My big-ass road trip: Day 7 – Seattle

Ah, Seattle.

I don't think I've ever been happier to be stationary. I've traveled across 10 states in the past week. According to the atlas in the car, that's 2,415 miles. (That's not counting small side trips, such as our visits to the Corn Palace, Mt. Rushmore, etc.)

For the time being, I can't stand to be in a car. I cringe, shuddering with revulsion, each time I look at the white Accord in Jai's new driveway.

But for the time being, we're stopped, sitting on the floor of Jai and Amy's new apartment, happy to be doing nothing.

•••

We rapidly left Rapid City Wednesday morning, desperate to get the hell out of South Dakota. Up next was Wyoming, home to Gannett Peak, the largest point in the state, which lies along the Continental Divide. Gannett Peak was named after the company to which I am employed, Gannett Company, Inc. The media chain bought the then-unnamed mountain in 1982 as a public relations stunt to promote it's new flagship paper, USA Today.

We skirted out of Wyoming and crossed into Montana. Our goal was to make it as far as Missoula, which lies on the state's western edge, and if we were feeling up to it, we'd cross over Idaho and end in Spokane, Wash.

We were hesitant to make any real stops through Montana, although there was one sight I did want to see: Little Bighorn.

Great-great-great-great Uncle George. Before being shot with arrows, that is.

That's right, kids. For $10 you, too, can look at some grass that grows where some people died over a century ago. Exciting!

In 1876, my great-great-great-great uncle, Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer, the notorious Indian fighter, and about 600 men with the U.S. Calvary's 7th Regiment, battled about 3 million Native American warriors. Needless to say, Custer and his men were slightly outnumbered. The battle has become known as Custer's Last Stand, and is far more famous than Custer's Last Sit, Custer's Last Laying Down and Custer's Last Jump. The infamous battle is now a national historic monument – and costs $10 to see. Instead, Jai and I went to the Custer Trading Post, located right across the street, where you can honor the dead by eating a tasty Indian taco and buying touristy shirts boasting an arrow-riddled cartoon Custer.

This is the site of Custer's Last Souvenir Purchase.

Infused with pride at my family's glorious, heroic history, we again set off, this time headed for Bozeman, where we were to meet up with a friend of Jai's family, Beth, and her husband, Pat, live. Bozeman's your typical, small American town, sleepy and boring, cluttered with homes and big box stores and surrounded by white-capped mountains. The only thing of note in Bozeman is that on April 4, 2063, a survey ship from the planet Vulcan will land there and make contact with humans after Dr. Zefram Cochrane, battling a massive hangover, launches himself and Reading Rainbow's LeVar Burton on a historic space flight.

Dr. Cochrane greets Earth's first extraterrestrial visitor on a movie set staged to look like Bozeman, Mont.

Beth and Pat offered to shelter us for the night, as a snow storm was headed our way and we would have to drive through four or so of what Pat quaintly called "gnarly mountain passes." Not particularly feeling up to dying that night, we agreed to stay.

I was woken up the next morning by Jai around 6. A 10 hour day of driving lay before us. Outside, five or so inches of snow covered Bozeman.

Like Henry Jekyll, Bruce Banner and various lycanthropes throughout history, I undergo a transformation at a certain point in the night. When I awake in the morning, I am not entirely human. I become a hunched, bleary-eyed troglodyte, who stumbles around, head down, and speaks only in unintelligible, guttural noises. It takes several hours for me to revert to my human form. To say that I'm not a morning person is one fuck of an understatement.

Me at around 6:17 a.m.

It was that unpleasant, phlegmy beast that was shaken awake by Jai Thursday morning. I don't like to be awake before, say, 8:30 in the morning. I sure as hell don't like to be awake that early, looking out at freshly fallen snow that I'll have to drive through. Add in Jai, who is a very happy, energetic guy, even at the shitcrack of dawn, and you'll get a sense of my mood as we set out. We said our goodbyes to Beth and Pat, made a brief stop at a coffeehouse at the edge of town, and were on I-90 by 8.

