There's really no excuse — outside of laziness — for dragging my feet on writing. In fact, I find that I'm always most productive and doing my best work when I'm writing on a daily basis.
Unfortunately, this move has been anything but stress-free. I'm pretty exhausted from starting my days at 5:30 every morning and sluggishly pulling myself through the door of my apartment around 5 or 6 every afternoon. I've never been one to fall into a state of discontent, but I'm definitely not far away at the moment.
Things aren't shaping out the way I'd envisioned them, so I'm hoping with a few steady days of real writing — even if it is only these stream-of-conscious/non-edited blog posts — will help matters a bit.
So... to back up a little — Relocating: Days two through nine...
I left Shreveport around 3 p.m. Sunday, January 8. My plans were only to make it to the other side of Dallas before checking into a motel for the night. Up early the next morning, I figured I was looking at about three full days of driving.
When my second day of traveling began, I was under the impression that I could make it to Yakima in only a couple more days. Had the weather permitted, I may have been able to do that. Wednesday night... Thursday at the latest.
Little did I know.
Day Two: I make it to Lamar, Colorado.
After spending the night in a crappy Motel 6 in a place called Wichita Falls, Texas, I was ready to make it as far into Colorado as possible. By the time I reached Lamar, the sun had gone down and I started running into the first inklings of snow. Nothing bad, but I guessed Lamar was the last big town I'd reach for another hundred miles or so. I don't really care for driving in the dark, so I checked into a Holiday Inn Express. Spent a fairly good night on higher thread count sheets and a nice tub for a hot bath. I wanted to be up and out the door early the following morning, so I got a pretty good night's sleep and Mary and I hit the road as early as possible Tuesday.
By the time we departed, I saw that we were well beyond the point we'd planned, so I was still thinking we'd make it to Yakima by Wednesday night. As we drove from Lamar, it was still very much a possibility.
Day Three: I only make it to Rawlins, Wyoming
There were long stretches of boring roads all through Colorado, and things really only got exciting after reaching Ft. Collins and passing to the other side.
Turns out exciting is exactly what I didn't want.
My GPS was sending me on the shortest route to Washington, which meant I had to drive through a series of unavoidable mountain passes. Now, I'm a Louisiana boy. I've driven to Little Rock and Dallas and Fayetteville and Florida. All through my home state and the roads of Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia.
I'm accustomed to flat terrain. And the worst I've ever driven through was a few hurricanes, a ton of spring and summer floods and the occasional tornado — nothing I hadn't grown up with.
Mountain roads are a new breed for me.
Ice-covered mountain roads — interstate or not — are something I now wish I'd never had to experience. In fact, if I could erase the memories form my brain, I'd probably pay to do so.
The first idea of a mountain pass happens on the other side of Ft. Collins. I'm sure it's beautiful during the summer months, but in the bitter wind and blowing snow of winter, the road is cold, icy, and pretty devoid of other travelers.
I'd heard avalanche reports and warnings before leaving Lamar, so I had my eye out, but everyone at the hotel assured me that I wouldn't encounter anything like that on my planned route.
I made it to Laramie, stopped at a gas station for some water, exercised my muscles because they were tightening up from the stress of the situation, and decided I wouldn't stay there because I don't have positive associations with what I know of the history of the town (at some point, I'll have to write about my family's reaction to what happened there when I was a teenager — how the photos of Matthew Shepard freaked my mom and sister out because we looked so similar and the story made them very worried for the sort of world we live in).
I asked the clerk at the gas station what the next big town would be, and she told me it was Rawlins, which was about 100 miles away. So I'm thinking "100 miles... I can do that in an hour and a half..." I asked her about the roads and she told me the Interstate had just re-opened, and I should be safe. She gave me the same advice I'd gotten from everyone else: drive slowly, keep distance between my car and everyone else, don't hit my breaks, and if I start to slide, drive into it.
100 miles, right?
Piece of cake, right?
Well, three hours later - with a maximum speed of about 35 to 40 mph at any given time, my blurry eyes and rigid muscles pulled into another Holiday Inn Express in Rawlins.
It was the closest I've ever been to driving in a blizzard. Torrential snow blowing from the surrounding mountains. Big rigs that moved even slower than I did. And the irony of a caravan of trucks moving behind me as the road was shut down in my wake.
I made it, but I was hurting by this point.
From the crown of my head to the soles of my feet. I needed water, a good meal, and another hot bath.
I read Jackie Collins (Lovers & Gamblers), made a few calls, checked in on social media, and got to bed as quickly as possible.
Day Four: I'm Stranded in Rawlins, Wyoming
Keep in mind, this was the day I'd thought could have potentially taken me all the way to Washington when I'd originally made my plan.
I didn't leave the hotel.
The roads were totally shut down and I was one of several travelers stranded for the day.
I took a couple showers, videoed the snowstorm, watched Donald Trump ream a journalist from CNN, talked to my boss waiting for me in Yakima, and hoped the storm would stop by the next day.
Day Five: I make it to Rock Springs, Wyoming
I woke up and had another continental breakfast. I filled my tank with gas. I stopped at an auto parts place and asked them if I needed snow tires — "no, you'll be fine... just drive slowly, stay away from other cars and don't hit your breaks" — and then found an alternate route with the help of a dude there who told me I only needed to drive about ten or fifteen minutes north to find a road to head west and get back on with my journey.
Although it was less treacherous, it was totally out of my way. I drove north to head west, only to head back south and get back on the Interstate that was shut down earlier that day.
