By 1pm of our departure date the car was on the road and we were packed in like sardines in a can. I’m not exaggerating our state; after watching our traveling money dwindle, it was decided that we could easily just pack our things in the car. Listen to me now when I say to you: should you ever plan to drive halfway across the North American continent, rent a trailer! With my mother at the wheel of her 1999 Ford Probe, me riding shotgun beneath a knitting bag, leather jacket and laptop computer, and my son in the backseat sitting atop a suitcase, VCR, and pillows and blocked in on one side by a solid wall of “stuff”, we left Omaha, following highway 80 toward our final destination of San Francisco, or rather Foster City in the Bay Area. The car’s trunk was filled to overflowing and was tied down with bungee cords with the added weight of a large filled duffle bag strapped down on top of it.

Climbing into the car, I was bombarded by mental pictures of all those dust bowl era photographs I had seen when I was still attending public school. All we needed was a hand painted sign boasting “California or Bust!” and I was halfway tempted to make one up but passed in the favor of leaving Omaha on time.

Highway 80 stretches from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific. Through Nebraska, it is also known as the Great Platte River Road that, less than 200 years ago, was part of the Oregon Trail. At one place, an old bridge crosses the highway, resplendent with carved Native Americans and a tribute to the Lewis and Clark Expedition that opened up so much of the western part of the nation.

We attracted one of two reactions as we traveled through Nebraska, either people completely ignored our very presence on the road or they stared as we passed them, or they passed us. As we prepared to locate a gas station, a similarly loaded down car entered the highway. The driver honked, smiled and gave us a thumbs up just before following us to the gas station to inquire where we were headed. She wished us luck on the trip to California, she had driven from New York and was nearly to Colorado, which she thought was where she wanted to end up.

While eastern Nebraska has rolling hills reminiscent of the Texas hill country, the western part of the state is flat. It’s not the same kind of flat that we have back on the coastal plains, mind you- that’s as flat as can be, but it’s still pretty monotonous. There are a number of attractions set up to commemorate Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show as well as the Lewis and Clark trip.

The giant skeletal windmills mesmerized my son as we traveled across this incredible land. I kept recalling snatches from the Willa Cather novels I’ve read and other authors who spoke of homesteading in such places as the central United States. I could almost see Antonia walking among the fields of billowing prairie grass as our car dashed along the highway.

I drove once dusk fell, with my mother’s night blindness and my increasing boredom, driving was a pleasant relief. Even more pleasant was the discovery that we were nearly out of Nebraska when we again stopped for gas. Just sixty miles to Cheyenne, the cashier cheerfully told me.

It was hard to judge how Wyoming looked since we crossed the border in the late evening hours, but I was thrilled to finally be out of Nebraska. I kept reminding myself that if we were driving across Texas, we’d still be in Texas and I should be grateful for the rapidity with which we had traversed the state… it didn’t do anything to make me any happier.

We drove on into the darkened wilds of Wyoming, driving 23 miles out of our way to locate a gas station that wasn’t there, and then backtracking to the last one we remembered seeing. It just so happened that the gas station we had seen was also a truck stop and we cheerfully parked out back among the diesel trucks and two passenger vehicles and slept in our cramped quarters.

Sleeping beneath a few bags and boxes in a cold over-packed car is not a lot of fun, nor is it overly comfortable, but at least Trystan slept the whole night through without any nightmares to rouse him in the near pitch black of the vehicle.

With the dawning of the sun the next morning, we were able to see, for the first time, what Wyoming had to offer in the way of scenery. It was rougher and more rugged a landscape than we had experienced in Nebraska and the first thing I took note of were all the snow fences that had been erected on the properties that lines the highway, suddenly grateful that we were only passing through and not staying for the winter. Do they really have a legitimate need for ten foot tall snow fences?!

Wyoming introduced us to prong-horned antelope; apparently two thirds of the world’s population of these creatures live in Wyoming alone, pretty amazing. Our drive through was my mother and my son’s first visit to the state, I had been through once previously with the lady I used to babysit for and her nine children, back when I had been young and insane enough to take her up on her invitation to go to Montana with them.

