This Kid

This kid has a lot to do with out desire to return to the Yellowstone area. Know why? I made a 7 minute dvd slideshow of our trip for his first grade class and everyone was amazed.

He gets as excited about going back as we do.

Of course, spending one or two weeks surrounded by America's best fly fishing waters might have a little to do with my desire to return.

Except I think this time I'd skip Butte. And Pennsylvania, if it were possible. Guess that's what makes flying so attractive.

It Just Keeps Going

Well, this fun never stops. Here we are, it's December, and all the family seems to be able to think about is Montana. The road. The experience. The desire to do it all again. I don't know if that is going to happen in 2008, but the current thinking has us renting a cabin out near Yellowstone for a week or maybe two, and we fly out instead of driving.

We'll see.

I know that the Volvo is not going to be the car we take if we end up driving. That car's days are numbered, without a doubt. I can't believe I haven'd done something about it already, except that I cannot figure out what the hell to replace it with. Never have I been so uncertain about what kind of car to buy.

For more on that and just about anything else that's new, you could check out Existential Cheerleading, my new, everyday-type blog. I started it today and hope it'll be a continual sort of thing. At the same time, I think I am going to keep this blog rolling with an eye toward a return to Montana in 2008.

Fishermen Tell No Lies

It's true. We fishermen tell no lies. Of course, we skirt the truth quite a bit, too, so there must be a big, gray, middle area somewhere in our lexicon and way of thinking.

That being said, before car troubles spooked this whole trip like a poorly presented cast spooks a wary trout, I had me some major plans to fish the West. The Gunnison River. The Flathead. The Clark Fork. The Yellowstone. The Madison. Well, the car started acting up before we reached the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park, so a drive down to the river became a moot point. I fished the North Fork of the Flathead with Paul a couple times, but didn't see the Middle Fork or South Fork except from a rental car, really. And the other rivers? It's hard to fish when your mind is on figuring out how to get home.

Primarily, I drowned some flies on the North Fork of the Flathead and out on Spoon Lake, behind the cabin we stayed in with Paul and Melissa and Zadie. And I'm happy that I had some luck.

I caught a total of about eight fish, and each one was a Westslope Cutthroat Trout. The beautiful illustration above by Joseph R. Tomelleri shows one of these fish in its spawning colors. The ones I caught were not nearly so vibrant, but each bore the telltale red slash under its gills, as well as other signs it was a Westslope Cutthroat. And each one made me happy beyond belief. And each one was released back into the wild, alive, and treated as gently as possible.

I caught six out on the river (four in one brief span), and two on the lake (these were the largest, the last one caught on our last night at the cabin was about 14 inches). And not once did I have my camera with me.

But this is all truth. No lies. If I were going to lie about it, I'd tell you I caught 14 each day, some weighing in at four pounds. And I did it with perfectly executed 70 yard casts against the wind. I'd tell you my hand-tied flies fooled even the most finicky of old cutts, and that several other fly fishermen along the river asked me for guidance.

Truth is, I caught just a few. They were not large. My 40 yard casts were sloppy. The wind knocked my flies all over the river. I bought crappy flies from the local fly shop, all of which unraveled after some use. And the only fly fisherman on the river asking my advice was Paul, who listened to my b*llsh*t as if it were gospel. Thanks, Paul.

But more than fishing all those rivers out West, my primary fishing goal on this trip was to catch a Westslope Cutt. I achieved that goal. And I have my good friend Paul as a witness to that.

Trying to Reconcile with Pennsylvania

Photo: The Tobester above Logan Pass, Glacier National Park, Montana

I feel bad. I really do. Back in July, which seems like years ago, I made some disparaging comments about Pennsylvania. You may remember them. You may even remember that I touted the likes of Missouri over the Keystone State. And I meant it. Can't say I have it in me to change my opinion right now, but I have been left feeling sorta sorry about what I did say.

So that got me to thinking. And when I get to thinking, well, not much good can come of it. In fact, when I get to thinking, one of three outcomes is possible: 1.) I'll get even more negative about something I'm already feeling negative about. 2.) I'll be up all night and not get enough sleep and wake up ornery. Or 3.) I'll invade Russia from the West and fail to supply my troops with enough adequate winter gear for when they become bogged down in the autumn mud on the approach to Moscow.

Wait. That wasn't me. That was Napoleon. Or was it Hitler? Anyway, who cares? I'll bet neither of those guys had much good to say about Pennsylvania either.

No. I got to thinking about the home of the Phillies, the Steelers, and Cheesesteak. And when I got to thinking about Cheesesteak, I got to thinking about something good. Something delicious. Something mouthwatering. Something that has some redeeming value (except for all the clogged arteries, stained shirts, and endless debate about where to get the best).

So here are a few things I like about Pennsylvania and one thing I hope to like about Pennsylvania some day soon:

• Cheesesteak
• The Steelers
• Eat'n Park
• Trout Waters

That last one is the one I hope to find out about real soon.

But now that I look at my list, I wonder what happened to all those good things I considered as we drove through Pennsylvania in the rain on Monday. There seemed to be so many more things. So I just popped on over to Google and here are a few more items to list among the Pros of Pennsylvania:

• Daniel Boone
• Rachel Carson
• Bill Cosby
• Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey
• Gene Kelly
• Tara Lipinski (nah, just kidding)
• Margaret Mead and Tom Mix (salute!)
• Man Ray
• Andrew Wyeth
• Jimmy Stewart

Of course, I should also point out the whole thing about the Constitution being written there blah blah blah as well as the Declaration of Independence blah blah blah and Lincoln delivering his address at Gettysburg blah blah blah. But these three things had little to do with Pennsylvania (well, ok, Lincoln's Danbury Address would have lacked some oomph). Really, Jefferson could have written his stuff in Schenectady and we'd all still be free, happy Americans.

But let's all raise a cheer for Pennsylvania's State Fish, the Brook Trout. Hip hip hooray! And it has two whole counties without traffic lights (because no one stops at intersections?). On the downside, the state has 50 lakes and 2,500 man-made lakes. What's up with that?

And for you gourmands, please note that Pennsylvania leads the United States in scrapple production. Mmmmm mmmmmm (barf). Yes, I know. Spam. I love Spam. But Spam is not scrapple. I'll spample Spam, but I refuse to sample scrapple. Again I say, "Barf."

Residents of Idaho take note: Pennsylvania claims to lead the country in Potato Chip production. When the chips are made of scrapple, watch out, America.

I'll wrap up here with one more shining example of the greatness which can flourish in the cesspool that is Pennsylvania, proving that the most beautiful flowers are born in the stinkiest gardens: Fred Rogers. Sainthood cannot come too soon for the late Mr. Rogers, tireless educator of people (not just children) and tireless proponent of Public Television and this country's need for it.