The next city along the way was Butte, and Pat had mentioned that after Butte we would encounter the first of the so-called "gnarly passes." What he probably meant to say was that before Butte we would encounter the only really gnarly pass on our way to Seattle.

I like mountains. I don't like driving through mountains. I goddamn hate driving through mountains during snow storms. Some five years ago, I was headed to Virginia for a job interview. To get through Virginia, one must drive through West Virginia, which is essentially one long, continuous mountain. It was February, and a blizzard had blown in. During my trip to and from the interview, I drove white-knuckled as my crappy Ford Escort sputtered and slid up snow-blanketed mountain roads at 20 miles per hour, praying vehemently to any gods that would listen, Basic Lights clenched between my teeth. I vowed never to repeat the experience.

My plan was to drive to Butte, then hand over driving responsibilities to Jai, who'd take us through the mountain passes. What happened was that the one bad pass, the one truly gnarly pass with slick roads and snow, was located right before Butte. The other passes, scattered through Idaho and Washington, were, comparatively, nothing, and Jai zipped through those at 80 mph. I, on the other hand, again drove white-knuckled, praying vehemently to any gods that would listen, as Jai poked fun at my misery. To make matters worse, I was still sub-human, devoid of any humor or reason, and scared beyond shitless. Immediately upon arriving at Butte, we stopped at a gas station, where I stood outside, shaking. I've skydived, driven through tornadoes, headed into a street riot. But mountain driving is one fear I've yet to give up.

The rest of the trip was relatively uneventful. Jai drove through the rest of Montana, and we quickly made our way through the Idaho panhandle. Idaho, from what little we saw of it, is a beautiful state. According to legend, in 1805, Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, upon entering the land now known as Idaho, were greeted by an Indian woman, who Anglicized name translates to Little Sleeps With Many People. She introduced herself in her native language, and when asked to translate what she said, Lewis and Clarke's interpreter said, in broken English, "I da ho."

Beautiful Idaho.

We switched driving duties after reaching Spokane, having encountered no pass more gnarly than the one I endured at Butte. The drive through Washington was pleasant enough, except for one incident while driving down a steep incline near the Columbia River. Apparently, going 87 mph or so wasn't fast enough for a certain dickhead driving a beaten-up old Mustang Cobra, who flicked me off profusely while flying down the road at around 100 mph.

I hope he crashed.

After going through the Cascade Mountains we arrived at Seattle by our planned time of 5:30 p.m., so we could meet up with the real estate agent and get the key to their apartment. Conveniently, the real estate agent thought we were going to be arriving on Saturday, and after a moment of panic, Jai arranged to meet her by 8:30.

Rush hour in Seattle.

My first Seattle experience was it's beautiful rush hour traffic, which is quite different than the rush hour traffic in Cincinnati due to the it's Pacific Northwest pine-fresh smell. We went briefly through the downtown area, Jai pointing out some of the sights such as the Pike Place Market.

Like lambs to the slaughter, we followed the rush hour traffic into the downtown area.

Finally, we ended up in his new neighborhood in the Ballard area of Seattle. Ballard is a remarkable little town that's notable for not having any problems with drunk drivers. I know this, based on my observation of the large, flowered areas present in each intersection. In any other town around the planet, those turnarounds would pose one hell of a problem to any inebriated driver, especially at night. Ballard, which is located next to Fremont ("The Center of the Universe"), must be drunk-driver free to have such obstacles in the middle of its roads.

It's been rather uneventful since arriving. The apartment is nice, spacious, and located in a rip in time so that anyone entering the interior of the apartment is suddenly transported back to 1975. We're in the calm before the storm. Amy, their daughter, Adia, and all of their belongings are coming on Saturday. Hopefully, I'll be able to see some of the sights and visit with my old buddy Courtney before leaving Tuesday.