The Trip
Well, damn.
Hopping into the van, I called Dale while I ran to Target. “Jeannie says we need water shoes. What size do you wear?” I asked him. He answered, “I don’t need water shoes. I have a pair.” I was in shock. He had a pair? And I didn’t know it? I’m now trying to figure out what else he might have that I don’t know about. TiVo? A chiropractor’s license? The list is endless.
Returning home from work on Tuesday evening, I began packing things in the van so that Dale could unpack and rearrange them. There had been some talk of being “on the road by 6:30”.
At 7:00, the Russells showed up and Gary rearranged Angelique, his kayak, on top of their van. Their two girls ate junk food and ran around our front yard with Marcus until 7:30, when the Lofquists showed up. We all spent about thirty minutes with last minute fussing. Last minute fussing consists of making certain that no one forgot anything important, rounding up the playing children, going to the bathroom, rounding up the playing children again, discussing which freeway to take, rounding up the children AGAIN, arguing with the children about who’s riding in which van, acquiescing to the children and letting them ride wherever they want (by this time, it includes being strapped to the roof if they ask for it), exchanging cell phone numbers, rounding up the children SERIOUSLY and leaping into the vans before anyone can escape.
It was around 8-ish when we left.
I drove the first leg of our trip out of town, dutifully following behind Dave and Gary. From following Gary, I can only imagine that he and Linda have a constant duel about how fast he drives. He speeds up to 65 mph, then slows to 60 at a fairly consistent rate. I picture them in the van together; Gary slowly inching his way up to 65 while he thinks Linda is distracted with the girls. Suddenly, as she is explaining to her precocious 8-year old, Alanna, why she will have to wait until 6th grade to read Nietzsche, Linda balls and extends her right hand twice to Gary, in highway patrol officers’ “55” sign language. Sighing, Gary slows to 60.
I had to follow both of them because if I didn’t, I would kick the Chevy Venture into warp drive and fly to our destination. I’ve always been an arrival-based gal; I’ve only gotten one speeding ticket in my life, and I’ve deserved a lot more. My current theory is that the officer with the radar gun cannot believe that the minivan is actually going that fast. (“That can’t be right, she’s a mom. I better get this gun re-calibrated.”)
About two and a half hours later, we arrived at the Super 8 Motel in Buttonwillow. The Super 8 was kind enough to give us three adjacent rooms. Jeannie, Linda and I looked at this feat in awe. We have been going, with several other ladies, to Temecula every year for a wine tasting weekend, and we’re lucky to even be situated on the same floor of the Embassy Suites, no matter how we beg. Apparently, Super 8 will go that extra mile for its guests.
After two and a half hours of travel, the children were still as wound as if we’d fed them nothing but Coke and donuts all day. The men all felt the need for a beer. It was also discovered that Angelique the Kayak had sprung loose from her moorings, so there was a lot of manly effort spent re-attaching her. Eventually, everyone got sorted out to the correct room to sleep. Of course, it was after midnight by the time this was accomplished.
Not surprisingly, everyone got a rather late start on Wednesday morning. We decided that we’d pack up and hit the Denny’s next door for breakfast. No problem, except that when I went out to our van to start loading it, I noticed that it was sitting askew. Walking around to the back, I found out why. Our right back tire was flat.
Why is it that when you tell people that you have a flat tire, their first reaction is an emphatic “NO”? Yes. Yes, it IS flat. I had to repeat this to everyone. Then the men had to go actually SEE the flat tire. Nodding in agreement, they admitted that it was flat and began working together to put the little spare donut on. Of course, first they had to ask me if I had a “real” spare, then tsk and shake their heads when I said no. After the donut was in place, we limped the van to the tire shop across the street and I waited while two very sweet men fixed it for me. Remarking that these were very good tires (they should be, but that’s another story), the youngest of the two reached in and produced a long nail from one of the treads, then began the process of mending the tire. The older man kept a rather steady stream of conversation going, from how much it hurts to smash your finger, to the advantages of the Chevy Venture. Twelve dollars later, my flat tire was very much revived and back on my van. They even gave me the nail as a souvenir, and placed the donut tire in a plastic bag so it wouldn’t get the interior of my van dirty. Like I said, very sweet men.
At Denny’s, I asked Gary about how far away we were from Gold Lake. “We’re about at the halfway point,” he told me. This turned out to be possibly the biggest sign of Gary’s love for Gold Lake. We were only at the halfway point if the rest of the trip had been taken in fighter jets. Gold Lake, as it turns out, is in the Sierra Mountains a little northwest of Truckee, California and only accessible by narrow winding roads that make me nauseous. Eight hours later, with frantic phone calls to hold dinner for us, we finally arrived at Gray Eagle Lodge. To be fair, we were traveling with children, which involves several rest stops, but even I couldn’t have made the “second half” of the trip alone in under 6 hours.