I stop at a spot in Rock Springs, check into a motel, grab a quick bite in the accompanying Mexican restaurant, and I talk to a few people who warn me that my next big hurdle is "the three sisters." The only association I can make is to "The Three Mothers" trilogy that Dario Argento started with Suspiria, so I'm pretty sure that the equivalent of a horror movie awaits me the following morning.
Day Six: I make it to Twin Falls, Idaho (a.ka. Friday, Jan. 13)
Early to rise. Early to depart. Will I make it to Yakima today?
No!
But I will discover what real mountain passes are like. I will drive through the last of the state of Wyoming and be glad to leave it behind. I'll wonder why roads that no human being should be walking — let alone driving — are open to 2008 Volkswagon New Beetles. I'll get to Utah, think things are okay, then wonder what the hell is going on with their roads there (seriously: BAD!). I'll cross into Idaho. I'll drive a long, comfortable stretch headed toward Twin Falls, hoping I can make it to Boise, and then decide to stay. I'll check into another Holiday Inn Express (they really do have nice accommodations). And I'll set my alarm for extra early in the morning.
I'm determined that I won't spend more than one more day on the road.
Day Seven: I arrive in Yakima (a.k.a. the worst day of my life so far)
I stop just over the state line, go to the bathroom, fill up (well, somebody else fills me up because that's the state law) and ask a dude what the rest of my journey looks like. It's around noon by this point, and I'm only seeing a few hundred more miles on my GPS, so I'm thinking I'll be in Yakima by late afternoon, but my thinking is what got me in the middle of a snowstorm, driving towards the Pacific Northwest. The guy tells me I should be fine, and I don't need snow tires ("...slow down, keep the space, don't hit the breaks..."). The roads are mostly clear, and I won't hit a major mountain pass for a while.
He lied.
Now, Oregon — winter or not — is absolutely breathtakingly beautiful.
But I think it's really just one big forest of mountains.
By this point, I've learned to stay to the right, screw everyone else because they're crazy for going 70 to 80 in this mess, and focus on my own personal safety. There were entire stretches of road that were completely covered in ice. Not just a thin, invisible layer, but an entire frozen river just caked onto the asphalt. And this goes on for miles. Inclining. Declining. Near hairpin curves going down (at 70 mph). It's enough to make your kidneys hurt.
But all that was just preparation for the signs that I began seeing about 100 miles from Pendleton. Warnings. Time to chain up. Slower traffic keep right. All trucks use right lane. Chains required.
First warning.
Second warning.
More warnings.
Final warning.
And then I found out what they were warning me about.
Deadman Pass.
First of all, who the HELL names something Deadman Pass?
Second, who tells you that you're entering Deadman Pass?
Third, why the HELL was this stretch of road open on this particular day in this particular weather?
Covered in ice and blowing snow, it was like riding one of those out of control train rides at Disneyland, but I was steering the wheel. In my little car. With Mary Louise staring off into the distance through the windshield. And nothing but a few feet between me and certain death over the side of a cliff.
Also known as "Cabbage Hill," this was an experiment in terror. Nothing but a test of nerves and a battle of wits and some cruel jokes played on drivers like me who think they know what they're doing driving from Louisiana in the dead of winter.
And another thing: cabbage or not, this was no "hill."
I made it to Pendleton. Barely. And when I stopped for gas (still in Oregon, so they're still pumping), the chicks at the station tell me they have no idea why the pass was even open.
Refreshing.
I conclude that instead of signs warning that one is entering Deadman Pass, perhaps the department of transportation should only post a sign: "Slow down, keep the distance, and don't hit your breaks." And then after that body-wrenching, soul-crunching, psychosis-inducing drive, post another sign: "Congratulations! You've just completed Deadman Pass!"
A while later, I cross the Washington state line, but the treachery isn't over. More icy roads, fading day light, I'm determined not to stop for the night before arriving in Yakima.
Which I do.
Around 8 or so.
And guess what happens next? I have a code for my apartment door, but no code to enter the building.
So I make a few calls and I get inside and I unload a few blankets and I make a pallet on the floor.
And I sleep the sleep of angels on the dimly lit, unfurnished carpet of my new studio apartment (that I realize I'm paying way too much for).
In Yakima.
Day Eight: Health concerns, a little shopping and a library card
I've got the day off, but I can't relax. Because I don't have anywhere to relax. And I've got this weird symptom that goes with the headache and the backache and the general feeling of malaise. And this weird symptom, which I can only associate with my friend Kyle who had been recently hospitalized for rhabdomyolysis, is that I'm literally peeing brown.
So I call Sarah in California and tell her about it and she calms me down and it happens a couple more times and I feel better and kind of forget about it.
Day Nine: With the realty company, an AA meeting, installing the wifi and a little book store browsing
I go to the realty company to get my mailbox key and find out what the hell the code is to get into my apartment.
I hit an AA meeting and discover the program is a little different here in Washington.
I meet with the cable guy for him to install my wifi — though I don't yet have my TV or laptop — and then I hit a book sale in town.
And then I break down and run buy a TV. I can't stand the quiet in my apartment.
The next day is my first day at work, and I want to be relaxed.
So I read a little more Jackie Collins and wish the sun were out and ice wasn't all over everything and I have a microwaved meal and I watch the TV I bought.
And I don't wake up until about 3 a.m.
With a pain in my side. And I'm pretty sure I've got a kidney stone (which maybe explains the brown pee), and I'll spend the next two weeks — my first two weeks of work — waking up with this pain and dealing with it throughout the day.
But not to worry.
I've got plenty of new concerns in the days to come.
Ending this on the eve of my first day at the Yakima Herald-Republic.
Jan. 16.
Just over one month ago.
And there you have it.
Unedited and un-reviewed.
But posting it anyway.
