Out of California - delightful

[Snowden]

June 2, 2005
Out of California and Into the Middle Distance of Nevada and Utah

By VERLYN KLINKENBORG

It seems I cannot put this article here, only the URL. It's well worth the read if you enjoy short introductions to parts of this nation that are reminiscent of our past and bring memories of places we've never seen.




http://www.nytimes.com/2005/06/02/op...html?th&emc=th

They seem to forbid any copies of this being made.

[apachefran]

Originally Posted by Snowden

June 2, 2005
Out of California and Into the Middle Distance of Nevada and Utah

By VERLYN KLINKENBORG
A couple of weeks ago my dad pointed out that there is only one major route out of California over the Sierra Nevada if you are north of Bakersfield. That road is Interstate 80. Other roads cross the mountains, but in a tentative, almost exploratory way. Eighty is the way in and the way out. The roadway has been blasted with cold and heat. And if, while you're climbing it, you happen to remember, as I did, that this is the one eastern crossing out of northern California, the route somehow seems unduly fragile, cutting its way through time.

It was fitting to have to beat my way out of the state against a headlong storm of rain and wind just a few degrees above ice and snow. The weather sounded an appropriately epic note for the beginning of a drive across country. And yet when we made it down at last into Reno and past Sparks and out into the open sea of sage, it struck me once again how un-epic the trip has become. I always tend to think of the whole crossing at once - from California to upstate New York. But out in the open of Nevada, heading north to Winnemucca, for instance, the sense of the whole slips away, and there we are, on a well-paved, empty patch of road, as if we were driving only from a nearby ranch exit - "No Services" - to the neighboring town.

Driving across Nevada, a few names cling as you pass - Pumpernickel Valley, Starr Valley - but what sticks in your mind is the look of the country, the floating hulks of far-off mountain ranges to the north and south. The Humboldt River was over its banks along much of the route. There was water standing everywhere, and the mountains in the distance were still thick with snow. Where there were cattle, they stood deep in the new grass.

Sometimes, dropping into one of those valleys, I caught sight of a double track making headway straight across the sage and disappearing in the distance. It might have been made by a pickup, but I imagined it was made by an old ox-drawn wagon. It was another one of those encounters with an inconceivable past, a moment when the pure obstinacy of humans rises up in all its force. Rolling along at 70 miles per hour with perfect cellphone coverage and the sound of a recorded book filling the cab of the pickup, I was nevertheless struck by how suddenly we could drop into the here-ness of place simply by pulling over to the side of the road, turning off the engine and walking off the asphalt.

I wondered whether those earlier travelers, whose greatest threat was slowness, not speed, were ever overwhelmed by the particularity of the ground they covered, or whether they kept their minds leaning constantly forward. A trip is always an abstraction, in some sense, a way of diverting attention from the step after step, the mile after mile.

The sun blinded us on the wet salt flats the next morning. On the eastern side of the flats, we watched fence lines slowly disappearing under water. We made the circuitous trek across Salt Lake City, up into the Wasatch Range and finally onto the western flank of Wyoming, where we were to pause for a week.

I always think of the westward side of the Wind River Mountains as the back side, because I know them best from the east. From the back side we could see that they were still deep in snow. In the days to come the temperature climbed into the lower 80's, and every creek in that part of the country came near to spilling over. Watching a muddy river choke itself with debris was like watching the mountains make their way down to level ground. The ranchers shook their heads, seeing all that water slide by.

I've driven across this country I don't know how many times now, but every time I've done so, I have been crossing, of course, a particular era. The vehicles change, and the companions. So do the calculations of risk and security, of urgency and cost. But always, in this western half of the drive, I get to a place - maybe Deeth, Nev., or Green River, Wyo. - where, thanks to simple emptiness or the echo of a historical moment, I can pretend that this landscape will never look much different than it does at the moment - at any moment. A little drier, a little wetter, perhaps. Somewhere in the midst of that illusion I allow myself to think about America.----

• Copyright 2005 The New York Times Company

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/06/02/op...html?th&emc=th

Absolutly refreshing, thanks Snowden, yes we all need to take the time to stop, look around and maybe dream a little dream,,hummm, maybe I will go out lay in the grass and think up what the clouds resemble.

[Woodmonkey]

Originally Posted by apachefran

Absolutly refreshing, thanks Snowden, yes we all need to take the time to stop, look around and maybe dream a little dream,,hummm, maybe I will go out lay in the grass and think up what the clouds resemble.

I used to do that when I was a kid in Wyoming. Just laze away an afternoon dreaming. I miss those clouds.

[conlor]

That's nice, Marianne. Hubby and I made that trip in 1993. Grandma & Grandpa took the girls to FL and Marco Island so we planned a trip for just the 2 of us. (Hubby lived near San Jose for a couple years before we met.) This brings back memories.