Pack Creek Ranch, San Juan County, Utah
Written October 23, 2008

SLOWLY, SLOWLY, SLOWLY

Tomorrow Fulghum hits the road again. This time making a long, slow drive across part of the American west in late October. From Moab to Seattle. If in a hurry, a bullet-shot interstate freeway ride takes 18 hours. ZOOOM . . . With another driver I’ve done it mad-dash non-stop in a single day.
Why? I can’t remember why. But never again.

Now, in a Why-Hurry? state of mind, I’ve been reviewing my route to touch places along the way that memory holds dear. Four days at least. If I had a magic wand I would be driving a small bus full of my dearest friends.

First stop is only 3 miles out of Moab, on the banks of the Colorado River where it cuts through a gap in the great walls of red sandstone at the end of the Moab Valley. Though usually fast-flowing and mud-colored from the burden of silt it moves toward the sea, this time of year the water is emerald green, curling back and forth around small sand islands and exposed rocks. The river sets my pace – it, too, is in no hurry now. It is good to consider the river and its ways. Slowly, slowly, slowly.

Instead of the most direct route to Salt Lake, a detour west to Salina, Utah, is next. For the geological scenery of the San Rafael Swell along the way, to be sure. But more important to arrive in time for lunch at Mom’s Café – for chicken-fried steak and coconut-banana-meringue pie.

A night in Salt Lake City provokes thought. I like walking in the evening to the Tabernacle and Temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints. Whatever one may think of the present day Mormons, the saga of their sacrificial trek west to build a city in the desert always leaves me awed by what human beings are capable of in the name of religious faith. I know well some of their descendants who live in Moab. Strong people. I always wonder if I believe in something strong enough to risk my life for it.

After Salt Lake my route crosses into Idaho, the Snake River plain, and off-road walks to view the ruts of the wagon roads left by the pioneers of the Oregon Trail. More evidence of strong people. My appreciation of those who walked all the way here from St. Louis is mixed with thoughts of the conflicts with the Native people who already lived in and loved this magnificent landscape. So much beauty – so much bitterness.

A night in Boise, rising early to detour to the little town of Weiser, Idaho, the home of one of the great fiddle music festivals in America. I attended a couple of times and wrote about those evenings playing music in the streets out under the stars. When I walk around town I always hear the music.

Nearby is a green oasis where I’ll take an afternoon nap on deep grass under a grove of cottonwoods in their fall finery. Farewell Bend State Park marks the place where wagon trains camped and rested before leaving the Snake River for the arduous climb through the next mountain ranges. If it were me, I think I would have stayed right there.

The next great sight is from the heights above Pendleton, Oregon, at the end of the Blue Mountains. As far as you can see there are sweeping fields of wheat and alfalfa – with the Cascade Mountains in the far distance. Between Pendleton and the Columbia River Gorge there are farms selling mounds of pumpkins, apples, squash, and Indian corn - with an added attraction of a maze carved through the dry corn stalks in the nearby field.

Westward on down the north side of the Columbia – a two-lane blue highway high up on the first slope of the gorge – with views down the great river, trains running along the shore on both side of the river, and silver waterfalls on the south shore. There’s a replica of Stonehenge to visit along the way. A reminder of how old the urge is to celebrate the yearning for meaning, and to relate to the immutable mystery of existence.

This is a trip of wide open spaces, long views, trees with leaves of yellow and red and orange, small towns, friendly cafes, the dusty golden light of late afternoons, fiery sunsets, frosty nights, and waffle breakfasts with extra bacon on the side.

Hurry? To get to what that’s better?
Slowly, slowly, slowly.