Go West, Young Men

Summer of 1976 was waning. I had just graduated from Mizzou and was waiting to start my first teaching job. I was living in Columbia, Missouri, enjoying the last of the summer wine.

A college buddy and I decided to take a long road trip. Craig and I headed out to drive all night in the boxy little Toyota Corolla we had rented, and we made good time. Through Kansas City, Missouri, anyway.

At about 1 a.m., we started noticing mileage signs for towns that didn't seem to be on the I-70 route. When we saw one for Wichita, Kansas, we knew we had taken a wrong turn. About 200 miles ago. We idled at many a red light waiting to get out of Wichita. Usually, we were the only car in sight.

Once we got back on track, we stopped in Dodge City, Kansas, then on to Denver the next day, where the high point of our stay was checking out a pretty hip bar and club called Ebbets Field and making the acquaintances of two young ladies. Then we drove into Wyoming, through Laramie and Cheyenne before Salt Lake City and the jagged castle spires of the Utah Rockies.

On to Oregon, where we stopped in the small town of Baker and set out exploring on foot, always a good way to get the feel of a place. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a police car pulled up, red lights whirling. Out jumped an officer, red-faced, trembling, eyes blazing. He ran up to us screaming, neck veins bulging.

"You boys jaywalked back there!" he yelled.

It turned out his nephew had recently been hit by a car and killed while jaywalking. After a minute or two of us apologizing and sympathizing, the policeman gradually calmed down. He even apologized for losing his cool.

"That's okay, Sir," we told him. "We understand, and we're sorry about your nephew."

We enjoyed Portland, Oregon, and its many wooden homes and buildings, then on to evergreen Seattle's iconic skyline and Space Needle and the near-distant mountains. There, we stayed overnight with a friend who gave us his guided tour. We drove north to Vancouver, British Columbia, and Canada. As we explored beautiful Victoria Park, we happened upon an outdoor wedding reception. They had a lot of food, and we were pretty hungry. As we eyed the extensive repast, a couple of the guests pointed at us, so we were about to ease on down the road when they motioned us over and told us to help ourselves. They said they had more food than they needed. It was just our good fortune they were so generous.

Back on the road again, we drove through Snake River Canyon and down through Idaho, where we got caught up in a most unlikely mistake. Cruising along in this state of vast potato farms within sight of distant mountains, again we were startled by flashing red lights. Except this time, four state highway patrol cars converged on us. Shockingly, with guns drawn, they ordered us out of our car, hands up, then up against the side of the car.

My mind raced. I knew we hadn't been jaywalking! One of them patted us down. They ran the license plate, checked our driver's licenses, and just as they were about to search the car, a patrolman apologetically informed us we closely resembled two suspects from an armed robbery that morning.

"Enjoy the rest of your stay in Idaho," he said as my heart rate dropped a bit closer to normal.

Soon, we would have to wind up our journey. We wended our way through the Grand Tetons, then took in the muscular mountains of Montana. We stopped at mom and pop restaurants and diners that we guessed on and stayed at cheap motels and camper trailers that people rented out. Though we varied the route, we kept moving back toward Columbia, Missouri. Gradually, the landscape turned Midwestern again, back to grain and green, and then we were home.

All this traveling had left me more tired than I had realized. Within minutes, I was in my own bed. No reason to get up at any certain time. When I closed my eyes, the backs of my eyelids became a dark background for images of tumbling whitewater, piney-scented conifers bordering mirror lakes below drifting clouds, then a million-starred black night sky at a Utah campground with streaking shooting stars; the last thing I remember.

~Burton Bock has transitioned from middle-aged man to retired man. He enjoys reading, writing and sometimes even 'rithmetic.