The Great Summer Road trip

Irony never escapes me. I look for it or often see at random a convergence of patterns in time and space. That helps a lot when writing a grand story captured in novel form. So it is that while I wrote my newest novel, THE WARRIORS BAUMANN, essentially a journey to a destination with much importance, so too did I travel to a destination of importance. I have also returned to tell you the tale.

I had known from late spring that a trip would likely be called sometime in July or August, and so I prepared myself. This effort would be assigned to relocating the daughter to a new city in a far away state for the grand purpose of reuniting with the boyfriend. I had driven the route previously and longed to return, although not quite as far as we found necessary. While she was widely-traveled in summers with Dad and in many years since gaining adulthood, she hadn't driven such a long route.

Therefore, I suggested we each drive our vehicles, each loaded up, and use the "POD" method to send the bulk of her worldly possessions to her new home. Her car would also contain her two dogs. I calculated the route, the gas stops, the hotels along the way only to find she had done so already. I guess I  taught her well. She also was a user of GPS tracking while I had a bevy of paper maps judiciously folded to display the portions I needed to see.

Setting out one morning, with delays for last minute packing and other errands, we finally got on the highway and headed north then west to Colorado. In my previous passage through the Denver to Cheyenne segment in 2019, I was harried at every turn by extensive road construction and no rooms at the inns. This time we passed successfully through the evening rush hour traffic and found our hotel for the night.

The next day was a little shorter: all the way to Sheridan, Wyoming. The stop was a chance to again dine at a Taco John's, but she chose a sushi restaurant, which was adequate yet expensive. Next day, we carried on, north into Montana and west across southern Montana to Bozeman. Originally intended to be only a gas stop with Missoula the hotel stop, she learned that her Air Force pilot boyfriend was stuck on base so there was less need to rush there. So we stopped in Bozeman for what turned out to be 2 nights.

I enjoyed my stay in Bozeman in 2023 and welcomed the opportunity to return. I took her to the Montana State U campus and got a new Bobcat shirt, then to Barnes & Noble at the mall to gather maps, then to Qdoba even though Bozeman also has a Taco John's. The boyfriend still delayed on base, we elected to spend the next day touring Yellowstone National Park, 90 minutes' drive south of Bozeman. At her direction we went to different areas than I visited in 2023. When we returned to Bozeman the air was cool and rained overnight, so no need for A/C.

The next morning we headed out to Missoula and points beyond. In my 2023 travels, I had considered driving further west from Missoula but after a day in Glacier National Park and traversing the valley west of the mountains I was too tired and so turned east a bit to Missoula. So we would both be driving new pavement:  into the mountains, up and down and curving sharply this way and that with big trucks passing in the next lane. It was harrowing, but we survived to enter Idaho, the narrow part of the state, and onward to Coeur-d'Alene, then into Washington state and the Spokane metroplex.

We arrived in late afternoon, with me following her through the city at the rush hour, and immediately upon entering the apartment complex, the boyfriend flagged us down, pointing to parking spaces. Expecting they would appreciate the chance to reunite, I put myself in a nearby hotel, the idea being to rest before the return drive. The following day the couple escorted me around the city, having brunch in a refurbished train car, and sailing in a pod over the rapids that run through the city center. The next day, Sunday, I did some writing in my hotel room, then did my own car tour of the area and got supplies for the return trip. Later, I met them at the apartment for dinner.

As I mentioned at the start, I had just finished the draft of my new novel about two brothers on a journey to the capital in future-medieval Missouri. While I drove I listened to music I'd compiled as a soundtrack. As I listened to the music, I planned the story - even though it already exists in screenplay form and two attempts at novelization (more next blog post). Thus, as I went on an amazing journey, so too did my heroes in the novel. As I drove back to my home, I repeated the music and the novel planning. It was a win and also a win!

I had ideas of taking another route back, seeing new places, but I have this strange fixation: when I reach my destination, no matter how long it takes or what I experience on the way, I seem to want to return home as quickly as possible. I told myself it was better to plan a separate trip to see those other areas I was skipping this time. So I repeated the route exactly but in reverse, skipping Yellowstone. I stopped in Bozeman again and got to meet my book cover artist to discuss THE WARRIORS BAUMANN cover ideas. Then I faced the same hassle going south as in 2019.

Driving from Bozeman to Sheridan, stopping for lunch at the Taco John's, I proceeded on across Wyoming with the expectation of stopping for the night in Cheyenne. When I got to Cheyenne, looking for a good gas stop, I decided I could go on to the same hotel we stayed at on the north side of Denver. But it was rush hour and I couldn't make it over to exit and so I continued on, got caught up in the traffic flow but found the way to I-70 eastbound. I decided I could stop for the night at one of the towns along the way. One problem: road construction. It wasn't so much the barrels and one-lanes but the occupancy of the hotels along the way, full of the workers. As night settled around me - much as it had in my 2019 trip - I drove on, weak and weary, feeling dreary, until I landed in Colby, Kansas and got a room. The next morning I timed my checkout to meet the opening of the Taco John's next door.

