Trip West, Part V: Once Upon a Time

On the radio, David Bowie sets Major Tom adrift in space as we drive through land as barren and red as Mars. We skirt expanses of gray sand and follow the road as it curls between cliffs, slopes, and swoops of rock seemingly frozen in cresting waves. We drive through snow fields as flurries whip the windshield. And in Capitol Reef National Park, we pull over to see petroglyphs painted on a rock face thousands of years ago. In life, it is the journey as much as the destination, and our trip west has proven that true. 

We are on our way to Arches National Park, hoping to snag an entry time despite being told none have been available for months. Every vista along our way steals breath at the work of wind, water, and shifting plates in sculpting the Earth over eons. With that, our fury at the possibility of being closed out has evaporated.

 

Still, I watch the clock as we close in on Moab. The visitor center at Arches closes at 6:00 and we were told that a few entry slots were released every day at that time. We pull into the parking lot at 5:55. 

 

Dave says, “I’ll park! You run in and grab a reservation!”

 

I scurry inside, envious of those strolling out with souvenir tee-shirts and water bottles having clearly wrapped up a day of hiking. A ranger at the counter glances at his watch as I approach and ask if he can give us a time for the next day.

 

“You can do that online, “ he says, “But go in now if you’d like.”

 

“Go in? To the park? Now?” I say.

 

“Sure. No reservations required after 4:00. Go on in! Enjoy it!”

 

When I head outside, Dave is sitting on a bench, head bent to his phone. “I’m almost finished,“ he says.  “We have an 11:00 AM entry tomorrow.” 

 

Sigh. There’s a lesson here. When I think of my simmering anger and worry on the rim of Bryce Canyon... such a waste. My front-of-mind mantra for years was “Have faith in the unfolding;” clearly, I need to brush it off for display on my mental dashboard.    

 

                                *                      *                    *                      

 

After several stolen hours during our gift of an open-entry-past-6:00 at Arches, it was dark when we arrived at Red Cliffs Lodge. In my relief, I’d not noticed the prominent “Hollywood Museum” sign by the entrance. 14 miles off the main road had felt interminable given our serpentine route between rockslide-ready cliffs and a dead drop to the river. Did I have the right address? Did I have the right place? As we closed in, I saw only the blessed name of our lodging. So, it was a revelation when, while in search of a ladies room after dinner, I saw a sign to the museum and an arrow pointing to the lower level.

 

John Wayne welcomed me at the foot of the stairs. Down the hall, the dummy that went over the cliff in a convertible instead of the real-life Geena Davis in Thelma and Louise looked as shocked as would be expected in such a plummet. Props and original posters from Back to the Future III, City Slickers, and The Lone Ranger as well as many iconic westerns going back to 1949 filled display cases. A video loop ran clips of films and highlighted the spectacular locations around Moab where they’d been shot, some right at Red Cliffs Lodge. 

Much of the vintage footage was so familiar: when I was a kid growing up in the fifties and sixties, much of our TV fare was westerns. We idolized all those handsome cowboys with their square jaws and perfect white teeth: Wyatt Earp, Sugarfoot, Davy Crockett, and our favorite, Brett Maverick. There was no ambiguity about Good Guys and Bad Guys. When the Indians swarmed, whooping, over a ridge and across the plains, they were ferocious and savage, their faces painted and long, black hair streaming behind them. Battles were loud and furious, but virtually bloodless: the Trail of Tears and broken treaties were not in those scripts. 

 

When preparing to travel, I focus on necessities. I Google distances and drive time between locations. I consult TripAdvisor for ratings in considering places to stay. For the most part, I don’t delve into area attractions until we arrive, which has generally worked out okay. It also leaves room for surprises, like encounters with John Wayne and Marty McFly. 

 

                                *                      *                    *        

 

An athletic blond in a cropped top, short-shorts, and hiking boots sits next to me on a steep stretch to the opening of one of the Double Arches. In her youth, beauty, and skimpy garb, she is intimidating, but friendly and kind as she smiles at me and says, “You’re almost there.  You can do it!” She, too, has paused on this incline. It’s convivial here beneath the arch as people aged 8 to 80 contemplate the remaining climb to the opening. A father encourages his son to go for it while the mom watches from below, one hand shielding her eyes against the sun as she warns, “Be careful! Maybe stop there!”

