THIS EDITION OF THE ‘BLUE MOON ZEPHYR EXTRA’ IS MORE FOR ME THAN FOR ZEPHYR READERS, THOUGH I HOPE YOU’LL ENJOY THE RIDE. IT WAS MY FIRST TRIP ‘OUT WEST.’ THE CLASSIC “AMERICAN FAMILY VACATION.” MY PARENTS HAD NO IDEA AT THE TIME WHAT SEEDS THEY WERE PLANTING IN THEIR TEENAGER’S YOUNG UNFORMED BUT DEVELOPING BRAIN…,,,DECADES LATER, MY MOTHER WOULD COMPLAIN, ‘IF ONLY WE HADN’T TAKEN YOU OUT WEST …. MAYBE YOU WOULD HAVE TURNED OUT NORMAL!”
I grew up in Kentucky and loved to be outside most of the time. I l endured school weeks to go cave exploring on the weekends. I was a Boy Scout— an Eagle Scout at that — and I led my “patrol” on long hikes into what was left of Kentucky’s wildlands. (or at least what felt to us like ‘wild.’) We often trespassed across nearby farms, but back then, they really didn’t care. We couldn’t have seemed more harmless or more nerdy as we stamped through cornfields singing, “We are happy Wanderers.” The thought of it now makes me cringe. And when my father came home from Sears one evening with a 15 1/2 foot fiberglass canoe, my outdoor opportunities to explore grew even more.
But I had never ventured farther West than Kentucky Lake. For some reason I never gave it much thought. And yet I was a devoted viewer of every TV Western on the air at the time —all of the shows featured spectacular Western landscapes. They even managed to make “Gunsmoke” look like it was just south of Sedona. And yet I hadn’t felt the Call of the West. Yet
But just a month after I passed my drivers test and was licensed to sit behind the wheel, albeit on a phone book, my dad came home with a brand new 1966 Chevy Impala. For years my father had always bought bottom of the line Chevys— a 1959 Chevy Belair (two door), and 1962 Chevy Biscayne station wagon (it didn’t even have a radio). But now…finally…the Stiles Family had taken a step up. Our new Impala had air conditioning and power steering and an automatic transmission. I learned to drive on the Belair with its three speed manual transmission with the shifter on the steering wheel column.
We took a Sunday afternoon drive with my grandparents and then my father dropped another surprise on us. “There’s a reason I got this Impala, boys…This summer we are going West. All the way to the Grand Canyon to Los Angeles. We might even drive down to Tijuana.” He continued to rattle off destinations: Big Sur. Yosemite, Sequoia. San Francisco. Great Salt Lake. Rocky Mountain National Park. He had already started making plans and tracing our rout on maps, calculating costs and distances. He loved to be prepared—getting ready for a “big trip,” was something my dad’s genes passed along to me, though later, maybe more than he intended to.
The plan was to leave Louisville Kentucky in late June, and go west, mostly on two lane roads, into Oklahoma and then to Route 66; we would be on that road almost all the way to the West Coast. The Interstate Highway System was under construction wherever we went, but it would be years before it was complete.
(NOTE: As an aside here, I have always wanted to write a story about that trip, but my photos were poor and I really needed more artifacts of that time and the places we saw. Then one day, maybe a decade ago, I found a huge scrapbook, practically bulging at the seams. It was buried, along with other family trivia in my grandfather’s World War I wooden foot locker. My mother, without any of us noticing, had been collecting “stuff” during the trip. Finding all these brochures and reservation notices and entrance passes to parks…all of it was, to me, like finding a bag of gold. Even odder was the fact that my mother rarely collected maps or receipts or other travel memorabilia. Somehow, this trip was different. So with kudos to my mother, who passed away last year… here’s a very detailed account…A Stiles Family Album… of what we saw and where we went and how much we paid and even documentation my short visit to a doctor in Kingman, Arizona…)
THE FIRST DAY
As noted, we left Louisville in the late morning…I think it was June 17. My father’s idea was to drive non-stop, through the night and keep going until we were officially in the West. My brother and I slept in the backseat, while my mother and father took turns doing two hour shifts. We went west on what was once simply called “The Western Kentucky Turnpike.” Ultimately we crossed over both the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers at Cairo Illinois. Some time during the night we hooked up with the Will Rogers Parkway in Oklahoma and as the sun came up, we pulled into the parking lot of the State Capitol at Oklahoma City. Our dad wanted us to see that Oklahomans were so enthusiastic about oil that they even had active oil wells and pumpjacks within a hundred yards of the marble entrance steps.
