Someday Soon

5/1/2023

Early on the morning of Saturday, April 29^th Gary and I departed Missoula, MT for his home in Coupeville, WA, a drive of approximately 530 miles. The roads were quiet, and the sun was just starting to peak over the surrounding mountains. Our route would have us on Interstate 90 for several hours, and so with our Starbucks in hand we settled into the last leg of our journey together. Bob had only been home for a week but was already preparing for his next adventure with another friend, a 3-4 month camping trip following the ALCAN Highway along the west coasts of the United States and Canada, and eventually into Alaska and the Yukon Territories.  

Our drive that day passed through some incredible mountain scenery rife with fast flowing rivers engorged by rapid snowmelt that was causing miniature waterfalls to form and cascade down the cliffs bordering the road. The sunlight twinkled against the OREM’s dirty windshield as we wound our way through the forest, and it was serenely beautiful save for one consistency: the pine trees that clung to the steep, rocky slopes as far as the eye could see were sick. I would estimate that at least 50% of the trees were either dead or dying, their needles brown and brittle. In many spots the dead trees had fallen and lay like vanquished soldiers on some long-forgotten battlefield. I suspect such carnage is the result of the Pine Bark Beetle, whose range is spreading further north as the climate warms, but of course it could be something else entirely. Regardless of the root cause, it was sad to witness, and as I drove and did my best to describe the scene to Gary, I wondered if someday soon those forests might be just a memory, their ghosts unable to hold the soil in place and protect the rivers or provide habitat to all the creatures that have lived there for eons.

Upon reaching Seattle, the traffic thickened and slowed as expected. The scenery was still beautiful, but tainted as it was by urban sprawl, I had to regroup and focus, the recent tranquility evaporated into the shrill whirr of the city. We were aiming for the ferry to Whidbey Island that originates in Everett, but when we arrived the waiting line was massive, the biggest Gary had ever experienced in fact. So, we made the decision to drive further north and avoid the ferry altogether because even though it added perhaps 30-40 miles, surely it would be quicker. Unfortunately, we were dead-wrong.

The weather on this particular Saturday was outstanding. It was the type of weather that beckons you outside to revel in its glory, the air warm and dry, the sky a cloudless light blue. And as if the day’s fine weather wasn’t reason enough to jump in one’s car and go somewhere, anywhere…there was also a gun show in the area, there was a tulip festival, and the annual “Holland Days” celebration was in progress. And seemingly in concert with the ferry waiting-line fiasco, the roads were similarly choked by cars filled with frustrated occupants, every driver unwilling to concede anything to all the other drivers in the same predicament. The OREM moved sporadically, the speedometer needle never breaking 10 mph as I kept the gap closed lest the drivers around me cut me off. It was a wretched game of automobile chess, with every driver vying to be the Grand Master. Gary became the consummate broken record as his bewilderment manifest itself repeatedly with various incarnations of the following sentiment: “I’ve never seen traffic like this on a Saturday, never!” In the end, it took us over three hours to reach Gary’s home, a drive that normally takes roughly 90 minutes, and turned an anticipated 8.5-hour drive into a 11.5-hour drive, which in the bigger scheme is nothing, but on this day, the day Gary was finally going to be home, it was definitely something.

Margie, Gary’s wife, had a delicious meal of enchiladas, beans and Mexican rice waiting for us, food so good that we quickly forgot about the tedium of our recent drive. We ate with the gusto of teenage boys and soon morphed into stuffed and sleepy road-warriors. It felt very good to be home, even if it wasn’t mine.

The next day we made a short drive to visit with Gary & Margie’s daughter Christina and her family, who live nearby. We shared a few tales of supposed derring-do from our trip while Gary played with 3 of his grandchildren, grinning the whole time like the Cheshire Cat as they clamored around and on top of him like sea otters, their peels of joy at having their grandpa home at last swelling the room with joy. I’ve rarely seen Gary so radiantly happy, and I must admit that it made me more than a little homesick for my own family as I bore witness to his bliss.

Margie and some of the neighbors had planned a party to celebrate our journey and subsequent safe return, and around 4 pm we made our way over to Wayne and Ilene’s back yard, where the rituals of sharing our story and immersing ourselves once more into the cadence of community would begin. These “Coupevillians,” as they call themselves, are a wonderfully diverse bunch who hail from all over the country and have led amazing, interesting lives of their own. And together, they’ve somehow created this mercurial and magical enclave that feels like going back to the womb, if that makes any sense at all. It was truly an honor to be invited to spend a few hours with them in such sacred space, their shared wit and good humor the perfect salve for two threadbare, weary travelers.

This morning, I drove away from Gary & Margie’s home shortly before 7 am. Gary had made me one last most-excellent cappuccino, and Margie had prepared amazingly delicious breakfast burritos that I not only had for breakfast, but also for lunch on the road, and for dinner tonight!  It was bittersweet saying goodbye, not only because you just never know when you’ll see each other again, but maybe more so because our adventure is nearly over. Bob is home and back to his routine, Gary is finally home and quickly settling in, and in a few more days I, too, will return to the world I left behind nearly two months ago. I would imagine that I’ll wake up the morning after I return, in my own bed surrounded by the artifacts of my life, and it will seem as if nothing has changed, that maybe I never actually went anywhere at all. For now, though, I’ve got a few more days to drive and think, time enough perhaps to anchor the journey in my mind and tether it firmly to my heart so that it stays put, and then maybe I’ll be able to convince Gary and Bob, if they ever ask, that yes, we actually did what we set out to do…