Monday, May 22, 2017

To the Bighorns

In past blog entries I’ve mentioned my car, the trusty Honda, on numerous occasions. We’ve been together for over ten years now, during which time we’ve become good friends, mainly because he doesn’t get annoyed when I sing along to the radio, nor judgmental when I consume a hasty on-the-go breakfast from Kwik Trip consisting of a half-dozen doughnuts and coffee.

While our adventures have piled up over the years, it recently dawned on me that it’d been quite a while since we’d been on a real road trip together. During his younger days he’d taken me to both Montana and Tennessee, but over the past few years he’d been asked to do nothing more strenuous than occasionally shuttle me to and from Michigan. This newfound realization didn’t sit very well with me, mainly because of the fact that as I grow older, one of my biggest goals is to prove that I still “have it.” In short, I’d like to think that I can still run as fast and jump as high as I could ten years ago – albeit with a few more aches and pains afterwards – and so why wouldn’t the same basic principle apply to the Honda?

This was definitely food for thought, and after a little soul-searching I decided that we should go to Wyoming to see the Bighorn Mountains. It’d be a win-win situation. I’d get a chance to not go to work, and the Honda could prove that he, too, still “had it.”

The trip would be somewhat abbreviated. We’d leave Minnesota on a Sunday and return six days later. It’d be a lot of driving, but that was sort of the point. There’d be a lot of time to listen to music, ponder the mysteries of the universe, and, most importantly, relive some of our past adventures – although hopefully not the one where I almost let him roll off the Bear Tooth Pass during the aforementioned Montana trip. The problem, however, was that I simply couldn’t ignore his age. He was over ten years old and in the twilight of his life. Something was bound to go wrong. He’d been so trusty for so long that the law of averages was bound to catch up with him. The only question was: what, exactly, would it be?

And so I was actually happy when his ability to produce cold air suddenly began to wane a day or two before the trip. Maybe this was the “something” that was bound to go wrong! Heck, I could handle weak, or possibly no, A/C! I mean, the pioneers didn’t have A/C when they crossed the plains, and they survived – at least some of them! And so, armed with a renewed sense of adventure and a Triple-A card, Sunday rolled around and the Honda and I set out on our way.

Not far into our journey I turned on the radio, and the first full song I heard was William Michael Morgan’s “Missing,” whose chorus came pretty close to summing up the adventure we were embarking upon, both physically and spiritually:

Well there ain't no telling where I'm bound (correction: Wyoming)
The big city or the country, a little beach town (correction: still Wyoming)
But you won’t find me 'cause I can't be found (correction: unless you call my phone)
I'm on a mission, to be missing
I'll be back some day I just don't know when (correction: Saturday)
'Till then I'll be a feather floating in the wind
So don't you go missing me
'Cause sometimes missing is my favorite place to be

As the song’s last chords disappeared, I knew the trip had been the right choice. In fact, I was so inspired that I plugged in my iPod just so I could listen to it again. Ahhhh, it was perfect! Fate was obviously smiling down upon me and the decision I'd made! Then I realized that in my exuberance I’d missed a turn, roughly three miles from my house, which had to be some sort of navigational error record.

Undeterred, the Honda and I were soon back on track and heading into southwestern Minnesota, which can only be described as flat-as-flat-can-be-and-probably-even-flatter. Farms littered the landscape, and while I appreciated the fact that they were playing an integral role in the feeding of this great nation, I was also very happy that I was traveling via freeway, which meant I could appreciate them at a fairly high rate of speed.

It was a hot day, and having diminished A/C was a little distracting. Still we pushed on, and eventually we entered into South Dakota, where the landscape instantly morphed from flat, never-ending farmland into flat, never-ending farmland where the speed limit had been bumped up to 80 miles an hour! Woo-hoo! Now we were getting somewhere!

There’s not much to say about South Dakota except that I believe the majority of their economy is based on the construction of annoying billboards along Interstate 90. The ones I hated the most – based entirely on the sheer number of them – were for the Corn Palace, the Petrified Gardens, the authentic 1880’s town, and, of course, Wall Drug. (The Wall Drug ones made no sense, and by the end I was pretty sure that if I went there, I’d get to fight dinosaurs in a shooting gallery while drinking coffee and eating ice cream.)

The trusty Honda handled South Dakota admirably, punctuated by an overnight stay roughly halfway through, and the next day we hit Wyoming, ecstatic to leave billboard purgatory behind. After a stop at Devil’s Tower National Monument – where I took at least three-hundred pictures of the exact same landmark, all from a slightly different angle – we were again on the road, plunging into the rolling green emptiness that is Wyoming.

When we finally chugged into our destination of Buffalo, I felt myself becoming overwhelmed with pride for the Honda. He’d made it! After we’d stopped and I’d gotten out, I wanted to give him an encouraging pat on the taillights, but instead I went with the Appreciative Guy Nod, which, while almost imperceptible, still speaks volumes. However, it was the Honda who’d done most of the talking that day, and I’d heard him loud and clear. He still had it.

My stay in the Bighorns was highlighted by rain, snow, fog, hail, giving a random guy who’d hit a deer a ride back to Buffalo, the Chris Ledoux statue in Kaycee, and the trusty Honda not rolling off any mountains. Needless to say the time passed quickly, and before we knew it, it was time to embark upon the return trip. Our sights were set on Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse, and with Car Talk blaring through the Honda’s speakers, we again took to the interstate. As with the previous few days, it was raining, but as we headed east the skies eventually cleared and the sun broke through, making for a pleasant drive. This lasted up until the sign in Custer, South Dakota that points to Mount Rushmore, at which point we hit a dense layer of impenetrable fog that pretty much confirmed my working theory that I’d recently done something to annoy Jupiter, the Greek god of light and sky.

And so, thanks to Jupiter and I now somehow being mortal enemies, I get to say that I’ve been to Mount Rushmore but have never actually seen Mount Rushmore. It was all sort of funny, and I found myself stifling giggles as I walked the Presidential Trail in a doomed attempt to get close enough to see through the fog. Nobody else around me, however, seemed as amused by the situation as I, and so I did my best to keep my mirth to myself, as I didn’t want to get beaten up in front of Abraham Lincoln.

Once I’d finally given up on seeing anything, it was a straight shot back home, highlighted by us blowing past the Wall Drug exit out of the sheer principle of not being manipulated by advertising. (Although I did sort of want to fight the dinosaur.) The rest of the trip was uneventful, and when we finally pulled into my driveway I realized that I never should have doubted the trusty Honda. He seemed as strong as ever, except for the minor A/C issue.

My condition, however, was a different story. I was exhausted from driving and navigating and consuming nutrient-deficient food, and as I tried to find the motivation to unload all of my stuff into my house, it suddenly hit me: Perhaps I’d been thinking about this wrong the entire time. Maybe I was the weak link. Heck, maybe the Honda was going to have to trade me in!


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