American Road Trip, Part 1

The unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked was more than I could handle. I was hiding in a rundown Motel 6 with my suitcase on my chest in case a bullet came tearing through the door. A few days earlier, I was relaxing fireside at the St. Regis in Aspen. Wondering how someone goes from the height of privilege to situationally destitute in a matter of days? The answer may surprise you.

I landed at Sea-Tac Airport in Seattle for the beginning of a cross-country road trip. Uncle Ron and Aunt Karen picked me up and took me to their place overlooking Puget Sound. Uncle Ron is a retired Colonel in the Army and a former defense contracting executive. He’s in his late 70s, the oldest of three sons, and doesn’t have an ounce of fat on his tall frame. He’s every bit the picture of a man who is used to being in charge. He wears conservative suits, sticks to his routines, and like my father, he’s had the same haircut for 60+ years; over the ears, straight as an arrow part, dash of Vitalis and a spritz of Consort. If there was a WASP museum, Uncle Ron would have his own wing.

He’s meticulous when it comes to maintaining his possessions – in this case, a BMW. Picture a 5-Series that was only driven to the grocery store by Aunt Karen, avoided exposure to sunlight because it was intentionally parked in a garage, and was taken to the dealership for everything. This was one of Uncle Ron’s rides – until I got it. And it’s the reason I came to Seattle. I arrived with an old Mountainsmith backpack, a Sierra Designs tent, and a North Face sleeping bag. I was going to camp my way across America as I brought the Bimmer to Atlanta.

I had the trip planned to a tee. I’d be driving 3,500 miles through fourteen states, fifteen National Forests, and five mountain ranges, visiting the graves of my favorite writers, and stopping at every quirky roadside attraction. This was to be the granddaddy of American road trips. Little did I know how much Mother Nature and hookers would play a part.

1st Stop – Coeur d’Alene, ID (Pronounced Core-Duh-Lane). 330 miles from Seattle.

Before I get started on this boondoggle, I have to mention the incredible biodiversity and beauty of Washington state; from rainforests to mountains to prairies to deserts to the ocean, the Pacific Northwest is simply stunning. I left Seattle around 6:00 a.m. after breakfast with Uncle Ron and Aunt Karen. The first stretch was light and tranquil. On road trips, I listen to albums in their entirety or classical music; on this drive, it was the latter as I meandered through Snoqualmie Pass and into the channeled scablands of eastern Washington. I needed to stretch my legs after crossing the Idaho state line, so I hiked up Mineral Ridge and unexpectedly experienced the spellbinding allure of Northern Idaho. If I had to pick one adjective to explain Coeur d’Alene, it would be pure. The air is clean, and the lake is shockingly clear, but I couldn’t stay long.

Mineral Ridge Trail – Coeur d’Alene, ID

2nd Stop – Missoula, MT. 165 miles from Coeur d’Alene.

I crossed the Montana state line at sunset doing 120 mph. I got there in time to experience why it’s called Big Sky Country. The good Lord painted a giant swath of warm colors for as far as the eye could see. Montana is impossible to explain. Nothing else like it exists in America, and I’ve been to 47 states.

I eventually set up camp in Missoula, built a fire, and lit my pipe. I got there too late to explore on account of my hike in Idaho. Temperatures dipped into the low teens. I was frozen solid when I woke up at 4:00 a.m. I got a cup of coffee and headed south through the snowy canyons on the Idaho-Montana border.

3rd Stop – Sun Valley, ID. 275 miles from Missoula.

