The Great Migration: hello, Big Ole World

February 27, 2018
Dustin

At a crossroads in life, vacuum-packed in a house by the Colorado housing market, we decided to hit the road and live the vagabond life of which we’ve always dreamed.

Ground zero: coming face to face with life’s accumulations

Moving was a grueling process. I was lucky enough to have never moved growing up, and in fact I’d only ever moved all most of my possessions once before—into the Thornton house. The lack of practice wasn’t helped by how long it took for what we were doing to feel real—too long, probably; long enough to delay our progress and compress a lot of moving into an almost impossibly short period of time. With a little help from good friends, family, and God, however, we got it done, and in the end I don’t regret a week of sleeping in and shower beers taken to decompress from years of high-level job dedication. That’s not to say that the process wasn’t still a little hairy: I was sleepless and anxious almost to the point of hallucination after a few days, and there was a serious emotional breakdown over travel-packed potato soup.

Driving away as golden hour settled in, we took the long road through the Suncor refinery and Commerce City, a place I dreamed of living near as a young, industrially-minded teenager. Though I had moved on to dreams of quiet, unkempt acreage, we’d unintentionally fulfilled that dream, and the Thornton house will occupy a small, warm place in my heart, just as we occupied it for a short, exceptional time. We listened to Sun In An Empty Room and wept with overwhelming freedom as a flock of birds flew into the sunset before the Ranger’s trundling path.

Departure: February 17, 2018

I forgot to start the timelapse on my Action Cam until we got gas near my high school, and fortunately that was about the worst thing that would happen this whole trip. The original plan was to have my family wave us off at the beginning, but the important thing is that they did that in real life. My mom was as sweet as she always is, giving us snacks for our “big adventure” with big smiles and, with my brother, drawing hearts into the dirt on the back of my truck. (They’re still there as I write this in May, incidentally… ahem.) It was hard, but we’ll be back.

Having already said our goodbyes to Macey’s family on the north end of town, it was time to finish our farewell tour with my family to the south. It took some arranging and rearranging of plans, as tends to happen with us, but we managed to make it to lunch with Grandpa Sigaty minimally late. Having never met Nana, I’m glad Macey noticed his angel pin and got to hear a little about her from his own mouth. This pin is one he wears in honor of her based on her angel collection generally and specifically on a plaque which read, “I collect angels and my husband thinks I started with him.”

Macey acted the inquisitive person I’ve always loved and caught him off-guard when she asked him what his favorite tree was.

“What would you want to ask that for?”

The friend of his who filled out the table of four suggested a corkscrew willow, as he carried a fine cane made of its wood, but he didn’t go so far as to give a definite affirmation. He did offer this piece of oblique wisdom: “A South Dakotan would say a Box Elder.” Is he not a South Dakotan? He did have a secret birth name, so one never knows… Macey went on to ask about birds, which he admitted to not being especially fond of on account of their messiness. Shifting again from personal preference to historical data—an innate bias towards the concrete, the non-fictional that is often evident in his life—he did tell us about the little bird they have in South Dakota, the Junco. Viktor Frankl wrote in Man’s Search For Meaning that the elderly were not to be pitied, but rather that they should be celebrated for having transformed all the empty possibilities life offers into real, indelible experiences written into the scroll of time. A strong sensation along those lines came over us, subtly when listening to a few life stories and then explicitly when he told us that, when the dining hall is full, it contains over 10,000 years of experience.

We completed the farewell tour with the rest of the Sigaty clan—it was sure wonderful having them all in Colorado, cousins excepted—and then, because of who we are as people, embarked on an 11th-hour quest to get a couple vaccines while we still had employer-subsidized health insurance and to fill a prescription for Macey which we had nearly forgotten. It was not an ideal way to spend a late afternoon, but the ol’ Sigaty Luck came through when the King Soopers with only part of what we needed dug up everything when we got there. It was worth it to finally get to experience a taste of the infamous Widefield, often mentioned at Colorado College. It was as mythologized. We saw a billboard for Coors Light on the way out. Thanks, Rich!

