WUIO
WUIO
[ woo-eeo ] short for Wyoming-Utah-Idaho-Oregon
(Several days of travel combined due to a lack of internet.)
Two hours into our trip as we neared Laramie, Wyoming on a two lane highway, a black SUV wanker decided to pass another vehicle without enough room. As he barreled head-on toward us, Larry said, “Look at this idiot.”
Barely back into his lane, the driver flipped us off.
“What the hell?” I exclaimed. “Did you see that? He flipped us off.”
Larry who missed the finger salute said, “What do you expect, it’s Wyoming.”
“Wyoming or not, that doesn’t excuse him.”
“Maybe he was angry we didn’t veer off the road to accommodate his stupidity.” He replied.
“Well then, I’m going to title this blog ‘Welcome to Wyoming,’ what else starts with ‘WW’?”
Larry threw out a few suggestions; Westerly Winds, Wild Weekend and Wayward Wanderers, while I read off a bunch of ‘w-words’ from the online dictionary; Where’s Waldo, Wart, Wacko, Wonky, Wholeheartedly.
“Hey, I like ‘w-words,” I exclaimed.
Our first stop was Wagonhound Rest Area, home of the Great Lakes of Wyoming. Wagonhound, now there’s another ‘w-word’!
First time we passed the Continental Divide.
Second time we passed the Continental Divide. How was that possible?
I read from an online article, “We’re proud of the state of Wyoming so, we also decided years ago to start adding some artwork to the welcome signs,” said the Traffic program manager. “Not only are these signs beneficial for Wyoming’s tourism, but more importantly, they let travelers know when they’re entering the state of Wyoming.”
“And It was cheaper than painting a line around the entire state,” Larry quipped. (Dad joke)
Sign on Interstate 80 ‘Tourist information radio 1610 am.’
“Welcome to Wyoming, unless you’re in the northwest corner, near Yellowstone, there’s nothing to see here.” Larry added. (Dad joke)
Rolling hills of dry ochre grasses waving in the wind, colored with mounds of sagebrush and the stink of intermittent oil refineries announced the city of Rawlins.
“Hey isn’t that the place we had two tires repaired?” I asked.
“Yes. Do you need to use the restroom or get a coffee?”
“No, I’m good.”
Crossing the city limit sign, there was a golf course nestled in the surrounding native shrubs.
“When they go in the rough, they really go into the rough,” Larry said, as if I golfed.
‘Does he talk just to hear himself?’ I wondered.
Driving past Rawlins, we looked at the city landscape that mirrored the wild lands surrounding it. It looked about as inviting as an enema.
Being a smartass I asked, “I wonder if they have a winery here.”
We laughed.
Our first nights stop was Ft. Bridger. Here are photos of our evening stroll.
* * *
“For an aggressive driver, you sure get passive when you’re pulling a trailer.” Larry said as we crossed into Utah, our second morning on the road.
Most interesting was sign after sign addressing drowsiness along the Oden interstate corridor north of Salt Lake City. “Must have a real issue to spend so much money on these signs,” I said. “And what’s with the bee hives on state highway signs?” We’ve wonder each time we drive around Salt Lake City. Now I was bored enough to care.
Nothing like being able to research on your phone. In the old days, we went home, pulled out an encyclopedia (if you were lucky enough to own them), or take a trip to the library to browse the public encyclopedias. Knowledge was a hunt, not at your fingertips.
“For the people of Utah, the beehive symbolizes community as each person works together to support and help one another and create a successful industry.”
And
“The beehive has been used as a symbol for thousands of years,” according to historian Mark Staker, an expert on early Mormon anthropology. “The Bible refers to the 'Promised Land' as 'the land of milk and honey.'”
Well then, when Larry and first dated, I was still breastfeeding my youngest. I was the milk. Larry purchased a ‘Flow Hive,’ through Indiegogo crowdfunding, an innovative bee hive built by a father-son duo in Australia. He’s my honey.
Passing a road sign, “Game crossing.” Larry waved his hand to the side and said, “There goes cribbage.”
“Huh?” I asked bewildered.
He had to explain that ‘Dad joke.’
That’s Utah for me, milk and honey. Well that and the apparent overabundance of drowsy drivers.
* * *
Idaho, you’d the ho.
An extension of Utah to the south and the desolate landscape of Wyoming to the east, we trading in the rocks and sagebrush for miles and miles of dormant flaxen colored grass. Idaho.
‘Interstate Oasis’ signs announce Truck Stops. Is this the new politically correct term? Or a ploy for tourism?
We ended our second day of travel at the Three Island Crossing State Park, on the outskirts of Glenns Ferry.
In the matter of two hours we encountered the worst and the best of Idaho hospitality separated by my overextended attempt to back up the trailer into our camping space.
We sat in line to the single gas pump. The vehicle blocking the left side of the pumps, had no windows or doors. But it did have a skeleton in the back seat, and shrunken heads hanging from the rear frame. As one occupant ate a sandwich in the front passenger seat, while the other individual duck taped the roll cage above her head.
On our side of the pumps, a trashed out white van took up space by the pumps. By ‘taking up space’ I mean she wasn’t pumping gas, just sitting in her car eating a Popsicle. When she finished, she gathered her trash, opened her door and waddled to the trash can beside the gas pumps.
“Do you think she’s getting gas or already got it?” I asked.