Like beads on a necklace, people perch along the curve of the arch. Dave has decided not to try and is taking a video as I reach for the tiniest hint of a fingerhold and inch my toes a bit higher in search of better footing. This is not as difficult as I’m making it sound, but always I am weighing the possibility of injury over triumph. 

 

“It’s a nice view – pretty dramatic,” says a man as he descends. “A dead drop on the other side.”

 

Dead drop. Hm. I take that under advisement.  I want to make it up there and take in that view, but there are ample vistas in the park that don’t seem as risky. I back down and cheer on my blond friend as she scales the rock to the rim. 

 

We felt this same camaraderie at Zion and Bryce in the shared joy of extraordinary experiences. Arches, though, has been unique in its accessibility to little hikers as well. Really little hikers. Toddlers of three can manage some of the short trails and easier inclines, and they are adorable with their “Junior Ranger” vests and walking sticks. Some intrepid souls carry babies in canopied backpacks. Several of the families we’ve spoken to are traveling in campers: having always loved the parks and hiking, they are infusing their children with a love of the Earth and the outdoors from early on.

 

At the other extreme is a practical woman who has taken a seat on a bench near the parking lot. She comments to her companions, “Really, the view of the arches is better from a distance. You go ahead. I’m staying here.” 

 

Trip West, Part IV: Hell's Backbone Farm and Grill, the Anasazi, and Unintended Consequences

If ever I needed proof of avian communication, the conversation among the geese on the pond outside our room at Boulder Lodge would have convinced me. Such a heated give and take! Such honking and grousing! We were frustrated eavesdroppers in need of an interpreter.  

After yesterday’s mood swings from anxious to uplifted in our ultimately successful search for the slot canyon, Boulder Lodge was a lovely haven. My friend Edie had suggested nearby Hell’s Backbone Grill and Farm for dinner but cautioned that we might not be able to get a reservation because it was one of the best restaurants in the country. I assumed that was hyperbole: what would the best restaurant in the country be doing here, in the middle of nowhere?

Because that’s how it felt. After settling in, Dave and I saw only trees, hillsides, and the occasional house when we took a leisurely drive to find the charming little western town I expected Boulder to be. We later learned that, while expansive in miles, the town center was basically Boulder Lodge, the post office, and the restaurant. Where, by the way, we were able to get a reservation. 

 

We’d poked our heads in the door right after check-in and were warmly greeted at the desk by the hostess, Lacy, and one of the co- owners, Blake Spalding. When I related Edie’s rave review, Blake smiled and gestured to the wall behind the hostess stand, a wall crowded with James Beard awards. 

 

Whoa. We were lucky to get that reservation! 

 

When we returned for dinner, Lacy greeted us and led us to a table by a window that looked out over the mountains. Best table in the place; thank you Lacy! 

 

After perusing the menu and reading about the restaurant’s environmental goals and “No-Harm farm” that supplied the organic produce and grass-fed beef, we ordered roasted cauliflower with mint, toasted chickpeas, and a house-made spice rub so divine we bought two jars to bring home. For our main course, we tried the skillet-fried trout encrusted with blue corn, molasses and almonds; cilantro-pepita rice; and organic asparagus. 

 

Delicious. James Beard was right.

*          *

 

It was a brisk November day in 2004 as David Holladay hiked the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument in Utah with his dog. When he spotted an arrowhead on the ground, he knew by its pinkish tone and craftsmanship that he’d discovered something extraordinary. He left it in place until he could return with the proper authorities. 

 

Wait. What? He left it there? Who would do that? If I spotted an arrowhead, I’d absolutely pick it up and pocket it. And, despite guilt being a default for me applicable in countless situations, I’d have felt no guilt. Why would I?

 

Turns out Mr. Holladay did the right thing. An artifact’s placement reveals significant information, and the Bureau of Land management asks that any such discovery be left in situ, and the BLM notified. 

 

But, but, but… Mr. Holladay and the experts were unable to return to the site for months because of snow. So much could have happened in the interim! What if run-off or another hiker had carried the point away? What if the melting snow had changed the ground enough to leave the location unrecognizable? Seems to me Mr. Holladay took a risk with his good intentions, but in the absence of theft and unruly Nature, Mr. Holladay’s Clovis Point is now on display in the Anasazi State Park Museum, our primary reason for visiting Boulder, Utah. 