The following excerpt from Wikipedia tells all:

In 1969, Rogers appeared before the United States Senate Subcommittee on Communications. His goal was to support funding for PBS and the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, in response to significant proposed cuts. In about five minutes of testimony, Rogers spoke of the need for social and emotional education that public television provided. He passionately argued that alternative television programming like his Neighborhood helped encourage children to become happy and productive citizens, sometimes opposing less positive messages in media and in popular culture. He even recited the lyrics to one of his songs.

The chairman of the subcommittee, John O. Pastore, was not previously familiar with Rogers' work, and was sometimes described as gruff and impatient. However, he reported that the testimony had given him goosebumps, and declared, "Looks like you just earned the $20 million." The subsequent congressional appropriation, for 1971, increased PBS funding from $9 million to $22 million.

Thank you, Pennsylvania, for Fred Rogers. Looks like I owe you at least a small apology.

Now let's talk about Rocky Balboa. (barf)

Some Bears Have All The Luck

Imagine having your own country. You'd be the boss. You'd get to eat whatever you want. You get to go to the bathroom where and when you want. You answer to no one. Everyone else looks out for you. At Logan Pass at the top of Glacier National Park, if you're a grizzly bear, you get your own country. I imagine having your own country also means you can leave the toilet seat up if you want and if someone doesn't like it? Well, you're a grizzly, what are they gonna do?

Corny, of course.

America, stop messing with me. You, too, Mitchell, South Dakota! This ain't no palace. It's an auditorium. With corn nailed to the outside walls. There's no king inside, no prince or duke or queen. Just some vaguely miserable-looking people selling popping corn and t-shirts, corn cob trays and baseball caps. There's no throne room, but there is a basketball court and the promise of some good, second-tier country music outfits coming to town. And yet, I find I cannot look away. This was my second visit to THE PALACE and I shall go again, I'm sure. If you find yourself on I-90 in Mitchell, you know you'll stop there, too.

Watch It, Pal

What's the Spam Can doing to Stuart? And why is the Tobester so amused? It's all innocent, of course. Because this is the Spam Museum in Austin, Minnesota, home of the Hormel Foods Company.

The Spam Museum is a must-see. From your first spample of Spam to your last dollar spent on Spam merchandise, this place is another example of what America is all about.

Lies and deceit. Because Spam is not ham. Heck, Spam is barely even a food. Yet we love it. Oh, how we love it so! And the people who work there? They are such Spam devotees (and company people to boot) they resist any attempt to wink or nod at the joke that is Spam. Go to England and try to get one of those guards in the silly fuzzy hats outside Buckingham Palace to smile or crack up. They don't. Neither do the employees of the Spam Museum admit that, hey, maybe Spam is kinda silly. And a whole museum dedicated to it? Sillier.

Oh well. Go when you get a chance. For now, go eat your Spamburger and leave me alone.

The End is Just the Beginning

Our journey is over. Yet our story is not.

We returned to Tyngsborough, MA, last night or early this morning, depending on how you look at it. It's Tuesday now, August 21, Elliot's birthday. We are home, H. is at work, and so am I. There's a car out in the driveway that served as our home for three weeks, except when it was in the infirmary in Kalispell.

I still have stories to tell you, so keep coming back for a while, won't ya?

(photo, l - r): Stuart, Heather, Elliot, the Tobester, and Me at Mt. Rushmore, Saturday, August 18th. Note the leering old men in the background. Obviously they're checking out the wife. We heard catcalls.

All Good Things

Like the passengers in steerage on the Titanic, Montana had to be left behind while the women and children made a safe getaway. So where does that leave me? Well, I guess someone had to row the lifeboat.

At long last, we escaped Montana on Friday morning. Waking at 4 a.m. and on the road before 4:45, we rolled southward on Route 93 to Missoula in the predawn darkness, blanketed by the smoke of half a dozen forest fires. The transmission worked seamlessly, and the boys slept in their car seats. At Missoula, we slipped onto I-90 East and - gulp - what was that? Check Engine light? A vague hesitation in the transmission? Turn the car around! Get back to Missoula before getting stuck in the middle of nowhere, halfway to Butte.

We spent about 90 minutes at Mountain Imports in Missoula, where a certified Volvo technician with over 30 years' experience gave our car the once-over, hooked her up to the computer, diagnosed the hesitation and drip from under the car and . . . and . . . and . . . pronounced us healthy. Phew! Sure, we have two misfiring speed sensors (cause for the hesitation) and a non-functioning catalytic converter, but everything else seemed okay.

Result? I am writing from Rapid City, South Dakota. We put over 800 miles between us and Kalispell yesterday. We said our goodbyes to Montana, its smoke, its car woes, and its serene beauty. We included a stop at the Little Bighorn National Memorial, too, but mostly spent the day making those tracks we had so desperately sought to make for days. H. bought Wyoming postcards and a Sturgis, SD t-shirt to celebrate our ultimate release from the bonds of Montana. We were all smiles watching the antelope of Wyoming out the car windows

The gang is asleep now. And I should be too. We rolled into Rapid City about 9 p.m. and hit the indoor pool/water park, followed by a late dinner in our room. In the morning, not too early, we'll slip down to Mount Rushmore, then onto Wall Drug, the Badlands, and Mitchell, for the Corn Palace.

The car is running well. We are all overcome with a desire to get home.

And now, without much fanfare, and as the S.S. Titanic slips once more under the icy Atlantic waves, I bid you a warm goodnight. More to come tomorrow.

I Am Here to Entertain You

Elliot "Smiley LaRue" Savelle. Desperado. Likes: Milk, meat sticks, crawling, restaurant waitstaff. Dislikes: Used car seats, cold mornings, Fox News. Dangerous outlaw, consider to be armed and stinky (usually filling a diaper as we pass the last rest area for 48 miles).

The Good Times Do, In Fact, Roll

Bon Ton Roulet: The Gang at Mammoth Hot Springs, Yellowstone National Park, this past Tuesday (Aug. 14). You can almost smell the sulfur from your hard drive, no?

People Say We Monkey Around. . .

Dateline: Kalispell, Montana. Thursday, August 16, 2007. 11:30 p.m. Mountain Time.

Ta-da!

And the Lord God Volvo said, "Let there be gears." And they were good. At least, we hope. For the work on the Volvo was completed around 5 o'clock this afternoon. Too late to make a break for South Dakota, naturally, and too late to test the new transmission on the route from Kalispell to Missoula, through a half dozen new wildfires. John at Celtic Motors beseeched us to wait until the light of a new day to test the new transmission.

Where am I? Back in the La Quinta Inn, of course. In fact, we got the last room they had. And it is the same one from last night. Bizarro.

Tomorrow (well, in about 5 hours) we leave before dawn, to make tracks, as it were. To get the hell out of Montana already. Gee, we love it here, but, enough is enough.

