State? Local? Federal?) has taken the time and funds to pave what seem to be several hundred miles of bike paths on old rail beds that parallel Rt. 90. I see no riders, not a single one—but it is not surprising, we are so many miles from any population center.
We end our first day of the return trip in Missoula, MT, which I learn from
One Hundred Places to Visit Before You Die is a major literary magnet. Who’d ‘ve thunk? But the writer in me understands—this is the kind of place where you can hear yourself think, as long as you stay out of the ubiquitous casinos.
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andrea
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Missoula, MT
Missoula must be beautiful! The movie "A River Runs Through It" was filmed there. I'm not sure which was more alluring , the scenery in the movie or it's star, Brad Pitt. (who am I kidding?... Brad Pitt, of course!) We bought our house on N.Cove from Bill Swain and his two sisters. Ellie, one of the sisters, moved to Missoula, MT, where she joined some family members. We exchanged letters for a while. She wrote that it was still as beautiful as she remembered .