The drive from Missoula to Sun Valley on the Salmon River Scenic Byway is to die for. In addition to the Sawtooth Mountains (which rival the Tetons), the terrain is a mix between lunar and Dr. Seuss’s illustrations. Every mile was exciting. When I returned back to Earth in Ketchum, I went to Hemingway’s grave to pay my respects. Quickly, Ketchum is next to Sun Valley, but the entire area is referred to as Sun Valley. I found a remote campsite in Sawtooth National Forest, set up camp, and headed to the infamous Sun Valley Lodge. While buying a Hemingway book, a local picked up on my love for Papa (I’m a card-carrying member of the Hemingway Society) and asked if I was interested in visiting the Hemingway Suite at the Lodge, to which I replied, “HELL YES!” Hemingway lived in Room 206 as a sort of “celebrity in residence” when he came to Sun Valley in 1939. I was told to ask for so and so at the front desk, give the secret password, and away I went on a private tour. To see his typewriter and personal notes, and to be in the room where he wrote For Whom the Bell Tolls, was almost too much.

After collecting myself, I went for a walk through Ketchum, got a bite to eat, and visited a few historic taverns. The Casino, one of Hemingway’s favorite bars, opened in 1936 and, oddly enough, has a two-chair barber shop. They used to do shaves, but quit in ‘64 because too many drunkards fell asleep and pissed their pants (true story). Warm shaving cream and a hot towel were a bit too relaxing after a few pitchers of beer. Sun Valley is incredibly unique and beautiful. The landscape is rugged and unusually foreign. It reminded Hemingway so much of Spain that he decided to live there. I eventually retired to my tent, where I read by headlamp and experienced silence as never before. I was the only human for miles in all directions. Still on east coast time, I woke up at 3:45 a.m. to icicles in my tent.

The low that night was three degrees. I did not want to get out of my sleeping bag, but I had to break camp and get on the road. When I crawled out of my tent, I looked up and saw a million diamonds sparkling in the galaxy. You don’t need a telescope to be an astronomer in the Rockies.

Dr. Seuss Hills and The Casino – Sun Valley/Ketchum, ID

4th Stop – Jackson Hole, WY. 250 miles from Sun Valley.

I approached the west side of the Tetons as the morning sun was casting a creamsicle-colored vista across the valley. I spent the summer of ‘99 working in Jackson with my younger brother when he was healthy and didn’t need a heart transplant. Old hymns were playing on the radio as the sun rose; the moment caught me off guard when memories of Jeffrey flooded over me. I had a cathartic cry, as I’m still prone to. You never get over losing a brother; you just learn to live without a part of you.

I arrived to a ghost town in Jackson. I parked in front of Teton Mountaineering (where I bought the Mountainsmith backpack 25 years ago) and jawed with the guys in the shop for an hour. I visited Grand Teton National Park, but a gray cloud was draped over Les Trois Tétons. Quick history lesson: French-Canadian trappers discovered the mountain range and named it “The Three Tits” for its bosomy appearance. The D-cup of the bunch, if you will, was named The Grand Teton. It was the shortest amount of time I’ve spent in Jackson, but it was healing. There’s just something about Jackson Hole.

5th Stop – Park City, Deer Valley, UT. 320 miles from Jackson Hole.

I hopped on Route 189, which is a direct shot to Park City. I had the entire highway to myself, so I set the cruise control and listened to Pink Floyd’s The Wall from start to finish. Just like the drive through central Idaho, Western Wyoming, and Northern Utah did not disappoint. Every mesa was blanketed in snow as the Tetons faded in the rearview mirror. The canyons in Utah were as massive as they were colorful. If you’re going to do a cross-country trip, shoot for the week before Thanksgiving; you’ll have America all to yourself.

St. Regis Terrace & Funicular – Deer Valley, UT

I arrived in Park City with a few hours to kill. What a town! I had never been and instantly fell in love with its rainbow-colored houses and charming downtown. You gotta remember how this day started and ended: I woke up in Sun Valley, swung through Jackson Hole, and called it quits in Park City. No doubt an epic day, but I was worn out and needed some R & R. If you have an opportunity to sit fireside on the terrace at the St. Regis in Deer Valley, jump on it. The funicular is a hoot, the views are unexplainably grand, and the environment is what Norwegians refer to as hygge. Truly spectacular. I was supposed to camp outside of town on a lake, but I needed a bath and a warm bed, so I got a room at the Park City Hostel. After supper and a thirty-minute shower, I was out like a light.

