SUN VALLEY, Idaho—The feel of the road changed from blue collar to blue nosed as we made our way closer to Sun Valley, the nation's first destination ski resort. This land is not populated by potato farmers or nuclear scientists and technicians, but by movie stars and jet setters and America's richest one percent.
Raw real estate costs a half million dollars an acre, while fishing cabins can be had for a cool $1 million. Modest homes range $2.5 million, and luxury lots on multiple acres with river access capture $10 million. Unlike the rest of the nation, the real estate market seemed unaffected by the current housing bust. This is a place where shop items have no price tags; if you have to ask how much it costs, you probably can't afford it.
Understandably, the price of gas rose proportionately the closer we got to Sun Valley. To the affluent visitors here, petrol is simply another necessity, like milk or bread. And like everything else here, the Sun Valley Sinclair station did not advertise its prices from the road.
Like most people in town, we were here for leisure. But instead of spending our days in the $250-a-night comfort of the Sun Valley Lodge, we holed up in more modest accommodations down the road in Ketchum. From our base camp we had access to the excellent mountain biking trails that are as ubiquitous in Sun Valley as American Express gold cards.
We enjoyed two good days of riding on swooping singletrack. The terrible illness that had kept me bed ridden for nearly two weeks had taken its toll, and I found myself anemic and weak, foundering on every climb. Of course, Caroline skipped lightly up the trails like a two-wheeled pixie, cheerfully goading me ahead.
I kept reminding myself with each painful revolution of the cranks that I would be rewarded with some sweet fast downhill later on. On this day everything I needed to know I really had learned in kindergarten: "I think I can, I think I can" was my mental mantra.
These climbs would have been trivial undertakings for me under normal circumstances. But now, with the toxins of a million malevolent microorganisms coursing through my veins, my heart rate had reached the red line and my legs were quivering like a puppy in the throes of distemper. A black haze circled my vision as I reached the summit and for a moment I felt like I had fallen from the saddle.
Seconds later we found ourselves zipping through an ocean of flowers on sticky singletrack that had been tuned up by afternoon rains the previous day. I had died and my toil had been rewarded by the Gods, and now I was maneuvering through the Elysian Fields on pure quicksilver.
Back at the trailhead I realized that my journey was not as heroic as it had seemed. The dust on my shins and sweat on my brow confirmed that I was a mere mortal. There are worse things than that, I realized, and I drank in one last view of where we had been. I can't wait to see where we'll go.
We enjoyed a swell shake with a shot of espresso at Tully's coffee house in the heart of Sun Valley. I felt as rich as the others in the street, larger than life, so I indulged myself by sitting in the biggest chair I could find—a gigantic wooden affair festooned with red cowboy boots. I rode that bull like a Western pro despite the wrinkled noses and askance looks I received from the well-bred passersby.
See you on down the road.
CRATERS OF THE MOON, Idaho—Imagine heading out in a Conestoga wagon along the Oregon Trail, moving painfully across the wilds of Idaho, and suddenly encountering an impassable stretch of jagged blackened rock stretching out across the prairie as far as the eye could see.
If you were a God-fearing soul, you'd probably say your prayers and tuck tail and backtrack to greener pastures. But here in Godless America, we've turned the area into a national monument.
Craters of the Moon National Monument and Preserve is an unexpected treat bridging Idaho's formidable Nuclear Corridor with the wild lands to the north. If you've never visited, it's certainly worth a short detour from your travels. A seven-mile loop road through the monument puts you up close and personal with what must have been an impressive volcanic display dating back to just before the birth of Christ.
At Craters of the Moon you'll experience a little glimpse into Hell. Most people who visited were hesitant to leave their vehicles to romp among the grotesque spatter cones and shards of ancient lava and volcanic ash. But not us!
And on this 90-degree day, while the sun was high and bright, we chose to hike several trails in the monument, including an arduous trek straight up the top of two huge mounds of cinders, gaining hundreds of feet of elevation and providing us with a front row seat to a spectacular 360-degree view of the expansive valleys beyond the edge of the flow.
Our trek up the cinder cone was not without its price, however. The heat that bores into a human skull while trudging up a coal black mountain of sharp cinders wearing only sandals and no sunscreen can drive a man to madness.
Halfway up the hill I watched rivulets of sweat pouring off my body like the summer rains off a shiny tin roof. I stuck my tongue out in vain, trying desperately to catch a few precious drops of moisture. An extra sharp cinder lodged under the ball of my foot and I crumpled to the ground in agony.
"Leave me here and go get help!" I shouted at Caroline. I don't know why, but shouting seemed appropriate under such duress. "I'll stay here! I can drink my own urine if necessary!"