This morning we finally ascended the Going To The Sun Road in Glacier National Park (which we had attempted twice last week) and arrived at Logan Pass, some 6,000 plus feet up there at the Continental Divide. And do you know, we have crossed said divide so many times on this trip that it has become anticlimactic? True fact. Not only that, but we have done it at far greater heights (which is probably what blew the transmission to begin with).

At the Logan Pass visitor center, we hiked about a mile up above the tree line, saw marmots and ground squirrels and mountain goats, and then came back down. It was a trek, to be sure, since H. had Elliot on her back and I had the Tobester on my shoulders. But it was worth it, as we encountered our first batch of alpine air, devoid of the smoke that clouds most of this state and makes it stink like last night's cozy fire.

We were back in Kalispell about 2-ish, to learn the car was not yet ready. We killed time. We killed more time. We killed Time yet again (first degree manslaughter, at least). Then we were off to Celtic Motors, where H. waited with Stuart and Toby for the final tally on the Volvo while I went to Enterprise to return the Jetta (which looked like the inside of a box of Fruit Loops that had collided with a box of Cheez-Its in the Fourth Dimension of Matter and Magazines). Around 5:15, H. rescued Elliot and I, finding us out front of Enterprise looking like a pair of forlorn Okies who had failed to outrun the Dust Bowl.

To say that we are frazzled barely scratches the surface. Our patience and resilience has been tested too many times, and we now live in fear of another breakdown somewhere between Kalispell and Tyngsborough. That's what happens when your trusted new mechanic tells you it looks like the oil hasn't been changed in your car in over 4 years (we've had it for three and paid for numerous oil changes). That's what happens when your trusted new mechanic tells you the inside of your old transmission looked like a Civil War-era steam locomotive had collided with a back alley dumpster from Love Canal in the Fourth Dimension of Transmission Fluid and Dime Novels.

Our plan is this: Drive until our eyes turn purple. With a few stops (Wall Drug, The Corn Palace, The Spam Museum). It is our hope, remote though it may be, to be home by Sunday night. But it looks iffy -- iffy even in a world of 100 mph speed limits, empty interstates, and flawless seven year old Volvo station wagons.

I suspect this is where the fun begins. Although I thought the same thing at the Louisville Slugger Factory.

Do you think it's just that Pennsylvania has it in for me? After all those things I said? Well, it can't be helped. I meant what I said about the Keystone State.

(photo at top: Lake MacDonald, Glacier N.P. last week -- note forest fire smoke through the middle of the photo)

Yawn.

Old Faithful, Sunday, August 11, 2007, 3:03 p.m. No noise. No fanfare. Just a lot of hot water and a thumbing of the nose at what one normally expects to see rocketing skyward from a hole in the ground. Truly, this is a majestic sight. The earth is a very silly place.

He Got the Joke

Around the time of this photo, we made references to eating a bowl of spicy chili the night before. The six year old understood it. Hilarity ensued.

New Friends

Stuart (with beloved apple) and Toby (with new friend, Buff the Bison). In the background, a Yellowstone Jackrabbit. No, actually, it's an elk. And I don't mean the elk crossing the road in front of the Nissan Quest minivan.

Gate of Heaven

Through this arch pass the luckiest people on earth. The northwest entrance to Yellowstone National Park, outside Gardiner, MT.

Welcome Back to Kalispell

Well, well, well. We meet again. You, me, the Internet. With thanks to the La Quinta Inn & Suites' WiFi, I have news for you.

A new transmission!

But before we go there, let me bring you up to date on what happened to bring us where are today: Back in Kalispell.

We got the Volvo back on Friday, thanks to the Gang at Celtic Motors. Oh, that would be last Friday, like, um, the 9th or something like that. It was so long ago. (Reading our entries about the Lousiville Slugger factory make us long for July and its relative simplicity.) So, anyway, the folks at Celtic replaced two sensors, gave the car a few test drives, and pronounced it provisionally healthy. By 5 in the afternoon, we were driving through the entrance of Glacier National Park, happy to be reunited with our car. In the evening, we packed our things and put our bags by the door. At 6 a.m., we (H. and I) were loading the car and we departed Spoon Lake at 7:45-ish.

Keep in mind, we had driven the car about 45 miles the night before. All seemed right with the world.

Well, 45 minutes down the road from Columbia Falls we glided into the tiny hamlet of Lakeside, Montana, on the shores of enormous Flathead Lake. Coming into town, we slowed in traffic to about 10 mph, when the car started rumbling as if being driven over pavement rumbled strips.

"Is that the car or the road?" Asked Heather.

"I don't know," I replied.

But as soon as traffic picked up and I tried to accelerate, all the same old warning lights came on in the dash, and the car would barely move. Pedal to the metal, I was lucky to keep the beast rolling into the nearest parking lot. What ensued was the most disturbingly stressful and absurdly frustrating wait of my life (although the family was a bunch of troopers, thanks in no small part to a nearby elementary school and its sweet playground).

Ridiculously long story short, we were towed (on a flatbed) back into Kalispell about 70 minutes later. It was a Saturday morning and Celtic Motors was closed for the weekend, but we left the car there anyway and took the aforementioned Red VW Jetta from Enterprise.

By 1:45 in the afternoon, we were on the road once more, in borrowed car, headed for Livingston, MT, where we had previously booked a room for our intended passage through Yellowstone on our WAY HOME!

We spent Sunday tooling around the glorious roads and through the grand scenery of that most majestic of parks, Yellowstone. Haven't been there? Go. Now. Been there before? Go. Again. Think National Parks are a waste of time? Get your head examined.

Of course, Stuart earned another Junior Ranger badge at Yellowstone. We drove into the Grand Tetons National Park, too, which was just sickeningly gorgeous. Saw moose, elk, mule deer, and bison in Yellowstone, including one bison H. could have reached out and touched beside the Jetta. Saw Old Faithful (and her absurd hordes of observers), Yellowstone Lake, and so many awesome trout rivers. Trout rivers, trout rivers, trout rivers. Holy guacamole! My breathing is getting erratic just thinking about them. Let me pause here.

We decided to remain in Livingston another night (the hotel had a nicely heated swimming pool the kids LOVED) and spent Monday in and around beautiful (and affluent) Bozeman. This included a stop at the legendary Reproduction Fabrics Quilt Shop and the delightfully dinosaur-packed Museum of the Rockies. And another night in Livingston.

Tuesday morning, we packed the car with all our gear and headed into Yellowstone once more, for a few more hikes, a few more souvenirs, and a few more good times. And, oh, another look at all those trout rivers. (Gulp.) After all that, at about 3, we headed out of the area, along the back routes, and landed once more in Butte.

Ugh. Butte.

At least we made two good decisions this time: We stayed at the super-clean Days Inn and ate at the local MacKenzie River Pizza Company (a Montana chain highly recommended to you Montana visitors).

This morning we extracted ourselves from Butte and drove through the smoke and ashes on our way back here to Kalispell.

