Library Legs, Spring and Fall 2017, A Terrible, Terrible Visual Representation

First of all, I apologize. 

I had to share it. It sat there looking at me from my desktop, daring me to do it, for nine-ish months. There's no denying I've been distracted in 2021, but you could understand my hesitation in sharing it at all. Look at it. 

Such meaningful shenanigans corner me into one particular existential corner: Am I or am I not a Serious Person? 

Or am I but a Dancing Monkey? A Cop from Keystone? A Gibbering Foole?

Finally, in this year of our lord 2021, can I not be all? The truth of the matter is that I had great, dissociative fun making this insane map. And if you've clicked the link to get this far, I've made you look. That's good enough for me.

It started semi-seriously. I just wanted to see a visual representation of my travels. After all, I'd trekked some 13,000 miles (not including in-town back and forth from lodging to libraries to dinner to tourist sites, etc.). It was worth seeing the whole picture. 

Any endeavor to "make" a map from scratch was immediately out the door. A quick Google search reminded me of ye olde publishing days, when more than one author asked, miffed: Can't you just make a map? As though we had cartography interns on call, ready to scratch out a detailed rendering of 1756 South America, denoting cultural shifts, death tolls, political upheavals and in all the eye-friendly colors of the world. If Google Maps served me so well on the road, it could do it once more, by way of entering all the destinations up and taking a screenshot* of whatever came up at the end. 

It was more challenging than expected. For one, there are limits to the number of destinations you can add to one trip in Google Maps. It would have made my life much simpler if Google had allowed them all, but I was happy to at least get the general outline of the trip, regardless. 

The lucky break to the whole, messy undertaking was the fact that I'd saved links to every single destination in the spreadsheet I made to plan the trips back in 2017. Every city, place I stayed, every site I visited. It should surprise no one that I had the whole adventure planned with very little room for spontaneity. Not to say I was never spontaneous, especially when I had no choice, like when I got elevation sickness in Colorado followed closely by the flu in California. There were times I could not bear the idea of sleeping in the car, whether I was jonesing for a bed, a bathroom, and privacy or just getting a bad vibe from a rest stop, so made a reservation at a hotel instead. This may not be so much "spontaneous" (which suggests positive attributes like courage, fun, outgoing, and so on) as it is just "less rigid," but being able to roll with the changes was still a significant departure from the person I'd become in New York: sequestered, heart-sick, and deeply anxious. It still shakes me up that I did any of this at all.

So, the map.

Hearts mark cities and sites I visited, though they do not represent every single place I went (impossible in this format); lizard eyes mark where I bunkered down, sick as hell; places in gray are Google; places in purple and orange are mine; dark blue line is leg one; light blue line is leg two. Note the directional arrows! I visited every state in the Western United States, with the starting point in Wichita noted with the giant smiley star. Why stop there? I added clips of photos I took on my journeys (which rendered crazy) and then, for reasons known only to my 2020-sequestered-psychologically-addled mind, I added pictures of my cats, too. WHY NOT. After all, it was during one of the first car-sleeps during leg two that I realized how completely I loved them as I laid there in the dark of my Rogue feeling blue and keening for their little fur-faces, followed immediately by snorting in derision at what a marshmallow peep I'd become. But if you find maps boring...well, that's weird, but if you do, the cats really add a level of zip and zing most maps could never offer. Look at those little faces. A few twerpy cats would have certainly spiced up some of our scholarly monograph maps. This is a fact.

Why the giant yellow eye icon at Loveland Pass? Why the rainbow sticker at Jackson, Wyoming? Follow the links and relive my library tour of the western United States! I'm doing a bit of that myself over on my new Instagram page, created primarily to supplement my new freelancing website, though it has been a blast revisiting these travels. Even more so after the grim, anxiety-ridden wake of 2020. 