After she got back into her car, she sat, opened and closed her door a few times before driving 10 feet and stopping. She tossed her wrapper out the window and ate another Popsicle.
We filled up Big White. Larry went inside to get a receipt when the pump didn’t spit one out. I cleaned the windshield. When it was time to move on, the white van was still blocking our way.
Larry got out, walked over to the rolled down window and asked the driver, “Would you mind moving forward so I can get out.”
“We’re just leaving,” she snapped back at him.
Larry turned and walked back to our truck and she started yelling at him. Good thing he is hard of hearing, because I could see her mouth move and her face get twisted and red.
“She’s yelling at you, what did she say?”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
I fumed at her behavior, but Larry said he wasn’t going to let it upset him.
At the campground, the rearview camera had overheated and quit working, and because we don’t have extensions to the side mirrors and I couldn’t see shit. Larry stood beside the truck and coached me backwards between two pine trees.
“How the hell am I going to do this without your help?” I asked.
“You just get out of the truck and check every so often on your progress.” He said matter of fact.
It was 105 degrees. Exhausted and pissed, I lay flat on the picnic table and stared at the tree umbrellas above. I watched a bird on a branch. I heard the dogs lap water from the bowl under the table. ‘What am I doing?’
I took a deep breath and relaxed my body, bit by bit.
Larry came back from the toilet and I asked him if he knew what kind of bird I was watching. “Do you think it’s a type of Kestrel?”
He peer around and around the table and I suggested he lay his head where mine was to get the view. He lay down on top of the table and stared into the sky.
“No idea,” he said. “But it isn’t moving much.”
We walked ½ mile to a Y-Knot, a local winery for dinner and wine. It was still 105 degrees. Bad idea. Dogs burned their paws.
A mother-daughter sitting at an adjacent table offered us a ride back to our campsite. Normally Larry would never have accepted, but for me and the dogs and the carton of wine we had purchased, he did. I snapped a photo of the women and asked the daughter to put her info into my phone so I could send her the picture. But somehow it’s not in my phone. Here’s to Carolyn and Kali.
They made Idaho great again.
* * *
On day three westbound, Larry drove through Boise, because I didn’t feel ready for the amount of traffic a city entails. Idaho isn’t very wide as state crossings go, but I found the drive agonizingly long, even as a passenger.
Crossing Snake River my cell phone chimed “Welcome to Oregon.”
“It chimed once before, was it Idaho?”
“No, I think it was Utah,” he replied.”
“I was driving through road construction then, I don’t think it was Utah.”
“I’m sure it was Utah.”
“I think it was Idaho.”
The question will remain a mystery, at least for now.
Off the interstate, we passed the little farming community of Cairo. Land of onions, wheat, corn, beets, and alfalfa, bordered by dusty grey-green Russian Olive trees, it had a distinct earthy, oniony smell. We passed Hop Road, Onion Avenue, and Tattletale Lane. Notably missing were the hundreds of Trump signs displayed the last time we drove through during election week.
The landscape changed back to Wyoming sagebrush but with more hills of volcanic rock as we snaked along the Malhuer River on a two lane highway. The air from the vents smelled like potato chips.
The terrain grew flatter and the drive became monotonous. We stopped at the crossroads of Vale to have lunch in the shade of ancient cottonwood trees.
Here is the view from inside Charlie, the Tuna Fish.
And here’s the view from across the street.
It’s all in the angle.
We camped the third night in a grass field at a Red Oaks Alpaca farm in LaPine, Oregon. There was no shade, no electricity, and the temp outside was 102. The dogs were panting like choo choos, echoing inside the camper. It was so hot, I could hardly move.
I asked, “Are we having fun yet?”
The proprietor gave us and another boondocking couple an evening tour of their operation with a history lesson on Alpacas. It was informative and interesting.
* * *
The morning we left the Alpaca farm we decided very last minute on an hour detour…so Larry could see Crater Lake in south central Oregon. A zillion pine trees lined the roads creating a claustrophobic tunnel. “Look at all those matchsticks,” I said out loud, knowing full well the state was too dry and hot.
Standing on the lake rim, Larry commented, “It’s bluer than I expected.” He had on polarized sunglasses.
We drove around the west rim where the road edge hung on a cliff. There were no guard rails. I leaned to my left. Larry laughed sympathetically, “my poor panic stricken spousal unit.”
I type and cuss, “Damn it….”
“Do you have BFF fingers?” Larry asked.
“Huh?”
“BFF Fingers”
“Best friends forever?”
“No, BFF fingers.”
“What, did you see a bumper sticker somewhere?”
“Big Fat Fucking Fingers,” he said.
“I don’t get it.”
“You just said, ‘Damn it, me and my big fat fucking fingers.”
“Did I say that? Hahaha.”
We made it to Silvan Ridge Winery, the oldest in Oregon as Harvest Host guests. It’s a program Larry signed us up for, we can stay the night in their parking lot, their pasture, whatever they have set aside, for the night – free. It’s a business venture. Last night was the Alpaca farm, tonight was a winery, next week we have a blueberry farm in Washington.
Can you spot our camper?
After settling the camper, we sat on the patio and shared a flight of reds and a cheese board while waiting for Samir and Anthony. Then we strolled across the street to another winery, Sweet Cheeks for more wine tasting. My kind of night.
Eugene is our short term destination, two full days and we move on. Move on north toward Anacortes. And Larry’s epic bike ride.
