4000 miles. I don’t know why.

Spokane, Washington. Continental breakfast.

Hotel clerk, restocking coffee cups, clipped accent: “Good morning sir, are you finding everything alright?”
Me, munching on a bagel: “Yep, thanks. Can you tell me how long it takes to get to Seattle from here?”
Clerk: “Well, sir, that depends on how fast you’re driving.”
Me, chuckling: “Oh, Ima goan’ be hoofin’ it.”
Clerk: …
Me: …
Clerk: …
Me: “Pretty fast.”
Clerk: “Six hours.”

What can I say? I speak The King’s English.

Side note: I don’t know if that guy was talking Segway travel time or what, but it was only 275 miles. Took me four hours.

I woke early on Thursday morning - six o’clock - after collapsing into bed at nine the night before while the last remnants of the sunset still stole through the window blinds. I would be leaving Cody and heading north to Montana to join I-90 west for 700 miles to Seattle, then turn north again for Vancouver. I had a thousand miles to go and two days to do it.

I pulled out of the dusty gravel hotel parking lot at eight and headed for Wal-Mart, where I bought bread, sliced turkey, salami, and cheese for lunch. I crossed into Montana an hour later. Northern Wyoming had been mostly uninhabited but farms sprouted up across the Montana border; huge irrigation systems watered fields of corn (ack! more corn!) and horses and cows munched on grass in front of sprawling ranch homes set far back from the road.

I was on a two-lane road, speed limit 75. There was almost no traffic but I was the middle car in a convoy of three, racing northward through the plains at about 85 miles per hour.

That’s when it happened.

The brake lights of the white Ranger in front of me flashed once, then again. I punched off my cruise control and sat forward, squinting. A lone female peacock stood confused on the white passenger-side road line up ahead. She heard or saw us coming and skittered off the shoulder into the grass as we bore down upon her. The Ranger passed and gave her a wide berth; I relaxed and rested my foot back on the gas pedal. I could only see the tail of the bird now, walking away from the road into the tall weeds.

This mentally-challenged avian then pulled an about-face that would impress a Marine and took waist-high flight. Across the road.

I knew better than to swerve at that speed so I guided my truck to the right as sharply as I dared. The large bird with outstretched wings filled my vision. Neither of us were quick enough. I hit her flush - I mean DEAD on - on the lower left-hand corner of my windshield. BOOM!, like a shotgun report.

Stop.

Right now you might be half-grimacing and half-chuckling to yourself. But understand, this was a good sized specimen. This was no sparrow-flying-into-a-glass-door scenario, although I’m sure you’re aware that those can be surprisingly powerful in their own right. Picture a 16 ounce sirloin steak you’d order at Outback, extra rare. Now toss 12 or 14 of those into a duffel bag and hammer-throw it into oncoming interstate traffic. I was going about 65.

She ricocheted of the windshield into my driver’s side mirror and I saw glass flash as it flew past me. The carcass - it had to have been dead by then - whirled over my truck, somersaulting like a field goal attempt. There was no blood. After asking myself if that actually just happened and receiving an answer in the affirmative, I pulled to the side of the road to survey the damage.

^ Objects in mirror do not appear.

When she hit, I thought she had taken off the entire outer mirror casing, but only the mirror itself was knocked off. I found it a few yards from impact.

Close by, I saw the bird, flatter than Carrottop’s standup.

^ I can only operate under the assumption that this is a peahen. I didn’t want to touch it to confirm. I don’t know what other bird it could be except an oddly-feathered female turkey. It was much too big to be a pheasant.

^ Rest in pieces you dumb bird. I don’t know how your race isn’t streaking towards world domination with instincts like that.

An old man with a toothless grin sat in his idling truck as I walked back to mine, and I explained what happened as I passed. “Gotta be careful out here, son.” Thanks.

It was about 9:30 in the morning. Hi Montana, nice to meet you too.

After that, the rest of the day seemed uneventful. Montana for 430 miles. I passed the highest peak in the state, Mt. Hannah, Montana. (Sorry…I couldn’t resist.)

It was surprisingly warm when I stopped for lunch at a rest area near the University of Montana. As I continued west, the terrain began to change from what I’d seen in Wyoming. Streams began to appear - wide, flat bands of rippling water with trout fishermen standing on the smooth rock bottoms. The stark silhouettes of the jagged rock mountains against the sky grew softened by trees, and the overall effect slowly changed - less Louis L’Amour and more Jack London. Lakes winked in the distance.