So does my fever dream of a Library Trip 2017 Map make me less of a Serious Person? More of a Giant Doof? Does it matter? And that's what made me finally post it. It's stupid and I love it. And it shows just how far I went...and how far I've come. Liberation from constant panic is next door to one's best conception of heaven. Next up: liberation from self-consciousness. That would take care of the serious/not question for EVER.

Actually, I'm not sorry. I'm not sorry at all.

*fair use, look it up, bay-be

Billings Public Library (Main Library), Billings, Montana

Billings is an odd town that refuses to follow a consistent grid system and throws one way streets into the mix like a sweaty, chunky, ant-burning 7-year-old gorilla boy with a tiny ax to grind and nothing to lose but dessert. The wild and twisty shape of the city is due to its geographical locale between the Yellowstone river and Rimrocks (long cliffs). Wichitans all know the wearisome whimsy of a town laid out over a river, but the cliffs were a new and interesting complication. I actually got to see how the city was divided while trying to get back to the Applebee's I had so foolishly passed, thinking I could turn right eventually only to find a massive barrier in my way. Luckily the road eventually leads back around and up onto the cliffs, where you get a view of a smoking industrial complex down the valley to the right, and a view of the airport to the left.

Downtown was much better, and reminded me so much of Wichita I could have almost sworn parts of it were the same. I cruised in at sunset, finding the library with some complications. Google Map Woman doesn't understand parking lots, but rather Here is the Structure, You are Here Now, which left me to circle back (one way streets!) to finally get to the lot. Another fun thing Google Map Woman does is U-turns. She lives for U-turns. Never mind that you can make a left from the street directly into the place you wanted to go. She would much rather you go to the next crossstreet and Make A U-turn. Make a U-Turn. Why don't you make a U-Turn, Dave?

What a phenomenal time to roll up on the Billings Public Library (Main Branch). It was sunset, and a good one at that, so a perfect time to photograph the exterior. The library was one of the recipients of the 2016 AIA/ALA Library Building Awards, a huge and well-deserved honor that was evident even before I stepped foot in the building.

While it harkens back to early aughts Mac Desktop aesthetics with its silver, meshed facade, the building is aggressively beautiful because it understands and embraces the power of color and light. Some of the windows in the first floor are a hot, sweet turquoise; that dash of something that draws the eye, then the body, closer and closer still. The whole library has little tricks like this tucked high and low and around various unexpected bends. It was a delight to explore.

Before entering the library, I happened upon an annoyed bunny cavorting in the garden, so snapped as many photos as I could as she made her escape.

The lobby was a wood paneled dream. There are tree stumps fashioned into stools all over the library, an obvious nod to the bountiful country surrounding Billings and representative of all of Montana. I mention it not because it is particularly clever or twee, and especially not because they are a comfortable option, but because so many modern libraries knock themselves out to look like Minority Report that it's nice when they pull a little bit of nature into the space. It's one of the reasons I love libraries with insane house plant fixations. Yes, it looks like your lunatic Aunt Zeeba's hippy dippy love shack, but it's also homey and calming. I love a good clean line, but throw and ficus into the corner and revel in the glory of chaos.

As I passed through the lobby and into the library proper, I was immediately drawn to the middle of the room, where a seating area resided under a vast oval of open space leading all the way up to an egg shaped skylight, glowing deep blue in the fading daylight.

Elevator doors.

When I came back the next day, I found that the skylight is already a blue hue, and the very simple  use of primary colors at the heart of the library was both clever and appealing. I could read all sorts of things into the interior design of the place, how the wood paneled areas and turquoise glass room are nearer the exterior, while the primary colors are central to the structure; e.g. nature (the woods, the river) surrounds and is still a part of the human world (primary colors, the first chapter of art, one of the cornerstones of civilization). I bet the concept meetings had all sorts of metaphorical connections between nature, humanity, and civilization coexisting.

