Once upon a time, I moved back to Scranton, PA, my hometown, after trying to make it in my old college town post-graduation. (Maybe I did actually make it. Who’s to say? But I wasn’t happy, so it didn’t feel like I did.) It was supposed to be a temporary thing, but then I started reconnecting with old friends and making some new ones, and in the midst I forgot to leave. Also, not only was I scared to make a big move on my own, I also had no idea where I wanted to go. The Middle East aside, every place was as good as any. I had about as much reason to go to one place as I did the next.
Then along came Honey Bear and his Scranton-loathing ways! He, too, is from the area, and he, too, wanted to escape it for brighter pastures, and by “pastures” I mean “metropolises.” He likes cities and all the weirdness, anonymity, and foodie smorgasbords they offer, while I like having easy access to nature, fellow liberals, decent parking, and all the hippie-dippie majesty I could ask for. We kept this wish list in mind when he was searching for a new job in summer 2015, and Portland, OR, seemed like it could meet those needs. I’d said that if I was to move, I wanted to make a BIG move. The complete other side of the country ought to do it!
Honey Bear was offered a gig in Portland and was given 24 hours to think it over, so there was lots of pacing going on that night. I did a bunch of excited, anxious crying. Neither of us had ever made such a big move before, so the whole process was simultaneously thrilling and terrifying. Every now and then, Honey Bear exclaimed, “It’s all so real!” or “This whole thing is surreal!” I was like, “Which is it?” and he’s like, “Both!”
My dad took the news—especially the part where I’d be selling my car and leaving my current job—about as well as I expected, which, on a scale of 1 (boo!) to 10 (yay!) put the whole experience at an impressive 4. I only sobbed for an hour straight in his presence and then just a mere all day after I’d left! He’s the Nancy Drew of negative thoughts—even if there are none to be found, by gods, he’ll still scrounge some up. This is why I, forever the struggling optimist, had naively hoped to talk to him about this move only until it was too late to say much about it, like the day before leaving, ideally.
During this chat, my dad voiced his concerns, which is a gentle way of saying that he word-vomited every awful thought he had about every bleak hypothetical situation he could imagine. In the future he saw for me, Honey Bear would no longer see us as equals, as I would never again find a job or have my own car (I sold mine to Twist to simplify the moving process). I would blow through my savings while Honey Bear shacked up with an independent woman from work, and then I’d eventually become “a broken woman,” homeless and destitute. It would eventually come to the point where I’d fling myself in the Columbia River. He legit looked at a map to select this river in order to more colorfully illustrate his point. I was like, “I don’t even know what to say to that!” Please note that by this point, I’d only known I was moving to Portland for four days.
(To date, my dad’s prediction did not come true. I think Honey Bear and I would have to both have personality transplants for things to get that bad.)
So far I’ve only explained what brought us to the Pacific Northwest and the theoretical doom that awaited me there—time to address our journey getting there. Our personal Oregon Trail! Never did I ever think I’d even go to Oregon, let alone live there. To be honest, I’m pretty sure that I forgot Oregon was even a state. “Oregon Trail” was just a name of a computer game I’d play over the phone with Tetra when we were preteens. Back then, I’d play as the doctor so we’d have a better chance of surviving, we’d include all three members of Hanson in our party, and I’d update the journal in a soap-operatic way that the game’s creators probably never planned: “May 5. We have arrived at Kansas River Crossing. We decided to rest for 2 days. Taylor and Stef are best friends but Taylor has a girlfriend so he can’t do anything extracurricular. But they’re just friends, so that thought didn’t cross either of their minds. At least, not yet…” (That was a for-real entry, verbatim.)
Our Oregon Trail journey began early Sunday afternoon, on August 30, Cartoon’s birthday. (I’d found a whisker while vacuuming.) Honey Bear’s family saw us off, and he yelled at his mom to get out of the street when she attempted to stop traffic for us to back out; our car was so full of stuff we couldn’t see out the rear-view mirror. We grossly overestimated how much the car could hold and wound up plying his family with our extra pillows and cleaning supplies or requesting things be mailed to us. We oddly opted not to take the umbrella, which would’ve not been any hardship to find space for and probably one of the items we’d most need in Portland. Some stuff we couldn’t get rid of in time, like our hampers and the TV and a bunch of other shit we had to pile up by the trash and let Dave Fix and Donnie After Hours sort out eventually.