By midafternoon of the next day, we were almost to Tucumcari, New Mexico, about 1200 miles from Louisville. The country was wide open now and we could see for miles. My brother and I were puzzled by large black spots on the rolling high desert and wondered if there had been a fire. Then my brother noticed that those black spots were moving. We were looking at the shadows of cumulus clouds rolling over the land. We had never seen anything like it in our lives.
It was also in Tucumcari that I almost bought a Greyhound bus ticket and went back to Louisville. I noted earlier that I had passed my drivers test, was16 years old, and very capable of driving a car. But my driving made my father a nervous wreck I rarely drove anywhere with him, even at home. Now with thousands of travel miles ahead of us, it seemed ridiculous for me to sit in the backseat. I was not happy. Aggravating my condition, was a new outbreak of poison ivy. When I got poison ivy back then, I really went all the way. It had almost become a yearly event that I could not avoid. A few days before we left, my buddy Jeff Dutton and I decided to take a quick day long canoe ride on the Salt River. But we got caught in a bad thunderstorm and we had to beach the canoe and get into the trees. There was poison ivy everywhere. I hoped I might get away with it this time. I carefully passed the little green three-leafed evil plant monsters, but all it really took was for one of them to breathe on me. By the time we left Louisville, I had a miserable itchy rash on my legs and forearms.
By the time we reached Tucumcari, I was in agony. My dad agreed we’d go to a drug store after dinner and get some calamine lotion, and then, magnanimously offered to let me drive the half mile to the cafe. It was on the left and I could hear my father muttering under his breath, “Left turn signal. left turn signal…” I had already reached for the turn indicator and that pleased him. But when I made the turn, I apparently angled my way slightly onto the parking lot, instead of the perfect 90 degree turn, and my father blew a gasket. It was a tense couple of hours. Every one was exhausted, and I was exhausted and itchy. I told my parents I was going to check on Greyhound bus tickets, but my dad was already asleep. I walked around town for two hours and started making my way toward Tucumcari Mountain. I was beginning to realize that an Easterner does not have a good eye when estimating distances. I kept walking and walking and I wasn’t getting any closer.
Then a massive thunderstorm, my first Western Storm, came out of nowhere. I was soaked to the bone but I was loving every minute of it. And I was kicking myself for not bringing my Instamatic. We all know how spectacular a sunset can be just after a good rain, when the clouds part and the Heavens shine. When I finally got back to the motel, I found my father standing in the parking lot, taking photos of that very same sunset. We reached an agreement. If it was too stressful for him to let me drive, I could live with that. Besides his presence when I was driving made me as nervous as it did him. We declared a truce. I decided to keep going.
GRAND CANYON BOUND
We were bound for the Grand Canyon and my father had made reservations months earlier at the Yavapai Lodge. Look closely at that receipt— one room, two double beds and bath….$14.50 plus tax.
We approached the Canyon from the east. The original east entrance road was in pretty bad shape which was why even then, I loved it so much. (If you search for it, you can still find remnants of that old road.) We could see the Desert View Watchtower in the distance, and could barely make out the Canyon. But my father drove right past Desert View. Before I had time to whine, he explained his theory. “Every tourist always stops at the very first pullout. Did you see how crowded it is? Instead we’re going to the next turnoff. It was just another half a mile or so and he was absolutely right. Nobody was there. My brother and I had been bickering in the backseat, when my dad said, “Look out the window.” Suddenly our bickering stopped. My poison ivy quit itching. My father seemed wiser than I’d thought, just five minutes earlier. It was the Grand Canyon. Words failed all of us.
THE ITCH GETS THE BEST OF ME—HEALED IN KINGMAN
While the Grand Canyon temporarily diverted my attention from the poison ivy, the rash was getting worse. The desert heat wasn’t helping either. Even my parents became concerned. We were approaching Kingman, Arizona after leaving the South Rim when we spotted a Stuckey’s, on the far eastside of town. We asked to see a phone book and my mother found a doctor, a general practitioner. His name was Dr. Arthur Arnold; I only know that because my mother somehow saved the receipt.