I absolutely loved the stairway, which featured a lightbox rendering of the surrounding Rimrocks and a wishing well just below it. It isn't a fountain, but a still pool, so you could almost miss the fact that there is a water feature inside the library if you passed by it too quick. The fact that it remains odorless is a big plus—all of the places I've visited with water features either smell like bleach or mildew. Nothing too excessive, mind you, but I'm sensitive to smells so I can't help but notice. If I say Billings Public Library has no smell, you can take that to the olfactory bank.

Stairway, still pool, and lightbox.

And to the left, more "woods" and the kids section.

One of the trends in the newer libraries (and some of the old ones unafraid to adapt and make some coin) is to feature coffee shops with simple food offerings. Some libraries require that you stay within the confines of the cafe to both eat and drink, some are fine with allowing patrons to bring drinks into the library, and some are just like do whatever, man. Billings allows drinks in the main parts of the library, but food is forbidden. There are signs posted everywhere. When I was there the next day, after a morning of writing I packed up and headed out to get a snack from my car (peanut butter crackers). Before I made it to the doors, I stopped and considered the cafe...save money? Blow money? Save...time? Every naughty thing can be negotiated. So I stayed and got a coffee and treat that I do not even remember anymore. The cost was around $5, but it ended up costing me $15 in the long run.

Second floor computers and stacks.

A view of the skylight from the second floor.

Dainty little meeting rooms with darling furniture. 

Color coordinated for your business pleasure.

When I got to the second floor, there were about two and a half hours left on the clock before the library would close for the night. The Billings Public Library has abundant space not only for lounging readers, but worker bees like me, who bring their own laptops (or pads, pencils, rulers, etc.) and need a desk (with electricity) to spread out and settle in for the long haul. There were desks all down the sides of the building, with little lounge areas and chairs set up in some sections, mostly in the corners. And in the stacks there was at least one very long row of tables turned into single desks, each with its own electical outlet. Tons and tons of workspace. A dream!

The Teen Scene!

Lounge area.

That first night, I left at nine and headed over to the Love's Truck Stop to sleep. The next day I was excited to get back to the Billings Public Library to put in a full day's work. I got there shortly after it opened and stayed until about six o'clock when I'd decided I'd had enough, wanted some dinner, and would make my way back to Love's for one more night of truck stop sleep.

View of the interior from my desk.

Did you know I have Road Rage? I do. I really would prefer it if y'all would get off of my road. Did you know you are in the way? You are. And that I hate you and want to destroy all that you love? Yeppers. Sad! As the Orange Tyrant would say. But it is true. When I'm driving, I morph from an overly considerate, extra nice midwestern lady into Sarris from Galaxy Quest.

One of the benefits of living in New York is not having to drive everywhere—you can take the subway to almost any part of the city...and where they don't go, a taxi might, and a ferry must. As I've stated before, this worked for me for years, until it didn't. Panic attacks aside, the subway is no place for a civilized people to be, what with its ancient snot globs on the windows, sticky floors, and every variety of germ in existence doing the electric boogaloo all over the poles. Whenever I was home, I started to really appreciate the freedom of driving, steering your own ship, existing in the space alone, or at least only with people of your choosing.

When I started these trips I told my mother I was going to be a defensive driver only. No speeding up to beat someone else to an open lane, slowing to let others pass, and keeping to the speed limit. And despite my misanthropic world view behind the wheel, I'd only ever gotten two tickets in my life. One was just after the seat belt laws were enacted in Wichita, when I was a teen. My friend's car didn't have seat belts, so we all got tickets for that. The second ticket was for aggressive driving and speeding, issued just outside of Oak Park Mall in Johnson County, Kansas. I was at the end of my marriage and lost my temper at a traffic light, tearing around another car and speeding to get ahead of everyone else. A cop saw it and pulled me over. That was a heftier fine, which I deserved.

But O, this most recent one hurts the most. I wished I had seen the teeny tiny, itty frickin bitty sign posted at the exit of the parking lot, advising patrons to post their licence plates with the front desk. And how I wished I would have gone out to my car for a snack instead of getting one at the cafe. I would have seen the warning ticket posted on my windshield. And could have saved myself the real ticket left three hours later. But alas. Alas.