Oh. Yeah. I forgot. Back on Monday morning I called Celtic Motors. The words were, "You need a new transmission. We're getting one from Boise. It'll be here Wednesday, if all goes well."

I stopped by Celtic today when we rolled into Kalispell. The Volvo was up on the rack, its underbelly exposed, a new (used) transmission being transplanted. We hope it'll be done tomorrow afternoon.

In the morning? One more try for Logan Pass at the top of Glacier National Park. Hope the Jetta makes it.

What did you miss?

Here's the blog I wrote last week to bring you up to speed. I couldn't post it at the time, but here it is now. To keep you wanting more:

Vild Fires and Volvo Voes, Among Other Things
It has been said, facetiously, that a lot can happen in a year. I’d tell you that a lot more can happen in even just a few days. For it has indeed been more than a few days since my last entry here and quite a bit has occurred.
First, we must remember the unforgettable lines stamped on each copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy: Don’t Panic. Digest those words, make them your credo, yes, even consider having them tattooed in fluorescent ink inside your eyelids.
We arrived in Columbia Falls, Montana, on Sunday afternoon, August 5th, around 2 p.m. After a warm greeting from Paul and Melissa, and meeting their daughter Zadie for the first time, we set to work on pressing matters. Which were? Extracting the fly fishing gear from the car and then lifting the car over our heads and shaking all the bags, toys, and assorted detritus of the road trip loose from every nook and cranny a Volvo offers. The dirt driveway soon resembled the garbage cans you find at one of those do-it-yourself car washes, the garbage cans right next to the industrial strength vacuums. Disgusting. Stuart was soon out on Spoon Lake with “Uncle” Paul in one of the canoes here at the cabin, while Elliot and Toby rejoiced in being set free from the bondage of their car seats.
Monday morning brought our foray into Columbia Falls to buy fishing licenses and to get a feel for what the local waters might hold for the avid fly fisherman. Sprinkled in among the many profanities at Arends Fly Shop was a chuck wagon full of information about the boulders and fast water of the Flathead River. Bull Trout and Westslope Cutthroat Trout run in these water, as well as rainbows deep in fast runs. But there was a clear warning that proved very accurate about the Flathead, particularly the North Fork where we are doing much of our river fishing: The water is “gin clear” and a helluva lot deeper than it looks. That spot where you think you might find yourself thigh-deep is actually going to put you in over your head. The water is that clear.
And what beautiful water. Paul and I were out on the main stretch of the Flathead by afternoon, and though we landed no fish, I did have about a dozen hits from trout of varying size. This was Paul’s first serious effort at fly-fishing and he did well. Since Monday, we’ve spent much of our fishing time, for a number of reasons, out on Spoon Lake casting flies for cutthroat trout, which are in abundance in the water here, as well as the dreaded Yellow Perch.
In other, more breathtaking news, we are suffering the effects of at least two of the five major wildfires raging here around Glacier National Park. Due west, beyond Whitefish, MT, a huge fire roars skyward, sending a steady plume of smoke our way. Pretty sad to see, and it does a fair job of wrecking the views within “super scenic” Glacier National Park itself.
Tuesday we went into the park via the North Fork Road, a washboard dirt road 15 miles long – it took 45 minutes. Much of the drive found the trout-laden North Fork of the Flathead on our right and scorched forest on our left (scorched by wildfires four and five years ago. The vistas were stark and gut-wrenching. The ride was butt-busting. But we eventually made it into Glacier and down to MacDonald Lake, where we ate a picnic lunch before the afternoon was washed out by an enormous thunderstorm. No rain fell on the fires (not that it was enough to help anyway), but it was enough to ruin our planned hike.
In the evening, Paul and I ventured onto Spoon Lake in the canoe, fishing from after dinner (7:30) until sunset (9:45). As the sunlight finally broke from the horizon, we were swarmed by the most insistent squadron of bats I have ever encountered – bats which swooped across the bow of the canoe and swirled between Paul at the bow and myself at the stern. The result? Well, I have never paddled a canoe faster in my life. Bats were still dodging our swinging fly rods as we bolted from the shore for the door of the cabin.
Creepy.
This morning we once more drove into Glacier. This time on a paved road. And Volvo struck again. After leaving the booths where the Park Service collects its fees, two warning lights came on in the dash – the transmission was misbehaving. Badly. We were in two cars and the Savelles tried to soldier on over the insistence of the blinking warning lights. Eventually, the weakened transmission (going in and out of “limp home” mode) forced us to abandon our plans within Glacier once more. In the afternoon, Paul followed me as I drove the Volvo into Kalispell to the nearest capable transmission specialist. Nick at Flathead Transmission Services was unable to diagnose to problem, but sent us on to Celtic Motors, where they specialize in Celtic cars. No. Actually, they specialize in Beamers, VeeDubs, and Volvos. At Celtic, they’re nearly positive, once again, that our problem is a faulty sensore. But we won’t know until THEIR diagnostic computer is back from being repaired, possibly a few days.
Not to worry, folks at home. We have some time to spare, and have plans to rent a car and spend the weekend down at Yellowstone and Grand Tetons. If there are major problems with the car, my “friends” at Volvo can expect a court date. And a car I once loved is now slated for the auction block. Seriously. Enough is enough.
Anyway, we’re in fine spirits and continue to have a great time. The landscape out here is awesome, truly, and Spoon Lake itself is home to dozens of loons, which wake us with their haunting morning call. At the far end of the lake a nearly-mature bald eagle has made its home, and we have seen mule deer just a few yards from the front door. Standing on the deck overlooking the lake in the early morning or anytime between 6 p.m. and sunset, you can see the circular ripples made on the surface of th water by rising trout. And despite car trouble, we’re going back to the park as well as heading out for still more wading/fly fishing on the incredible North Fork of the Flathead. And why not? Today, Paul caught his first fish on a fly. Good for him.
Honestly, don’t let our car trouble worry you. We’re not letting it. It’s simply adding some drama to a saggy blog.
And did you guess there’s no WiFi (or Internet to speak of) at the cabin?

The Wilderness

We are somewhat adrift in the wilderness. BUT! We are okay. We are having fun.

The Volvo is in Kalispell, awaiting a new transmission, due to arrive today (we have been told and we trust this is true). As soon as Celtic Motors gets the new tranny, they say they'll start putting it in.

Meanwhile, we have spent two days in Yellowstone, a day tooling around Bozeman, and find ourselves in Butte once again, thanks to our rented VW Jetta (now as messy and stinky as the Volvo was).

Anyway, this is a short entry. Internet access was spotty in Livingstone and non-existent in Columbia Falls. I have a lot to tell you when I get time. Maybe tonight, from either Missoula or even Kalispell.

No Corny Titles Here

Greetings from Livingston, Montana. Here's a quick dispatch for you, with details to come soon.

The Volvo broke down. Twice. Currently, we're driving a rented VW Jetta for a weekend at Yellowstone before heading back to Columbia Falls/Kalispell to, we hope, get a fixed Volvo early in the week.

