We're never driving across the western half of the U.S. in a U-Haul again. Not individually, not collectively; we all three decided: never.
But even with that said, we managed to have a pretty good time of it. And I took pictures this time. Last time, with all its dramatics, no pictures. I would have liked to have pictures of the wrecked U-Haul. Or the tornado. Or both.
The previous night, we had measured to make sure both beds would fit in the truck. Otherwise we were in extremely deep trouble with the rearranging and possible throwing out of items, because the car was already packed pretty full.
They fit. So we loaded up and kissed Mark goodbye (well, maybe that part was only me) and headed out to meet for breakfast in Davis. This had three purposes: to determine how fast the U-Haul was going on flat straightaways, to determine whether I could comfortably ride in the truck cab with C.J. or whether we needed to move the boxes into the truck cab so I could ride in the car, and to get bagels. Mmmm, bagels. The U-Haul was performing pretty satisfactorily. In Davis, I didn't take pictures because I got distracted by a friendly dog.
I'm afraid I'm not very good about taking pictures sometimes. I get distracted too easily. This is why we have no photographic record of the housewarming party. Someone used to taking a bazillion pictures would probably have a picture of C.J. driving, for example, since he did it for three and a half days straight. They would have taken photographic evidence of our melted chocolate and my frowny sad face. They would at least have actually taken a picture in Truckee when stopped for lunch.
Eh. I'm not them.
But here's where we finally got gas. We pulled off for gas 20-30 miles before this stop, and they were out of diesel. Yikes. And it was Nevada, so it wasn't like there were stops every couple of miles. The woman who had run out of diesel told us how far along this place was, but I was afraid they'd run out of diesel, too.
And here's the happiest rest stop in the world. Seriously, folks: Nevada is not a state for wimmens. It's all hot and dry, so you drink a ton of water so as not to keel over dead. But then your body says, "Ah ha! I know what to do with that!" And then there is nowhere to stop. I mean nowhere. No likely clumps of trees. No bushes higher than your ankle. Nowhere. Also very few ditches, valleys, small crevasses. And I didn't particularly want to wave my literally lily-white butt at all passing motorists for grins. (It was getting dark. For those of you who produce melanin, this might have been some help. Me, I glow in the dark.) Oh, happy, blessed rest stop. Yay.
By the time we got to the Peppermill, we were all whumped, and I didn't end up taking any pictures, which was really a shame, because the hotel room was...quite something. You'll just have to imagine the mint/formica/mirror theme and how it would strike us after a day driving through Utah.
The problem with driving east when you don't like California is that you're thrilled to get to each state line until you remember where you've gotten to. "Yay, we're out of Calif--oh, crud, we're in Nevada." "Woohoo, no more Nevada! Wait, that makes this Utah." "Utah, you are behind us now! Making...Wyoming. Lovely."
No offense to denizens of those states, of course. Just that they aren't my cuppa tea.
And speaking of which, I'm going to get a cuppa tea. Next up: the thrilling Salt Lake City Perkins and beyond!