It was only $10. It is true I am also a Crybaby Extraordinaire. But really, Billings? Reaaaally? So petty. But I paid it. And now I have one of every kind of ticket, I think? An accomplishment.

Los Angeles, California to Wichita, Kansas (1630 miles, approximately)

15 minutes into Colorado, XM radio starts playing "Rocky Mountain High" I shit thee not.

Quote of the Day: "OK, we’re gonna be cool. We’re gonna be sooo cool. We’re the coolest of the cool, chillaxin in Chilltown. Cool and chillaxed, AND WHY IS THERE NO GUARDRAIL, Okay let’s forget about the guardrail, there is no guardrail, there is no spoon, we’re cool it’s all cool. We’re not gonna look at that cloud, we’re not gonna think about that cloud right there, we’re gonna chillax and be cool. So. Very. Cool."—Me, Loveland Pass, Colorado

If memory serves, it went something like this: Long route from LA to Vegas > Crescent Junction Rest Stop (Utah) > Denver > Colorado Springs > Wichita

If it seems foggy, it is—I am recollecting from just a couple of days ago, but I would point very pointedly to the approximate mileage above, and 3 times zones of driving travel in a two-day period. Lordy Lordy.

I had intended to stay in Colorado Springs for two nights, thus breaking up the travel just a bit, but the weather had other ideas and I had to flee rather late in the day, not even 24 hours in town, to beat the oncoming snow and rain. I had also intended to visit Garden of the Gods, sleep overnight at a Kansas rest stop, and visit Dodge City before heading home. Good thing I tanked that whole plan, because as it turns out, a blizzard blew through Kansas, too, and dumped 16 inches of snow right along my planned route.

California sundown

I left LA straight from the West Hollywood library and took the longer, northern route because I was tired of going through LA straight east as that had been the same route I took to get back to Fontana every night. This was the only part of traveling in LA where I experienced grid lock. Every time we’d reach a clear area, I could never see a cause for the slowdown in the first place, so I’ll just blame it on the fact that LA drivers are comprised of two species: Caffeinated squirrels & obstinate mules. For most of my visit we managed to all coexist peacefully, performing the exquisitely timed ballet of graceful merging, twisting in and out of lanes and no honking or discernable ill will in sight. I know my LA driving is limited (though honestly, not that limited) and that LA is notorious for wild driving, but I felt far more fearful driving in Dallas. For example, in LA, there were no Mega Manly Truck Grilles pressed to my Rogue’s ass…instead, when people would get aggressive, they were tiny little gnats in my wake. There are very few of those TRUCK YEAH trucks in LA.

Once I cleared the traffic, the drive toward Nevada was lovely. It is a very mountainous area and sundown was warm and glowing fire dissolving into quiet night. When I came upon my intended sleeping arrangement for the evening—Valley Wells Rest Area in California—I shouldn’t have been surprised to find it closed for renovation. There was no inkling that this was imminent when I made my plans awhile back, but sometimes you have to go with the flow and, as it turned out, there just happened to be a town just a little farther down the road made almost entirely of hotels, neon, and broken dreams.

I had planned to drive through Las Vegas the next day to catch lunch somewhere weird, but instead I ended up staying at a recently renovated motel on the north, slightly sketchier end of the Strip: The Thunderbird Boutique Hotel. It turned out to be a great place to land, with parking in the back that made it feel semi safe. The hotel was colorful and well designed and the rooms themselves were huge. There was no padding under the carpet, and it felt uneven and strange as though God Knows What was under there, so I made a little towel path around the bed to avoid getting too ooged out.

If you’ve ever been lucky enough to have a house built from scratch, thus affording you the luxury of visiting the framed in construction site and all subsequent stages of the build, you will get to see the unseemly part of it too: The Rude Ass Garbage Situation. The crew just throws chip bags, cigarette butts, etc., wherever they happen to be standing, so you end up with permanent garbage under your house (definitely) and, depending on your builder, even under your damn carpet (maybe). It’s infuriating and super gross. So, this is what I thought of when I walked on the uneven Carpet of Secrets and decided nope.