The remainder of the drive home was a constant battle between my gas mileage and the fierce plains wind, dropping the rate below what it would be for city stop-and-go driving. But I made it home eventually. I unloaded the car and took a nap, then got up and, having no food, ordered a pizza to be delivered. Later, I booted up my desktop machine and copied over my notes from my traveling laptop, ready to write the following morning. With THE WARRIORS BAUMANN on hiatus pending a fresh read-&-revise project, I started in on the next novel, a future-medieval epic titled A TIME OF KINGS (more in a future blog post): think of a war between Midwest city-states c. 3000. That's my story and I'm sticking with it.

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(C) Copyright 2010-2025 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

Avez-vous des souvenirs?

Got souvenirs?

This topic has been bugging me for some time. As you may know, I went on a road trip at the beginning of the summer with the intention to visit some places I had visited long ago and some places I had yet to visit but had always wanted to see. I never planned to take lots of pictures and create an amazing travelogue, something to equal tourism pamphlets. It was a personal trip. I only started taking pictures to send them home to prove I was where I was at each major stop, such as the Badlands of South Dakota, Devil's Tower in Wyoming, and Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks.

I also did not plan to gather souvenirs. Yet I did. I should've known better, given my recent battle with souvenirs. But what do we mean by 'souvenir'? From French, the word means 'to remember'; hence, a thing that helps you remember a person, place, or event. A memento. Fair enough. But we have photos on our phones (if not in our cameras), and we have memories stuck in our heads. We have music which holds memories, too. So why the need for tactile objects ("objects-de-tactile") to place in our homes and look at occasionally, perhaps pick up and rub in our hands to briefly restore that ephemeral vision of a lost time and place?

It began with my grandparents who traveled around the world from the early days of commercial aviation to well into their retirement. They collected souvenirs from everywhere they visited - long before the shift to limiting how much you could bring onto an airplane. They stuffed souvenirs into every nook and cranny of their home. They gave many souvenirs to my mother (their daughter) and some to me. I was fascinated by all the things from far-away lands. That probably was what got me interested in traveling like them.

My mother tried to follow the family pattern by going on her own trips to places around the world. And she collected souvenirs - some of which I thought worthless. She put them around her home. She bought a curio cabinet just to display some of them. Looking back, I might suggest she was trying to keep up with her parents. The difference was that her parents brought back things which were unique, items you could only get if you went to those far-away places. By the time my mother did her international traveling, those same items could be found in stores in any suburban mall and weren't so unique.

When it was my turn - I actually lived overseas for some years - I tried to be more selective. For example, I brought back boxes of dishes and other typical kitchen items from Japan, intending to replicate a Japanese-style kitchen back home in the US. I bought plenty of other things, too, focusing on what would remind me of this or that adventure in the place. And, once home, how did I display them? With limited space and an apartment rather than a house, I couldn't hang them up or put out everything to remind me of the trips I'd taken. Move after move required me to put them into boxes anyway; gradually, I stopped unpacking those boxes.

And that brings us to the Hurricane that swept through the Texas coast and destroyed my parents' retirement condo just off the beach. I spent a lot of time salvaging the souvenirs from that place. Who cares about clothing on hangers or dishes and cups? What about the sacks of bank records, or every kind of receipt imaginable? No, it was that curio cabinet's wares that I took. Also, my mother's coin collection she thought would be valuable one day (her father had collected rare coins, too, but her brother inherited that). I carefully packed the souvenirs into boxes - only the souvenirs I personally thought were "cool".

The boxes of my parents souvenirs remain unpacked. No room for them. So I'm passing them down to the next generation. I've traveled a bit and will pass along those things, too. But a t-shirt reminds me where I was and I can wear it now. A magnet stuck to the fridge reminds me where I got it. (A magnet given to me has no power; only those I buy for myself while I'm at the place work.) A book, even if unrelated to the location where I bought it, jogs my memory about where I bought it. For example, at the visitor center in the Badlands National Park, I happened to see a book I'd been searching for off and on and bought it finally. I can wear my Montana State University t-shirt and remember that perfectly fine day in early June when I walked the campus, devoid of students, and enjoyed myself.

The point I dare make is that we don't need souvenirs. Sure, they bring a thrill in the moment, and perhaps a few moments later on. But we already have those memories; we can just bring them up to the surface. Maybe seeing a thing can help, maybe it doesn't matter. What does matter is that souvenirs pile up, get boxed up, get passed along, and unless destroyed by a hurricane, tend to last forever - and that's a mighty-long time. Even so, I still bought another t-shirt and mug on my latest trip back to that condo on the beach - sold and repurposed as a rental unit - just to have some closure to the place where my parents last lived.

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(C) Copyright 2010-2023 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

On The Road Again - 8

My Summer Road Trip, part 8

The hardest part of any endeavor is the end. As a writer, deciding when to end a story, much less a novel, is hard. Deciding when you've said enough and any more would detract from the whole is hard. This includes going on a trip. When have you had enough?

As I traveled I devised bigger plans, grandiose ideas, lofty goals. Yet by the time I had checked off the main destinations on my list, I began to feel anxious and eager to return to the comforts of home. I could've gone farther. I had enough money and maps. Gas prices were tolerable. I was wracking up hotel points. But settling into my hotel in Missoula after a long day going through Glacier National Park and the Flathead Lake area, I knew the end had come.

