Driving through Wyoming

This is not Wyoming, but Australia understands my pain.

 I’ve done it before so I knew what lay ahead before going in: driving through Wyoming. I say that, but I still wasn’t prepared because before I – never mind. This time I had teenagers and it changes everything.

“What time is it?” This is the teenage version of ‘are we there yet?’ They’ve learned the latter will incite insanity in the parental figures, which bodes ill for their chances of fun later.

“This is the most boring road ever!” Clearly The Girl (17) hasn’t completely learned the survival lessons Hubby spent so much time trying to teach her.

I was driving at the time and in a fit of temporary insanity chose to answer her.

“No, it’s not.” I look around: there is featureless terrain as far as the eye can see. On the plus side, it’s green.  “Twenty minutes ago we finished thirty miles of construction where I couldn’t pass and had to follow a truck I couldn’t see around at 60 mph. That wasn’t boring. It was frustrating and infuriating, but it wasn’t boring.

“An hour before that we had twenty cars stacked up, all going precisely six over the limit and afraid to pass each other because someone left their radar gun on and everyone’s radar detectors were going off for fifteen minutes straight. There was something amusing about all those drivers and passengers all looking around for an unmarked highway patrol car, plane, ‘your speed is:’ sign, or even a damn automatic door. That wasn’t boring.

“And now I’m on a two-lane highway where I have to wait for a lull in oncoming traffic to pass the car in front of me who, in all fairness, is simply going the speed limit. I’ve waited for miles to pass this guy. Not boring. Do you know when I finish passing him I’ll be going 90 and more than eligible to be ticketed? Again, not boring.

“Plus, we’ve seen one cop since entering the state. One. They’re out there. Where? Not boring.”

“Mom, I think Wyoming doesn’t care about what you do. Lack of cops running radar should tell you something.”

“Then legalize marijuana, it’ll send a clearer message. And raise the speed limits off the interstate, I like 80.”

“Dad, do something with her, she’s nuts.” There was that whine that I’ve tried to beat out of her (figuratively and clearly without success).

“Says the kid tallying roadkill,” responded Hubby. At which point The Girl updated us on her count. On every road trip she tracks the number of memorial crosses she sees by the road. Then it grew to counting wildlife that we hit (I’ll tell you about our cursed vehicle sometime). Now she counts memorials, wildlife we hit (or hits us), and roadkill. Bit morbid, but it’s led to some interesting discussions about animal behavior and interaction with humans, and she also sees how species distribution changes with environment. Not the best way to present that lesson, but it worked.

The Boy has played video games or watched Netflix on his phone the entire drive and had little to say until his sister kicked him and drew him into the conversation. His input?

He looked around. “I’m sort of surprised I can get a signal out here.”

I glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. “Verizon loves you.”

He nodded and slid his headphones back into place. That was it.

I looked around again; the gently rolling grassy hills reminded me of a Windows wallpaper, the one on corporate computers that home users replace. I kept half expecting to see the Teletubbies over the next hill. That was my cue it was time to let Hubby drive. Then I could play ‘spot the living prairie dog’ with The Girl, which she had little interest in.

 Soon we got our first deer warning sign, which annoyed me because they didn’t really mean ‘watch for deer’ they meant ‘watch for pronghorn.’ As a point of interest, we had been watching for them already, and had seen many. Mostly alive.

They always use the general ‘prancing reindeer’ sign for the ‘watch for wildlife that could total your car’ warning. Except moose. Somehow moose get their own sign. Cows too sometimes. Cows were plentiful in the area but no sign to watch for them! The really weird thing is that they’re using the prancing reindeer sign in the lower 48 states, where you have zero chance of seeing a prancing reindeer (other than on Christmas Eve). Reindeer aren’t native to Wyoming. Would it kill them to make a sign for pronghorn?

It’s the cost! Sigh. A legitimate argument, sure. Except every time you change counties in western Washington the signs change, at least some do. I’ve seen five different ‘don’t drink and drive’ signs. I swear the state does it to keep artists employed, although it’s entertaining. And those warning signs about trucks and tight corners? Some of those are awesome. Let’s not forget ‘don’t drug and drive,’ those can be fun, especially in rural areas. My favorite is between Redmond and Duvall. If Washington can spring for new signs all over the place, surely Wyoming can print separate pronghorn and deer signs. At least give the drivers a better idea of what they’re looking for. They’re clearly not spending the money on highway patrol (not complaining there, honest!).

It’s not just Wyoming either. South Dakota, Idaho, Oregon, Nevada, Utah, and Arizona are similarly guilty. People who live in those states: tell your DOT people to snap to. Although Northern California has an interesting twist on signage I’ll never figure out. They have which direction you’re supposed to be going painted on the freeway. I’m serious. I saw it on a divided section of the 101 coming from Oregon and it floored me. I just couldn’t see where there could be any confusion, and it reoccurs regularly despite there not having been an onramp or side road. Like I pulled over onto the shoulder to … I don’t know, switch drivers, and Hubby mistakenly did a U-Turn to re-enter traffic? Does that happen much in California? The worst part is there was a reason they had to paint those directional arrows on the road. I’d love to know why.

Chipmunks, Mosquitoes, and Northern California

I promised a recap on suicidal chipmunks, so here we go.

I recall chipmunks fondly from camping in my childhood. They weren’t suicidal or adrenaline junkies then. Clearly something has changed. Specifically, something is going on in Northern California. My first tip was the mosquitoes.  Permit me to wander astray for a moment. I’ll come back to the chipmunks.