I watched Caroline continue to trudge her way toward the vast black summit above, so I stood up and brushed myself off and followed her.
But of course, once at the top, with the heat boring down into her brain and the blast furnace heat reflecting off of the hellish black earth, even strong Caroline cracked like an egg. In her madness she dove from a rock and started swimming across the broiling surface like a crippled salamander.
Hah-hah! We were both doomed!
Somehow we survived and returned to the (recently repaired) air-conditioned comfort of our vehicle. We drank deeply from the jugs of strange-tasting water we had acquired back in potato country.
A while later, after the water had seeped back into our cells and restored our sanity, we trudged through another area of the park. There we marveled at the tenacity of life. Patches of wildflowers had sprung up among the blackness, and at one point, in the shadow of a hillside, we watched a giant mouse-looking creature dart from rock to rock, foraging for tender plant chutes. It was the first time either of us had seen a pika—a strange creature known for its high-pitched squeak and ability to forage on its own feces for nutrition.
Yep. Hell comes in all kinds of manifestations and we're enjoying them all.
See you on down the road!
ATOMIC CITY, Idaho—Our illusion that Idaho was nothing more than an inviting pastoral womb responsible for a never-ending supply of huge, tasty potatoes was shattered some 20 miles northwest of Blackfoot, home of the Idaho Potato Museum.
Out on this god-forsaken stretch of Highway 26, a high-desert climate and formidable stretches of ancient lava flows have turned the landscape into a portrait of hardscrabble despair. Sage brush and wisps of struggling native grasses poke out of the jagged landscape, which, understandably, is largely devoid of human population. In some areas the remnants of former civilization sit windblown and abandoned. Weathered shotgun shacks and crumbling stone hovels stand as trophies marking a victory for a landscape that has handily defeated the encroachment of humanity. For the most part.
During the industrious zeal of post-World-War-II America, when the nation was at the height of the Atomic Age, bureaucrats and scientists found the area suitable for a noble purpose: harnessing the atom. In this geologically unstable area, the United States Government established what is now the Idaho National Laboratory, one of several national laboratories operated for the U.S. Department of Energy.
Some 50 nuclear reactors have been built on the barren plains west of Idaho Falls during the last 50 years as scientists raced to prove that the awesome power of the Atom was good for something besides bombs. As part of the bargain, INL also became a dumping ground for spent nuclear reactor cores. But since the laboratory has been responsible for the relative prosperity in some areas, most folks around here don't say much about what goes on behind the security fences of INL.
Not every place profited from the atom, however. Some communities fell by the wayside as the veneer of World-War-II victory gave way to a general suspicion of all things atomic.
Witness tiny Atomic City, Idaho. Once a bustling little burg halfway between INL and Blackfoot, the town is mostly shuttered now. A couple of occupied houses and a row of squatters in mobile homes stand among the ruins of what was once a home to many residents. The community's only functioning business is the Atomic City Bar, located in the hollowed out ruins of an old Texaco station.
According to the barkeep, the establishment does a pretty brisk business as INL workers stop in to snag what she said is the coldest beer in the region. And in the oppressive heat of southwest Idaho, a cold beer is definitely worth a short jaunt off the main road. Interestingly enough, the barkeep did not know the origin of the community's name. Why it became "Atomic City" was a mystery to her.
The rest of Atomic City has been converted into a car racing track, and here on a late weekend afternoon, there was nary a left-over space for trailers hauling in the souped up vehicles that race for cash and bragging rights on the dirt track.
A few miles north, just out of earshot of the buzz of the Atomic City Raceway, the goings on at INL are protected by a row of ominous yellow signs warning that trespassers can be arrested and prosecuted under the Atomic Energy Act.
But not every part of INL is off limits. The world's first power-producing nuclear reactor, known as Experimental Breeder Reactor 1 (EBR-1), is now a national historic site. Though parts of the building are too radioactive for tours, much of the original reactor building is open to the public.
Despite the signs beckoning travelers in for a visit, the government employees in charge of the place do not share the same zest for visitors as the signs might suggest. We found them itching to close up shop and get on the road, perhaps for a cold one at the Atomic City Bar, some 15 minutes before the last tour time. I kept reminding myself that this was the government, not a small-town Chamber of Commerce, so the lack of customer service was not surprising, though it was still disappointing nevertheless.
Oh well, the road heals all wounds, and a short hop away we found our final destination in our ad-hoc Atomic Tour of Idaho.