Awaking to a sunny morning with clear skies, I chose to head east rather than west and called it quits. It would still take two or three days to get home, so I chose a slightly different route than what would've been the most efficient. I continued my pattern of revisiting places first seen in my childhood (reported below). I drove on the accursed I-90 gauntlet back to and through Butte, with the same rocky formations on mountainous curves I dare not try to photograph while driving! I continued on to my second home, Bozeman, and continued on to Billings and turned south as the highway bent, aiming for Wyoming.

I needed gas and stopped at Hardin, MT, close to the Little Bighorn Battlefield Memorial, part of the Crow reservation. After filling my vehicle's tank, I spied a Taco John's and decided to grab lunch. Same item at each location where I ate: the super burrito combo. I must say, this out of the way location was surprisingly good in both the experience with staff (the manager definitely Crow, the staff mixed) and the high quality of the food. I would give it my top score among all the Taco John's on my trip. Excellent!

From there, my destination for the night was the same hotel in Sheridan, Wyoming, just over the border. The next morning I continued on but unlike my west-bound trip coming from Devil's Tower through Gillette, I continued south through Casper - where my 2019 trip troubles began - and veered off toward Nebraska. 

Coming south in 2019, I planned to stop at Casper for the night, but no, the city's hotels were full due to the state baseball tournament. So I drove on. Same, same. I got tired of stopping and checking, decided to go on to Cheyenne. But Cheyenne was full, too, because of the rodeo being held there. Thus, as dusk settled around me, I fill up the tank, grabbed a sandwich and heading south into Colorado. But I quickly discovered the interstate going to Denver was a hellish mess of construction - at one point all traffic was forced to exit the interstate for a detour through back country roads and out to the highway again; I could not have found my way in the dark if not for following everyone else. I thought of stopping, did stop twice, no rooms, continued on until I was arriving in Denver late in the evening. I saw the exit for I-70 and took it, heading due east to Limon where I got the last hotel room (a family suite) but damn glad to get it. In total I had driven from Great Falls, across Montana to Billings, spent 90 minutes at the Little Bighorn Battlefield, then ended up driving all the way through Denver to Limon near the Kansas border. Whew!

I refused to go through Colorado again and took the exit to a state highway that took me to Fort Laramie - near the Nebraska border, far from the city of Laramie in the south-central part of the state. I visited this historic site as a boy, maybe ten or eleven, the perfect age for playing cowboys and cavalry. This time, many years removed, I was surprised to arrive and see the roundabout that took visitors to the site with souvenir shops all around the circle. It jogged my memory! The same place as many years ago. I remembered that roundabout being there way back then. I didn't tour the site again but had a good look. Then I continued on until I entered Nebraska.

Now, folks like to say that Kansas is the most boring drive in these here United States, but lemme tell ya, it's actually Nebraska. That I-80 might be a humdinger of a road over in the east but once you get outta Omaha it ain't nothing to write home about no matter what postage is these days. It almost put the orange-barreled I-90 to shame! Yessiree, I-80 crossing Nebraska is a sight to unsee. But arriving at Scottsbluff, however, there were some sites to see: the geologic formations the area is famous for. On a carefully unfolded paper map you might notice how the Badlands of South Dakota kinda continue southward across western Nebraska and reach this southwest corner.

I continued on, as is my tendency, and decided to stop for gas at Ogallala, NE, where the tall signs tooted $3.04 a gallon. I pulled up to the fanciest of the stations around that exit and found the price was actually $3.74 per gallon. Don't know what the problem was but that ain't right. Collusion, I suspected. Well, I was too fed up to care and filled it anyway. Just for curiosity's sake I went over to another station: same deal with the price difference. Next, I slipped over to the Taco John's there, which was drive-thru only because of a sign on the door saying "short staff" - though I suspected there were no height requirements to work there.

And I continued on, soon realizing that I would not get all the way home by tonight - unless I was willing to drive in the dark several hours. The route I planned to take not being familiar to me, I chose to stop in North Platte for the night. The next morning I continued on, turned south at York to enter Kansas, and made my way to Concordia where I stopped for gas and lunch. More hassles at the pump; I'm supposed to know exactly how much gas I will put into the tank so I can pay in advance rather than swiping my card at the pump? Ridiculous. I guessed low and got $20's worth, which miraculously got me home. I also went to the Taco John's down the street - which was the worst of all of them I stopped at, measuring the condition of the place, the service, and the quality of the food.

Driving on, I encountered more of the orange-barrel curse, plus a few jerks driving aggressively along the gauntlet, cutting me off at one point to get in line ahead of me, including a well-placed finger to indicate their undying love. Mindfulness, baby, mindfulness! And soon I recognized the wonderful exits of Salina, KS, which meant I only had a couple more hours to go. I breathed easy, enjoying the sunny afternoon as I arrived home. I collected a big batch of mail from the box and ordered pizza delivery for dinner, believing I had definitely earned it.

NEXT: The trip is finished so I will shift over to the launch of FLU SEASON 3: DAWN OF THE DAUGHTERS, the conclusion to my pandemic trilogy on September 1, 2023.

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(C) Copyright 2010-2023 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

On The Road Again - 7

My Summer Road Trip, part 7

No, wait! There's more! What can one do after destroying Bozeman and flirting with Yellowstone? Go north, young man! 

(Tip o' the Day: You can click on the pics to enlarge them.)