Mosquitoes aren’t complicated. They’re blood-sucking little monsters that I could deal with if they’d just not leave the itchy little calling-card behind. Want to suck my blood? Fine, just knock off the backwash. A real mosquito is a master. It flies in under the radar to land lightly on your skin. Stealth – the Air Force might have taken tips from these guys. (Granted there are novices that seem to want to neck or cuddle in your ear, but there are a few slow learners in every species. Maybe they were dropped as larvae. ) Once a real mosquito has landed, it gently inserts its delicate hypodermic proboscis into you - carefully, so you don’t feel a thing – and takes quick, silent sips. She knows not to overstay her welcome and makes a fast getaway before you get a chance to notice. (Again, I know there are some who can’t take a hint and need to be escorted off the premises, but they’re the minority.)

That’s how real mosquitoes work. I have no idea what’s going on in the redwoods. Those are not mosquitoes, they’re fun-sized vampires. Hear me out, I can prove it. First, “fun-size” has nothing to do with fun, it just means “small.” Ask any kid. Second, I just told you how a real mosquito operates; now let me tell you about the mosquitoes I met in Northern California.

The redwoods were impressive. There were a lot of really tall trees, ferns, and mosquitoes. I forgot to bring the insect repellant so I thought we were going to be an all-you-can-eat buffet on our little hike. No. As it turns out, these little critters don’t land lightly on your skin, they crash into you like a Kamikaze pilot. It’s difficult to overlook. They sit there for a moment, recovering from the botched landing no doubt, then set to work trying to drill for gold. Hypodermic? No, they use a broadsword, and they don’t insert it gently either.

The reason I label them as “vampires” is because they avoided the few spots of dim sun like they might give themselves away (Sparkly mosquitoes? That’d be cool.) Also, because we know mosquitoes operate by stealth and these suckers (Ha!) are anything but stealthy. It implies they’re pretty full of themselves. That whole vampire-top-of-the-food-chain concept fits the bill. Vampires are fast, these little things were fast. Vampires are strong, and it takes a lot of strength to hack at someone with a broadsword the size of a hair. Oddly enough, they also only attacked one at a time, even though there were more then enough to swarm, overpower at least one of us (let’s say The Boy, he’s the lightest) and bring him to the ground by sheer overwhelming numbers. Vampires are traditionally solitary hunters. Are you starting to see a pattern here?

Now let’s put the bizarre not-really-mosquitoes aside and get back to the deranged chipmunks. I can’t say they weren’t chipmunks, I didn’t get close enough to any to inspect them. They looked like chipmunks. They were the right size, shape, color, and they ran like chipmunks. Chipmunks are usually smart enough to avoid wide open places where things like predatory birds can see them easily. Roads are a good example. Also, there are cars on roads and they go faster than chipmunks. Shocker, I know.

So, I’m driving through Idaho, no chipmunks. Washington, no chipmunks. Maybe a squirrel or two trying to cross before they get flattened, but squirrels are like that. Oregon, no chipmunks. Cross over into Northern California and it’s like someone called open season on them. Excuse me? Suddenly chipmunks are playing chicken with cars? When did this happen?

The really bizarre thing is that Hubby didn’t have chipmunks dashing out in front of the car when he was driving, just me. By all means, let’s get the chick with the slower reflexes and pit her against a thrill-seeking/suicidal chipmunk! Hubby hated it. Every time one of those little (explicative) would dash across the road in front of me, I’d squeal and brake and/or swerve. And by the time hubby opened his eyes from his nap, the bratty little rodent was gone. No evidence that I wasn’t just trying to keep him from catching a quick snooze.

It was a hundred times worse when we left the coast and headed inland to Redding and then Reno. Hubby finally gave up any illusions he had about a peaceful drive with me behind the wheel and took over. Then no more chipmunks. Seriously, not one.

Chipmunks hate me.

Long Drives

I've missed a couple of blog posts because I've been on vacation. Whew! Glad that's done. It was fun. It was great seeing family, fantastic scenery, memories, yada yada. Tired. Vacations are meant to be relaxing, but I think we all know better. We could have flown, but where’s the fun in that? For us, a long drive is a family event. (Also, my kids are too old to ask "are we there yet?" without being grounded for insubordination so long drives aren't as trying as they used to be.)

The Boy is fond of his 'backseat driver' position in our minivan. He was only vocal about his vantage point when I was driving for some reason. Once I was in the driver’s seat and Hubby was safely asleep, my darling thirteen-year-old son (who’s never sat behind the wheel of a real car in his life) started giving me tips from Grand Theft Auto on how to navigate through traffic. It was nerve-wracking and I had to keep reminding myself we were on our way to Seattle where marijuana was recently legalized.

The Girl took up counting the highway fatality markers on this trip. You know, the white cross people put up where a friend or family member died in a car accident? Sometimes it’s not a cross, it’s something else. A little morbid as hobbies for a bored fifteen-year-old girl go, but I suppose they’re meant to be a memorial.

Some markers were actually very elaborate, some were nearly permanent. In Washington, there were “Don’t drink and drive” signs with “in memory of . . .” plaques below them. That was interesting. Then we started seeing ‘adopt a highway’ signs that were ‘in memory of . . .’  and weren’t sure if they counted as highway fatality markers or not. Nothing’s simple anymore. We decided not to count them simply because we kept missing them. Anyway, she counted sixty-five in six states/sixteen days/3300 miles.  

Hubby just drove and kept turning off the music when I turn it on until it was my turn to drive. Then he left the music alone and fell asleep, until I slowed down for any reason. As soon as I gently touched the brakes, Hubby would wake up like I hit a deer. Oddly, I could have probably hit a deer and not disturbed him as long as I didn’t hit the brakes. I had this strange twitching urge to test that theory, but it would have ruined both the front of the van and a perfectly good deer. I think the deer suspected I was considering this because they avoided us when I was driving. Smart move.

The chipmunks weren`t so smart. They were . . . another time.