Biker cops

 I slept like a dead rock and woke up to find my car nice and safe in the lot and ready for the long drive across Utah to the next rest stop (which from my searches, appeared to be open). Before leaving I decided to visit the library on a whim (covered in another post) and make a few passes up and down the Strip to take some pictures.

Las Vegas is far more impressive at night, with miles of neon beckoning and hypnotizing, but it’s still quite a sight to see in the daytime. You get to see who the real go getters are, too, up bright and early and full-tilt squirrely, running around taking pictures and making memories. It’s also a time of day when dragging the Strip is mild and gentle, not too busy or maniacal, and an actual, non-stressful joy.

 What struck me was how much had changed since I’d been there last…though to be fair, it had been a long, long time (the 90s!) so what did I expect, right? I absolutely loved the tacky part of Vegas the last time I’d seen it—anything over the top ridiculous, like Circus Circus, Excalibur, the Flamingo, and of course Caesar’s Palace, big time. Loud, brazen, and shameless: Bring it. From different media sources (okay, The Real World) I knew more “standard” hotels (rectangular monoliths absent all that flashy cashy neon delight) were going up over the years since I’d last visited, and it was true there were quite a few, making the skyline far more cosmopolitan than I’d remembered, but there was still plenty of wonderful and weird to counter the boring, glass bricks of standard hotel fare.

I’ve been to Vegas twice, the first time we stayed at Circus Circus, the second time we stayed at the Luxor. While I tried gambling a bit, I only ever sampled the slot machines and never went anywhere near the craps, cards, or roulette wheel. Interesting factoid about rehab: One of the first questions they ask you is Do you have a gambling problem? Followed up by, Have you turned to gambling when you could not access your drug of choice? I couldn’t have been more surprised if they’d asked me had I ever eaten asparagus on a moonlight boat ride. But apparently, it is a thing—same pleasure receptors and all that. But not for me. I generally find gambling boring, and am more likely to see the expenditure of even one dollar in that enterprise as nothing more than throwing it into the fires of Mount Doom. This, of course, coming from the person who used to blow at least $100/week on vices. Not bad, right? Compared to, say, a heroin budget? All smart abusers buy in bulk!

I intended to pull over and spend a dollar on a slot machine just to say I did it, but I forgot and ended up leaving town (and Nevada) never taking advantage of the opportunity. Oh well. There will be a next time, I have no doubt.

Some favorite shots between Las Vegas and Zion...

Even if you are not a gambler, I would still recommend going to Vegas just to see the excess of it all. You will have to bear some sadness, though, as there are many, many indigent people everywhere. I even saw the tent city erected very near the library. It is away from the Strip itself, but not that far. Gird your feelings and do it regardless. Stay a couple of nights in Vegas, do whatever makes you happy, then drive the same route I took from Vegas to Denver (I15 to I70). This drive is unbelievably beautiful. I took some pictures along the way, but it doesn’t capture how gorgeous it is. You’ve got to put your human eyes on it, with all that luxurious peripheral vision.

I forgot about the dang switch to Mountain time, so arrived too late to see much of Zion, but I took some pictures of the area just outside the park which was, in my opinion, pretty damned impressive. I can see why they named this park Zion. It looks like an excellent place to be still and take measure of things, both great and small.

The town just outside the park (Springdale) is just about the cutest thing I have ever seen with lots of little homes with flower gardens and beautiful wood framed mom-and-pop businesses lining the one main street that weaves its way up to the main gate. The whole area is so gobsmacking gorgeous I’ve already made a promise to myself to come back for the express purpose of staying in this town and spending some real time there. Excruciatingly precious town meets majestic, stunning locale = Top Destination.