Tryst saw even more windmills, a ridge that was covered with at least a hundred of the tall, white metal monsters that stood guard over a desolate countryside. They resembled a whole slew of wiry dragons, waiting for the next knight to champion them, maybe even Don Quiote himself would traipse up to them one day in the not too distant future.

The beauty in Wyoming is stark, unforgiving, but it is there all the same. The horizons showed the snow-capped mountains of nearby Colorado and the flat-topped mesas of more central Wyoming. There were no colors so to speak, just brush and ground and rock of the same hue and tone, but even that had a beauty all its own.

I was driving again as we crossed the border from Wyoming into Utah. Now, Utah is one of my favorite states, something I discovered on that long ago vacation with Carol and her barrage of children. It is another place with raw beauty and incredible landscapes. Crossing the border, you could tell you were no longer in Wyoming, strange thing that.

We drove through the mountains of northwestern Utah and managed to get lost in Salt Lake City all in one afternoon. How we ended up going north in Salt Lake I will never understand, but after getting gas, we turned around and headed back toward 80, laughing at the co-eds who managed to spot Trystan in the back seat and waved at him wildly until he was giggling from all the undivided attention. I believe they were the first ones to notice that he was even in the back seat.

Once you drive west out of Salt Lake and just before you get to the huge expanse of salt marsh flats, there’s a McDonalds on the left hand side of the street. The indoor playscape is very cool, so deemed by Trystan who had had enough sitting in the car for a while. The lady who we met at the playscape, however, was very odd.
Tryst was sad to leave the McDonalds but enjoyed watching the huge piles of salt at the Morton company we passed on our way though the salt flats.

One other strange thing about the residents of Utah: I suppose due to the lack of suitable places to spray paint graffiti, the local kids needed to find another way to amuse themselves. No cows to tip, no malls to speak of out on the flats… so hey, let’s go out in the middle of the Great Salt Lake Desert and write our names with rocks on the flats. Okay…

We left Utah and entered Nevada once again with me at the wheel, I’m not sure why I was always driving at the time we crossed state borders…

The fact that we had entered Nevada was immediately obvious. There isn’t a town in Nevada, at least not one that can actually boast of having at least a gas station, that doesn’t also have a casino. It doesn’t matter how tiny or insignificant the town is, there’s a casino, often combined with a truck stop and fuel depot.

The highway does one of two things in Nevada: it either goes up and over the mountains, or it goes through them. Only once was I forced to traverse a tunnel and for that I am grateful. They're very cool to look at and such, I just don't much like driving through them with a loaded down car and limited visibility.

About half way across the state there is a lovely rest area where they don't mind if you park for several hours at a time and get some rest. That was a pleasant change from the less than freindly rest areas I am familiar with in Texas. We slept there, Trystan in my arms, the excess bags in the place he sat during the drive and an afghan hanging down over the side window.

We awoke to the beauty of the Nevada sunrise.

We ended up backtracking to Elko to retrieve some money my uncle had promised to wire us, and while my mother searched for a Western Union, Tryst and I kept ourselves occupied at a nearby McDonalds.

Now, we had been on the road for three days at that point, but I doubt we looked like the shifty characters one group of adults there seemed to believe. I took Tryst and our breakfast tray to the play area and removed his shoes so he could play.

There were only 4 other adults there with three children who were playing without benefit of removing their shoes. When my mother mentioned this, one of the adults commented that they didn't have socks on so they were leaving the shoes on. My response would have been to play barefoot had it been Tryst, heaven knows we had spent a good half hour searching for a pair of socks in the car that morning. But we let it slide and just told Tryst to be careful that he didn't get trampled by the shoes.

Soon thereafter, after a few other families had shown up, the 4 adults began loudly asking one another if they had their wallets/purses/money/etc and looking slyly over at my mother and myself. I just roled my eyes and went back to reading, my mother left to get the wired cash.

At that point I decided to be critical of not only how I looked but how the other family looked as well. I was wearing baggy green cordouroy coveralls and a black knit top, my hair was "fashionably" mussed as per its style, and I not only had boots on but socks as well. My son was in a industrial styled pants, a nice long-sleeved shirt, and socks, his shoes hiding in a cubby somewhere. We looked much they same way that we do even when we're not on a road trip.