 

While the archaeological dig of the Coombs Anasazi village site out back was intriguing, as were the displays depicting Anasazi dwellings and implements, it was our conversation with the docent that prolonged our stay. It began with my questions about the microscope that was broken, the interactive panels that didn’t work, and the items that were missing. While there was much to see and do, the theft and damaged exhibits were noticeable. 

Jamie, the docent - or was she the director? – acknowledged that these were concerns. Large school groups were hard to monitor as were the increasing numbers of tourists following the sequestered year of Covid. Jamie asked if we’d noticed the Clovis Point, which, to be honest, I’d seen, but breezed by. There were lots of pretty arrowheads on display, so why linger on one? 

 

Because it’s between 8,000 – 11,000 years old. Because, to a point connoisseur, it was remarkable in workmanship. Because, well, it was displayed all by itself under a spotlight, so I should have known it was special. 

 

Dave is curious and always bubbling with questions, and Jamie was delighted to have inquisitive visitors. She squired us around the museum, with particular attention to the reproduction Anasazi dwelling, tools, pigments, and sandals created by the same David Holladay who discovered the Clovis Point. There was also a beautiful fan-like array of arrowheads he’d made during demonstrations at the museum. 

 

Informative, and clearly an admirer of the Indigenous American jewelry bedecking her fingers, neck, and waist, Jamie was generous with her time. The tone of our exchange wavered some, dipping and rising in a diplomatic dance, when I asked her about Bears Ears National Monument.

 

In 2016, President Obama designated the Bears Ears buttes and 1,351, 849 acres as a National Monument. In 2017, former president Trump reduced the monument by 85%. In 2021, President Biden restored Bears Ears to the original acreage. Hm. Definitely some politics involved.  

 

As a local, Jamie’s take was practical … and bitter.  “I understand the need and wish to preserve lands in National Monument designations… but they don’t include funding nor anticipate the repercussions when lands previously left pretty much alone suddenly come to the public’s attention. People swoop down in droves…and there are no restrooms, no parking, no trails, no plan for garbage collection.” Her nostrils flared in disgust as she described the results of such omissions.  

 

Federal protections in general led her to mention her sympathy for ranchers who’d lost livestock to wolves. We were treading in tricky territory.  She was a local, no doubt had rancher friends, and was certainly far more knowledgeable than I, but I love wolves and if, like my canine friends, I had hackles, they would have been bristling. 

 

Wolves have been given a bum rap. Humans kill and eat innumerable animals, so vilifying wolves for doing the same in order to survive is sheer hypocrisy… but I tried to say that nicely. I asked if Jamie had seen the video “How the Wolves Saved Yellowstone” that demonstrates how wolf re-introduction had bolstered other animal species and restored riverbanks and shrubs. 

 

She had. We agreed that these issues are complicated. 

 

As if to graciously acknowledge my point, Jamie mentioned past efforts by farmers to eradicate beavers, believing that their dams diverted water from crops. To the satisfaction of the farmers, that effort, along with trapping for pelts, led to the near extinction of beavers in North America in the late 1800’s. 

 

Jamie raised an eyebrow and said, “Well. That certainly backfired.”

 

In the animals’ absence, farmers came to recognize, and miss, the ecological benefits of beaver activity in creating streams and pond systems. Now programs have worked to re-establish beaver populations in order to efficiently and inexpensively retain local water supplies, revive degraded wetlands, and support biodiversity.  

 

Hm. Humans and the peril of unintended consequences: so many lessons, yet we are so slow to learn. 

 

 

Trip West, Part III: Searching, Wandering, and Wary

The sky was unsettled, somber and muscular with low-slung gray clouds that threatened rain. A flash flood warning was in effect, but we’d heard from hikers on the Mossy Cave Trail at Bryce that there was an unmarked slot canyon exactly 11.2 miles off Route 12 on a backway named Burr Trail. We were not sure what a slot canyon was, but given the hikers’ wide eyes and glowing description, we resolved to find it.  

 

A rusted truck and decrepit buildings marked the turn off the main road. Like the twisted dry driftwood still rooted along the sandy trails, they were haunting signs of a past life now defeated. Neither man nor beast disturbed the scene, and I waived images from the movie Deliverance to the back of my uneasy mind.

Dave kept an eye on the mileage as well as the road as we snaked along a canyon. No guard rails, no shoulder, just head-swiveling drama as white mounds of rock, rippled as if by changing tides, gave way to towering red cliff walls, pocked and shaved by erosion and landslides. 