After the side trip to Zion, I continued my journey through Utah and made my way to the Crescent Junction Rest stop to burrow in for the night. It was very cold and I’ve finally learned that I am human and not impervious to chills. Worse yet, Utah’s rest stops leave everything to be desired, including the fact that the toilets are somewhere near the damn floor so you practically have to fall on them. They’re also those “natural” type toilets so that it smells like hell forever. Watered down soap, hand dryers, and no way to open the door without touching it just added to the charm. GUH. Can I just mention, by the way, that the ONLY state-run rest areas I visited on this leg with swing-out doors you never have to touch were in KANSAS? Seriously, guys, get it together.

Although I woke up at the rest stop a bit groggy, I thought I was fortified and ready for the drive…it seemed manageable, just 5-6 hours, and I was going to meet up with an old high school friend after visiting a library in Denver to boot. So much time! So much energy! So much forgetting that what stood between me and the rest of my day was the goddamned Rocky Mountains. Before getting to the Let’s All Be Cool part of the story, I should state the obvious: The Rockies are incredible. Driving ever upward and winding to and fro, it was a pleasure to see all those cabinesque villages nestled in the flattest corners of the mountains, with hidden lakes and fierce drops into soft plumes of white snow and tiny jagged trees. It truly is a wonderland.

 

Things were going great. It was snowing a bit, but nothing unmanageable, and I even got to see skiers near Vail going zoom zoom zoom down the mountain. It was delightful. The snow grew thicker, but we were all doing fine traversing I-70, going the speed limit, and no perceptible ice in sight. The worst part for me was the state of the road—every time there was a hollow of collected water, my car would do a mini hydroplane, which would kick the cruise control off and, when going upward, jolted the car and made the damn drive seem more like off-roading than commuting through the civilized world. Nothing about driving through the Rockies feels remotely civilized to me, though, as it is both fascinating and horrifying that humans saw this somewhat (completely) inhospitable environment and thought, Let’s live here. But this is just my Kansas showing…it’s also why every time I saw a mountain (or hill) on my trip, I got overexcited and screamed at it because WOW WOW.

At Silverthorn, the cops had cordoned off the Interstate, forcing all cars to exit and find another way. Everyone else seemed to know where they were going, I did not. I pulled over and, after some quick consultation, put my trust in Google Map Woman. I know, I know. What was I thinking? Probably something along the lines of She would never hurt me. Because I am a foole. When she said Let’s go on Colorado 6, I said, OKEY DOKEY.

So ever upward we went. It was still snowing but I took heart as I passed Keystone ski resort. I knew living humans who had skied there. So obviously I would be fine. After all, it was almost May. Practically summer! But I still didn’t know where I was until I saw the sign. Loveland pass. I knew Loveland Pass, I didn’t know much, other than the fact that it was HIGH. Very high. And by the time I reached this sign, there was really nowhere else to go.

Things got stony quiet in my car. I started having my first full blown panic attack in I don’t know how long. I was hyper aware of the altitude, thin air, and losing my breath the harder I panicked. I put the cold air on high and turned all the vents to blow directly on my face.

When I have a panic attack, I go molten hot. All the air leaves the room. Everything goes far and wee. I had to get my shit together and fast.

So I started talking to myself as the road went higher and wound tighter and tighter. My one comfort was every average, non-ATV, non-SUV I would see passing the other way. If a damn Toyota Tercel could make it, I would make it. Just keep cool, freezy breezy, cool cool cool, and go as slow as necessary and do not give one thought to people behind me. Luckily there was an old truck at the lead and it had to corner slowly anyway, so the stress of being the cause of backing up traffic behind me was voided out anyway.

One added stressor that I had never even considered when making all these plans and setting up my car for both travel and lodging became evident the higher I went: the air mattress. Apparently either the thin air or the temperature change (or some combination of the two) made the air inside it e x  p   a    n     d.