We stopped for gas and stimulant beverages in Trinidad, CO, under a tight-lipped grin of a moon. The wind was awe-inspiring, as would be much of the weather on this drive, and a few hours of driving later we finally managed to stagger in to Montezuma Castle (part of the Armand Hammer UWC, where we were staying with a dear friend, whom I had not seen in a long time, and her family). The castle was originally a failed hotel, previous iterations of which had burned to the ground. Now it served as the dinner hall (complete with Chihuly sculpture) and dormitory for an ever-changing host of international students. If I recall correctly, there were kids from 92 different countries at the time we visited. The school is the sole reason Montezuma, NM, still has a post office. Neat!

Desert grandeur: February 18, 2018

It was a rare treat to stay in an American castle, as there really aren’t many of those. We stayed in a guest wing, but enjoyed catching up in their apartment on the top level. They have a private turret, and quite a lovely view was revealed when we went up again in the morning!

Our gracious hosts, Skylyn and Ray, were kind enough to give us the grand tour (and this despite having a several-day-old baby to take care of). The majesty (and photogenic quality) of the Dwan Light Sanctuary—”the place we are going to has rainbows,” as described by a wee lass—was balanced, in a way I was unapologetically satisfied by, with the latent baseness in the atmosphere—the grungy fringes of society I habitually stalk. To wit:

• Discarded panties in the grass…
• …near the heavily-graffitied bath house…
• …which was closed because when they tried reopening it for a few months ODs skyrocketed…
• …and which served natural hot springs, where someone had recently boiled to death, skin completely dissolved after he combined heroin and a dip in the hot springs.

The thought of melted flesh did not impact our outstanding brunch at Charlie’s Spic & Span in Las Vegas, NM, featuring tacos in shells made entirely of fried cheese.

With that, we bid our hosts adieu and moved along to Santa Fe, where we captured another of Macey’s grandpa’s drawings at the San Miguel church, the “oldest church structure in the USA,” with parts dating from c. 1610. We also took in the Loretto Chapel and resisted the urge to buy a beautiful, all-black native flute.

Having sufficiently delayed ourselves, we decided to take highway 285 straight into Texas. (Not only was it more direct with respect to our next destination, 285 is an extremely special highway to the two of us.)

We drove through the most impressive storm I’ve seen since driving through the Colorado flood-maker of 2013, saw the most delightful little towns of Encino and Vaughn, where we paused for sunset, and eventually rolled to a stop for Chinese food and cartoons in Roswell, NM. The night’s excitement came from a genuine UFO: unexpected flying object). We were roused from our relaxation by a helicopter taking off at the hospital next door. Neither of us had ever been that close to a running helicopter, and we were impressed by the force of wind generated by those rotors.

Oil & origins: February 19, 2018

Leaving Roswell, I was struck by two thoughts:

• Our special highway, 285, starts next to my parents’ house, where I grew up, and terminates in Sanderson, TX, where Macey’s mom was born.
• What the hell is wrong with whoever designed New Mexican traffic lights? They’re all out of order and pointed the wrong way.

Not much lay between us and Sanderson but tumbleweeds, trash hanging itself in the trees, and billions of dollars of oil. “Normal” traffic faded away, leaving only massive trucks whose purpose was unclear but which clearly had a purpose, and leaving me feeling like someone walking, uninvited, through an industrial kitchen. There wasn’t even a state welcome sign; I knew we entered the Texas side of the oil field because a sign noted that we were no longer under Eddy County water management.

Well, that and the sudden preponderance of distinctly Texan road signs. “Don’t drink and drive” became “You can’t afford a DUI,” and “Keep our highways clean” became “Save taxes, don’t litter.” They are a frugal lot!