 

Usually a one-hand-on-the-wheel driver, Dave clenched tight with both. Given the roadside littered with massive boulders, crumbled debris, and slabs sheared from the cliffs above, the signs indicating “Rockslide Area Ahead” were unnecessary.

 

It was silent in the car as Dave focused on the road. “You’re up for this, right? I’m not dragging you into it?” I asked.

 

“No. I want to see it too.” He assured me. But our directions, as exact as they were, were anything BUT exact, and we hoped for a cluster of cars or a turn-off to indicate the location. 

 

This might be it,” said Dave as he pulled over and parked next to an empty, travel-worn RV. We climbed out of the car and went on the search.   

 

Soft breezes stirred spring-green cottonwood trees and tiny flowers sprouted miraculously from soil so parched that spits of rain left no mark. We walked along a dry streambed bordered by soaring rock faces streaked black and red: the perfect place for a flash flood.

 

“This is it, the slot canyon,” Dave said definitively. 

 

We wanted this to be it, and we didn’t want it to rain and kill us in a flash flood. We’d seen plenty of signs warning “Don’t get carried away,” the message hammered at every visitor center: you cannot outrun that rush of water. 

 

Lovely as was this silent setting of ancient rock and surprising flora, we were unnerved and aware of possible dangers. Our server a few nights ago had mentioned that the restaurant’s maintenance man was in the hospital recovering from a rattlesnake bite. “So, remember to check under bushes and rocks when you’re hiking,” she’d said. The scrubby shrubs and rock outcroppings along our way looked ideal for snoozy snakes, so I was on serpent alert. And, by the way, who had parked that empty RV? Still, we wandered on, hoping that this dry riverbed aching for a flash flood would reveal a slot canyon around the next bend. 

 

Eventually, images of racing water, snakes, and crazed survivalists turned us around, Dave still remarking that we’d seen what we came for. “But,” he said when we returned to the car, “let’s drive a little further, just in case.”

 

Maybe five minutes up the road, we passed a parked RV, and just beyond, a slash in the rock face. “Did you see that?  I think that’s it! Turn around!” 

Not so easy on this winding descent. The state of Utah, or perhaps the National Park Service, has been wise and generous with timely pull-outs, overlooks, and restrooms, but this stretch of road offered none, so we drove on until clear sight lines allowed a five-point turn.

 

We parked behind the RV and walked down the bank into a sandy clearing just as a couple appeared. Faces alight, they gushed, “it’s gorgeous! We just happened on it by chance. And to be the only ones here… enchanting!” They wished us well, headed to their vehicle, and left the canyon to us. 

 

Breath held in wonder, we entered… the womb of the Earth. A cleft in the rock led to a narrow path between russet-red walls curving around and soaring high above us, echoing our voices as we wandered within.  Euphoria erased fear as we marveled at the color and sweep that enveloped and dwarfed us. Through an act of grace, we had found the slot canyon.  

 

  

Trip West, Part II: Late Shift

It was 1984. Having finished her shift at Ruby’s Inn and Restaurant, Sharon was home and in bed when the phone rang around midnight. She was half asleep when she picked up the receiver, but alarm banished any grogginess when she heard the tone in her mother’s voice. 

“What’s wrong, Mom? Is Dad okay?”

 

“Yes, but I called to check on you. Ruby’s is on fire and I knew you worked the late shift.”

 

The inn had been a fixture at Bryce Canyon since the 1920’s when Reuben “Ruby” Syrett and his wife, Minnie, expanded and moved their small “Tourist Rest Lodge” to the inn’s current location. Bryce Canyon had been designated a National Park, and the number of visitors had multiplied. Over the years, Ruby’s had become a destination in its own right as the Syretts added a post office, pool, gift shop, and restaurant. 

 

As Sharon cleared our dinner plates – she was still serving at Ruby’s over 40 years later – she said, “There’s no nicer or more hard-working family than the Syretts.” She gestured over her shoulder at a young woman taking orders a few tables down. “That’s Ruby and Minnie’s great-great-grandaughter. The family still runs the place.”

 

Sandra, our server at breakfast, was equally admiring of the inn’s owners. Like Sharon, she had worked at Ruby’s for over forty years, and had more to add about the Syretts.

