The American Adventure - The Open Road

It's July, 2013 and my wife Cora and I are taking a driving trip through Northern California and into Oregon. 

The wife and I have embarked on that great American summer adventure; that annual migration of the dog days; that paean to the interstate, the motorcar and fuel consumption; the modern day version of the pioneers’ tale – the road trip.  We've headed north from the San Francisco Bay to a distant, uncharted and exotic land – Oregon.  Okay, it’s not distant; it’s only 300 miles or so.  And it’s hardly uncharted.  After all I went out recently and bought a GPS so Oregon, the rest of this land and all of hell’s half acre are all pretty well charted.

Every time that Cora and I pull out of our driveway and set out (Trying to remember what we forgot or what we left open or left running) I’m reminded of the trips of my childhood.  The start of every vacation was christened, if you will, by a sort of pre-trip ritual; what my mom called, “the last five minutes.”  The car was packed, everyone was settled in, sometimes the motor was already running and then someone remembered something forgotten and went in the house to retrieve it.  As that person came back another would leave the car to answer nature’s final call before the trip.  It was a continual shuttle in which one would return and another would disappear back into the house until finally we pulled out and hit the road.  In a giant American station wagon of course; the modern Conestoga. 

The road trip is a celebration of America's vast, diverse beauty. 

We left the house with a glove compartment filled with road maps.  There were maps of every state we would visit.  If we were going to visit cities we would have a map of each city.  Mom was the navigator calling out the route changes and different highways as we went along.  We took with us neither Frommer or Fodor for we were armed with the Mobil Travel Guides.  We had a Mobil Oil gas card and the guides were available for next to nothing.  As Chevron Gas card holders we got all the maps we wanted simply for the asking.  Do gas stations even have maps anymore?  And in these days of GPS do people even know how to read them?

When I was a child mom was the vacation planner.  She poured through the travel guides and looked at articles in travel magazines.  Dad would remain disinterested until it was time for him to get behind the wheel.  He was still disinterested but at least now he was somewhat involved. 

I've always been the travel planner of my family.  It’s a job that I enjoy about as much as crawling under the bathroom sink to fix a leak; at least from the outset.    And so when the first mention of vacation is made over dinner I gag a bit on the evening fare and already feel inertia setting in.  It’s a project and I hate to admit it but I’m loath to take on projects.  At work I’m obliged by basic human needs and a paycheck to slap on a smile and forge ahead.  At home with nothing really compelling me I manage to filibuster the whole proposition for a few weeks until that voice inside admits that if we are indeed to go on a trip I need to get busy.  That and the regularly scheduled question from my wife; “Are we going on vacation this year or not?”   

The job of planner carries rewards both good and potentially very bad.  The good is that I can include everything that I want to see and do.  The bad is that once we get there the fam is less than impressed and there’s that looming, unspoken question, “Why in the hell did we come here?”  Sometimes I’m given some strict guidelines.  When we went to Playa Del Carmen, Mexico the first time I’d planned a lot of side trips and drives to see some history and culture.  Before we went the second time I was strictly admonished that there would be NO history and NO local culture.  This was to be strictly rest and relaxation and there was to be no deviation from that plan.

For our Oregon vacation I've tried to insert a day of whitewater rafting but the little woman isn't biting.  Understandable since she can’t swim.  I've tried to negotiate some gentle class I and II with maybe one class III just for fun but it’s been a no go.  So rafting is off the menu.  In the final analysis that’s probably a good thing.  It would be bad form to come back home and tell the kids that it was a great vacation except for the part where mom drowned in the Rogue River. 

The road trips of my childhood could be tedious affairs.  Long stretches in a hot car, sometimes cramped between a pile of coats and a Scotch Cooler (For those too young to remember a Scotch Cooler is not a drink.  It was a cylindrical cooler covered with a tartan design) and only an open window for air conditioning.  Entertainment was comprised of various games; identifying out of state license plates or car makes and models, 20 questions, I Spy and word games or alphabet games.  The other diversion was simply to look out the window at the passing, changing scenery; taking in points of interest and the majesty and diversity that is America. 

Parents don’t do that anymore.  They don’t want to hear, “I’m hot,” “I’m hungry,” “I’m bored,” “I’ve got to go the bathroom,” or that road trip standard, “Are we there yet?”  No, parents preempt all that now.  They shove a tablet at the kids or put a DVD in the player and keep the little imps amused and above all, quiet.  One parent drives while the other fiddles with an iPhone and everyone is disengaged.  It could just as well be public transit.  At the end of it all the family arrives at its destination not having seen a single historic site, covered bridge, cornfield, pasture, canyon or blowing sagebrush.  They’re in blissful ignorance of the history, the scenery, the diversity and the quirky little places that make up Americana.  It all passed them by begging to be seen.  If this is progress, I’ll pass; please and thank you. 

We left the Bay Area after work on Friday.  Right from the start traffic on Interstate 80 detoured us to Highway 680 which crosses over Suisun Bay.  I pointed off to the right at the remaining ships of the Navy’s mothball fleet.  Cora had never seen the line of moored ships, some dating back to World War II. 

Leaving the Bay Area we hit traffic again and I took side roads through rural Vacaville, past small farms and ranches as well as vast gated estates.  We came out of the winding country roads and emerged in Winters and found Interstate 5.  We drove up the central valley passing farmlands that seemed to stretch to the horizon.  We cruised past the little towns of Artois, Orland, Corning and Arbuckle where the olive is king; row upon row of olive trees; olive oil bottlers and dozens of stands and markets selling olive products.  There’s The Olive Pit which promises oils and olives of every type and size; Cuban, spicy, Cajun, bottled in Vermouth or stuffed with seemingly anything that you could possibly fit in an olive.  If the Olive Pit doesn't have what you want then drive a short distance to the Olive Hut an olive monger located in an old Quonset hut, of course. 

As we approached Red Bluff and Redding, the sentinel of Mount Shasta appeared more imposing with each passing mile.  Leaving the valley and gaining elevation we looked east where in the distance Highway 395 runs through the spectacular, rugged high desert country of north eastern California; scenery that could be straight out of a western movie.  As the sun was going down it painted the high clouds billowing over that desolate, yet beautiful and singularly American panorama. 

We passed Lake Shasta as the interstate wound through the Trinity Alps.  I pointed to a narrow channel of water off to our right, “That’s the Sacramento River,” I explained.  Cora was amazed.  The Sacramento River that she knew was that big wide waterway that cuts through the state capitol.  This afternoon we were near the river’s origin and it was so narrow that you could heave a rock across it.

As the sky filled with dusk’s colors we drove on towards the day’s destination; Weed, California.  I had a box full of CDs in the car but we’d long ago stopped listening to music.  In fact we’d only played one disc the whole way.  We were content to talk to each other or simply take in the drive in silence. 

Oddly enough these are the times when I’m happiest that I got over that initial “ugh” of planning a road trip.  Sometimes I think that these are the moments that I cherish more than the hikes, the museums and the attractions.  The quiet unspoken companionship of those silent stretches and then the carefree, happy banter and joy of sharing each other and our great American open road adventure.