Sanderson was at least as big of a pay-off as we had hoped. Dubbed “Cactus capital of Texas,” a claim by which I’m not entirely convinced, it was as a town from a joke about Texas. I fell in love immediately. Based on states of relative disrepair, there was literally a wrong side of the tracks. Taking the drone up, I found a large dinosaur in someone’s yard, which had a sort of cosmic assonance with Macey’s ironic term for the pumps dotting the landscape: oil dinosaurs. After failing to find a single non-gas station at which to eat something, I bought a six-pack of Coors Light from an absolutely chivalrous gas station* and we hit the road. It was a lovely transgenerational salmoniac stop.
*The women’s restroom was inside and clean, the men’s outside and definitely not clean.

As we went deeper into Texas, I learned that the love I had for Sanderson was not a fidelitous one. It seemed like every town was more broke-down and busted-up than the last, and I could barely contain the nameless passion boiling up in my soul. These quiet pockets of humanity, meaningful only for their own sake,  felt like dusty leather books. The authors’ names were all worn away and the pages were filled with a shorthand no tutorial ever documented. Plus, they all have “beverage barns.” I thought Colorado had drive-through liquor stores, but we actually have liquor stores with drive-through windows. Texas has liquor stores which one literally drives through. How we got through the state without stopping at one is a question that will haunt me until the day we finally return to triumphantly request a case of Negra Modela and a bottle of Irish whiskey.

As dusk settled lazily into Texas for a bucket of fried everything, we hugged the Rio Grande until we washed into one of its tributary cities, Del Rio. Given that we were on the border, I insisted on Mexican food, and once we found a place I insisted on the most markedly Mexican food. Do I think that the tongue was the best thing on the menu at Don Marcelino? Probably not, but when I pointedly didn’t think about French-kissing a cow, it was pretty darn good.

The Torch of Friendship: February 20, 2018

Tuesday morning’s breakfast found us conversing with Bob, the Kenya-born, ethnically Indian owner of the Whispering Palms Inn. He has owned other hotels and been all over the world*, but Del Rio, TX, was the place that stole his heart. The décor of the hotel certainly was that of a world traveler, and it was a wonderful little place. Thanks, Bob! The free cold water at check-in was much appreciated.
*Self-reported.

We thought we might take a quick jaunt into Mexico, since we were right there, but we had to turn around at the last second when I saw there would be a toll. What an outrage! At least we found a state line sign, for the collection. This one even had a joke on it: “Drive friendly — the Texas way!”

The unabashedly Texan signs flew by: “Let’s have church.” “Pizza Hut: Now Serving Beer.” After surviving another storm, we cranked the Javi Garcia in anticipation of the most Texan sign of all: “ALAMO.”

Having made our pilgrimage to the capitol  of freedom—would recommend—we met up with one of Macey’s lifelong friends under La Antorcha de la Amistad. Mary helped us track down the exact spot we were looking for along the River Walk (another Grandpa Geivett destination) before a drink on the lazy banks. Later, Macey’s friends, Brad and Camilia, welcomed us into their home for a few plenty of beers and a good ol’ time. It was wonderful getting to know them. Congrats on the wedding, if you read this!

A Perfect Day To Chase Tornadoes: February 21, 2018

Jim White was on our minds as we made our way through the rainy, rainy rain coming down all across Texas. Holy buckets, was it ever crazy! It was a fairly straight shot to my cousins’ place in Dallas, though our progress was hampered by the growing realization that, apparently, nobody in Texas drinks coffee. Hardly any gas stations had it at all, and those that did? Not amazing.

What was amazing was our visit with Carl and the kids. (Sorry we missed you, Candace!) Carl thoughtfully picked up some port to drink from the port sippers I had given them some time ago and we discussed life in the living room. We’ve never gotten together alone as adults, so it was a much-cherished evening. We even discovered that Zoey Deschanel was a common celebrity girlfriend (including Macey)! Thanks again.