 

“When the inn burned down, people came from all over to help with the clean-up and rebuilding. Locals brought food and opened their homes to the guests of the inn. Everyone loved the Syretts. I heard that, for years, travelers arriving late at night would find a note and a key to their room taped to the front door. ‘Course, it’s a different world now and you couldn’t do that, but that’s how welcoming they were. Didn’t want anyone stranded in the dark.” 

Ruby’s is about a mile’s drive from Bryce Canyon and met my two-fold standard in seeking accommodations: it was historic and convenient to the park entrance. After dinner and our chat with Sharon, we decided to make the easy drive to Sunset Point to see the stars. 

 

Bryce is famous for spectacular stargazing as it is part of the “Dark Skies Initiative” which identifies places with minimal light pollution, but the empty parking lot was bright when we pulled in. On this night, it was Nature herself obscuring the constellations as a full moon lit our way to the canyon’s edge. 

 

The vast amphitheater fell away before us, spires and towers seeming a shadowy city of sandstone drip castles rising below, whipped, as were we, by the wind. It is tempting to think all is as it will be, but millions of years ago, this was under water. The planet is ever-evolving, tectonic plates shifting, sea levels and temperatures rising. What will be here in a thousand years?

 

Dave and I were utterly alone. There was no light but that of the moon to outline the bones of the Earth below. Above and around us swept the expanse of the heavens. In the presence of the artistry of the Creator, I sought to radiate my awe and gratitude. 

*          *

 

On the rim of Bryce Canyon, within whispering distance of sandstone portals, temples, and hoo doos, we overheard a conversation. 

 

“You’re going to Arches tomorrow? Got a reservation?  No? Well, get one. They require reserved entry times now. The lines had gotten too long.”

 

What?

 

In that sublime place, high above ravens gliding on air currents, my stomach clenched. We were going to Arches National Park in a few days, and we didn’t have a reservation.

 

Breathing deeply, I looked to the expanse of sky; the gnarled, ancient bristlecone pines; and the audience of watchful hoodoos in the ampitheater below to calm my Ingersoll urge that all be under control. Nowhere was the message to release that idle hope more evident than in these National Parks where millions of years of shifting plates, whipping winds, and persistent water have raised mountains, carved canyons, and dried seas. 

We’ll call our hotel in Moab later and figure it out. Let it go. 

 

But a call later in the day confirmed what we’d heard. A moderately helpful representative at the park told us that times had been reserved months in advance, however some open slots were released every evening at 6:00. Unable to get our way and nail this down immediately, we were furious at Arches National Park. We had flown and driven thousands of miles to visit, for heaven’s sake!

 

For a short time, Arches joined Dale City and Breeze Airways on our shit list. 

 

Trip West, Part I: Ducklings Launched

Our banana-yellow Spirit Airways plane is at the gate and ready to go. This sunshine shade seems today’s travel theme as we were delivered to the airport in a Prius of the same color. One would have thought the driver of such an eye-catching car would be equally bright and flashy, but no. Sour, smile-less and mum, even “hello” was a stretch for this guy.

What a contrast to our three days at McMenamin’s Edgefield Inn! Unlike our Uber driver, McMenamin’s lifts the soul with art, humor, serenity, and food. Once a county poor farm, the long-abandoned buildings and campus were transformed when the two visionary McMenamin brothers purchased the property and sought artists, carpenters, chefs, brewers, gardeners, and vintners to reclaim it. 

 

The former power station now houses a restaurant and pub; the brick building that encased an incinerator is now a cozy, vine-shrouded bar. Paintings throughout the halls and rooms tell stories, some mystical, some poignant, in depicting the lives of those once compelled by age or poverty to live at the farm. Each room pays tribute to a former resident, their names and stories inscribed in murals that adorn the walls.  

    

Edie, my friend-from-birth, and her husband, Dave, have been the spark to several of our greatest trips. In 2018, they recommended McMenamins, and this May, invited us back to celebrate their 70^th birthday along with their sons and close friends. 

 

While chatting at dinner and hiking along the Columbia River, Dave and I realized our lives were mundane and danger-free compared to those of this active and activist crew. We learned about Rick and Sue’s romantic meeting while in Africa with the Peace Corps, Bart’s photography trek on the Chisolm Trail, Shaun’s bone-breaking fall while rock climbing, Bob and Genevieve’s work with Greenpeace and Earthjustice, and Patty and Joe’s plummet over a waterfall while rafting. Lordy! In June, Edie herself flew to Denver to advocate for an assault weapons ban. She has knocked on doors, marched, and made calls, literally sacrificing her voice for justice and the planet following a surgery that was supposed to silence her for weeks.  