So I went. After a study of carefully unfolded paper maps lain across my hotel bed, I determined my next move in the great game. I got on I-90 once more, that accursed strip of asphalt, so orange-barreled and too much single-laned, and finessed a drive to the headwaters of the Missouri River. 

Now, the truth is that there are three rivers coming down from the mountains but it is not the Missouri River until the three rivers converge. Only then can we call it the Missouri River as it snakes north to the city of Great Falls and then east across Montana and into North Dakota and down into South Dakota, past Pierre (where I saw it) and by the "Dignity " statue at Chamberlain (where I crossed it), and down to Kansas City on the Missouri side where I once lived and often crossed and on this trip had crossed it, and on to St. Louis where some say it joins the Mississippi River but others (I'm talking scientists) say the Missouri River's current is stronger and so they believe it continues down to New Orleans as a single flowing river, old amateur geographers be damned.

I went to Three Forks, the place where the Gallatin, Madison, and Jefferson rivers meet and give us permission to call it the Missouri River - but in Montana. I came, I looked, I snapped pics. Then I drove on.

About the most scenic area I traversed on this long road trip was approaching Butte, Montana from the east, then exiting Butte going north, and later arriving at Butte from the west because of the mountainous terrain the highway winds through. Dramatic rock formations abound - more dramatic if you take your eyes off the steep up and down grades and curving pavement to take a look at the rock formations! I looked, but there was no way I could hold up a camera or my phone to snap a pic, as much as I wanted to. So you have to trust me.

From Butte, I headed north to Great Falls. Back in 2019 when I drove down from Canada, I stayed in Great Falls. Then I drove east across the vast grasslands to Billings and on home. That drive was part of the reason I wanted to return. Oh, I expected the falls to still be there, but I had missed all of the mountain scenery. And we definitely want mountain scenery. And as I tried to replicate that 2019, I stayed in the same hotel and ate at the same restaurant for dinner. I did not, however, go further into town or stop to see the falls again (picture is from 2019).

Then I headed north, truly north, into the far wilderness, a road so isolated that I thanked my lucky stars I'd visited the Jiffy Lube earlier. Eschewing the interstate highway for a serviceable state highway, I gradually veered to the west until I could make out the mountain range that formed Glacier National Park. Until then, it was all grassland but with a dark overcast that lent drama to the drive. My plan was to traverse the park, as the highway went, again winding through mountain valleys. And, if I could, to turn deeper into the park for the more dramatic views I sought, ever the dramatic viewer wannabe.

As it turned out, the famous road through the towering peaks had just opened the previous day. I showed my Senior Lifetime Member card and was whisked blithely through the gate with a smile and a tip of the ranger hat. The "Going-to-the-Sun" Road is a splendid two-lane mountain highway, around 50 miles long, the only road that crosses through Glacier National Park. At the height of 6,646 feet, it crosses the Continental Divide via Logan Pass, which is officially the highest point on the road. It is not the kind of road you speed along; the turns are wild. Again, I did not have the luxury of driving while snapping pics. I could stop a few places, but once on the road you had to keep going, having plenty of other vehicles behind you. 

So I drove, patiently and carefully, so I would live to read another colorful paper map. Eventually our line of vehicles came to the famous lake everyone takes pictures of, and I followed suit, because who am I to go so far and at such great effort to merely look and not preserve for later the image gathered in my eyes and interpreted by my brain to be a mountain lake - or, to be more accurate, a lake among the mountains, with an isle in its center, a place forbidden to non-swimmers such as I who also possess neither boat nor kayak. Sometimes the gods, they mock you!

When the day began, I expected to stop the next night somewhere on the west side of Glacier National Park. I had checked places in Whitefish, Kalispell, and even Polson at the south end of the large Flathead Lake. But I arrived on the west side of the park quite early. I should have taken more time to hike into the shade of the forest, call out some bears, and maybe step into a quick rushing stream for some fishing. That would have used up most of the day - and possibly ended my trip rather quickly. I did, savvy blog readers will be happy to read, stop for gas and a Taco John's lunch in Kalispell. Then I drove on, pausing at a dockside restaurant to not eat but photograph the lake. 

On my judiciously folded paper map, I noted the National Bison Range on my southward route, but when I got close I missed the sign and the turn-off and, thankfully, also missed the bisons. And continued on.... 

For the previous few days I had debated how far I would go on this trip. I wasn't limited by anything more than my own fatigue and interest. I thought I might continue on to the Pacific coast and lollygag on the beach somewhere. I saw I could reach Coeur d'Alene, Idaho easily for the night, then Spokane, and a long day crossing Washington. But my lack of stopping in Kalispell for the night threw off my schedule such that when I got to the bison range (actually, I missed it), I was tired and decided to just give it up and start back home. 

So I mounted that I-90 strip of paved civilization and turned not west, not north, but southeast and eventually arrived in Missoula for the night.

NEXT: The Road Home

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(C) Copyright 2010-2023 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

On The Road Again - 5

My Summer Road Trip, part 5

I didn't actually throw a dart at a map to decide where to go. I had a plan. After visiting three minor destinations (Cedar Falls, Waldorf College, Devil's Gulch), I drove on to visit three major destinations (Badlands National Park, Mt. Rushmore, Devil's Tower). After leaving Sheridan, WY, with a stop at the Little Bighorn Battlefield memorial and a detour through Billings, MT, I continued west on the orange-barreled I-90 to my next destination: Bozeman.