Then I looked at the people who were being so ridiculous; they looked like they had just rolled out of bed, wearing lycra capris, saggy old Tshirts, and flip-flops, their kids weren't dressed much better. They were acting like we were the scariest bunch of hoodlums around and I began to wonder what exactly was going on. Before I could decide, they left and I was thankful that I needn't worry about Tryst getting hurt by their children any more.

With more money in our pockets, and a new debt to my uncle on my conscience, we were back on the road. Sadly, so were my soda and paperback novel that I had inadvertently left on top of the car while we were leaving the McDonalds.

California showed up several hours later, after we had passed through Reno and were left feeling less than impressed. In the daylight Reno isn't anything special, it's just like any other city with it's filth and cement. At night with it's lights and neon signs I would imagine it would look a great deal different.

As we pulled up to the California/Nevada border, I remembered that California doesn't approve of bringing rodents into the state. Our six pet gerbils definitely constitute as rodents... What to do...

The guard smiled at us as we pulled up to his booth and he asked if we had any houseplants or pets with us. If I can get away with it, I prefer to not lie, and I remained silent but my mother grinned and said the only plants we had were artificial. She's right, they were the only ones we had. He grinned and waved us through and I breathed a sigh of relief. The gerbils were safe and sound.

So, yes darling readers, we are now criminals with contraband gerbils. Evil, evil people that we are.

California was extraordinary, gorgeous mountains and towering trees were all I saw at first and it was all I wanted to see. I had missed the trees more than I had even realized.

Up and around and back down again, we traveled through the mountainous region of the state we entered. California was a relief, the near completion of our journey. With the end in sight, we were able to take a deep breath and relax a bit.

We reached Sacramento that night and decided a hotel room was in order, a cheap one at any rate. After stopping at half a dozen different ones, I finally accepted the rates at the Surf Inn. Not the highest quality of even cheap motor hotels, but it sufficed for the night and it had a TV for Trystan. The gerbils only got out once that night and Tryst slept through the ordeal of my mother and I chasing them down.

It wasn't until the baby and I were waiting in the car the next day in downtown Sacramento while my mother filled out the remaining paperwork to receive her temporary RN's license in California that we got the strangest reaction to our packed state. One gentleman who had exited his place of employment started laughing so loudly that my attention was drawn away from the crossword puzzle I was working on. He was nearly doubled over laughing, pointing out that there was even a bag tied onto the trunk as his co-workers tried to hush him. His laughter only intensified when my son popped his head up into the front seat from his hidden position behind me.

We chose to take an alternate route to Foster City than I80, a path that would take us directly over the Golden Gate Bridge and through San Francisco. Just moments before we drove onto the bridge we tuned the radio into a local channel in time to hear the governor's warning about the possible threat against suspension bridges in California. What a way to be welcomed into the city.

We got to the bridge right at sunset and were downtown at dust and dark. I love San Francisco even though I've only been here once before. It's a marvelous city and just seems to make room for everything and everyone.

We dashed through and stayed at a nicer hotel in San Mateo and even ordered a pizza to be delivered. Mmmmm..... There's nothing like oven baked pizza and fresh calamari. A six-pack of Coke had to substitute a six-pack of beer though since my son expected to drink too. Another night of television and we were on our way to the last stop, Foster City.

Foster City is about twenty-three miles south of San Francisco and has all of about twelve streets, none of which are straight, few of which intersect. It's not hard to get completely and hopelessly turned around. I've gotten lost as many times as I've actually maneuvered the correct streets to my destination. The first morning we arrived was no different.

After driving around and around for half an hour, stopping frequently to ask if anyone knew where the street we were looking for was only to discover that no one who works in Foster City lives there, I happened across a gentleman in a dry cleaner's shop who pulled out a nifty little map and showed me how to get to where I wanted to be.

Anyone who starts off directions with "this is where we're having a pleasant little chat," is almost too good to be true, but he did show me how to get to the apartment complex and I now know where I'll be taking all of my dry cleaning while I'm here.

The apartment was lovely and large, although it was decidedly furniture free for the first several hours. While we were waiting for the furniture to arrive, we decided to take in China Town in San Francisco, but that's another story...