Otherwise, though without a car for a better part of the last week, our stay in Columbia Falls was delightful. Westslope Cutthroat Trout are a blast to catch.

Everyone's fine. Details to come.

Wake Up and Smell the Butte

Good morning from Butte, MT. Yesterday was a long drive out of Utah and through Idaho to reach Montana at long last. The downside is that a head cold running through the Volvo has finally reached Elliot, giving him the worst of i; the upside is that we got to stop at the Potato Expo and Museum in Blackfoot, Idaho, to see the World's Largest potato "crisp" (which is a Pringle to you and me).

Then it was on to Montana and our stop in Butte. And Butte seems to have gotten the Butte-end of excitement in all of Montana. But this morning we are loading up and getting ready to press on with the last four hours of our travels. Tonight we plan to be resting at Melissa and Paul's place on Spoon Lake.

Internet? We'll see.

This Is Not A Joke

There were countless signs like this one between Ouray, Colorado, and the road into Durango, Colorado. It was a 74 mile trip that took 3 hours. We took the Volvo across three mountain passes in excess of 10,000 feet, I believe.

The ETS light has come on again three times now, and it has gone off again each time after stopping and restarting the engine (not on purpose, but simply because of what we were doing). For Sale: One tempermental Volvo XC-70.

At one point on Thursday, the Volvo and its occupants reached a 12,000 foot summit. No photos were taken.

Hey, you get to the top and then its time to go down. No time for games.

Everything He Said Was Dead-On

This is a photo of a guy named John Van Hayden (I hope I got that right). He lives in Taos, New Mexico. We met him in Canon City (pronounced Canyon), Colorado. He gave us plenty of tips about the fantastic scenery and roads into, out of, and through the Rockies, and the Black Canyon National Park area. He described it all in such detail and with such a passion that I wanted him to come along with us. The problem? Where would we fit him?

Here he is showing off his hand-rebuilt Indian motorcycle, which he was riding back to Taos from the Canon City area. One of the nicest guys I've ever met on the road, and certainly living his life the way he wants.

Thanks, John, for all the spot-on info.

Storms Were Brewing

Kids. Toby on left, Stuart on right. Major thunderstorm brewing in the background. Nice to see they haven't been wrapped in duct tape by their parents yet.

The Smell of Mitt and Plenty More

Provo, Utah. Mitt Romney country. Oh, no, wait, he was governor of Massachusetts, right? Hard to believe, seeing as how he spent about 7 hours and 32 minutes of his 4 year term actually doing anything in Massachusetts. Most of that had to do with the Big Dig tunnel collapse.

But you don't come here to read my political views (much). You go here and here for that. Or here.

But this is Utah, which is Romney country. And we slipped into Provo late on Friday night, after a long day of doing quite a bit. We have yet to see Mitt, or his hair, or his seventeen kids, but we have otherwise seen a lot today.

Friday morning found us in Durango, Colorado. Thursday had been a beautiful day of mountains, mountains, mountains. Friday was desert, desert, mesa, desert. We were on the road out of Durango but 7:30 a.m., Mountain Time, and soon wandered into Mesa Verde National Park to see the ancient cliff dwellings of the Ancestral Puebloans. The dwellings were nothing short of impressive, and Stuart, Toby, and I even climbed down into one of their kivas -- an underground chamber for spiritual worship. Wicked cool. I can tell you those ancestral Puebloans were short people, around Stuart's height it seems. Well, okay, maybe a foot taller, but no more. The cliff dwellings were outrageously beautiful and walking among them -- even with the French Canadian, German, Italian, and Tennessean tourists -- was enough to take your breath away. It took little to imagine being a resident of those parts in those times (some 800 years ago or more), living a simple life of hunting and farming on the glorious mesas of southwestern Colorado. But cups of coffee were scarce, and it was time to move on.

By early afternoon we had crossed into Utah and on into Moab, spiritual home of the late, great Edward Abbey. A short spell up route 191 was the entrance to Arches National Park, home of such great geologic formations as Balanced Rock, Delicate Arch, Double Arch, Pothole Arch, the Windows, and Park Avenue. As mentioned in the previous post, Stuart earned his third Junior Park Ranger badge at Arches, which was a difficult feat. The little guy, like the rest of us, could hardly contain himself in the midst of so much natural beauty.

America, why do you do this to me? First the Lousiville Slugger Factory tour. Now Arches National Park? Are you mad? And in between, America, your Rocky Mountains and the sheer delight and trout madness of Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park?

Stop it, America. You may make me love you again.

Oh, what am I saying? America, I have always loved you, your natural beauty, your crazy peasants and their crazy aspirations to become the next Getty or Gates or Buffett or (Eric) Savelle. I love your byways, your highways, your maddening lane closures and your muddy trout rivers carrying runoff from a bizarre summer desert rain.

Anyway, Arches was, as you'd expect, pure and simple awesomeness, from entrance to exit.

Afterwards, it was on through the deserts of Utah (including the 100 mile stretch of I-70 where the only exits were to ranches and highway services of any kind were nonesistent -- did we fuel-up at the right time?) until we arrived south of Salt Lake City in the city of Provo.

Tomorrow? Who knows? We'll either head for Columbia Falls and our final destination, or head to Yellowstone.

Note of Warning: Once we're at our final destination outside Columbia Falls, Montana, I am uncertain what our Internet access will be. So posts to the blog may slow or even cease for a bit. We'll see. I have tonnes (as the Brits would say) more to tell you. So much we have seen, so much we have learned. However, long days and late nights have prevented me from getting to all of it.

Savelles On Parade

A couple of photos for you of us at the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park on Thursday. We went without WiFi on Thursday night and rolled into Provo, Utah, tonight (Friday) very very very very late. Sorry for the lack of posts, but more to come. We're having a great time.

Please note H.'s new Bass Pro Shops t-shirt in trendy brown with pink logo!

At Black Canyon, Stuart became an official Junior Ranger for the National Park Service. He earned additional badges today (Friday) at Mesa Verde and Arches National Parks.

A Quick One While You're Away

Today was primarily a travel day. Tonight we are in Pueblo, Colorado. Tomorrow: Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park.

Perhaps even a little . . . fly-fishing?

We are 4,668 feet above sea level. And gaining. Oh, and it's Mountain Time, so, as I write this, many of you people are waking to a hot cup of coffee and I'm just about ready to go to bed. And, yes, I find some irony in this being called the "Pittsburgh of the West." Looking at Pueblo, I find it truly plausible that this town was cut from the same cloth as the Steeltown, USA.

P.S. No, we had no intention of taking I-35.

Wish You Could Come Back and Give 'Em Hell, Harry

Hot diggity.