I crossed the 70 miles of Idaho’s panhandle, losing altitude the whole way. The Pacific Northwest began to appear. I crossed into the Pacific timezone and settled down at an EconoLodge in Spokane, Washington. I went to bed early. That was the third 25-hour day out of my last five. Jet lag by a thousand paper cuts.

^ I am still in Montana, right?

I took 142 pictures today, and quit simply because I was tired, not because I’d exhausted all available subject matter.

After a bit of hiking research online, I was on the road for Yellowstone Park at 8:30 this morning. I drove 52 miles to the park’s east entrance through the most interesting terrain yet - with every turn I saw a new mountain, a new lake, a new long-bearded Baby Boomer on a Harley. The road headed up and up.

As I neared the park there were signs warning, “Extreme Fire Danger” and I saw several fire trucks. A helicopter patrolled overhead. A mule deer - a young buck, with velvety antlers - pranced in front of me and I slowed to let him cross. He paid me no heed and disappeared into the rocks and short-needled pines.

Yellowstone Park serves about 2 million visitors a year and charges a $25 entry fee, so by my rough calculations they have an operating budget of approximately 5 trillion dollars. (I may have misplaced a zero.) The roads and trails were well-maintained and the guides were extremely friendly, breaking down the pros and cons of each trail for each visitor for what must have been the umpteenth time. I chose the Canyon River trail, which followed the lip of the Yellowstone River canyon for several miles and turned out to be an unbelievably beautiful hike. There are paved roads crisscrossing most of the park and 50% of families never leave their car. 90% never make it more than a mile from the road, so the crowds (and I do mean crowds) die off almost completely after that distance.

I reached the “summit,” the end of the Canyon River trail, in early afternoon and was alone. I sat on a stump ten feet from the edge of the canyon and dumped the contents of my pack to the ground, pawing for the lunch I’d packed this morning. I frowned at it and cocked my head. “Hey Sam,” I told myself. “Let’s reiterate the fact that you’re in grizzly bear country, where gas stations sell bear spray next to the sunscreen, and there are signs posted everywhere reminding park visitors not to feed Yogi and Boo Boo. Keeping this in mind, Sam, what’s the single worst lunch item you could have packed?” How about a TUNA FISH SANDWICH?

I may as well have rubbed a ribeye on my chest and donned caviar underpants.

I returned the tupperware, unopened, to my pack and gnoshed on peanuts and a granola bar. I still had quite a bit of deeper-woods hiking to do. I consider myself a pretty sumptuous meal for any carnivore already and don’t need to sweeten the deal further.

After returning from the canyon trail I hiked about four miles down to a small peaceful lake surrounded by tall pines. It was pretty in its own right, but I had just come from the very-impressive canyon, which was a tough act to follow. Inevitably, the lake view was a slight letdown, like sucking on a Jolly Rancher after eating chocolate mousse.

After two hours of hiking I slowly drove the 40-odd miles back out until I reached the park’s border. Yellowstone is spectacularly beautiful, grandiose on a magnificent scale. Some attractions, like Niagra Falls, are one-trick ponies. “Come see the water. Look at all that water.” Yellowstone has rivers, lakes, mountains, hot springs, canyons, waterfalls, and wildlife. Everyone should go at least once. I heard French, German, and Russian spoken while I was there - people are coming from across the Atlantic to see this.

The drive back passed uneventfully. George Jones sang “Choices” as I limped into Cody at 4:30, my truck and body running on empty. Rough day.

^ Apparently Wyoming is a big dinosaur area, a fact they’ve chosen to highlight with this tasteful plywood replica. Fun fact: gangs of Triceratops still roam the Wyoming countryside, mating with local grizzly bears to produce unicorns. At least, I think that’s how it works.

^ On the road to the park

^ Hot Springs. We’re inside the park now.

^ Buffalo Xing. This picture underscores how close they were.

^ You’d better believe I was about an ear flick away from simultaneously soiling myself and diving back into my vehicle.

^ Arm’s length. I’ve filed this under “I” for “Idea, Bad.”

^ A coyote stops traffic.

^ The crick. Click on the picture; the high-resolution version is worth it.

^ The falls

^ The canyon

^ If Yellowstone were an eBay seller I would comment “A++ AWSOME WOULD BUY AGAIN!”

^ NO HORSEPLAY

“Shit.” — Lewis and Clark

^ The reds and yellows of the canyon walls were much more vivid in person. If these colors were in a video game, they would call the graphic designer and say, “Hey Walter, you need to tone down these colors. It looks like a Rembrandt painting instead of real life.” In this scenario, Walter is the graphic designer. Hope that was clear.

