near Santa Rosa, NM
east of Amarillo, TX
For June 30 and July 1, 2007
(Internet access difficulties in the past few days)
Saturday, June 30
Logged: 696.5 miles
Sunday, July 1
Logged: 504 miles
Cheapest gas thus far: $2.77 in Mt. Vernon, Missouri.
A few favorite highway signs:
“Wind Gusts May Exist” (New Mexico): This really means: you drive at your own risk; if there is a gust that appears out of nowhere and sweeps you off the highway forcing you to plunge to your death, we take no responsibility. Hey, we warned you!
“Severe Crosswinds”: In Texas. This would not have captured my attention except in comparison to the above. No tentative approach here, just direct. Of course, I’m wondering why there were no signs about the powerful stench when passing a huge cattle yard. It seems to me this was more dangerous than any nonexistent crosswind. How about: “Severe odor for next 2 miles. Proceed with caution.”
Oh, and one more…
“Do Not Drive Into Smoke”: I’m not even sure what this means, but it made several appearances on the I40 and I44 of Oklahoma.
Ooh, wait, one more highway oddity: the Adult Superstore. Right off the highway, like a McDonalds or a Love’s Travel Stop. Big sign reading “Adult Video” right along side of a souvenir shop called “Calico Country.” The gigantic, anticipatory billboards advertising, “Adult Superstore 15 miles ahead Exit 38,” just like the billboard advertising a drive-thru Animal Paradise (petting zoo, ice cream, etc.), a must see for the whole family, Exit NOW. Even truckers get lonely? I thought that’s what a CB was for. Or are Ma and Pa tired of watching the Disney DVDs in the minivan? Somethin’ for everyone on the road, I s'pose.
On a more reflective note…
Walt Whitman. Woody Guthrie. How does anyone wrap up such varied landscape into a single lyric? Varied, even over only four states, driving only two interstates. I have not, until now, driven east of Albuquerque (be assured, I have traveled, but only by air), so I was rather taken with the beauty of eastern New Mexico, northern Texas, and Oklahoma. My trusty road atlas informs me of the right highway, allows me to estimate distance, and gives me the name of every small speck of a town between more well known ports of call. But it doesn’t indicate terrain; the road atlas says nothing of the landscape. It doesn’t tell me “gorgeous scenic view of New Mexican plains, verdant in summer, low rolling hills of coniferous shrubs, perfect for that Kodak moment, especially if there are spots of pillow clouds hanging oh so gracefully in the sky.” No glossing for the Texas prairie, or for the huge sky that wraps around the earth, or for the wildflowers that give a sunny shimmery sheen to the pale green prairie grass. No endnotes about the hills and near-New England green of Oklahoma. Why is it that the only image I had of Oklahoma was of the dusty land of the 1930s? The dramatic shift to the Ozarks in Missouri did not go unnoticed, but my romantic vision of landscape was put on hold when I found myself in the middle of a rainstorm and trying to avoid the fearless truckers who could care less about the waves of water their giant tires can spew on to the vehicles directly behind them, reducing visibility even more and increasing the likelihood of hydroplaning. I learned quickly to take advantage of the uphill grades which my Honda climbed effortlessly, making it possible for me to pass any semi through its watery wake with only a few seconds of lost visual contact with whatever was outside my windshield—advantage: me.
I can’t begin to do the scenery justice without treacle or cliché, both crimes I’ve committed above. It does, however, remind me of Whitman and Guthrie who were able to poetically, and memorably, catalogue the vastness and illustrate their admiration (even if one assumed a democratic right to the landscape and the other had to demand this right) for all of the possibilities and opportunities this varied landscape promised. And they both did so also reminding us of the cost to others. I couldn’t help but think about this as well every time I passed a sign informing me I was driving through, or leaving, one of several Indian reservations.
(Internet access difficulties in the past few days)
Saturday, June 30
Logged: 696.5 miles
Sunday, July 1
Logged: 504 miles
Cheapest gas thus far: $2.77 in Mt. Vernon, Missouri.
A few favorite highway signs:
“Wind Gusts May Exist” (New Mexico): This really means: you drive at your own risk; if there is a gust that appears out of nowhere and sweeps you off the highway forcing you to plunge to your death, we take no responsibility. Hey, we warned you!
“Severe Crosswinds”: In Texas. This would not have captured my attention except in comparison to the above. No tentative approach here, just direct. Of course, I’m wondering why there were no signs about the powerful stench when passing a huge cattle yard. It seems to me this was more dangerous than any nonexistent crosswind. How about: “Severe odor for next 2 miles. Proceed with caution.”
Oh, and one more…
“Do Not Drive Into Smoke”: I’m not even sure what this means, but it made several appearances on the I40 and I44 of Oklahoma.
Ooh, wait, one more highway oddity: the Adult Superstore. Right off the highway, like a McDonalds or a Love’s Travel Stop. Big sign reading “Adult Video” right along side of a souvenir shop called “Calico Country.” The gigantic, anticipatory billboards advertising, “Adult Superstore 15 miles ahead Exit 38,” just like the billboard advertising a drive-thru Animal Paradise (petting zoo, ice cream, etc.), a must see for the whole family, Exit NOW. Even truckers get lonely? I thought that’s what a CB was for. Or are Ma and Pa tired of watching the Disney DVDs in the minivan? Somethin’ for everyone on the road, I s'pose.
On a more reflective note…
Walt Whitman. Woody Guthrie. How does anyone wrap up such varied landscape into a single lyric? Varied, even over only four states, driving only two interstates. I have not, until now, driven east of Albuquerque (be assured, I have traveled, but only by air), so I was rather taken with the beauty of eastern New Mexico, northern Texas, and Oklahoma. My trusty road atlas informs me of the right highway, allows me to estimate distance, and gives me the name of every small speck of a town between more well known ports of call. But it doesn’t indicate terrain; the road atlas says nothing of the landscape. It doesn’t tell me “gorgeous scenic view of New Mexican plains, verdant in summer, low rolling hills of coniferous shrubs, perfect for that Kodak moment, especially if there are spots of pillow clouds hanging oh so gracefully in the sky.” No glossing for the Texas prairie, or for the huge sky that wraps around the earth, or for the wildflowers that give a sunny shimmery sheen to the pale green prairie grass. No endnotes about the hills and near-New England green of Oklahoma. Why is it that the only image I had of Oklahoma was of the dusty land of the 1930s? The dramatic shift to the Ozarks in Missouri did not go unnoticed, but my romantic vision of landscape was put on hold when I found myself in the middle of a rainstorm and trying to avoid the fearless truckers who could care less about the waves of water their giant tires can spew on to the vehicles directly behind them, reducing visibility even more and increasing the likelihood of hydroplaning. I learned quickly to take advantage of the uphill grades which my Honda climbed effortlessly, making it possible for me to pass any semi through its watery wake with only a few seconds of lost visual contact with whatever was outside my windshield—advantage: me.
I can’t begin to do the scenery justice without treacle or cliché, both crimes I’ve committed above. It does, however, remind me of Whitman and Guthrie who were able to poetically, and memorably, catalogue the vastness and illustrate their admiration (even if one assumed a democratic right to the landscape and the other had to demand this right) for all of the possibilities and opportunities this varied landscape promised. And they both did so also reminding us of the cost to others. I couldn’t help but think about this as well every time I passed a sign informing me I was driving through, or leaving, one of several Indian reservations.
1 comment:
You know what would be good? Reading the WPA books while on this kind of a trip. Interesting to see what's still around...
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