Independence, Missouri, featured our best bathroom stop and picnic area of the day. The Harry S. Truman Presidential Library and Museum. It wasn't solely a bathroom stop, I must declare. For we honor and respect the man from Independence far too much for that. But it was a timely stop. We were in the area and it was lunch time and where better to find manicured grounds, shady trees and a nearby playground than this?

Stuart, being the swift and inquisitive type, was taken with the history of Truman and his once-little town. He sat riveted through the biographical film and enjoyed taking in the memorabilia on display. There was the "The Buck Stops Here" desk plaque and the recreation of Truman's Oval Office. It was truly a wonderful museum and a great little stop on our journey.

Where is Harry Truman, a straight-talking man, when we most desperately need him? Friends and family from the Left and the Right, I feel compelled to dare you to find as true and honest and thoughtful and simple a man in politics today as Harry Truman. I won't actually do it because I don't want the Comments section filled with your failed attempts to find someone.

But Harry S. Truman? Once again, America, you have rocked my world. And I thank you for it and for "Give 'Em Hell, Harry" Truman. And thanks for not letting Dewey defeat him.

Afterward, we dined at the McCoy Municipal Playground. Nice.

Tonight, we find ourselves deep inna heart of Kansas. McPherson, Kansas, for those of you following along on the map. We have been traveling on Kansas Route 56, and head for Dodge City in the morning. Everyone is well and happy and, of course, a bit tired. But we've found another motel with a pool, and that was great. And we are seeing the most viscerally honest areas of this great state, it's small farm towns, its rolling, verdant prairies, its majestic grain elevators, and we are meeting its fine citizens. We made it to Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve too late for a tour, but we were surrounded by its beauty and, to be honest, seeing it made you realize just how flippin' crazy the pioneers were. It took a pair of brass somethings to settle this area.

Kansas, so far, I salute you.

And 65 mph on your secondary routes? Suh-weet!

Turn Your Stomach, Mr. Elephant

Florence, Missouri - The scene: A defunct shopping mall; one of those small, poorly conceived models of the late 1960s, early '70s. No place for man, woman, 'teen, nor 'tween. You aren't going to find anything nicer than a Spencer's. Anyway, the place was desolate and boarded up.

BUT! The circus was in town. And what did we spy next to the fence separating the mall parking lot from I-435? A circus elephant eating the leaves off some scrubby and dry plant-looking-piece of shrubbery.

No scene could have been uglier. What is wrong with people?

'Scuse Me? Come Again? Huh?

Huh?

I-70, west of Columbia.

The U.S. Submarine Veterans Memorial Highway.

How much farther away from the world’s oceans can you get and still dedicate a highway to the men and women of our underSEA forces? That’s just plain crazy. Pun intended, people.

But seriously. Submariners? Here? There’s no body of water out here deeper than your reproduction antique clawfoot bathtub with five whirlpool jets and built-in, cozy-corner headrest.

How odd.

More Thoughts Regarding Penna

What is it that sets Missouri and Pennsylvania apart? No, no, not just all the states and the hundreds of miles. There’s something else. How is it that I can tolerate – even enjoy – the vast, rolling nothingness of Missouri and bristle at the thought of having to traverse even a few miles of the Keystone State? I mean no offense to the residents and boosters of either state. It’s a mystery to me, sort of.

Of course, there’s the deeper meaning of both states. Pennsylvania is still The East. Missouri? Gateway to The West. Pennsylvania, for all its veins of jagged ridges and ironic conical mountains, is a claustrophobic place. Missouri is open, flat, and basking under a big, warm sky. Still, shouldn’t there be charms in Pennsylvania where there are feelings of animosity toward Missouri?

The week after H. and I got engaged, I left my bride-to-be to spend two weeks working in southern Missouri. The work required hours and hours of travel around the southern half of the state, stopping at the very least in every county’s courthouse, and more places besides. I was alone. I was bored. I spent a lot of time in a stinky Ford Taurus without any decent music. Nights and days of bad food eaten alone in fetid motel rooms. Then a weekend alone, with little to do, in St. Louis (where I encountered a new low in Hollywood moviemaking: The Flinstone’s movie). Bo-ring! So I shouldn’t like Missouri, I should associate with negative things, like, um, Dumpster Diving. And chicken fried steak at Ponderosa Steak House.

But. I still enjoy my travels in Missouri. The Show-Me State still seems to have a lot of highway and byway to show me. And I appreciate it.

Pennsylvania? Eh. Zilch.

Volvo Problems Solved

We have figured out a way around the warning lights issue with the Volvo. This solution also provides a great deal more space for all our gear. Drawback? Two ox power. We take delivery tomorrow, after the thing is detailed.

Gateway to the West

It's Central Time, friends. Which is like Miller Time, except I'm talking about Time Zones and drinking a Jim Beam and cola. So while you should be asleep and deep into Stage 4 REM sleep, I should only be getting ready to watch Lantern-Jaw Leno on the Tonight Show.

The scene: Room 309, Quality Inn & Suites, St. Charles, Missouri, on the banks of the Missouri River. Three sleeping boys, a wife poring over the atlas, and Stan Getz on the stereo. Mmmmm, Stan Getz. He's like butter. Actually, he's more like a B.L.T., with extra B. Smooth, smoky, with hints of salt and a delightful tanginess you won't forget until next time.

Whatever.

After the baseball bat thing and lunch on the edge of the Ohio River with Jen and the girls, we took to the open road. And by "took to the open road" I mean we drove through some scary parts of Louisville looking for a liquor store with a great bourbon selection and THEN headed out onto the highway (yes, I got the bourbon I needed). On the open road, we traversed southern Indiana and southern Illinois, without incident. We watched the passing of mile after mile of corn fields and wondered, "Where are all the people?" But it was awe-inspiring, as that kind of land seems to be what America is about. You get the sense there's a quiet strength there, in the land, the people, the idea of the place.

After dinner, we crossed Big Muddy (which is what cool people call the Missississisiisiisisippi Longstocking River; I mean, the Mississippi River) and stopped for an intimate gathering with the Gateway Arch. It was just Heather, Stuart, Toby, Elliot, me and about 1000 other people. A nice, quiet time. But much-needed, since our car-weary butts were crying out for a breather.

Anyway, nothing surpasses the thrill of the Gateway Arch (and Jefferson National Monument to the Expansion Westward or whatever it is) as far as arch-visiting is concerned. We arrived too late to take the ride up into the arch, but I doubt anyone in the party was up for the one hour committment at that point anyway. But it was a thrill and a half. Five years ago, on our roadtrip to LA, we stopped with Stuart at the arch. It was cool to watch him stare in wonder at it this time, a six year old in awe. Totally cool.

Some time later, we pulled into the Quality Inn (bummed to see about eight police cars surrounded one little vehicle in the parking lot) and got our room. After a nice swim, we're ready to call it a day.

And what a fine day it was.