On the way to Bozeman I pulled into the only rest stop along the route (near Big Timber), with mountains rising on my left along the Wyoming-Montana border and pastoral hills to my right, and the darkening sky ahead of me as storm clouds billowed over the mountains to the west. The rest stop was surprisingly crowded with vacationers but I continued on.

As scenic as the route was, I couldn't take any good pictures. The shaking of the car, the dirty windows, rain, and my speed prevented quality photography. Later, as I drove up and down narrow and curving mountain roads, I needed to focus of the road as much as I would've wished to take a dramatic shot. Seldom was there a place to pull over. Even when there were pullouts in the national parks I didn't want to stop at every one for a picture. So you get what you get here; I have the full pictures locked in my mind's eyes.

As I drove I was reminded of an episode from my youth. In one childhood road trip with my parents, we stopped at the small town of Livingston (just east of Bozeman) because my father wanted to visit a certain fly fishing supply store he'd read about in a fishing magazine. He wanted to get all the materials for making fishing flies (lures) and have me make some for him to use. I suppose he thought it would be cheaper than buying a ready-made lure. But I was the creative type and constructed all kinds of "flies" according to my whims, not matching flies based on actual insects that fish leap at. I used up all the materials and my father never caught any fish with the flies I made. 

Why Bozeman? Besides being an excellent base for exploring the 100 miles in every direction, I'd gained an interest in the town because of a friend moving there (from Canada) and posting about her new life there over the past couple of years. It is a scenic place: forested mountains on all sides with grassy valleys sprinkled with cattle, and featuring Montana State University. I mentioned to my artist friend, who has designed many of my book covers, that I would be driving up there. She said she was going to Europe at that time but I could stay in her family's house. She gave me the door code but I politely declined, afraid of messing it up, and opted for a hotel by the I-90 exit.

The rain I met driving west to Bozeman intensified as I arrived and I struggled through the deluge, checking in and then going out for something to eat - all while everyone was heading home. I knew from maps there was a Barnes &Noble bookstore at a mall on the west end of town. I made my way there through a dark, rainy, rush hour on streets I only knew vaguely from what I remembered from the Google map on my phone. But I made it: dashed inside, got a hot coffee and an apple tart, then gathered some maps and browsed the shelves as usual, before returning back through the town to my hotel. With the rain continuing into the night all I could do was study my maps and plan my three days there.

The next day was much better: sunny and cool. First, I went to the Montana State campus and toured it almost like I was a prospective MSU parent. As is my quirk, I went through the library, hit the bookstore in the student union, checked out their selection of English textbooks and got a university logo t-shirt (Bobcats). 

Next, I drove around the town and the area, dodging more orange barrels, and noted what my friend had complained about: a cowboy town that grew a university was now a hipster community where many people flocked, expecting a paradise for ski bums and the freedom-loving camper crowd. (Wait until winter!) The expanding "suburbs" appeared rather Disneyesque as carefully planned neighborhoods, with a patina of artificiality that made you wonder if cameras were monitoring your every move. There seemed little of the rustic and country left outside the "old town" blocks. 

Indeed, apartment complexes sprouted everywhere, some yet under construction, hurrying to house the influx of new residents, far beyond just making more student housing. It wasn't unattractive, but I could understand how the locals would take the developments as a destruction of their traditional home. Honestly, I wouldn't mind living there, could wear cowboy boots and cowboy hat and speak with a country drawl.

When I travel, I like to imagine living in the place, seeing how life would be were I to be a full-time resident. I did that in Bozeman. I even shopped at Walmart, rubbing shoulders with the locals, much to their chagrin. But I had to be honest with myself: if I were a full-time resident, at any location, I'm likely to spend most of my time indoors, writing and reading, and only go out for errands - and that would be the only time I enjoyed the great outdoors. Now I'm no longer the great adventurer, ready to hike anywhere my whims lead me.

What else to do? I thought through my next novel as I drove, then typed notes in my hotel room. I watched TV. I downloaded pictures from my phone and my camera. I thought I'd seen enough of Bozeman. However, I realized that, using Bozeman as a base, I could visit Yellowstone National Park...because it was right there, 90 minutes south through the mountains, plus I already had my Senior Lifetime Member card.

NEXT: Yellowstone National Park

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(C) Copyright 2010-2023 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

On The Road Again - 4

My Summer Road Trip, part 4

If you've stuck with me so far, it's about to get better. I began with some minor goals, completed them, then swung out into the great unknown for bigger fish to fry. I toured the Badlands like yo mama did, then continued on for more, heading west to Rapid City.

As was my plan, I got off the dreadful I-90 and took a lesser highway south into the Black Hills, a mountainous region in the middle of vast prairie. When I was a boy, my parents brought me to Mt. Rushmore on a summer vacation roadtrip - and it was my intention to replicate such trips during this travel effort. I recall back when I was young, it was very impressive. On this day (same day I toured the Badlands, so it was afternoon now) I felt underwhelmed by the monument. You have to admire the carving skills, but we also acknowledge the desecration of the mountain that is a sacred place to the local Native population. In this visit, I did not have to use my Senior Lifetime Member Card - nobody was selling entrance tickets - but it did cost $10 for parking. It didn't seem too crowded at that mid-afternoon time so parking was not a problem. (Read more here.)