^ More buffalo

^ Looks like a short trip from this situation to buffalo stew, courtesy of the hot springs. Anyone a cow tipper?

^ Wildfires

^ The road back to Cody

I awoke at 7 o’clock Tuesday morning when the large family of baboons inhabiting the room next to mine began to stir. A passing train on the nearby tracks cemented the deal. I rolled out of bed to check my email and discover that my server went down and took 3 or 4 sites with it, including this one. A frantic hour later I was able to relax and begin looking at rooms only to find that this is Yellowstone’s busy season and vacancies are unheard of in the only nearby city, West Yellowstone (motto: “We’re west of Yellowstone”). Since I do have a tent and sleeping bag, I very briefly flirted with camping in one of the park’s numerous campgrounds, but quickly nixed that idea when I recalled how I’ve felt at the end of each day’s drive. Cody, Wyoming it is.

It was a gray and chilly 68 degrees when I loaded my truck. I filled my tank and headed north, nursing a large cup of nearly undrinkable gas station coffee. Cheyenne and civilization fell behind me.

Distances expand in the west. 50 miles becomes a hiccup. 300, your goal before lunch. At one point I wondered why every one of the few cars in front of me was exiting and then saw the sign informing, “Next Rest Area: 128 miles.” I don’t care if you gotta go or not, you’d better shake something out.

^ Don’t you wish traffic was like this everywhere?

There were few farms and fewer towns out there; the soil turned light-brown and flinty and jagged rocks stuck from the earth. I crossed bridge after bridge proclaiming “Elk Horn Creek”, “Little Bear Creek”, “Horse Creek.” They were all dry, their sandy bottoms exposed. My vista was scrub trees and fences.

The land began to contour.

Southern Wyoming is craggy and desolate but it has an odd rugged beauty, like a well-worn leather wallet, or Sarah Jessica Parker.

Further north it turns mountainous and into what you think of as typically “Wyoming” topography. The final 200 miles passed on two-lane roads through one-horse towns. “Welcome to Hiland. Pop 10.” I was headed north and distant mountains began to frame my view on the left, to the west. Then I drove into them.

A large dust cloud greeted me as I pulled into Cody in mid-afternoon and every local car was covered with a thin gray veil of the stuff. But there is a Super Wal-Mart, so that’s a plus.

Disclaimer: I tried hard to replicate the scale that I was seeing with my camera. However, the resulting pictures seem impotent at best and insulting at worst. Also, I’m not an expert but I don’t think that the recommended shooting position is stick-your-camera-out-the-window-and-hit-the-shutter-button-three-or-four-times-while-keeping-your-eyes-trained-on-the-horse-trailer-barreling-towards-you.

^ Agoraphobics need not apply

^ I’m not sure if this was Heath Ledger or Jake Gyllenhaal. Actually, I guess it wasn’t Heath.

(Too soon?)

^ I guess people live here. I don’t know why.

^ You see that Low Fuel light blinking here and you are screwed, my friend.

I honestly don’t know what combination of words and phrases to cobble together to convey exactly how much corn I just saw.

Day 1
It was forecast to be 101^o in upstate South Carolina on August 2nd, the day I began my trip. One final check of my email showed a new message from a real estate agent in Vancouver ending with “mild showers and ~ 14 degrees here…” After a nanosecond of seriously reconsidering my initial destination, I realized Canadians use Celsius.

I pulled up Google Maps to recheck the total distance of my trip. Vancouver was still about an oil change away.

The 390 miles from Six Mile, SC to Mt Sterling, KY passed without incident among light traffic. I did pass two clench-jawed men standing on the right shoulder of I-75, pinned to their cell phones, flanking a late model black BMW whose windshield was intact but so shattered as to be opaque. A long black object resembling a pool cue was embedded ramrod-straight through the center of the glass. I couldn’t see much else in the few seconds as I passed, but I really wish I had some more details to that story.

I arrived at my grandparents’ house at 6 pm after 6:40 on the road, covering a relatively mild 390 miles along the way. In my subsequent conversation with my aunt and uncle I was accused of being homeless, which I guess is the most accurate way of describing someone whose keychain looks like this:

Day 2
My grandparents saw me off on Sunday morning with a hug and a thick turkey sandwich. I rejoined I-64 west and passed horse farms and distilleries all the way to Louisville, then tried to eyeball my dog-eared map while steering with my knees. Failing that, I pulled into an abandoned gas station and saw my two options to Omaha: 600 miles on I-64 west to Kansas City then turning north, or, north to Indy and and heading west from there. The latter was about 25 miles longer but I thought might be a more interesting drive than through central Missouri.