He was a nice guy and he gave me a shot which cleared up the rash within a couple days. (Note the price on the receipt below). But Dr. Arnold had a theory as to how I contracted poison ivy. “Yeah,” he said, “They won’t admit there’s poison ivy at the bottom of the canyon, but I’ve seen it. I know it’s down there. You’re not the first patient I’ve had who contracted poison ivy down there.”
I said, “But we didn’t go down in the Grand Canyon. We were just on the rim. I think I got this back in Kentucky.”
Doc Arnold seemed mildly annoyed that I was messing with his theory (and he is right. There IS poison ivy down there). In any case, he gave me that shot (and I didn’t even whimper). Now we were bound for Las Vegas…
VEGAS
I was never the Vegas type, even after I was old enough to go play the slots. Even after I reached the “age of maturity,” I still endured ID checks well into my twenties. On this first visit, in 1966, Vegas still had its mob reputation and the Sands and the Sahara and the Flamingo were the hot spots. During our stay, Jeff and I mostly stayed in the room except when the family went out for meals.
Apparently, though my mother didn’t tell me this for years, my dad was a tad wilder than I would have ever guessed. From later accounts, Dad enjoyed the floor shows immensely and the topless dancers were among his favorites. My mother was a bit of a prude, so she was as uncomfortable as my father was exhilarated.
On the other hand, he wasn’t much of a gambler. He knew the odds were stacked against him and so, other than a few minutes at the quarters slots, they didn’t gamble at all. But they were out late, way past our bedtime, but i think they stumbled their way back to our room around 1 AM. My mother was a cheap drunk, in the sense that it didn’t take too many whiskey sours to make her voice increase to double its normal volume. And she giggled a lot. So we both heard them come in.
THE MOJAVE DESERT…BOUND FOR L.A.
I was a lot happier being back on the road and away from Las Vegas. In years to come, I’d visit infrequently, on my way to visit friends in Death Valley or north to Fallon. But it’s been 20 years now; nothing in me yearns to return to Vegas.
But the desert. That was different. Once my father had the itinerary set, I began doing my own research — checking out books from the library, ordering brochures, stopping by the local gas station to get more of those free maps. Then, when we were within a month of leaving Louisville, we went down to the local AAA (The Automobile Association of America). In those days, before the internet and real time warnings of construction or accidents, the AAA was able to do the next best thing. They assembled for us what was called a “Triptik.” It was a bound book of sorts that covered every mile of road we planned to cover. The AAA did a remarkably good job, considering this was more than half a century ago, of identifying trouble spots. They knew where all the detours were, where construction delays would be a problem. They offered alternate routes if they thought it would be a more scenic experience. And best of all, the AAA people, did all this right in front of us.
I don’t have the copy of the Triptik that we used on the 1966 vacation but above are some sample pages of a trip I took two years later. One possible stop was a little “ghost town” called Calico, and somehow I convinced my father to make a short detour. If I remember correctly, it was operated by the same company that owned Knotts Berry Farm in Los Angeles. Years later, I would have known better and not bothered, but in 1966, the real Calico ghost town had just been renovated to appeal to the tourist trade and visitation was slow. It was so slow, we almost felt as if we had it to ourselves. We lingered for a couple hours, but we were bound for Los Angeles, Orange County, and— God Forgive Me — Disneyland.
LA LA LAND
It seemed like a good idea at the time. My father had done some of his military training in Los Angeles and in Riverside. And even at 16, I wanted to “experience” Disneyland, So we did all the tourist stuff. Knotts Berry Farm. The Griffith Observatory. The Beach…what I especially recall about our first sighting of the Pacific Ocean was that it took much longer to get there than we’d expected. My father usually had an excellent sense of direction. The man was the navigator of a B-24 Liberator in the Pacific during the war. His plane once got separated from the group and it was up to him to bring the crew home, using only his celestial navigation skills. And he brought them in, right on the mark. But on this day, his instincts failed him. For reasons even he could never explain, he drove EAST instead of WEST and kept heading in that direction for almost half an hour. We all kept expecting to see the Mighty Pacific at any moment, but then Mom said, “Jimmie aren’t those mountains up ahead?”
My dad scowled and pulled over. “Give me the damn map.” He looked at it a moment, got his bearings and admitted to all of us that we were going in the wrong direction. Finally…the Pacific came into view.
TIJUANA!
For me this was one of the most interesting days of our trip. I guess Tijuana is a tad busier than it was then, so I’m glad we had the chance to visit and wander about. I also think these are some of the best photographs that my father took during the trip. We only stayed a few hours and I can’t recall much of the day. But I love these photos.