Following my I-90 plan, my next stop would be Devil's Tower just over the border into Wyoming. But I didn't think I could get there, sightsee, and then find a good place to stay for the night before sundown. So I decided to stop at Sturgis, SD, known for its motorcycle rallies. I like to stop about 4 or 5 pm and get plenty of time to rest, have dinner, offload my photos from my phone and my camera, and check the next day's weather, study my carefully folded paper maps and go to sleep early.

Not sure why impressive geological features are named after the Devil (Devil's Gulch, Devil's Tower, etc.) but they are. I'd seen plenty of pictures of this tower and I saw the E.T. movie which featured it, so I wasn't especially in an oo-ah mood when I first spied it while driving up the winding road to the site. Not so crowded in the morning when I arrived (9-ish) but was quickly filling up by the time I was leaving (10:30). I took my pictures, absorbed the ambiance of volcanic rock (granted, it was granite), and continued on to my next destination. I traversed lovely woodlands, and descended into a vast grassland devoid of any sign of civilization to the four horizons but for the powerlines strung along the road. Eventually I passed a large lake and began to wonder (glancing at my elegantly folded map) where the next gas station might be. (Read more here.)

I reconnected with I-90 and continued west to Gillette, WY, the nearest and next town of any size marked on my judiciously folded paper map. I exited and got gas. Down the main road there I saw the sign of a Taco John's restaurant and decided to have lunch since I was already stopped. Now, the tale of the Taco John is not widely known. In my youth, my cousin and I would hang out on Saturday nights, usually hitting the foosball parlor or shooting pool or otherwise courting mischief. But always we would make a pit-stop at the local Taco John's. I would always get their featured product: the Taco Bravo (a taco wrapped in a soft tortilla with frijoles as buffer, for a bigger, better taco experience). Then I grew up and moved away to places where no Taco John's existed. 

View of Bighorn Mountains from Sheridan, WY

So I had some nostalgia for a Taco Bravo...but it was the Super Burrito that caught my eye that afternoon in Gillete, WY. When traveling I always get out and go in to a restaurant (rather than use the drive-thru) because I like to stretch my legs and use the restroom. So I got my order, sat and enjoyed my meal. Feeling a taco-sized space in my belly, I decided to go back and get a Taco Bravo. Well, I don't know what the deal was but it didn't taste right, wrong seasoning, sauce too runny, so I didn't finish it. As I would discover, there are a lot of Taco John's scattered around the Western states and I would continue to patronize them as I traveled. I compared them, too. All subsequent TJs were better than the one in Gillete. (Sorry, Gillete folks, maybe it was an off day, who knows?)

I continued on I-90 to my intended destination of Sheridan, WY, just south of the Montana border. It's the obvious choice with not much to speak of for hours' driving on either north or south sides of the town. Trivia: my grandfather's middle name is Sheridan; he said he was named by his father after visiting the town back in its cowboy days. My grandfather was hardly a cowboy, however. I relaxed and planned my next day. I liked the hotel I was in and plotted to claim a room in the same chain at my next destination and made reservations by phone.

The next day, as was my plan, I headed north into Montana and stopped again at the Little Bighorn Battlefield Monument. I say 'again' because I stopped there heading south in 2019 after coming down from Canada. In 2019 I paid the full price. In 2023 I used my Senior Lifetime Member Card to go in for free. But I did buy a t-shirt and a book in the visitor center. I did the full tour in 2019 so in 2023 I did the minimum: the walk to the hill where the actual last stand happened. Nearby, they have built a memorial to the Native warriors killed on that day; in 2019 it wasn't quite finished but now it was. It's always a tragedy, in my thinking, when anyone has to die in a battle (compare to Ukraine) and it matters less at the end of the day who was right and who was wrong. As a fiction writer I make my bed and sleep in it with the sheets of gray, never an easy black and white for anything. The shades of gray make the story interesting. Otherwise everything is Mary Sue and the boy next door, happily ever after, the end. (Read more here.)

I paid my respects and headed on to Billings, MT. My only reason to stop there was to seek out the taco shop I had a fabulous meal in coming south in 2019. I had stopped for gas coming from Great Falls but cutting across the interior grasslands/ranches rather than taking the southern interstate route. Next to the gas station was the restaurant. So in 2023, I drove through the city (I-90 at that point forced a detour on everyone anyway - straight through the downtown area, stoplight by stoplight thankyouverymuch.) but I didn't see what I was looking for. Doubling back, I joined the flow of traffic and saw a Taco John's (definitely not the same place I was looking for but it would do). A good meal, and I continued on, slogging along I-90 until it finally broke free into two-lane full-speed interstate...all the way to Bozeman.

NEXT: The Bozeman Experience & Yellowstone

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(C) Copyright 2010-2023 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

On The Road Again - 3

My Summer Road Trip, part 3

I understand the expectation of an exciting, grandiose travelogue that thrills the imagination, but this is not it. It's personal. I had particular goals for my trip and I achieved all of them and went home. Not too exciting. But wait! There's more!

