Everybody Has a Story: Taking a tour through America

During my senior year of college in 1965, I made a plan: buy a VW bus, take a jaunt around the country for a year or so, then find a job. Alas, life got in the way. I had no money, I’d fallen in love with a more practical woman and, worst of all, the U.S. Army had a “better plan.” But the idea persisted and, 54 years later, I resurrected it.

“We’ll take the little roads, the small highways. Stop when we want, go wherever the yearning takes us,” I told that same woman. She lovingly agreed, as long as she didn’t have to go. Apparently she’d had enough of our adventures, especially the getting bogged down, lost and/or stuck parts.

On a Monday in May, I left Vancouver. Instead of a VW van I had my Subaru Crosstrek, a small ice chest, a backpack, paper maps and a credit card. My plan was to drive across the north, then south to Maryland where I would stay with friends for a few days, then return through the Midwest. I’d try to stay in small cities and towns at night, drive the smaller highways and roads, and stay off the freeways whenever possible. If I saw something interesting, I’d go there.

U.S. Route 2 traces the great railways from Seattle to Duluth, and I enjoyed following the tracks and imagining those incredible efforts in the 19th century. From Kalispell, Mont., I drove east toward what seemed a solid wall of insurmountable peaks. Then, miraculously, a gap created by the Flathead River appeared. I spent the next three hours in gorgeous scenery while climbing the Rockies. Imagine building a track through that!

Once over the Continental Divide, I dropped into … nothing. Regardless of which highway, it seems to take forever to cross the mind-numbing sameness of the northern plains. Relief is spelled T-R-E-E.

I wanted to see the source of the Mississippi River, which starts out no larger than our upper Salmon Creek. But by the time I’d crossed it three more times on my way to Duluth, it ran more like the North Fork Lewis River. For a few days, I explored the fabled north woods of Minnesota and Wisconsin (Paul Bunyan, you know). They’re not like ours: lots of bogs, so many lakes, shorter and skinnier trees. But I came away impressed with the vastness of the country and especially with Lake Superior. I may have been influenced by a storm blowing waves onto the window of my third-floor hotel room. Ah! So that’s why the Great Lakes are called the “Third Coast.”

I had to see Niagara Falls. There are tacky, giant hotels and casinos on both sides of the U.S.-Canada border, along with hordes of tourists. And yet the falls are remarkable and worth the trip.

I drove south for my first look at the Amish in Pennsylvania. And the Appalachians: On your topographical map, look for a big bear scratch extending from Maine to Georgia. In West Virginia, where the scratch is widest, I broke my rule about two-lane roads. Had I not taken Interstate 79, I might still be wandering around.

No, the peaks there aren’t tall like ours, out west. But in those hollers and hills, there are so many small cities, towns and villages, most of them hidden from view. I couldn’t ignore the allure and took an exit into a tiny community of unpainted shacks jammed into a narrow valley. I found a pub, met some nice people. I see why Appalachia has inspired so much literature; even in my brief time there, I could feel the stories not yet told.

Kentucky is wet and green and really does have lots of horses. I tried to explain to a server in a Lexington Waffle House about the Pacific Northwest, but because I drank my iced tea without sugar, the best she could do was label me a westerner. Better than a Yankee, she opined. I gave up explaining that I was from the upper left-hand corner of the 48-state map. It was just easier to say I was from Seattle.

“Ah! Space Needle!” Sigh.

I met some people who knew about our town and had even been here. Others looked at my license plate and insisted I must be a politician or a lobbyist from the other Washington. And don’t even try to explain about two Vancouvers.

Road detours put me in Kansas where I discovered the Flint Hills, almost 10,000 square miles of gorgeous grasslands. Standing on a hill, it wasn’t hard to imagine those one-time vast herds of buffalo. Oh, wait. Those are buffalo. Cool.

I had to stop in Scottsbluff, Neb., where the hospital where I was born is now an office building. Looming above the town are Scott’s Bluffs, large cliffs breaking the monotony of the prairie. They had pointed the old wagon trains to the Rockies. Gave me that pioneer feeling.

In just a few weeks, I’d crossed five of North America’s seven Continental Divides, met lots of really nice people and had a tiny taste of America. I’d do it again. Maybe I can convince my bride to go next time!

Everybody Has a Story welcomes nonfiction contributions, 1,000 words maximum, and relevant photographs. Send to: neighbors@columbian.com or P.O. Box 180, Vancouver WA, 98666. Call “Everybody Has an Editor” Scott Hewitt, 360-735-4525, with questions.