One other note. We had to cross into Mexico and back into the US. But then, it took customs on both sides about 30 seconds to be cleared to go. Times have changed…
BIG SUR
We’d seen the ocean at Huntington Beach, but we weren’t prepared for Big Sur. Nothing compares to it. Especially in 1966, the road from Cambria, almost all the way to Monterrey, was some of the narrowest. most treacherous, winding road that can be imagined. Still they called it a two lane road. My father was driving, but he wanted to see the sights as much as the rest of us and took some degree of pleasure in torturing my mother by staring out the window, and not at the road ahead. I never knew quite how he did it. Anyone watching my father would think he’d completely forgotten he was driving. His neck was so craned to the left/ocean side of the car, that my mother became hysterical at times. “JIMMIE! YOU’RE GOING TO KILL US ALL!!!”
(I thought to myself…where have I heard THAT before?)
But somehow he never crossed the center line; it was as if he had split vision and could take in the scenery with his left eye and maintain an even strain with his right. The fact that I’m here telling the story half a century later, is proof of that.
YOSEMITE/SEQUOIA
SAN FRANCISCO
THE LONG RIDE HOME
Once we left San Francisco, we started heading east for the long 2000 mile drive. We ended up spending the night in Winnemucca, Nevada. I recall my dad tuning in to the local AM radio station. The DJ kept talking about the area’s special attractions. And the DJ, hoping to lure tourists off the main road, kept referring to “Downtown Winnemucca.” We’d just come from the Bay Area. We knew what a “downtown” looks like. Still I preferred this “downtown.” It was a relief.
THE LONG DRIVE HOME
Now, from Salt Lake City, it was a mad dash home, more than 1500 miles away. As was my dad’s way, he woke us up early…like 5 AM. He’d always say, “We’ve got to get out of here early and beat the traffic!” Interstate 80 going east from SLC was not even close to being finished. Construction crews were building an entirely new route through Parleys Canyon. As late as January 1971, UDOT was still diverting all traffic, including the big trucks, into Salt Lake City via the Emigration Canyon Road. If you know that narrow twisting road, you can imagine what a scary detour that was,
Instead we turned east on US 40 all the way to Denver, then picked up I-70. As early as 1968, there were significant portions that had been completed in Kansas. It was a very long day, and that evening, we reached Independence, Missouri (home of Harry S Truman).
For years we had always stayed at the cheapest motels possible. My brother and I looked enviously at the Holiday Inn signs. In those days, Holiday Inns were the top notch motor courts in the country. My dad used to say, if the cost is more than $14, we’re not staying. But on this evening, the last night of our marathon 7000 mile vacation, my dad softened. To our surprise he turned around from his drivers seat and asked us, “How would you boys like to stay at the Holiday Inn…it’s just up he road.”
My brother and I were gobsmacked. I feared he might change his mind and consequently, Jeff and I acted (for that night at least) like model siblings.
We reached our home in Louisville in the late afternoon the next day. It had, for the most part, been a great trip and introduced me to a vast new landscape, half of North America to explore. My mother was convinced that this would be a once in a lifetime vacation. She preferred Florida and lying on he beach. But I could tell my father had other ideas.
For me, I already knew. I had found my real home. “Out there” was where I belonged. Two years later, my buddy Jeff Dutton and I took our first solo trip West, i.e, without parental supervision. Looking back on our itinerary, I realized we’d followed almost exactly the same route that my father had taken. But that would all change.
As we were unpacking, my mother said to me, “Well…I hope this trip has chased the wanderlust out of you. Now that you’ve seen all those places, surely you’ve got it out of your system. I just smiled and said nothing. If only she knew what was inside my brain…
I knew my lifelong Great Western Adventure was only just beginning.
Jim Stiles is the publisher and editor of The Zephyr. Still ‘hopelessly clinging to the past since 1989.” Though he spent 40 years living in the canyon country of southeast Utah, Stiles now resides on the Great Plains, in a tiny farm and ranch community, Coldwater, Kansas, where there are no tourists.
He can be reached via facebook or by email: cczephyr@gmail.com
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NOTE: The summer issue of RANGE includes a tribute to lifelong Moabite Karl Tangren.