As they did in 2018, ably and safely guiding us up Misery Ridge Trail on Smith Rock, Edie and Dave led us, their ducklings, on a hike through mossy forest, past blooming white trillium and pink bleeding hearts, up, up, up to stunning views above the Columbia River. While but a stroll for many in this group, five miles was a feat worthy of pride for Lea and Dave. A soothing soak in the warm water pool back at the inn while sipping Cock n’ Bull ginger beer garnished with lime was our glorious reward.

Now, here at the gate, I am feeling a little vulnerable, uncertain, a duckling launched. In our yellow plane, we fly from Edie and Dave’s care to Las Vegas, hoping there are no glitches in picking up our rental car to drive across the desert to the Driftwood Lodge near Zion National Park. 

 

*          *

 

The delightful shady trail along the surging chocolate tumble of the Virgin River began to climb. Dave and I had just remarked on how nice it was to be able to look up at our stunning surroundings without constant focus on footing when loose sandstone on the steep incline returned focus on footing to top priority. Um, and focus on handholds too. The well-packed sandstone trail surface had surrendered to sand, shifting sand, like beach sand, and uplifted though I was by the magnificence around me, caution demanded eyes downcast to scan for roots to grasp or avoid. 

 

During stops to take pictures – and, let’s be honest, to rest and catch breath - the rewards were bountiful. Towering peaks layered in pink, red, and white thrust from the Earth like whale teeth, marking eons of change in colors and crags. Over millennia, the river had carved its way ever deeper, sculpting paths and crumbling seemingly solid rock faces. 

While evidence of change and endurance were all around me, I was wilting.  Panting, heart pounding, I considered the hateful mental worm whispering, am I too old for this?  We had planned this trip thinking, do it while we still can. Had we, in fact, missed the window?

 

No! Virtually upon conception of these heinous reflections, my second wind kicked in. What is the biology behind that saving grace? Revived, relieved and elated as that miraculous breeze blew away thoughts of age, I strutted on.  

 

We were hiking the Emerald Pools trails at Zion National Park at the recommendation of a helpful ranger at the Visitor Center. With three levels of varying difficulty, it was up to us to assess what we could handle, and with the blessing of that second wind, we made it to the topmost, with its waterfall cascade and pool. While Dave and I gratefully claimed a comfortable rock to relax and drink in the beauty, nimble teenagers – Dave dubbed them “the mountain goats” - leapt from rock to rock, scaling the rock face to stand beneath the tumbling water.   

With their wiry bodies, youthful energy, and no signs or guards to shoo them away, adventurous souls were free to thus scramble. The message was clear in each park we visited: individuals are responsible for their own safety. Still, we found that most everyone was mindful of others. In French, Italian, German, Ukrainian, Japanese, and English, camaraderie, conversation, and courtesy conveyed whatever was needed. People encouraged each other on challenging stretches, stepped aside and waited when the trail was perilously narrow, offered to take pictures where selfies were a stretch, and shared in the wonder with smiles and exclamations. 

 

At one point, a ranger with condor expertise directed our gaze to the skies in search of those massive birds with wingspans up to ten feet. How I yearned to catch a glimpse! The ranger explained that in the 1980’s, the condor population was down to twelve breeding pairs due to poaching and lead poisoning from tainted carrion. While that is still an issue, population restoration has been successful, bringing the number up to 330 birds through zealous protection and monitoring. Condors are trapped twice a year to test their blood for lead: if the level is not too high, they can be treated and ultimately released. The ranger urged us to pass the word along, so, hear ye all hunters, make the change from lead bullets to steel.

 

Fraught Flying and Dogged Driving – Williamsburg 2023

For once, the Merritt was free of traffic as Dave and I drove to Greenwich to meet our friends, the Tones. Our long-awaited plan to go to Williamsburg while their daughter, Maggie, was still at William & Mary had finally come to fruition. 

Well, almost. Round about Norwalk, a cheery robo-text pinged in to say that our 8:00 p.m. Breeze Airways flight had been delayed until 9:30.  When we arrived at Cathleen and Don’s house, the good folks at Breeze checked in again with news of a 12:40 departure.  Since Budget Car Rental in Norfolk, VA closed at 12:30, this time was not going to work. 

