The idea of this trip has a way of polarizing people. Either they want to come along or they beg us not to do it. The plans begin months in advance. I work and re-work the route, making reservations along the way at State and National Park campgrounds. I convince my mom and sister to come along and tailor the route to include a long stop-over in Colorado to visit my mom’s brother. On July 30th, 2009 we started out, my mom and sister, the five children, and me, in the Yukon with our home for the next four weeks streaming along behind us. I drove about 10 hours per day and gradually grew accustomed to the sway of the trailer and the power of the air on its surface area. I loved dearly the gorgeous flat states, their beauty attributed by ease of driving for this beginner. My eyes set on an exit ramp in Erie, Colorado, the home of my aunt and uncle.


My Uncle Michael is married to a force of nature. Aunt Jane was an army nurse when they met in San Francisco in the 70’s. The story (my version) is that they first met while he was a street musician when she asked him to teach her to play guitar. They bounced in and out of my memories; a sweet small wedding on Great Grandma and Grandpa’s hay field, their small home in Idaho where they welcomed first one then two delicious children adopted from India, numerous trips across the country, a funny story of Jane giving Michael a haircut while he drove cross-country. They moved from Idaho, to Maine and then to Colorado. Jane’s medical nomenclature has climbed over the years from Nurse to Nurse Practitioner to Doctor. Michael is ambitious too but he doesn’t know it. He has seen every corner of this country and has dreamed up and written books well worth reading, he has written songs and not been satisfied with the beaten path. He is comfortable with very little but enjoys good things and gives freely. I enjoy the humor and gentle rapport he shares with their children, Sarah, and Robie . Robie lives with them and works as a diesel mechanic. Sarah is in Maine with her 3 year old daughter Emily. We also met their long-time friend and house keeper, Jo who looks after everyone and didn’t startle at the sight of our great numbers descending upon her clean house.

Michael is an excellent tour guide. He took us to Boulder which is like a hippie version of Boston Commons, only with the Rockies hugging the outskirts. We ate shaved ice and enjoyed the creativity of the handheld cardboard signs: “Parents killed by roving Ninja clan, will give kung fu lessons in exchange for $$$” or “spaceship crashed, need spare change for plutonium”. We followed Uncle Michael’s lead and filled the buckets and cases of the many street musicians instead. The next day we wound our way up into the Rockies. Estes Park is filled with dry beauty. The grasses, flowers, and rocks are coarse and solemn and the trees even shuddered at the thought of winter. The plow guides are made of saplings some twenty feet high. We labored up to the top of life, to the Alpine Tundra, above the glaciers. Elijah was a fixture on my shoulder, hot with fever. Elizabeth took dozens of photos, and Nathaniel was certain he could climb every peak he set eyes upon.

In Denver, a short drive away, I re-connect with my friend Botheina. We lived together when we were both so much younger than we thought we were. It is a unique experience for friends to remember one another’s beauty and to jump right back into a shared existence; filled with our “now” which tends to be so different than we would have predicted.

The next night my mom and I drove late to the Denver airport to fetch Mark. We wondered at the high security at this airport, much higher than JFK, for some reason. Mark’s fresh face was a pleasure to see and well earned after being chased away again and again by the security guards at the arrival curb. Now the journey REALLY begins.

We left a bit later than we expected as someone who shall not be named, may have left the only set of keys to the airstream on the rear bumper of the vehicle after disconnecting but before driving into the mountains. Mark very patiently purchased the appropriate blade to cut the steel padlock off the hitch and drilled out the remaining locks to the water tank, door and other compartments. We finally departed 4 hours later, full to the hilt with all of us and Mom and my sister Karen.
We wound into the mountains toward Vail and Mark’s concern increased. He had not witnessed the Yukon bogged down, ever. It’s engine had always been much more than enough, for Connecticut. We weren’t in Connecticut anymore. We crept up huge mountain passes over 10,000 feet in elevation. The highest point I could locate on the map of the Northeast was nearly 4000 feet smaller at it’s peek than these roads. Every corner turned brought a new spectacular line of sight and depth of scenery. We descended into Glenwood canyon and at a rest stop, skipped down the steps to the water’s edge. We stood in perfect water and watched the rafters and men in kayaks put into the Colorado River.

