Big dreams, big taters

BLACKFOOT, Idaho—We hit the road with a well-stocked vehicle and high hopes. Vacation offered a chance for renewal and we were anxious to jump at that chance.

After spending the previous 10 days at home sidelined with some mysterious (and still undiagnosed) malady that had left me crippled with an alarming fever for more than a week, I found myself behind the wheel in a precariously weakened condition and suffering from frustrating hearing loss—an unfortunate and hopefully temporary side effect of whatever virus or bacteria had ravaged my health.

Some 500 miles north of Los Alamos, we found ourselves in uncharted territory. We had managed to sequester ourselves in the car nonstop for the better part of 14 hours, save for infrequent gas stops and bathroom breaks, thanks to Caroline's fine prior planning and packing. Fresh fruits, ample fluids and a smorgasbord of meats, cheeses and crackers spared us from burning up valuable time and avoiding the gastrointestinal roulette that can result from frequenting roadside eateries in strange locales.

Clever Caroline had also located a special on Pringle's potato chips, a "treat" we never splurge on. But the canisters of the potato crisps (that's Procter & Gamble's official trademarked description) kept us occupied through those long stretches of road where conversation slowly evaporates like the beads of sweat that were glistening on my forehead on the hot interstates of Utah.

The sun goes down late in the summer in the far north, and we found ourselves with good light at nearly 10 p.m. as we pressed on past Salt Lake City, Utah, toward the Idaho border. A brief but satisfying slumber in a comfy bed of a newer Hampton Inn left us refreshed and ready for the day.

But into each life a little rain must fall. Apparently.

Somewhere between the Middle of Nowhere and Bumfuck, Idaho, the air conditioning began blowing out a hot dry air reminiscent of the Devil's breath. Thinking that the compressor had frozen over due to some freak combination of high humidity and elfin magic, I switched off the air, hoping to give the contraption a rest.

At the precise moment that I turned the knob, a small explosion from under the hood jostled the tranquility of the road and made my hair stand on end. Before The Fear could overtake my entire body, however, we heard the terrible clatter of metal bouncing beneath the undercarriage, and Caroline watched out of the corner of her eye as some dark object went skittering off the road and onto the shoulder behind us.

I zipped across the slow lane and onto the shoulder. We inspected the vehicle and could find no real damage, other than an air conditioner that wouldn't work. I looked around hopelessly, trying to find the air conditioner to assess the damage, but I couldn't find it in the jumble of wires and parts beneath the cramped hood of the vehicle. We decided to press on, hoping to reach the Honda dealership in Pocatello before noon.

The verdant valleys of Idaho soon took our minds off the impending doom of total engine failure. The land seemed fertile and countless acres of happy farmland spread out in every direction.

"What do you suppose they grow here?" I asked.

"Beats me," said Caroline.

After a four-hour and costly delay in Pocatello—where we learned that our air conditioning unit had experienced a catastrophic failure and exploded into pieces, requiring replacement—we finally snapped as to what was in those farmlands.

Just off the interstate north of Pocatello, the tiny town of Blackfoot, Idaho, pays homage to Idaho's claim to fame and number one cash crop: the humble potato.

Here in this dwindling, forgotten little town, the Idaho Potato Museum provides travelers with all the ins and outs of the potato industry for a $3 admission fee, which also gives you access to the drinking fountain and restrooms and, as you leave, a free box of freeze-dried hash browns, or as they call it, "taters for out of staters." You don't find deals like that anymore these days, as every business we've encountered so far has put up hastily worded signs announcing various surcharges attributable to the rising cost of fuel.

But it's funny how things work out sometimes. We had puzzled for hundreds of miles over Caroline's uncharacteristic choice of adding Pringle's potato crisps to our road provisions. But here in Blackfoot, Idaho, in the back of the Idaho Potato Museum, we found on display the Mother of All Potato Crisps—a three foot diameter chip preserved under plexiglass. According to museum literature, the Pringle is reportedly the largest member of its kind in the world! We silently thanked Jesus for our good fortune, just as a godless pair of vacationing college students irreverently mocked the potato and all the good that had been wrought from it.

On our way out of Blackfoot, we witnessed one last tribute to the tasty potato. In front of Martha's Diner at the edge of town, a giant statue of Martha holding a big plate of French Fries like some glorious deep-fried bastardization of the Statue of Liberty stood tall and proud—a beacon of freedom and a fitting tribute to the glorious legacy of the Idaho potato. I had to pull over for a moment to let the tears dry in my eyes after witnessing the awesome beauty of monstrous Martha.

The road is full of discoveries and I can't wait to see what's cooking around the next corner.

See you on down the road!