Then we were off! The plan was to be relatively leisurely driving out there, with the intent to arrive on Friday. That would average out to about six-point-something hours of necessary driving a day. Honey Bear had podcasts for us to listen to. I had no room for my feet. I took pictures of my toes tapping the windshield as the open road reached long in front of us. We’re pretty sure we saw a dead bear alongside Route 80, but there’s no picture of that. Our good-luck talisman was a little VooDoo doll with butterfly wings my mom gave me that is meant to help us guide us on our way to whom we’re meant to be.
The first day, we made it out of Pennsylvania, through Ohio, and stopped on the edge of Indiana in a town with the name of F that had no restaurants or attractions around. We ate fast food in the hotel room in front of an episode of “Special Victims Unit” on a bed made of what felt like clouds. My eye had been acting fucked up all day, like dust was stuck in it, so I got some eye drops from the convenient store in F-town while waiting impatiently for the world’s most incompetent Wendy’s employee to get her shit together.
The next day, August 31, I believe we went through Illinois and Iowa. (We hit all the I states on our journey.) This marks when we became really sick of corn fields. There was nothing for miles and miles except miles and miles of corn fields followed by more miles and miles of corn fields. I also stopped for some eye drops because my eye was hurting more and more. We took a detour to Chicago for a couple hours, just enough to say we were in the city since it was the closest either of us had ever been to there, not counting airports. We wandered underneath the train bridges toward Millennium Park, where we took our photo in front of what we called “a thing.” (You probably know it as “The Chicago Bean.”) We saw a fountain that was a wall with a person’s face on it, and water was splooping out between the person’s pursed lips, and people were splashing around in the water because it was hot as balls out. Then we ate deep dish pizza! It was tasty but I felt there could’ve been less crust or more toppings.
Upon leaving, things got tense and testy because Illinois’s toll roads are infuriating—three-plus lanes of traffic. Furthermore, if you don’t have a toll road pass, every couple of miles you need to occasionally veer off to pay a toll, then get back on the main road again. It’s so easy to miss paying a toll, which we did initially because one sneaked up on us, and by the time we realized we should’ve paid, there was no time or room to merge out of traffic. And if you miss paying a toll, you’re expected to remember what toll you should’ve paid and what time you fucked up and then mail it in. I’m glad Honey Bear decided that he just didn’t care enough to do that. Anyway—fuck you, Illinois toll roads.
In Iowa, our primary adventure was stopping at Iowa 80, the world’s largest truck stop, where Honey Bear could’ve bought a sword and I, a fur coat. Then, more corn fields, this time accompanied by giant wine turbines. We were using the app Hotel Tonight to book hotels for discounted rates while traveling, and that night, we were in some strange, Camelot-themed room with wooden shields on the doors that was right next door to a Mexican restaurant, where we ate south-of-the-border snacks and drank HUGE margaritas. (I think I remember enlisting Honey Bear’s help to finish mine.)
But while I was waiting beside the car for Honey Bear to check in, a seemingly tipsy older man teetered out of the restaurant and bid me hello, and I think he asked if I needed any help. Then he got in his van right next to us, and I thought the social exchange between us was over and done until he backed up, paused behind the wheel, and said, “You look loaded.” HUH?! I narrowed my eyes at him in hate and confusion and told him that I was tired, and he drove off, leaving me fuming and like WTF?! I look loaded? Was he implying I looked wasted?? Who is this rando commenting on my appearance to my face? It wasn’t until literally MONTHS later that Honey Bear wondered aloud if the guy meant “you look loaded up,” as in, “you have a lot of shit in your car.” Straight up, that thought had NEVER occurred to me. But Honey Bear decided to still assume the guy was an asshole. He is comfortable with having a lack of faith in humanity.
The Oregon Trail continues next time and features the likes of Nebraska, Idaho, a bunch of states in between there, and ultimately Oregon!
Question of the Week: Have you ever moved out of state? Wasn’t it a PAIN IN THE ASS? If not, please leave your magic helpful secrets in the comments section!
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4 Comments on "The Oregon Trail: From Scranton to Portland: Part 1 of 2"
First of all that is a hell of a Margarita. Second, I am so amused by how that comment was taken and how it might have been meant! I forgot the car was loaded up. I think I just relived your leaving and got sad as I felt wetness on my cheek. Cuteness with the little voodoo doll in the door with you beside it!
We still keep the voodoo doll in the car! And re: the wetness: wait until Part 2 featuring UncaMunky!
I really enjoy your writing style. I’ve moved SO MANY TIMES. Your uncle thinks I’m a gypsy. Always a pain but I love it. New beginnings are fun. I have a question for you. What was the problem with your eye? Actually 2 questions. You don’t mention your mom’s reaction to your move. Happy on the outside, crying on the inside would be my guess. Looking forward to more adventures Steph-style 🙂