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This
weekend my wife and I drove up island to Campbell River to visit my
mother. We used to visit once every few
months but since my stepfather’s passing in March we've made the trip - some 260km - more frequently.
We had
planned to leave Friday afternoon at 2, which we thought would allow us to beat
the inevitable after-work traffic jam that clogs up the westbound road out of
Victoria and in no way indicates a need for commuter rail. As it turned out, we were
almost right – we had made it as far as the beginning of the Malahat highway,
where traffic bottlenecks on a good day, to discover a construction crew busily
increasing to three the number of lanes which have to frantically merge into
one thirty feet later. Traffic slowed to
a standstill and we had plenty of time to reflect on how peaceful our up-island
trips used to be when Via Rail was still running.
In my more optimistic moments I imagine a day
when some kind of light rail service gives commuters in the GVRD a way to work
that doesn’t involve sweltering on asphalt while a chopped Harley Davidson four
feet away plays you the song of its people but such a utopia is unlikely.
Victoria
would like to be thought of as a forward-thinking city and with all the
tattooed yogis wandering around you’d almost fall for it – until, that is,
someone makes a suggestion towards improving infrastructure in any meaningful
way.
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During my drive to Las Vegas, the Veteran’s Memorial Highway brought me through a handful of Indian Reservations. I’m not particularly educated on the state of Indian-Government relations but I’ve read Dee Brown’s Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee and I’m a fan of Ward Churchill so I have at least a baseline understanding of the savage, locker-room rogering that was Manifest Destiny. All the same, actually seeing the Godless stretches of sun-withered rock that the government assigned to its defeated enemy really drives the point home in a way that books can’t. Though I know full well that the Indian people had no voice in the decision I imagine that the U.S. Government, having thoroughly won the American Indian Wars, called forth a representative from the surviving tribes when it was time to assign living space: U.S. Government: That is some lovely property you all were living on, wasn’t it? Indian Representative: Yes, that is why we liked living there. U.S. Government: Well, we need it Indian Representative: For what?! U.S. Government: Stuff. Indian Representative: What stuff? U.S. Government: Jamba Juices, hockey rinks, hot dog stands. White people stuff. Indian Representative: But what about us? U.S. Government: That’s what I wanted to talk to you about! Using the most scientific methods currently available we have located the absolute worst parcels of sandblasted hell in America Indian Representative: Why? U.S.G: Because we want to give them to you! Indian Representative: I’m sorry? U.S.G.: So you can live there, silly! All of you. Bring sunscreen. Indian Representative: I have a few reservations about this. U.S.G.: Great! That’s what we’ll call them. Now get out of here you crazy kid. Remember what I said about sunscreen. Indian Representative: But I don’t…is that a shotgun? U.S.G.: I said get Since NPR liked to disappear on me whenever I got interested in a subject, thoughts like this were all I had to keep me company. I’d given up on country radio after hearing Tim McGraw’s “Indian Outlaw” three days running. It’s a catchy song and I’m not particularly sensitive but every time I heard“You can find me in my wigwam /I’ll be beatin’ on my tom-tom / Pull out the pipe and smoke you some / Hey and pass it around” I wanted to throw up. A mild diversion came when I saw a sign advertising a Wildlife Viewing Area. The last several hours of driving had brought me endless vistas of windswept hardpan and I was a little sceptical as whether any wildlife not existing solely at the microscopic level could possibly thrive here. A tour guide would have to be a Zoloft-popping mixture of cock-eyed optimist and Spalding Grey to sell that particular Wildlife Viewing Experience: “Here in front of us we have some rocks, heavy ones by the look of them. To our left if you look closely you can see more rocks, one of which looks like an anvil. Oh! Look! Just over there I thought I saw…no, no…that was a rock too. Isn’t this fun? Who else could go for a Jamba Juice?” Night had fallen by the time I got close to Vegas and traffic had fallen off to almost nothing. As Highway 95 slipped by beneath the moonlight I had a look at the map and realized I was driving parallel to Department of Defense land. Then it hit me – this wasn’t just any DoD land – this was the Nevada Test Site, formerly Nevada Proving Ground, one of two nuclear testing sites used by America during the Cold War. Hey, I read books. From 1951-1992 over 1,000 nuclear devices were tested on-site, often resulting in fallout that insisted on ruining the day (and genetic material) of anyone who happened to be downwind. These blessed souls are cheerfully called “Downwinders” by those who take an interest in the subject – I imagine this is because “Boy Howdy, You Are Boned-ers” is too much of a buzzkill. Over the years there were a number of settlements paid out by the government although the official figures are apparently well-hidden. Scenes from The Hills Have Eyes came flooding into my head and in desperation I reached for the radio. Even “Indian Outlaw” was better than that.