The mountains kept coming and finally unwound at once like a smoothed sheet into the dessert of Utah. We drained every water container we had, searching each sign for the road to Arches National Park.
Pulling into a park like Arches is like entering God’s own cathedral. The hushed tones and self aware, crushing weight of supernatural handiwork deserves so much more honor than we can give it. It’s a taste of what God can do and He set it in a quiet, remote place, like all of the best hiding places, and waited for layer after layer of souls to discover it. Our pleasure and awe is His praise. Imagine, that satisfies Him. We watched the sun set through Balanced Rock and ate dinner sitting on the side walk.
It was dark as we drove back down to Dead Horse Point State Park. Southern Utah is no place to drive in the dark; it’s like diving on the Great Barrier Reef with a bag over your head. We pulled into the camp ground in pitch dark and did our best to find our reserved spot. Of the two open spots we had not chosen wisely and at midnight a German voice woke us through the window and declared that we occupied their space. We negotiated an agreeable solution which did not involve the uprooting of our sardine can filled with 9 sleeping people. Afterward I sat in the moonlight quietly bewildered by anyone willing to bang on the door of a darkened camper filled with sleeping strangers.

The morning was a revelation worth sharing, even with cranky sleep thieves. The natural sight was perfect. Red clay, rock, juniper bushes and low brush shared the ground with knarled wood. Elijah was so peaceful sitting in the dirt with a plastic spoon and cup, digging. The older kids explored every rock and bush, quickly organizing their own “Roxaboxen” but soon learned that the fire ants were the real owners. The visitor’s center was typical but casually suggested we might be interested in the SPECTACTULAR canyon to the rear. We know it wasn’t the Grand Canyon but it thrilled us as though it were. Driving back to the highway, the road was flanked with the red rock giants we missed in the dark.

Making our way north through the coffee-sparse world of Mormon Utah was interesting. Mom explained many things about the religion as we passed billboards with smiling Elders and church spires. All I can say is that doctrinal disparities aside, I am always suspicious of people who don’t drink coffee.

We took their word for it. The map and instructions directed us down a gravel road that did it’s best to convince us to turn back. 20 miles into Southern Idaho a landscape unfolded before us that was worth our perseverance. Out of the gravel and scrub giant slabs and mounds of granite stood. The campsites lay in between the surreal formations. We explored the mound by our site that night and then hunkered down for the coldest night we yet had spent. Early the next morning I leaned down to the boy whose love for climbing had brought us there in the first place. “Hey buddy, wake up. Go climb a rock!” His eyes opened wider than on Christmas morning, he sprung out of bed, grabbed his shoes and helmet and stepped into his heaven.
Some had come with their belaying equipment and ropes but we bouldered all morning. Nathaniel took the hard way as oft as he could. The largest formation stood opposite our site. From the front it stood high and strong, with sharp edges daring us to even think about it. But like many giants, it had a tender side. The rear section sloped gently enough to challenge Elijah and Naomi but only enough to make it an achievable assent with the guidance of my hands. One of the high points even had a crater about six feet wide perfect for corralling the littlest climbers while they enjoyed the view. I have always loved climbing and was thrilled to explore with the kids, though as a mom, I was a little nervous.
We could have spent days at The City of Rocks but not without rope, lots of rope, and some solid know-how. An even longer gravel road lead us out but not without some “and don’t come back neither!”. Rocks dented the front of the camper, broke a window and did damage that wouldn’t reveal itself for over a thousand miles.
Past Boise, Idaho is beautiful. Even the most beaten paths of Idaho are rugged and remote by Eastern standards. The main highway to the North runs along side rapid rivers and exists in the crease between hills generous enough to accommodate cattle and forest and a few peaceful homesteads. As we get closer to my hometown my memories fall into their places on the map. Family and Church camps, the small town where my Great, Great Grandpa is buried, the section of road where we waited out a blizzard on the way home from skiing in McCall.

Pulling into my hometowns, Lewiston, Idaho and Clarkston, Washington makes me feel more a stranger than New York City. It’s not that I know New York like a native; it’s that I am not expected to. These towns should be more familiar, but I don’t know them any more. Large, new roads have connected parts of town that never knew each other and the businesses have all changed so much that it would take more time than I have to become re-acquainted. It’s the people there that I am after. We deposit Mom and Karen unharmed after weeks of kidnap. My mom’s husband, Dale is happy for the company and he is notified by us all that we are expecting a banjo concert.