True Blood & the Super-8 showdown: February 22, 2018

The day of the meetup with our sister car was fast approaching, and we had to make time, but Louisiana was a place that I had greatly anticipated. With its unusual French provenance and fabled dark energy (thanks to… Magic cards? Preacher? Voodoo?), not quite Dixie and not quite Texas, Louisiana piqued my curiosity in a unique way, and I hated the thought of seeing nothing but the freeway. The compromise was a short drone session in Shreveport (yes, inspired by True Blood) and then tearing down LA-1, and it was absolutely the best choice. “Feel the Louisiana,” we advised one another as the humid fog rolled through when we dropped the windows between rainy spells. The grim landscape (fog on swamp) was everything I hoped it would be, and the busted up, leather-bound little towns were every bit as good as those of Texas.

We stopped for the last bit of light at an unnamed road in the middle of the swamp plains for photos, and from where should the gentleman who stopped to check on us be but Westminster, CO? Small world!

The next town after the light ran out was Natchitoches, LA, which was named after the same native American word as Nacogdoches, TX (which was in my mind as a result of having recently read Blood Meridian in anticipation of our own quest into the wild). Neither would suggest to any reasonable person the correct pronunciation of “nack-uh-tish,” but the people seemed friendly enough regardless… at first.

I loved the fried catfish/crawdad etouffeé concoction I had at the Cane River BBQ, but the after-dinner show was even better. The prelude (may or may not have been related): Macey overheard a man in the motel saying, “I don’t know, man, there were supposed to be here with the stuff.” Right after, three cops show up, guns drawn, someone shoots in the parking lot (where we’re standing), and, after a brief interim, a man runs off (or perhaps a better description would be skips off, due to his heavily-sagged pants), evidently not the one the police were looking for. Needless to say, we locked our doors extra-well that night.

Tender reunion: February 23, 2018

Later than intended but earlier than expected, we rendezvoused with our counterparts in the Mercury Montego for lunch in Natchitoches. What a joy it was to see Shannon and Ryan after our vision quest in the desert, and what a joy I imagine it was for them to see us after their harrowing journey through rural Oklahoma at its iciest.

Speaking of joy, I finally encountered a gumbo in its natural habitat at Lasyone’s. It was too much to eat, but it was good enough to be worth it. We took a little time to appreciate the art deco style of the official buildings in Natchitoches, and then it was time to form the caravan. We did a good job sticking to the road, only making one unplanned stop. With a sign like “Turn here for Prayer Lake,” though, how could we not take a peek? We found mushroom trees and an abandoned church. The roadkill-laden drive carried on in its usual magical way, providing eerily illustrative visuals for the songs Trailer Trash (Modest Mouse) and Swamp Witch (Jim Stafford) as we listened.

It was dark when we made it to our first planned stop: the San Francisco Plantation House in Garysville, LA (appropriate, as it was a Gary-Geivett-inspired stop). Macey stepped in a red ant hill immediately after Shannon asked if maybe she should wear closed shoes, but we got the shot.

Add to that my success at the earlier gas stop in Baton Rouge, and you get a darn productive evening.

We arrived, late, to a highly eclectic house in a private subdivision on the outskirts of New Orleans. Shannon’s family had a good friend here, and we were fortunate enough to get two nights to experience the unusual city of purple, green, and gold.

Daiquiris and decadence: February 24, 2018

Kathleen was an exceptionally genial hostess, and we embarked upon an extensive tour of the city’s hot-spots (enjoying a much-desired break from driving at the same time). One of the most exciting and unexpected parts of the city? Frozen daiquiri drive-throughs all over town. Don’t worry, they don’t give the driver a straw. They do make the daiquiris nice and strong, though, so it was a bit of a blurry day. After a daiquiri stop, we checked out buckets of fresh sea critters at Market Wego (in Westwego, LA—cute!) and drove down the parade route past the stunning mansions of St. Charles Avenue.

