Phenomenology

On our first day, getting out of Washington, we drove from Bellingham to Boise.

Past Leavenworth, the trees leave first, like a smooth animal shaking porcupine quills from its nose. And then the hills go, and the world is flat and nothing for a long time. I drive, and he shuffles through the radio. We read Wikipedia articles about magpies, and towns, and apples, core crop, big emphasis. They originated in Kazakhstan.

There’s high winds, but you can’t really tell, because there’s nothing to blow, besides the occasional plastic tarp whipping around. It’s just the jostling of the car, and the noise, otherwise. In Eastern Washington somewhere, we see a man pulled off on the side of the road. He’s wearing a purple sweater and thick glasses, a vague memory of Walter White. His trunk is full of plastic bags. We do not stop.

We make it to Boise eventually. Idaho is flat and brown and boring and ugly and full of traveling teen boys on sports teams. In the morning I drink the worst cup of coffee I’ve ever had in my life.

The next day we drive to Salt Lake. Our first night camping, at The Great Salt Lake State Park. The email I received claimed that the park closed at five, and you had to check in before then, because the gates closed. We managed it, barely, not stopping all day and arriving at four thirty. It was a lie. The park closes at nine. We were given a gate code. I should have called.

Salted earth, it’s hot, and it stinks. A few RV’s line the edge of the parking lot, but there’s only two beach spots available. The second is empty. I did not take the hint.

Our site is a few hundred feet from the water, close to the trail, on a mix of sand and hard ground. Closer to the lake the earth changes, seeping soft and black and evil, with the salted and flattened bodies of dead birds scattered around. Swarms of small flies hover at ankle height. The park is across from the highway, and a refinery, and then, reluctant, the mountains. What possessed me to come here? I buy a magnet in the gift shop. We set up our tent, and call it alright. I take a nap in the heat. He reads.

Later, with nothing else to do, we drive thirty minutes back to the city. Salt lake is a nerdy place. Open till two, a built out arcade. We’re the only ones there for the bowling. I continue to not take the hint.

At the end of each lane is a projection, flashing lights and Top 40 pop songs and college basketball, bowling for iPad babies. And the system, every hour on the hour, is set up for The Strike Game. One person from every lane must bowl at the same time, and whoever gets a strike, or the best strike, gets a free photo taken. We are still the only lane playing. The bowling powers that be do not care. I hit a single pin. I never got my free photo. We go home shortly after, after a much better stint in the arcade.

We brush our teeth in the camp parking lot, rinsing out my mouth from an In and Out cup. None of the water fountains work, and the bathroom is a hundred degrees. The refinery glows white. I usually care more about drainage systems and the environment and keeping waterways clean. Is our toothpaste natural enough? But here, it seems there’s very little to harm. Brine shrimp. I still spit in the sink.

The ground seems much harder.

Every time we wake up in the night, every two hours, it always hurts more. In the morning, when we leave, the underside of the tent will be covered in black beetles. My eyes hurt from the sand and my hip bones are bruised.

I will never come back.

But it was nice to wake up and to be able to see the stars.