I heard a terrible, tight squeaking right behind my head. This is while I was already a clenched muscle of acid-laden terror, so you can imagine my reaction. Whatthefuckwasthat. I felt behind me and it was pushing up against my seat, hard, and completely taut. So, as I drove I waited for the boom. Would it just separate at the seam and just kind of woof? Would it pop like a big bubble wrap? Or would it be an atomic BOOM, shattering my nerves and sending me careening, screaming into the white abyss?

So I talked to myself like a maniacal therapist with an infinitesimal vocabulary. And it calmed me down, thank God. I made it down the mountain and back to I70 (which was open at that end) and continued on to Denver. I was even able to appreciate the signs posted for truckers especially: Big, yellow signs yelling at them to stay in a lower gear because the declines were ongoing. These signs say things like, Not yet, truckers! And You are still not done! Huge, official signs. Which makes me think Colorado has had to deal with a great number of massive trucks zinging down these roads and flying off of mountains left and right. Imagine an airborne semi. It must feel so light and free! Before it dies in a clashing screech and ball of searing flame of course.

The mattress never blew up, by the way. I am going to write the most adoring product review for this thing, you have no idea. Wal-Mart! $7.44!

By the time I got to Denver I was exhausted so cancelled the library and meet up (sorry Michael!) and went straight to the AirBNB. What a lovely place—very suburban (and near nothing) but they have a great view of Pike’s Peak and the greatest bulldog on the planet: Roscoe. Look at this face. He was the sweetest meatball of furry love. Roscoe especially loves scratches behind the ears and guarding the front door. He makes the most expressive grunts and groans. He should be famous.

A Star

I spent the evening photo editing and vegging out on Netflix. By the next morning, I felt much better and decided to head toward the mountains again. I’d picked out several Colorado Springs area libraries to visit, and the smallest and most remote was located in the historic little village of Manitou. While there, I overheard people talking about an oncoming storm. There was no electricity to be found for my laptop, so I decided to move on to another, larger library, and vowed to look into the weather situation once I got there. Probably not a big deal.

I headed over to the 21c Library in Colorado Springs, took pictures, and mooned over the place for a while (I’ll cover this later). It wasn’t until 2 or so when I finally got around to checking the weather report for the area. Storm alert, 8-10 inches, travel not advised after the snow starts. Shit.

I made a decision. Go home. I have the luxury of going back to the Garden of the Gods and Dodge City at a later date. Knowing that there was a storm coming also meant car sleeping would only be colder and more miserable, no doubt, and God knows if I would be snowed in or what. I hightailed it back to the AirBNB, packed up, gave goodbye snuggles to Roscoe, and set out for Kansas.

Kansas Rest Area

I recall promising to assess which drive was more boring: Roswell to Albuquerque or Denver to Wichita. While it is true that Kansas is flat, it is also a soft and sweeping plains of flat. As opposed to scrubby, grubby desert. I suppose it is just a preference, probably based on familiarity, but I still think the aesthetics are significantly different. The old but extremely superior rest stops in Kansas also add to my assessment—they are very well maintained and stocked and, as I mentioned before, feature the ever-important swing out doors. Much to my delight, they still play radio weather broadcasts from ancient speakers on the exterior of the building, this time echoing what I now know turned out to be not just bad weather for Colorado, but extremely bad weather for Kansas.

After night fell, somewhere between Hays and Salina, eventually in my line of sight emerged a sea of red lights pulsating in unison far into the horizon. It was pitch black, so all I could see was what was directly in front of my headlights and the mystery lights blinking, slow and steady. On my life I could not fathom what they were for, but they were magical and I hoped they were alien beacons which of course they were not. Sorry New Mexico, Kansas has you spanked.

I arrived home around 11:15 that evening, zombified and overwhelmed. It was wonderful to see my mom, though, and meeting her new, tiny cat Luna was a delight. Now I hibernate for one week and try to regenerate. As the zombies like to say, “Blargggg.” But I am so happy I got the opportunity to take this trip. It was better than I’d hoped and I am looking forward to leg two!