I was in the left of three lanes when decision-making time came. A quick glance to my right saw a brown Plymouth Voyager in my blind spot, and the sign ahead said only the two right lanes went to Kansas City. I would have to either squirt in front of the minivan or hit the brakes and swerve in behind him, but I liked where my cruise control was set. And that’s how I found myself on I-65 heading north to Indianapolis.

Southern Indiana is corn. Illinois is corn and soybeans. Iowa is corn and soybeans. The stalks were tall and lush, and the grass noticeably green, a far cry from the near-emergency level drought I left behind.

A note here: Indiana really needs to come up with their own names for their cities. I passed an Austin, a Memphis, a Columbus, an Edinburgh, and a Lebanon. It was quite the jarring experience for me to be zoned out in the left lane, ostensibly headed north through Indiana, then be confronted with a sign informing me that Memphis is 6 miles ahead.

And just adding “polis” to your state’s name is a cop-out, as well.

I drove past Iowa 80, the “World’s Largest Truck Stop”, and through Madison County. I didn’t see any bridges.

Around 7 o’clock that night, and after a few disappointing “No Vacancies,” I found an Americinn in Iowa City, Iowa to spend the night. I had driven 608 miles in about 10 hours.

Day 3
I didn’t want to repeat Saturday’s experience of scrambling for a hotel room in some random interstate city, so Sunday morning I perused my Rand McNally to find a good city to aim for at the end of the day. I didn’t see any towns larger than pinheads around my estimated 600 mile range, so I settled for making an online reservation at a Motel 6 in Cheyenne, WY, 742 miles away. I noticed that Google has gotten much more optimistic with their “Time of trip” estimation; they used to be based on inordinately slow speeds. I had been averaging 60 miles per hour (including stops) my whole trip, and Google’s estimation of 10:31 (70.7 mph) to Cheyenne seemed unreasonably quick. Don’t try this with kids.

On the other hand, the directions were simple: get on I-80W. Drive. (My previous planned route through South Dakota turned out to be needlessly long.)

Through Des Moines, Omaha, and Lincoln. Through acres after acres after miles of corn fields. If you want to replicate my Sunday and Monday, put this as your desktop wallpaper and set it to “Tile.”

Then stare at it for 20 hours.

If you really want to be authentic, add a static-y country station and a seatbelt.

There was a lot of construction in eastern Nebraska so I just drooled at the posted 75 mph speed limits while doing 55 on one lane behind a FedEx truck for 50 miles. After a fuel stop and 15 minutes for a noon sandwich at a rest stop, I was falling well behind my required 70 mph pace. Then came western Nebraska. Mile after mile after mile of corn turned into mile after mile of…nothing. Some scrub trees and scattered lakes. A few beefy black Angus cattle feeding on a hill. Signs of civilization fell away, the construction stopped, the traffic died down, and the road turned arrow-straight toward Cheyenne.

In other, completely unrelated news, the top speed of a 1997 F-150 is about 98 mph on a slight downslope. Disappointing.

Author Augusten Burroughs wrote, of reading Hemingway, “I’ve tried several times to get through The Old Man and the Sea, but my eyelids kept bleeding from the toothpicks I used to keep them open.”

And that’s how I feel about Nebraska.

My schedule didn’t permit me to stop and take a lot of pictures but this was happily remedied by my later discovery that my camera could focus at 80 miles per hour.

^ One of the few non-corn farms, it seems. They’re cows, if you can’t tell.

^ My weekend

^ As western Nebraska turned into Wyoming, the rolling hills became more jagged and pine trees began to appear.

I pulled into Cheyenne just over 10 hours after departing this morning. The city sits about 50 miles west of the Wyoming/Nebraska border. Barren prairie follows the interstate up to the city’s edge; even a few miles from the city limits there are few houses dotting the landscape.

It was about 70^o when I checked into my motel and the air here is slightly dusty and very dry. Think Denver or Salt Lake at a lower elevation. As I typed the previous sentence, I discovered that the train tracks 20 yards from my room are, in fact, still in use.

Tomorrow’s plans are a “short” 430 mile jaunt to Yellowstone Park, where I will spend the night and commit to discovering the park on foot on Wednesday.

My name is Sam Sanders. I’m a free-lance web developer. This fall I’m driving from South Carolina to Vancouver to San Diego.