And check out this post about Mazza & our friend Ali Sabbah,
and the greatest of culinary honors:
https://www.saltlakemagazine.com/mazza-salt-lake-city/
Adios Amigo…
More than six years ago, The Zephyr, me & four other individuals were sued for defamation by the former Moab City Manager. Faced with mounting legal bills, my dear friends John and Isabel De Puy donated one of John’s paintings to be auctioned.
ALL the proceeds went to our defense.
Thanks to them, our bills were almost completely covered.
Now I’d like to return the favor. Check out the link below and their online shop… JS
https://www.depuygallery.com/shop.html
https://www.canyoncountryzephyr.com/2023/06/25/searching-for-klatu-my-ufo-vacation-jim-stiles-zx68/
Took me a while to not miss a word! The prices were unbelievable. Can you even imagine ove two weeks of travel and gas only being $289?? And then your Dad said if a lodging was more than $14 you wouldn’t be staying there it reminded me of Gail once epostulating ” if gas gets over 50 cents a gallon I’ll ride my bicycle!” What a find when you ran into all the things your Mom saved! So much of the Western area was so familiar to me: Kingman, the Grand Canyon, the Pacific Ocean, San Francisco and its China Town Big Sur and the National Parks. Of course, Winnemucca and Las Vegas! Thanks for a wonderlul “trip”! Donna
Loved your travelogue! I was 28 when I first saw the West. Family trips as a child were either to northern Michigan or New York to visit family. But at 28 I was hooked. Life and family intervened, and many years later we took the “family trip Out West.” The kids were 7 and 9, and just barely endured three weeks in a borrowed van. Our itinerary included different sights than yours, but the highlight was our hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, staying overnight at the Phantom Ranch. After hiking up the next day, the kids said “We’ll never make our kids do this!” Yet they love to tell the story to their friends! It took 40 years, many trips to AZ and NM, and a new husband, but I finally made the move and haven’t looked back!
That was a GREAT trip back into another time! Had similar trip experiences!!
Very fun to read. Our family had similar experiences, but were only travelling from Idaho…but we had 7 of us in a Chevy sedan!! Hot, sweaty, no AC, so we had mini water fights in the back seat.
Sounds like the trip my parents dragged my sister and I on in 1968 although we stopped and stayed with my grandparents in Tucson for a couple weeks.Our Mexican side trip was to Nogales instead of Tijuana. The order was slightly different and we didn’t go to Big Sur (I was 50 before I made it there)
Very awesome story Jim. The things we have lost…
There is nothing quite so revealing as the family road trip. We all endured such excursions to some extent. When I was quite young I had to suffer sitting in the back seat between 2 older brothers (I had 5 older brothers in total) whose merciless teasing and fighting turned even short trips into torture. I’m sure my parents suffered greatest of all. We never ventured a family trip further than Mesa Verde, some 4 hours from Moab.
But we didn’t lack for time away from home. Our summers were spent in the La Sal Mountains where, instead of riding in the confines of the family car, we had the freedom of an open pickup truck bed to work out our endless sibling rivalries and resentments. Once we arrived at our typically primitive campsites, the high desert canyons and aspen/doug fir forests wrote our itinerary. I only wish there were more photos of those times. Being preoccupied with getting out and getting away, I failed to photograph those happy treks away from home.
Okay here’s a tidbit of useless trivia. There is a word for the smell after a first rain: petrichor (petri kor). Great article, Jim, within it are also captured our own memories.
Age 15 in 1971…took the same trip out of Virginia. And fell in love with the West. It was Yellowstone and the Tetons that did me in.
Stiles, your mother was right. Laughed all the way through this, your commentary was priceless! And, those prices, reminds me of lunch in Protection. 🙂
My second son and his family took the infamous American road trip from Lexington, Ky pretty much along your nostalgic journey this past June, I reckon I am roughly your age (77) and your remembrances and photos were a lot of fun to share as the “more things change, the more they remain the same”. One difference was their extended boondocking (frugal preference) and of course the straight and banal interstate.I have lived in the High Sierra for 50 years, having escaped the Bay Area and although my kids have scattered to the four winds, wanderlust and change in scenery are a legacy I am proud to share with them,
Thanks for sharing your ” Are we there yet ?” memories. All good,
Enjoyed the trip Jim. I managed to escape the family trip to Disneyland in 66. I was 16 also and knew the Super 88 Olds would be left in the garage and the whereabouts of the 2nd set of keys. Everyone had a good time, the Olds was parked perfectly back in the garage when the vacationers returned.