In both 2013 and 2019 my travel took me north along the extreme eastern edge of South Dakota. I wanted to go west this time. After visiting Devil's Gulch, about 5 miles inside of South Dakota, I proceeded westward and quickly found myself in vast grasslands. And the continuing I-90 construction project, often down to single lanes for 20 miles at a stretch.

Having seen it in social media posts, I wanted to visit the 50-foot tall statue called "Dignity" in the center of the state, on a bluff overlooking the Missouri River as it meanders south from North Dakota. I was excited as I approached the riverside town of Chamberlain and looking far ahead I could anticipate great views of the valley. I also craved a place to stop for a rest. However, the I-90 construction caused the exit ramp to the rest stop where the statue stood to be closed! I quickly looked around for other ways off the highway but there were none I could see as the road swung down to the bridge crossing the wide river. I could turn my head and catch a glimpse of the statue as I left it behind.

Disappointed, I drove on through the vast grasslands. My next destination was going to be the Badlands National Park, but measuring the angle of the sun and checking the fuel gauge, I knew I wouldn't make it today. I checked the map for possible towns with hotels. Never having gone this way, it was a bit distressing. I know the young whippersnappers would whip out one of them there smart phones and before you can say "G.P.S." they'd get me the name of a hotel I could stop at. Well, first, I was driving alone and handling a phone at the same time, especially in the concentrated manner required for research, would be dangerous and illegal. And, second, I had a good ol' paper map, folded properly, offering me the big picture, not some tiny square of what'sthatthere? nobody could figure out.

Fortunately, I decided on an extreme option: turning north into the great unknown (sure, I had a map but this spot was nothing but green) to find a room for the night in Pierre, the state capital. The trick was to boldly go where nobody but bison had gone before. Literally in the middle of nowhere. Grassland everywhere and a single strip of blacktop running to somewhere over the next rise. Eyes on the road, on the fuel gauge, out the windows on each side, calculating the time of the sunset. I arrived out of breath and found the small capital (15,000 people) to be charming, set on the edge of the Missouri River, upstream from the Dignity statue.

Being a state capital there seemed to be something going on that evening and hotels were full. I took a room nobody wanted: the Captain's suite in the ritziest joint in town, and paid dearly for it - but glad to have it! I had a fine Italian dinner in the restaurant next door and reviewed my plans in my room, soaking in the Jacuzzi tub (and used the shower stall in the morning). The next morning, gassed up and ready to go, I traversed the same road heading south through the grasslands with no other vehicles in sight until I reconnected with I-90.

Constantly checking my paper map, so elegantly and artistically folded, I eventually arrived at the eastern entrance to the Badlands National Park. My plan was to drive through it going west and exit back to I-90 to continue west. When I pulled up to the entrance gate, I saw that I could buy a senior lifetime membership which would pay for itself if I visited three national parks* - which I already planned to do on this trip.

I will let the pictures do my talking. Let me just say, however, that this is one bad land. I mean, it is so bad yo mama wouldn't ever hike there! Sure, I'd seen pictures of the place but it's never the same seeing it for yourself. Sometimes it is underwhelming, often overwhelming. This badland view was initially overwhelming, stopping at one of the more famous view points. As I drove through and by much of the same kind of rock formations, it became less interesting. But I had my Senior. Lifetime. Member card and was determined to see everything.

As I drove along the winding, hilly park road, the landscape changed dramatically and it seemed I wanted to stop every mile or so to take more pictures. It took several hours to traverse the park, including a stop at the visitor center, walking through the geological museum, restroom, buying a Badlands t-shirt. I developed a sunburn, but I got plenty of fresh air and sunshine. I did not go on any hikes although there are plenty of trails. I was on a loose deadline, after all.

Then I exited - slowing for a herd of wild bison just sitting there off the road with no fence to keep them from harassing me - and entering the town of Wall, famous for its giant "drug store". It actually is a huge emporium selling all sorts of goods, not just medicine, and seems to occupy half the town. I had an excellent bison burger in a cafe inside the place but did not spend more time there than to browse a couple souvenir shops. It could easily be a full day's stop in itself.

But the day was still young and I calculated my afternoon: on to Rapid City, swing down to visit Mt. Rushmore, and then rush a little more back north for the night.

NEXT: The Four Tops and the Devil's Tower

*This is not the same National Park that features in my pandemic trilogy FLU SEASON.

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(C) Copyright 2010-2023 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

On The Road Again - 2

My Summer Road Trip, part 2

I understand that not everyone would drive so far just to go past a house from one's childhood, but that's me. In childhood trips with my parents, it seemed that my father loved to drive more than arrive. 

It seemed he tried to see how far he could go away from home. We did arrive at places, of course, but that was only a side-effect of the driving. I recall one trip, as we were returning home, he spent the whole afternoon/evening driving back and forth looking for the farm where he'd spent his boyhood in rural Nebraska. We didn't locate it by the time it was dark, so we continued on home.

For me, the driving is more than half the point: to drive is to move through time and space. Good music helps. It's better to traverse open spaces, away from all civilization, just grasslands and distant mountains, the horizon always retreating, giving way, teasing us. The mind becomes soft, can compose ideas, especially for me story ideas, while the other parts of the mind stay focused on the driving itself. I practically plotted the entire novel of FLU SEASON 4, which I started writing on my laptop in hotel rooms each evening.