Me, Stuart, Manny Ramirez as One

Oh yeah. Think about it. If you remove politics and religion from the equation, and all the fundamentalists associated therewith, and then take away the Paris Hiltons and Lindsay Lohans and Garth Brookses of the world (I don't know why I lumped that lump in there), well, then America adds up to one sexy, fun place. And by sexy, well, I mean fun, really. And by fun I mean fun and nice and enjoyable. A place where you start thinking, "Yeah, I could raise a family in America." A place that tickles your fancy Monday through Friday, then ups the voltage on the tickle-meter about eight or nine notches come the weekend.

America, you are truly one sexy beast. And fun, too. America, you like to let your hair down at all the right times and you always remember to shave on Sundays. You, America, never fail to disappoint.

Take today. And take your Louisville, Kentucky.

Take today and your Louisville Slugger Baseball Bat Factory and Tour. Oh, man, America, that was some kind of craziness. Insane, baby. Let me tell you something, sweetheart, America, your Louisville baseball bats are gorgeous. And your factory and tour was one delicious, hedonistic stroll through so much baseball lore; man, I nearly passed out. Then, America, when the tour guide handed ME the Manny Ramirez bat? A real, true bat destined for the hands of Manny (whose smile my mother sees and turns to girlie-girl mush over? you know it!) "Moonshot" Ramirez? And then my baseball-addicted eldest son got to hold it too?

Get out of town, America! You treated us a little too well today. Except when the tour guide handed me the A-Rod bat at the end of the tour. Yuck. I think I got baseball cooties.

The Louisville Slugger baseball bat factory: If you call yourself an American, you owe it to yourself to stop by when you're in or near Louisville. Just be prepared: You are NOT allowed to take photos during the tour. BUT, you ARE allowed to purchase a custom engraved, regulation Louisville Slugger (photos of ours coming tomorrow).

Why do you owe it to yourself to stop there if you consider yourself an American? Well, even those of you who might not be sports fans must realize how integral to the fabric of America is the sport of baseball. Our country has grown up with it. It is still pretty close to pure, and it is all-American, like jazz, or Frank Carvel, or Haggar slacks, or JCPenney. Heck, it's as American as the frankfurter.

Go. Run, don't walk, to the Louisville Slugger Factory. Become ONE with one of your favorite baseball players. And don't forget to take a few swings in the batting cages INSIDE the factory floor! How much sweeter can it get? (Well, a little sweeter. Like maybe David Ortiz could have showed up at the batting cages and given me some pointers on my swings. All I managed were some foul pops.)

Preparing to Leave Orbit

Much like the Apollo missions of a long time ago, we spent the day in orbit, getting ready to really head out into the long unknown. You know, that day away from the confines of the East Coast, but not yet out of the Eastern time zone, much like a day in orbit around the Earth before crossing the many miles to the Moon. Our orbit consisted of an entire day with Jen, Michael, Eden, Audrey, and Penelope in Cincinnati, and it was a good one. I'd really really really love to be able to say that we all slept late and woke well-rested and eager for another day away from home, but...

We woke at the usual time (which was far too early), spent the morning playing in the yard, playing on the swings, playing at the sand table, playing under the sprinkler. After lunch (consisting of delectable Skyline Cincinnati Chili dogs), we took the families out for a romp at a local "sprayground." A good way to cool down and blow off some steam.

It's been a great day. Without incident. Great hosts in a great house. Did I mention without incident? And no one from the Pennsylvania Tourism Office has called me to read me the riot act over that previous post. Score one for brutal honesty.

In the morning? Louisville, Kentucky, for our custom Louisville Slugger baseball bat, maybe a stop at the Bourbon History Museum (with some sampling of the local wares - mmmmm mmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmm), then on to St. Louis, MO: Gateway to the West.

Methinks this could be interesting. Stay with us. The people are getting ever-friendlier, so you know we're getting nearer to the Mighty Mississippi.

For Those Who Need to Know

We reached Cincinnati last night at about 11:30-ish. Tuckered and road-weary, it was the longest strecth we plan on doing in a car in one day. The haul from eastern PA was a long and boring one, highlighted by a pass through Wheeling, West Virginia.

That was a joke. Get it? "Highlighted"? "Wheeling"?

I slay me.

Anyway, we're all fine and so is the Volvo. Thanks for asking.

Pennsylvania: A Few Notes

Rust. Cracked highways. Tunnels. Dangerous curves.

Appalachia + Grand Ol' Opry + Hunting + Fishing + ATVs = Pennsylvania.

Official State Color: Camouflage

And why no direct ramp from I-81 to the PENNA Turn Pike?

Pennsylvania, we need to talk.

Crayolatown

Crayola, you’re a little devil. You build yourself an activity center and suck us suckers right in. And good for you. You, Crayola, went and built one fine stopping-off point in the no-man’s land between Nowheresville, NJ, and Nothingtown, PA. To be fair, your choice location in downtown Easton, Pennsylvania, was not nearly as drab and dreary as the 4th Street exit from Route 33 would suggest.

Better yet, Crayola, after letting us get our feet wet in the calm “art project” areas you are filled with, you wouldn’t let us step right into your Crayola Store. You made us play with all your nifty magic clay, your sweet, water-washable markers, your thousands upon thousands of rainbow-brite crayons, and your fat, child-sized-hand-friendly sidewalk chalk (on an indoor, ultra-smooth sidewalk, no less). Our interest was at a frenzy. Where could we purchase this stuff for the trip? For the ride home? For home itself?

Over there. Next door. Go outside and down 75 feet to Crayola Heaven: The Crayola STORE (home of the world’s largest crayon, by the way – and no, I didn’t take a picture of it due to some oversight – I know, so sue me).

And what will you find at the Crayola Store? EVERYTHING. Well, everything Crayola, anyway. And glorious stuff it is. Reasonably priced. And all in such bold and kid-friendly colors. Enter the Crayola Store and watch your kid’s (or kids’) eyes explode. You could actually hear kids’ hearts pounding, their breathing get rapid, the sweat forming on their brows. Yes. Hear it. You don’t believe me? Take a kid there and listen closely.

Crayola. Easton, PA. Highly recommended. And don’t miss the National Canal Museum upstairs from the Crayola Activity Center because it is also a good time for everyone. There’s even a room-sized miniature canal model that has locks YOU can navigate through and control. Sweet. Beats the Dickens out of a train set.

Bye, You Two

Happily, we ran into Paul and Becky right as we were leaving Heather's office. Paul is leaving Dynogen and heading off to Architecture school this fall. He'll be architecting his butt off soon. See you'se two in September.

(left to right: Paul, Becky, Innocent Bystander)

Open Up and Say, "I'm Full."

This is what the way-back of the Volvo looked like leaving Massachusetts. A few items are destined for off-loading in Cincinnati.

If I told you we packed lighter than usual, would you believe me?

No, that's not a crib for Elliot.

Note to hitckhikers: We'd love to help you out with a ride, but, um, where would you and your creepy looking girlfriend sit, anyway?