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Leaving Bellingham with a stomach-full of breakfast quiche that wouldn’t have made the cut in a retirement home cafeteria wasn’t the best way to start my September 11 but it was all I had. The restaurant recommended to me by the
motel desk clerk turned out to have a 40 minute wait, unless I wanted to sit in the lounge next to the loud, pudgy blonde who had already started drinking. I didn’t. Instead I ended up eating the unfortunate quiche at a nearby Tully’s Coffee, just around the corner from Deseret Books (now selling the Mormon-approved Harry Potter alternative “Janitors”, in case you’re interested).
My target for the day was John Day, Oregon and traffic was heavy as I drove I-90 east. All the things I love about interstates – sudden lane changes, yuppies in SUVs whose engine power far exceeds their driving capabilities, and the idiots going too slow infuriating the idiots who want to go too fast – were in abundance until traffic thinned out just short of Ellensburg, which was, fittingly, when I had to break south.
Green forest gave way to sunbaked yellow grass as the landscape changed and the mercury rose. Just south of Yakima there was a family clustered next to a car that had broken down by the side of the road. The eldest son, a tall, slim, bespectacled kid in a yellow T-shirt was holding up a small handwritten sign and even though I couldn’t read it at speed I more or less knew the content: “It’s broke, we’re hot, this sucks. Please.” I kept driving and I don’t know why – I can still see that poor kid standing in the sun with a disappointed look on his face as hundreds of people drove their air-conditioned cocoons past him and his family.
In 2001, America was rocked by a sucker punch that shook the country and its people out of their insular, capitalist stupor. It reminded them that the people around them were neighbors and friends rather than competitors, stepping stones or dangerous lunatics. Ten years later, to the day, and no one, myself included, could remember that message long enough to stop for a family of five in obvious need of help.But hey – they remembered to put up flags along the highway.
The interstate eventually gave way to state highways, long, empty roads through farmland that stretched off to the horizon. The sky was a dark grey, threatening rain, and the air was rich with the smell of soil and raw onions. Dump trucks filled with these, thousands of fresh, fragrant bulbs would pass by at intervals and the smell would become almost overpowering.
As I passed into Oregon the smell of farmland faded and the temperature rose to to the low 90s, which was cool in comparison to the previous weeks according to Mike, a gas station attendant in Pendleton. Oregon is one of only two US states, New Jersey is the other, that doesn’t allow you to pump your own gas, and so Mike’s job is to run around outside in 100 degree heat for 9 hours while enjoying the heady smell of gasoline.
“This is fine,” he said, sweating and lying through his teeth. ”The breeze helps.”
Just outside of the Battle Mountain Forest on Highway 395 I saw another drama played out by the side of the road. A bright white motorcycle lay on its side at the edge of the gravel and EMTs were clustered in the high grass just beyond. Next to the ambulance was a cop car, it’s flashing blue and red lights unnatural among the yellows and greys of the landscape. Three other motorcycles were parked further down the highway, their riders standing together just behind the EMT crews. It looked like a group of white-collar guys on a motorcycle trip and their faces had the hollow, disbelieving looks of people who have never seen something go so bad so fast.
Until this August it had been seven years since I’d driven an automobile. In some circles this declaration would be cause for games of celebratory hacky-sack and lengthy speeches about how everything cruel and savage in this world is powered by the internal combustion engine.
I’d like to say that my reasons were ideological. That I abstained because of some objection to the way Mother Earth has been viciously subjugated by the demoniac heralds of that brutal warlord Henry Ford. This would be a craven lie. In actual fact, for years I have simply been too lazy to take a driver’s test.