The next stop on my summer trip, because it was on the way and I'd put off visiting for a long time, was the unassuming town of Forest City, Iowa. It's notable as the manufacturing base for the Winnebago recreational vehicles. Yet I'd long vowed to visit it out of spite. Why?

I speak of the notorious Waldorf Week, an event in my past which changed the course of my life. While I sought a long-term academic position (a.k.a., tenure-track professor) after graduating with my Ph.D., I applied to little Waldorf College in Forest City. I thought a small college, like the one where I got my B.S. degree, would be ideal for me. With this telling, I don't mean to disparage the school, now called Waldorf University. It is merely the piling on of ridiculous circumstances of this week which makes the telling a poor amusement.

In mid-May of a year more than a decade removed, the folks at Waldorf arranged a phone interview with me because I lived in upstate New York. I had a good interview. They sent additional questions by email and I replied immediately with my answers. The next day, further impressed, they invited me to visit the campus. (Usually, a school will reimburse travel expenses for the finalists.) 

The travel arrangements were rather arduous but I got them made in a single day and left home the next morning. I drove 90 minutes from my home in Utica to Albany, parked my car at the airport, flew to Chicago, changed planes and flew on to Minneapolis, and checked into an airport hotel for the night. The following morning, I picked up my rental car from the airport and drove south into Iowa, arriving in Forest City by mid-afternoon. I drove around the city and eventually checked into the designated hotel, an out of the way family-run lodge in the woods which seemed quiet. 

A realtor picked me up to show me housing possibilities were I to win the job and move here. Then I was picked up from the lodge by one of my future colleagues and taken to have dinner at the department chair's house, seven people around the table, a chance to get to know each other. So far, so good. 

Back to the lodge, I settled in, ran through my presentation and refreshed my memory on other matters for the next day. I wanted to get a good sleep because it was to be a full day of campus events. However, when I turned out the lights, a little earlier than my usual time, I noticed the noise from the TV in the next room. I tried to ignore it, expecting the guest to turn it off eventually. But it continued. This being a family establishment, there was no night manager. The noise continued, just loud enough I could not ignore it. I dared not take any sleeping pill for fear it would leave me groggy the next day.

Finally, I gave up and got up, got myself ready for the day and went over my notes again as I waited for a different colleague to pick me up and take me for breakfast. That turned out to be a rather lovely coffee cafe. I thought enough coffee would compensate for the lack of sleep. A little, yes, but my bleary eyes would not focus. I blinked through all the HR talk and additional paperwork. 

Then I was ushered into an auditorium for my "teaching demonstration", a traditional hurdle for would-be professors. I was not as prepared for the lesson as I could've been. My forte is to "wing it" and "go with the flow", drawing from the energy and interaction with my students to keep the lesson light yet informative. Into the auditorium came the entire faculty, maybe 70 professors, and I stood on a stage without even a podium as if giving a lecture. It was hardly a realistic situation for a classroom lesson. I felt embarrassed, having them leave their important work for little ol' me. Of course I bombed, not being able to think on my feet because of too little sleep. They filed out, dropping off their evaluation forms.

I believed I'd failed at that point, but I recovered during our working lunch, where I gave sharp, often profound, meaningful answers to their pre-written questions on things related to our field. I was lucid and witty, charming and professional. I thought I might have a chance. A tour of the campus followed. Then I was returned to the infamous lodge where my rental car remained parked all day.

I'd gotten rather sweaty in my suit and tie by then, but eager to get away. I was on a schedule. I drove north to Minneapolis, arriving at rush hour. I got to the airport, turned in the car, returned to the same hotel for the night. As arranged, the next morning I flew to Chicago, changed planes, flew to Albany, picked up my car and drove home to Utica. 

Monday through Friday: Waldorf Week.

I did not get the position, as I expected. They gave it to the other candidate. Just the two of us. Oh, well. I had many other interviews before and after, and went on several other campus visits before landing the position in Oklahoma where I taught for 11 years. But the intensity of that single hectic week lives on in family lore.

Returning there this month, driving up from my hotel in Clear Lake, it was still early. I stopped at the same coffee cafe and had a fine breakfast and coffee. I drove to the campus. I stood in front of their historic main hall. I grimaced while taking a selfie, confident in my rebuke: "I'm retired now."

Then I drove through the corn fields to connect with Interstate 90 just over the border in Minnesota - only to discover that the on-ramp to go west was closed for construction! I decided to go east and get off, swing around and back on going west. The two-way road was slow enough, however, that I could pull over to the shoulder and do a U-turn between orange barrels into the opposite direction to continue my trip west. 

Eventually, I entered South Dakota and stopped at a visitor center to plan the next phase of my trip. I would, however, come to discover that I-90 would remain the bane of my travelling existence for the duration of my trip. Easily 50% of I-90 was under some kind of renovation with barrels taking us down to a single lane or having both directions on one side while the other side was torn up. This was not to be the summer of I-90 love.

I went out of my way to visit Devil's Gulch, a small gorge where Jesse James supposedly leaped over on his horse while pursued by a posse of lawmen. You wouldn't notice it from the county roads through the fields, but they say it's quite deep, a cleaving of the earth under the water. Then I drove on, heading across South Dakota, lost in the endless landscape.

NEXT: The Long Way West - with a detour!

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(C) Copyright 2010-2023 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.