 

With the car rental a no-go, Don looked into Ubers, but oddly, no drivers were biting at the 2:30 a.m. drive from Norfolk to Williamsburg. Cathleen checked on the flight at its starting point in Vero Beach, and not only was it still on the ground, but it had been cancelled. The polite, patient gentleman who answered at Westchester Airport – a boon, certainly, that a human answered – admitted to noting the cancellation online, yet stated that on his end, the flight was still scheduled to depart. 

 

Who to believe?  What to do? What has become of the ease of flying the Friendly Skies?

 

On TV in the Tone living room, the golf course in Augusta, GA was lush, verdant, and celebratory as a young man in a lime green polo shirt won the Masters and was embraced by his aged grandmother and adorable wife. In Greenwich, however, the mood was pensive as we pondered our options. 

 

Dave went to the bathroom, and Cathleen Googled Amtrak.  There was a train at 12:30 from Stamford, but it would take 8 to 9 hours. Not appealing. 

 

Wait. Bold idea. What if we drove? We’d arrive at 2:30 a.m., around the same time as the possibly-fictional flight would deliver us and our fellow We’ll-Never-Fly-Breeze-Again passengers. Let’s do it! Let’s drive!

 

When Dave joined us, he was surprised at the shift in focus from the means of travel to which car to take. 

 

Our stalwart 2005 tank of a Volvo would be safe and willing but has logged 202,000 miles, and the trip to VA might be a push too far. The Tone’s son, PJ, would be remaining in Greenwich and needed the family car to get to school. We all felt the Tone truck would not be ideal. Hmmm. Perhaps, perhaps… Cathleen’s sister Meeghan would be willing to lend hers? 

 

Have to say, I would not be excited about lending my car for a trip to Virginia.  I like to think I’d ultimately agree, after much angst and reflection and guilt, to do such a favor, but… maybe not. Meeghan, however - wonderful, generous Meeghan - did not hesitate. “Hell yes!” she said when Cathleen called her. “It’s my gift to you.”

 

Within ten minutes, she pulled up in her snappy, spotless, streamlined beauty of a silver Audi. The absence of clutter was remarkable. No crumpled re-usable tote bags. No ice scrapers, umbrellas, or baby wipes.  No Very Hungry Caterpillars or Beany baby ponies for snoozy grandchildren to hold. And absolutely no torn receipts, leaf detritus, or sand. Such a chic, grown-up car! And yeah, I would never have lent it, but as she handed Cathleen the keys, Meeghan was cheery and breezy in a way our flight would never be. 

 

With hugs and “Are you sure’s?” burbling from our lips, we packed up and drove away. We were grateful to Meeghan and giddy at our youthful spontaneity, at our “Yes we can!” vibe even as the Universe tested our resolve. But our beloved Maggie Tone awaited us at William & Mary, and we were bound to get to her.  

 

After a stop at Glenville Pizza for sustenance, Cathleen slipped behind the wheel to take the first shift, a shift that lasted four hours. 

 

We said, “How’re you doing, Cathleen?” as the Merritt merged with 95 South.

 

“I’m good!” she replied.

 

“How’re you doing, Cathleen?” as we watched the blinking lights of aircraft approaching Newark Airport.

 

“Still good!”

 

“How’re you doing, Cathleen?” as we whizzed by my usual auto-pilot turn toward home onto the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

 

"I’m fine! In the zone!” she said, indefatigable and steady of hand, her gaze fixed on the stretch of highway before us. 

 

Don wanted to get past DC and possibly Richmond before making a stop, but where the universal wish to stretch legs and pee was not compelling enough, ultimately, the need for gas was.

 

Dale City beckoned with broad well-lighted boulevards, a plethora of Chipotles and McDonalds, and the promise of food and fuel.  At least, that’s what the signs on 95 said. Liars. For despite the presence of the aforementioned, everything was closed. A yellow Shell sign lured us in, the flirty, faithless tart, but spurned us with tanks that would not put out. Mobil, too, all bright and welcoming, proved to be closed and locked. Finally, thank heavens, we found an operational self-serve, but not a human in sight. 

