amymarquis

 toto in the tetonsI was lying in bed the other morning, letting my mind bounce from one thought to another when it landed on the major highway that circles the DC-metro area. What was the number? 465? 475? Really?  A decade of driving that loop and I’d forgotten what it’s called? A solid minute passed before it came back to me: 495. Of course. How silly of me.

It’s just that we’ve traveled so many roads since then. I-64, I-70, I-3. Routes 287, 101, 83. Over Kansas’ long, narrow highways that cut through sunflower farms and under gargantuan wind turbines that look like they’d beam up a cow and shoot off into space if they could just find a way to spin faster. Colorado’s flatter-than-flat eastern entrance, and the soft, rolling terrain that follows, where cottonwood trees line up like beggars at the edge of a dry creek. Then into the Rocky Mountains, hovering dark over Denver with all its traffic and lane shifts to test our weary eyes.

And beyond Boulder, on that northern route where the hills turn scrubby and the rocks turn red, like a scene you’d expect from the deep southwest. The dark, long stretches in Wyoming—up a steep mountain, down a steep mountain, broadcasting “thanks” and “you’re welcomes” in flashed lights to the truckers we pass and let by.

The road to the Tetons—1,300-foot peaks that look like they burst from the valley floor out of sheer boredom forever ago. Yellowstone’s Lamar Valley, where the hills turn to gold, and bison and pronghorn sip from creeks at dusk, and something familiar sinks into your bones, as if you’ve been here in a past life. The flatter stretches past Bozeman, where every gas station neighbors a small casino promising big wins in cartoonish fonts. Past the fence where a handful of pronghorn stand, unable to pass through. Past mountains turned red and grey from pine beetles and blister rust. Then into the refuge of northern Montana, with long stretches of deep-green forest that break to reveal vast, emerald lakes. So much like Maine!

Idaho looked a lot like this too, and went fast. Before we knew it we were driving into Spokane, Washington, on a large, laid back highway where people drove under the speed limit. Past the city we streamed over a bizarre plateau, where blocks of earth rose up like a 3-D illustration you see in grade-school geology textbooks. Then the land turned dry and vast again, then scrubby and sagey, and then the Columbia River made its entrance, dramatic and wide, raising the wow factor to new heights.

Seattle traffic felt like DC on a good day. Crowded but courteous, and with more watery views. Tiny Victorian houses dotted hillsides that rolled into one lake after another, eventually giving way to a city clustered like jewelry at the edge of the Puget Sound. Occasionally the road would veer left or right and Mt. Saint Helens would pop into view—stunning, snow-covered, taunting your senses, threatening to disappear with a blink.

But it was the Olympics that felt most magical. It had been raining on and off yesterday when we rode the ferry to Bainbridge Island and pushed on to Route 101 that circles the park. Here the mountains grew steep and dense on both sides, and a mist clung to the hills. Images of New Zealand flared up in my mind—the wool sweaters, the empty roads, the bouldered fields turned pink at dawn—and as we rounded the bend to Crescent Lake, the most brilliant rainbow burst into the horizon at our right. We stopped and snapped three pictures before it faded, then let Suki out to run along damp trail above the shore. Back in the car, the Fleet Foxes swelled into a sweeping melody, and my inner artist begged me to retreat to a cabin, sip on tea, and write, write, write.

So we compromised. Pulled Toto into a campsite at Mora on the Quillayute River. Packed cheese sandwiches and bottles of beer and biked to Rialto Beach to toss sticks for Suki and watch the sun set. Back at camp, we sautéed fresh Alaskan halibut and local veggies. We slept hard, and woke early. And then I sipped tea and wrote, wrote, wrote.

And I haven't even begun to capture all of the stories.

I suppose I'll need another vacation for that.