My Grandmother is a remarkable creature. She is ageless and beautiful. Her fresh, orderly gardens, clean swept patio and neatly edged grass are a marvel to me in my crazy stage of life. The kids are inspired by the gorgeous harvest she’s left to them. Elizabeth pulls heavy tomatoes out of hidden places, and Abby hunts an easy prey of strawberries from the laden plants. Naomi and Elijah are guided to choose the ripe cucumbers, larger than the “cute” ones they prefer. Nathaniel is the selector of the green beans. We combine the bounty for an amazing dinner with the chicken my Aunt Claire sautés. Aunt Claire and Grandmother have lived together over the recent months and I love the happy compatibility that serves them both.
Claire composed a slide show of Grandpa’s photographs in memoriam, after his death two years ago. Our last visit consisted of the two youngest and me shortly after Grandpa received the diagnoses of lung cancer. He was early on in the battle but even then he didn’t have the strength of body and swagger that before had aged well with him. A year later, after deep physical suffering and emotional battery for both my Grandmother and Grandfather, he passed away. To hear the respect in the voices of his children when they describe his last year it is clear to me that all of his faithful, and honorable parts married his strength and wove together to finish with a new depth of character. I love each picture in the collected photos. She really found the crest of every wave, his humor, his strength, his willingness to work hard to provide for his family, his great affection for his bride. These things are the main course of life.

The rest of the week was spent teasing ourselves with people we love who live 3000 miles away from where we call home. A heavenly evening was spent inspecting the older faces and larger families of high school friends. They were the same, only seasoned with the goodness and struggles of life, tenderized. My twenty year class reunion was a pleasure and an oddity. We all acted like we knew each other but maybe that is because we know ourselves, finally. On our fourth day in town people from all corners of the family tree converged on my mom’s small house. My brother came with his 3 teenaged kids from Oregon. They are beautiful and eager to get re-acquainted with their cousins. Dale finally consented to a concert for us, him with his banjo, and his nephew Robbie on the guitar. Elijah was transfixed as he heard the music and the yodeling, yes Dale is a Banjoleder. Few of his species still thrive.
Like lightening, the week passed and we headed up out of the Lewis-Clark Valley. We followed Grandma and Karen for the 4 hour drive north to Ione, Washington. I wanted to put some feet on my memories of great Grandma and Great Grandpa’s home there. My memories are of tastes of sweet water and fresh carrots and cinnamon rolls and of the smells of wood smoke and the cool, earthen scent of the root cellar. I think the only things that were visually the same were the creek and the barn’s exterior. Everything was closer together and with the tall grass, smaller. Grandma took us up a path I was unfamiliar with and showed us the property line and told us how Great Grandpa during the Depression, traded a radio to acquire this property, then several acres larger. The house, since torn down, had been a small one bedroom cabin; the bathroom had only been added after Grandma graduated from high school in 1950. Great Grandpa had built the barn himself, solid and in better shape now than most working barns I had seen on the way. In an old trunk of books in the barn we found an Amateur Builder’s Handbook, used by this man with a third grade education to build a structure to stand the test of time. Grandma filled our basket with apples from the trees and we turned east for the first time.
If Arches is God’s cathedral, Glacier National Park contains the folds of his robe. Deep and thick velvet topped with the contrasting sharpness of high altitude above and the silver streaks and tumbles of waterfalls and rivers below and within. Going to the Sun Road is a golden braid running through it and it is a wonder. We hiked to waterfalls and hidden turquoise lakes. We tried to fish but were out smarted. Even the fish could tell we were not worthy, they were not about to give it up for a bunch of hacks from Connecticut.



The land east of the Rockies is like a huge platter of turkey, perfectly golden and garnished in the cracks and edges with just enough green for contrast. The real sight is the sky. The clouds are upside down mountain ranges. The first mound is a sight to see but with time the eye perceives range after peek of depth for miles, unobstructed. We drove through the weather and left it behind us, like a drive-through car wash. We passed an elk farm with two fields bordering the road. One was filled by female elk, stretching and sauntering about. Adjacent, separated by barbed wire was a field with fifty full sets of antlers, evenly spaced, the only part of their owners visible through the tall grass. Not an everyday sight.