6th Stop – Aspen, CO. 355 miles from Park City. “Where the beer flows like wine.”

I love Aspen. I mean, I really love Aspen. Take away the glitz and glamour, and you have the ideal ski town. Most of the architecture is perfectly Victorian, it’s unapologetically artistic and intellectual, and downtown is damn near storybook perfect. How can you not love a town where Hunter Thompson ran for Sheriff on the Freak Power Ticket? And it’s the only place I know of that has a Grateful Dead sandwich shop.

I got into town after another beautiful drive from Park City. By this time, I had driven 1,700 miles and was ready to put my feet up for a few days. I stayed at a hostel called St. Moritz Lodge. It’s downtown, has a heated outdoor pool, and is home to European ski bums during the season. I got a bite at New York Pizza, where the slices are huge and tasted the same as they did twenty years ago.

Afterward, it was off to the John Denver Sanctuary, where I met a couple from Alabama. When they found out I was a Georgia grad, I got the old, “Y’alls time is gonna come.” Thank God that’s no longer the case. I swung by the public library, picked up some used books, and spent the evening in front of a fire reading The Beat Hotel by Barry Miles at Hotel Jerome. I capped the day off with a dip in the pool while snow fell.

I went exploring on foot the following morning. A fresh layer of snow turned an already picturesque town into a Norman Rockwell painting. Jack Nicholson’s house was a few blocks away, so I checked it out while taking a self-directed architectural tour of the West End. I’ve never seen so many D-90s, CJ-7s, and FJ-40s in all my life. Apparently, Aspen is where classic SUVs come to retire. Here’s the cool part: not one of them was in good shape. They were daily drivers who looked their age. I’m sure the streets are full of Urus’ and Bentayga’s when the billionaires are in town, but the locals have cornered the market on vintage trucks.

I had lunch at a tiny sandwich shop called the Grateful Deli. The interior of which looks like the physical manifestation of an LSD trip. I had THE best sub of my life – and I’m not saying that because I’m a Deadhead. Admittedly, the floor-to-ceiling murals, concert tickets, and memorabilia added to the experience. The owner, a character unto himself, told me stories of Hunter Thompson riding a horse into an Aspen bank holding pistols in both hands (no one batted an eye), twenty-foot lines of cocaine on downtown bars, and how he used to regularly pick up a hitchhiker named Kurt Russell. I could’ve spent the day listening to stories, but I had to visit Woody Creek.

For those who aren’t familiar with Woody Creek, it’s a small town next to Aspen (pop. 263) with a post office, a trailer park, and a tavern. That’s it. Woody Creek is (sort of, kind of, maybe not at all) the antithesis of Aspen. I say that because it has its fair share of celebrities and $20,000,000 estates; otherwise, it’s not like Aspen in the slightest. Its most famous resident was Hunter Thompson, founder of Gonzo journalism and author of Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas. Known in the funny papers as Uncle Duke from Doonesbury, Hunter lived in his Fortified Compound, where he hosted a Who’s Who list of glitterati from nearby Aspen. Visiting his compound, or at least driving up to its open gate, was akin to paying my respects at Hemingway’s grave (and satisfying a curiosity dating back to college). You can’t visit Hunter’s grave because he had his ashes shot out of a 150-foot cannon that Johnny Depp spent three million dollars building. Bill Murray, John Kerry, and Jack Nicholson were a few of his friends at the funeral. That being said, there’s an eerie feeling when you’re there; like he could leap out of a bush with a .44 Magnum in one hand and a glass of Chivas in the other. I headed back to Aspen and spent the evening reading fireside at the St. Regis before another evening swim. If you’re into people-watching, there’s an endless supply of material in the St. Regis lobby. I’ve never seen anything like it.