Day One: It's a Wrap

Comfort Suites, Scranton, PA - So. This is it. Day one done. I wish I could tell you we had some marvelous adventures already, but. . . No. We actually got on the road earlier than expected, made Cheshire for a pit stop with Mom, then more of the same. Asphalt. Jersey barriers. Pokey drivers blithely cruising along below the speed limit in the left lane mucking up an otherwise suitable interstate highway system. Trucks. Kids eating goldfish crackers and Swedish fish (I sense a fish theme emerging).

Ah, then the mountains of northwestern Pennsylvania and clouds as black as the coal they mine in the opposite corner of the state. Sheesh! Holy crap! I hadn't driven through rain pouring that hard since I spent two weeks in southern Missouri back in the early '90s. Heavy weather.

But we made it into Scranton without incident. Got our room (which we'd reserved from the road) and that was basically it. If you keep coming back to read blog entries this lame, I'll never hear the end of it.

(Photo, from left: Stuart, Old Tiger, Elliot, The Tobester)

This Is It, People

Well, now that the Red Sox stuck it to the Indians and the Yankees finally dropped one to KC, I guess it's okay for us to begin our road trip. Wait. What? What has major league baseball got to do with 10,000 miles of open (sort of) highway? Well, nothing. I just wanted to thank Manny Ramirez and Wily Mo Pena for the big blasts last night, and thank the lowly Kansas City Royals for shutting out the Bombers. Way to go, everyone!

Well, this is it, people. Today we begin the journey westward. We got our Conestoga back from the dealer yesterday, presumably all ready to go. But before I could take the car home, the kindly folks at Lovering Volvo, hoping to avoid a lawsuit, printed up a list of authorized Volvo dealers in many of the states we'll be traveling through. Fills you with confidence, doesn't it? (Note to investors: There are no Volvo dealers in Wyoming, and one in Montana. Maybe it's time for Savelle Volvo of Cheyenne? Or Savelle Volvo of Billings? Have your people give my people a call.)

Not much more to say at the moment. We loaded a few things into the car last night and just about everything else is ready to go in, which I'll be getting to shortly.

Next post: From the Road, perhaps.

D-Day Minus One

A few things:

- First off, Stuart wants everyone to know that he has four teeth loose right now. Are we destined to have one drop out whilst we’re on the road? And how do we notify the Tooth Fairy to find us at the Days Inn in Gunnison, Colorado? (By the way, this is no endorsement of said hotel, simply a name and a probable destination used for narrative purposes. Hotel and motel endorsements will come later, like, once we’ve stayed in them.)

- Nice of everyone to show so much concern over the Volvo. I have been assured it will be ready today (by lunchtime, not that I have any way to go get it when it is ready) although no reason has been found for the ETS light to come on. Instead, we’re paying to have some electric cables replaced.

- Also, thanks to those who have left comments and those who have admitted to even bothering checking out this blog. We do hope you enjoy it.

Yesterday was Take Your Dogs to Camp Day, by which it is meant that “ye shall drive ye canines, which ye keepeth as pets, the three hours thou needst to drive into the provinces of yonder midcoast of the great state of Maine.” No amount of thanks can make up for the hardship Mom and Dad are about to endure in caring for Jigsaw and Hoover. Thanks, Mom and Dad! Anyway, I folded the seats down in Heather’s Focus, threw in the dogs, 50 pounds of dog food, and some other odds and ends, and hit the open road. Just a little taste of what is to come.

Of course along the way I asked the dogs, “Wanna see Oatmeal and Barley? Oatsie and Barsey?” in the classic sing-song voice that can only mean you are a.) talking to kids, b.) talking to dogs, or c.) talking to the highway patrolman who’s asking for your driver’s license and registration. They went from being complacent and sleepy to excited and eager and, finally, back to sleepy. They knew they were in for a treat, a vacation, a romp on the farm in Maine and the best way to show their excitement was by breathing their hot and stinky breath on the driver who’d foolishly asked the question to begin with. Let sleeping dogs lie.

With the dogs gone and Stuart headed to his friend George’s house this afternoon, Thursday, July 26th, has gone from being merely Garbage Day right on into Garbage-Laundry-Lawn Mowing Day.

Meanwhile, the kids are packed, the fly-fishing gear is packed, the snacks and maps and guides are packed. All we need now is to pack our clothes and put it all into the car. Right now, every last little thing we are bringing is stacked somewhere in the Dining Room. If this is the way Shackleton did it, I can only imagine what his dining room looked like before heading to the South Pole.

Wait. What car?

NOTE: You do realize that if the Volvo were not fixed in time, we’d be going West in the Focus, don’t you?

Warning Lights

This is the car we expect to drive across the country (the dog is vacationing elsewhere). That’s our hope, anyway. However, yet again, the car I seem to love seems not to love me back. Or it does love me, but is in one of those downward spirals a loved one sometimes finds him or herself in. Because love my car or hate my car, I am a little tired of warning lights glowing on my dashboard.

Last month, before the big trip to the Outer Banks, we dealt with a frustrating engine coolant warning light. It was basically a faulty coolant sensor, but the problem wasn’t solved until we’d had it to the dealer twice. Then the light came on before we were ready to head back home from Nags Head. Once again, and following another stop at Lovering Volvo in Nashua, New Hampshire, a faulty sensor was found to be the culprit.

What does the ETS (Electronic Throttle System) warning light mean? We’ll find out tomorrow. Or Wednesday. Or Thursday. The dealer couldn’t get me in before Thursday, but said if I dropped it off sooner, they might be able to squeeze it in. Yippee.

Am I supposed to have some sort of confidence in this vehicle? When I get to Kansas will I be looking for a new transportation option? I sense some drama unfolding. Perhaps even a wee bit of suspense for you, dear reader.

Anyone out there have a loaner for a three-week drive across the U.S.A. with three young kids?

By Way of Introduction

We're heading West in a big way, but in a rather small car. Most of you know that. Most of you know it'll be two adults and three kids (ages 6, 3, and 11.75 months) in one Volvo station wagon. And most of you know our ultimate destination is a log cabin -- being rented by two of our dearest friends -- on Spoon Lake outside the town of Columbia Falls, Montana, and just minutes from the west entrance to Glacier National Park.

This is our way of getting started. Our trip begins a week from today: July 27, 2007, some time after 1 o'clock in the afternoon (when the workday is over).

This is also our way of getting started with this blog. I hope there will be much more to come, including photos and commentary from others in the traveling party. We'll try to make you laugh, try to make you come back for more, and try to keep you entertained every day of our trip (as long as we get some WiFi on a daily basis). We hope you'll see a little of what we see along the road, including over half a dozen national parks and any number of roadside oddities, attractions, and museums.

More than just a road diary, with this blog we'll try to connect you to the West that we're heading off to enjoy.

Comments, suggestions, and general finger-pointing are welcome, of course.