 

As for facilities, we would have welcomed a port-o-potty or even a secluded grove of trees, but no. A dumpster circled by a gray metal fence at the back of the lot had potential, but its moat of garbage was daunting. Desperate as we were, the shelter of two cars parked side by side under the glare of street-lights had to suffice. Despite the urge, it took supreme force of will to command the body to perform under such conditions, especially while giggling wildly at the prospect of some poor soul surveying the security camera tapes in the morning. So it was that Dale City joined Breeze Airways on our shit list.

 

Dave took over for the final leg, and we arrived at the Williamsburg Fairfield Inn right about the time our scheduled flight landed in Norfolk. 

 

*                                  *                                  *

 

For Dave and me, this was our third visit to Williamsburg. We are consistent in our loves, for, while we live in a 1780’s house surrounded by wing back chairs, wrought iron fittings, beeswax candles, and the cozy scent of woodsmoke permeating beams and plank floors, our idea of a delightful getaway is to seek historic settings such as The Wayside in Sudbury, The Griswold in Essex, or … Virginia’s capital as it was in the 1780’s. 

 

I’ve wondered if this is a past life comfort zone or something, because despite my suspicion that I was accused of being a witch in the seventeenth century and should have an aversion to that period, I love pewter, massive fireplaces, and the warmth of wood burnished by many hands. We were all looking forward to immersing ourselves in history, architecture, and craftmanship, but on this trip, beautiful, green-eyed, red-haired Maggie was the main attraction.

 

After breakfast at the inn, we walked into the parking lot and out to Meeghan’s car. 

 

Wait a minute… what was that along the side? Oh no. Not just a scratch or scrape, but a dent. A significant dent. A dent we would have noticed if it had already been there. A dent Meeghan would have mentioned before we left. 

 

But maybe not, right? Maybe we just hadn’t seen it? For the time being, best to tell ourselves this was an old injury and quell anxiety about revealing the damage to Meeghan. 

 

Nonetheless, “I remember a white car parked next to us last night,” Cathleen said. “We’ll keep an eye out for it when we return this evening.” With only partial success, we shut Worry away for the time being and drove to William & Mary and Maggie.

 

Oh, to be a college kid again! I envied the piles of books by her bed, the posters on her walls, the collages of friends and campus parties, her excitement over courses and her a cappella singing group. When I was 20 and whining about work and exams, my dad said, “Lea.  These are the best years of your life. Enjoy them.” 

 

My response was predictable, “OMG Dad! That’s so depressing!” Maybe those years weren’t totally the best ones, but they were pretty darn close. And here was Maggie, in the midst of them, in a place steeped in American history. I envied her that too: why hadn’t I thought to look at William & Mary?

 

Despite the deceptive spring pastels of daffodils and cherry blossoms, it was cold, so we were well bundled as Maggie led our tour of historic red brick academic buildings, her sorority, and her favorites: the bar, the coffee and muffin place, and the piano practice room that was her refuge and saving grace during Covid. We stopped for samples at each, as well as the joy of a Maggie mini-concert.

We spent the next day in eighteenth century Williamsburg, visiting the tinsmith, milliner, blacksmith, and weaver. At King’s Arms Tavern, we drank ale and supped upon the house specialty of peanut soup, stew, and Welsh rarebit at a table set with white linen and pewter. At the museum, we admired artwork, figureheads, furniture, and a dollhouse. 

All fascinating, but… I have written before about my love and the lessons of historic Williamsburg, and this account is about Maggie… and Meeghan’s car.

 

The joy of Maggie, her friends, and a few days of time travel were solid distractions, but inwardly, we’d been practicing our lines for when the time came to fess up to Meeghan. As we drew closer to Greenwich on our return trip, we tried out a variety of approaches:

 

“Sooo Meeghan, just before we left, we noticed this dent. When did you have the accident?” 

 

Or, “Luckily, we’re all okay so you don’t have to worry, but…there’s this little dent…”

 

Or, “Let this be a lesson to you!  Never lend your car to others!”

 

Or, “OMG! Why didn’t you mention this dent so we didn’t have to worry this whole time?” 

 

Or, “We are so, so, so sorry, but there’s a dent in your car.”

 

Ugh. Poor Cathleen was in an anxious twist, and we just wanted to get the revelation over with. 

 

Cathleen and Don’s son, PJ, was home when we arrived, and the round of hugs was barely complete when Cathleen blurted the news of the dent.

 

PJ gave her a look and shook his head. “Yeah, Mom. I know. It’s been there since, like, February? I told you about it. Jeez, you really don’t listen to me, do you?” 

Sigh...