So many parallels. Swap out Louisiana for Kentucky. Eagle Scout, 12′ canoe, Instamatic, Dad with the 35mm and the mileage/gas log. The ’63 Impala took us on our first big trip – up the east coast to Maine and back zigzagging around to hit all the states east of the Mississippi. It was a ’67 Pontiac that towed a 20′ trailer out west in that year. Dad got lost in Albuquerque, threatened to go home, but just got out and walked it off for awhile. Petrified Forest, G.C., Disneyland, Knotts, camped at Huntington Beach, about got stuck in that Sequoia tree what with the wide trailer mirrors, Big Sur, Olympic, Vancouver BC, Calgary to see dad’s brother, Glacier, Yellowstone, SLC, had a blowout on the trailer just outside of Cisco UT that took 3 days to fix. 4 weeks, 9000 miles with 4 kids in the car. They must have been crazy.
Part of the experience that was the American Dream. I shared so much of this one summer when my family headed East and visited historical sites like Jamestown and civil war battle fields. Cheaper motels and the trip tic. 6 of us in a 1958 Oldsmobile. Mom and Dad both smokers and no air conditioning. Kids today might be traumatized. I still have fond memories of those trips. Thanks for sharing Jim.
Hi David:
I was trying to visualize the 6 of you guys in a car with 2 smokers. I was stuck in a car with 1 smoker. Terrible … contributed to me not smoking.
Hope you and your family are doing well.
Flood of memories …
Your writing makes me feel right there.
Beautiful writing
Thanks Jimbo
Thanks Jim this is really one of my favorites that I have read of yours. We “Went Out West” from Ohio in 1970 I think it was a 1966 Impala as well kind of a yellow green color if I recall correctly. The Holiday Inn sign was such a beacon and like your dad we only got to stay at one, it even had a pool! What a great sign they had. Thank you for sharing your stories with us all.
Thank you for sharing this wonderful trip! I had a similar-to-yours “gobsmack” moment with western scenery: I grew up in northwest Kansas, and one summer before my older sister went off to school (and I was in early grade school) the family took a road trip. Like your father, my father had mapped out everything in advance. And like your father’s tastes in car makes, ours was a 1958 Chevy Bel-Air that Dad had bought used. (He was a Chevy man his whole life, similar to what it sounds like your Dad was.) Well, we were going west on US 34 in eastern Colorado, when the snow-covered top of Longs Peak slowly started appearing and getting bigger (this trip was in June). Back then the air was so clear that we could make out the snow-covered peak from over 100 miles away! The sight of those beautiful mountains did me in; it was my “gobsmack” moment! Our ultimate destination on that trip was the Oregon Coast, so I got to see plenty of mountains up-close (we drove up to Timberline Lodge on Mount Hood, for example). It took many years (and living in Ohio for 30 of those), but I was finally able to land a job in my career as an IT Tech in Denver. But even before then, I’d always vacation in Colorado and Utah, taking road trips from Ohio, because I just was smitten with the beauty of the Intermountain West, including the red-rock canyons of southern Utah. It’s amazing how these family trips can change one’s outlook, isn’t it?
All I can say is…PRICELESS!!!
Thank you for sharing!
Thanks, Jim, I’ve enjoyed this story! I’ve covered the same ground and more, but not all on one trip. My family left the farm in Minnesota in 1954. Dad bought a ‘54 Pontiac Star Chief just prior to the trip. We visited his Army buddy in North. Dakota, then relatives near Miles City, Montana (dad was born at Wolf Point, MT). As we crossed that state and saw the mountain ranges I was hooked on the West (at eight years old). We took the Red Lodge Rd (Hwy 89?) south to Yellowstone. At that time it was very narrow and quite steep. In places cars couldn’t meet, one would have to back up. I loved it but my mother was a nervous wreck. From Yellowstone to Jackson, WY, and then Salt Lake City and across the desert to Wendover, Nevada. Reno, Donner Pass, and into California’s Central Valley and Stockton, our destination. All two lane highways, well before the Eisenhower Interstate Highways. Most of the following twenty years I lived in California and Nevada, exploring each area and often picnicking or camping in the scenic areas throughout both states. After marrying, my wife and I lived in Reno, then South Lake Tahoe. We returned to live in MN as our children came so that they could be near grandparents and family. But all of our vacations took us west for new adventures!
Reading this was pure delight. Your mother’s artifacts add so much. Thank you, Jim.
Matt