The town of Arco got its claim to fame on July 15, 1955, when the Boiling Water Reactor 3 at INL delivered atomic power to the community for a few hours on that monumentous summer day. A strange little cafe at the edge of town offers "Atomic Burgers," but strangely enough, the rest of the community doesn't seem to call much attention to the town's auspicious atomic roots.
Instead, more conspicuous than the little sign on a city building announcing Arco's nuclear past, the hillside north of town is peppered with whitewash graffiti commemorating each high school graduating year since the 1930s. Even the older numbers look fresh, and the 2008 label had been lovingly written on craggy stone above town, despite the otherwise abandoned look of the community.
We breathed a sigh of relief as we sped north and away from Idaho's nuclear corridor, not because of a fear of the atom, but because the area seemed tired and worn out. The whiz-bang excitement of the Atomic Age—with its ray guns and robots and giant Hollywood tarantulas—is a bizarre anachronism in an age where people aren't curious about how technology works, but rather that it simply does work.
An appreciation for science left this nation a long time ago, giving way to instant text messages and tiny televisions that show Disney DVDs in the back of family minivans and SUVs. Americans apparently are too busy to learn about what makes us tick.
But that is too heavy to contemplate out here on the road, where long stretches of empty highway and wayward hours between destinations cause us to sing the songs of our past. A fifth chorus of "Brick House," only done in the guise of Porky Pig, causes the laughter to flow like the lava once did across this breathtaking landscape.
See you on down the road.
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!
LOS ALAMOS, NM—There is great woe and gnashing of teeth these days about the rising costs of energy. People are making big changes to their lives. Up to a point.
Some people refuse to give up driving a block away to get groceries or snag a pack of cigarettes. Some people are reluctant to downsize their Megapickups into smaller, more fuel-efficient vehicles. We have refused to deprive ourselves of our annual road trip.
Silly us.
We hit the road the day crude oil—the backbone of the traditional American Road Trip—hit another historic high, topping $140 a barrel and guaranteeing that our budget for our asphalt odyssey would be busted right off the bat.
Though I have always been a fan of President Ulysses S. Grant, it's difficult to keep seeing his stern green-tinted mug every time I fill up. For those of you who have no idea what the hell I'm talking about, think two Jacksons and a Hamilton and a single salty tear running down your face as you withdraw the pump nozzle from the side of your car.
"Thank you, Sir, may I have another!" you squeal as the stark plank of reality blisters your buttocks again and again and again each time you view the familiar red, white and blue Exxon logo through a well of tears.
It's getting expensive to drive, yet the highways still seem choked with vehicles, mostly big ones. America must be filled with calloused asses these days, which is probably why Road Rage is at an all time high.
Unless you take the proper Counter Measures, that is.
After our first fill up, three hundred miles north of tiny Los Alamos, we began formulating a cost-containment plan to help recoup some of the stunning losses we would suffer while on the road this time around.
Just south of Dove Creek, Colo., we found ourselves in the heart of Pinto Bean Country. Here in this pastoral land, where traffic is light and the sun is high and bright, a person can walk right into a warehouse and walk out with a huge sack of beans, which is exactly what we did, further reducing the gas mileage of our vehicle, but ensuring that our next six months of meals would be thrifty and wholesome.
When we return from our travels, we will be as gassy as Saudi Arabia. But, alas, those are tales for another time. Right now we are focusing on getting some distance between us and the Land of Enchantment, so we are spending long hours on the road, listening to the monotonous rumble of rubber on asphalt.
As long as we can find WiFi and scrape together enough resources to bed down for the night in civilized locations, we will update you on our progress. The North holds much promise, and we intend to fully explore what it has to offer. So stay tuned and travel vicariously with us as we travel the highways and biways of a land where dusk doesn't end until 10 p.m. and the hillsides still have snow. That way you can travel without having to fill up!
See you on down the road.
SUN VALLEY, Idaho—The feel of the road changed from blue collar to blue nosed as we made our way closer to Sun Valley, the nation's first destination ski resort. This land is not populated by potato farmers or nuclear scientists and technicians, but by movie stars and jet setters and America's richest one percent.
Like most people in town, we were here for leisure. But instead of spending our days in the $250-a-night comfort of the Sun Valley Lodge, we holed up in more modest accommodations down the road in Ketchum. From our base camp we had access to the excellent mountain biking trails that are as ubiquitous in Sun Valley as American Express gold cards.
Back at the trailhead I realized that my journey was not as heroic as it had seemed. The dust on my shins and sweat on my brow confirmed that I was a mere mortal. There are worse things than that, I realized, and I drank in one last view of where we had been. I can't wait to see where we'll go.