We followed the Lewis-Clark Trail through Montana, and North Dakota and turned North East into Minnesota and Wisconsin. In Wisconsin we pulled into our campsite late at night. The trees were heavy and wet with our first rainy night. Coming into the deciduous forests brought the disappointment of a nearly ended adventure. There was one last gift, but not before a minor disaster.

We entered the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and rode agape at the sight of the great sea that is mistakenly called Lake Superior. I am not sure how Abby wasn’t looking outward at the sight, and what exactly drew her attention to the rear of the vehicle, but her shrieking yanked us out of scenic splendor. Later she confessed it is her habit to routinely check to see if the trailer is still there. I turned to see pink snow billowing out from the bottom of the trailer. We turned off into a road-side park accompanied by the sounds of great suffering. It seems that after our debacle of smashed window and rumble on the long gravel road in Idaho the undercarriage of the camper had been damaged.

It waited for a lovely spot to let go altogether and 15 feet of sheet metal dragged under the camper setting loose all of the pink insulation. The wind blew hard off Lake Superior, making it difficult to walk, let alone gather freed insulation and cut the metal free without letting it catch wind and sail like a giant razor blade. While Mark wrangled the trailer the kids and I trudged through the wind like it was deep snow to the beach. The first sight was reward enough for every bump in the road. We watched a bald eagle, not twenty feet away take flight and effortlessly ride the current. High whitecap waves crashed like we were at the Jersey Shore and the sand was littered with giant, gnarled, tree branches gone driftwood. The kids were in awe and ran and spun bright-faced at the sight of it all.

I knew that we were in an unpopulated area but the man didn’t warn us we were about to fall off the face of the earth. We left the gas station and headed east and there the pavement ended and the mud slog began. We bumped and slid along the washboard road that led us to Muscalongee State Park (“muscalonj”…say it like the French trapper you once were, a mustache helps.). Once in the campground it was very clear from which direction everyone had traveled. Those from the south and west came shiny and fresh to camp on the lovely shore. Those of us from the East drove in looking like a jungle unit sprayed head to toe, stern to bow with Michigan mud smoothie. Our poor camper with no pants on had mud in unspeakable places.
The next morning we pretended not to be associated with the owners of the disreputable Airstream and Yukon, though it was so chamophlaged hardly anyone knew we where there. We made friends with the campground hosts, a retired couple with a table full of agates and geodes and quartz. They instructed us in what to look for on the beach and we went to search for Superior’s treasures. We returned with sandstone, jasper, quarts, pumice, fossilized corral, all kinds of composite rock. We labeled and loaded some 50 pounds of rock into the camper and started south to rejoin civilization.


When we enter Route 80 we begin driving the only stretch of road taken both east and west on this trip. I am so glad we chose to drive so few interstate highways. This country has been shaken down into corridors. These heavily traveled corridors are filled with trucks and cars going simply from point “a” to point “b”. Consuming the country with nose pinched, eyes closed, gulping down the nasty bite, trying to avoid the taste buds all together. I am pleased by this because the poor things dare not veer off the beaten path and have left the country clear for those who love the taste of it. We did our bit of “gulping” in the beginning, taking the interstate road across to Denver. I drove the whole way and quite frankly, without Mark, just wanted to arrive in one piece. It was later that we found a small road through the remote parts, hugging the Canadian border that we enjoyed for thousands of miles.


The trip has come to an end and we feel the unavoidable pull back into the world stuffed full of duty, and management and obligation. We aren’t sure we want to return. We have breathed and climbed and slogged and wondered and been set free by the voyage. It is good to see something larger than your own point of view, seeing people who live on the edge of the world who wouldn’t have it any other way. It brightens my outlook to see the vast array of things. It also pleases me to witness the wide eyes and inspiration of my husband and children. They are filled with respirations and adrenaline breathed closer to ozone than magma. They have been adored by my family and friends. They have fingered the dusty remnants of not only my childhood but those of my mother and her mother and her mother. We only just need to come home, clean up, fuel up and we’d be ready to go again.