All that sitting was tiring, so we grabbed another daiquiri and spent a long time wandering around the city park. I tried patiently to get specific duck photos; Macey was overjoyed to visit the approximately 800-year-old McDonogh Oak.

The party seems to be rolling constantly in the French Quarter, and—frankly—Royal Street was a little overwhelming after spending so long immersed in rural America. (Even in the cities, we mostly experienced crowds as traffic rather than in all their sweaty glory.) Still, we saw a host of sights (several voodoo shops that reminded me of the souvenirs my dad brought home from a trip to New Orleans when I was young; the Lalaurie mansion; a fountain of fire and water simultaneously) and checked the Court of Two Sisters off on the list of Gary Geivett drawings. Dinner was expensive but gourmet-quality at the Chartres House.

Through Dixie like an arrow: February 25, 2018

Though we couldn’t stay overnight and experience the rest of the states we’d pass through, we still made an effort to avoid the “highway cruise” effect. In Mississippi, we stopped at a beach to touch the water and admire statues a local artist had cut into stumps left behind by hurricane Katrina. I admired their boldness in dotting the beach with hot pink trash cans.

We took a brief driving tour of Mobile, AL, conversing with a currently-local vagrant by the name of Jam Boogie for a spell at a gas station. Predictably, he was a big fan of Colorado as New Jamaica, but we agreed with his assessment of Mobile as about as big a town as can be enjoyable. (Note: It’s not big.)

Florida’s state sign was by far both the worst and best of them all. While it was bedecked in colored lights and absolutely spectacular, it didn’t have a pull-off so we couldn’t get a picture and had to settle for a stop at the welcome center. Super-lame, Sunshine State. Pensacola’s Irish pub, O’Riley’s, served us top-notch food and local beer as a solid make-up offering.

We tried to get as far as Tallahassee, but ended up settling for Marianna. It seemed like a charming small town, and we drove by the former site of the Florida School For Boys, shut down in 2011 for its 111-year history of beatings, torture, rape, and abuse (up to and including murder). It was clear we were finally in Florida.

Alpha Rat’s Nest: February 26, 2018

On the 26th of February, we crossed into the Eastern time zone. Our only intended stop was Tallahassee, a pilgrimage inspired by The Mountain Goats and not much out of the way. Little did we know the import it would take on…

Finding Southwood Plantation Road was easy enough, and though it was less isolated than I expected, it was perfect. There was even a specific house that seemed to me the house of John Darnielle’s fictional Alpha couple, brought to life.

Unfortunately, partway into the drive, I received a panicked call instructing me to turn around. Shannon forgot her camera at the gas station on the northern end of Southwood Plantation Road.

The blackness that filled our hearts, I can not describe. When we confronted the reality that the camera was not where it had been, I must admit that I absented myself. My strategies for others’ grief consist of a stiff drink, looking for practical solutions, or (in the worst cases) quiet tears, none of which were effective until later in the process. After some time passed and a mud memorial was crafted, Shannon had accepted the hand that had been dealt to her (as much as possible), but then something amazing happened. At the exact moment of her acceptance, a man pulled up, looked at her, and said, “I have your camera!” He handed it to her, refused payment, and left. One can only assume she needed that emotional experience to learn something important, if there was any meaning at all. Even if there wasn’t, it was an incredible experience to witness the shift from pitch despair to unbridled exultation.

Miracle under our belts, we found ourselves ravenously hungry, so we stopped at a nearby café for a bite to eat and a mixture of lemonade and coffee called mazagran (which totally justified my long-reviled invention of coffee with orange juice). The box of fish dumped on the road was an appropriately surreal sight to assure us that we were living in an extended holy moment.

Nothing more than an uncomfortably large spider troubled us the rest of the way to Leesburg. We were welcomed into the arms of family in good health and good spirits, and set about decorating our little box immediately.

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