It was an early Sunday afternoon in April. I got the feeding done as early as I could, filled all of the water troughs, checked all the gates twice and attended a church service. If I was ever ready to take off for the rest of the day, it was at that moment. The occasion: our grandson’s sixth birthday. The destination: Idaho Falls, Idaho, a mere two-and-a-half-hour drive from our home base in Oakley, Idaho. It was just a day trip, but I figured we could make it there and back with a three-hour stay sandwiched between travel to and from Idaho Falls and still make it back home by 10 p.m. I felt like it was a pretty solid plan.
As we hit Highway 27 and headed north out of Oakley, we called the newly minted 6-year-old grandson to let him know we’d be there soon. Of course, “soon” to a kid who is still half a decade shy of a decade means something completely different than it does to those of us who’ve made several decades worth of trips around the sun – especially when his parents are withholding the bulk of his birthday presents until the grandparents arrive for the festivities. Still, we promised we’d get there as soon as we could.
I’m not one who’s very fond of population centers, so if I’m on a road trip, I avoid the twin evils of towns and traffic as much as I possibly can. Burley, Idaho, may not really qualify as a big town in the minds of most people, but I intended to bypass the tiny metropolis and its dozen stoplights on my way to Interstate 84. I knew I’d probably have to pay 10 or 15 more cents per gallon for gas at the station just outside of Declo, but it was a price I was more than willing to pay.
After we filled up in Declo, I thought I’d be cute and head south on Highway 81 for a few more miles before I got on the freeway because of, you know, the traffic thing. As we drove, my wife questioned my choice of routes, wondering if it would add time to our semi-strict travel plan. I pontificated to her, for probably the two hundred and sixty-seventh time, about my disdain for, yes, traffic and towns. I can’t be sure, but I think I caught an eye roll behind her sunglasses as she nodded in feigned agreement. Despite the apparent misgivings of my co-pilot, I forged on, and within 15 or 20 minutes we reached the freeway. I slipped in behind a sleek new SUV, set the cruise control at 83, and we were off to the races, so to speak.
The miles flew behind us like dust in the wind as my wife and I engaged each other in lively conversation. We talked about the cows and how the new bulls looked and the disaster of a purchase my sister had made with the crazy mare she bought at a consignment sale the week before. Since the rules of conversational etiquette can be legally suspended in a legitimate and civil discussion within matrimonial confines, we even broached politics and religion. We’re pretty much on the same page with most social issues, so it was mostly preaching to the choir, but it was a pleasant way to pass the time, nonetheless.
As we passed by Snowville, Utah, I noted the price of gas on the giant marquee of one of the two gas stations in the tiny high desert town. I told my wife that we should stop there on the way home, since it was probably cheaper than the gas in Pocatello or Idaho Falls. Now, it is about at this juncture of my story that astute students of geography may note that I mentioned that Snowville is in Utah. You may have also noted that it is quite unnecessary to travel into the fair state of Utah if one is traveling from Oakley, in south-central Idaho, to Idaho Falls, some 150-plus miles to the northeast. Strangely, though I’ve made the trip dozens upon dozens of times, that realization didn’t strike me until about 30 miles down the road as we were approaching Tremonton, Utah, at which time, an antsy 6-year-old boy called me to inquire of his grandparents’ whereabouts. It seems there was a pile of unopened presents that was seriously testing his resolve.
I had to think quickly, so I told him that his grandma was not a very accomplished navigator, and that we had somehow taken the long road to Idaho Falls, but not to worry. We’d be there in just a short hour-and-a half (rather than the promised and anticipated 15 minutes). Thankfully, at Tremonton, there is an interchange from I-84 to northbound I-15. And, as luck would have it, I-15 leads right to Idaho Falls. It’s not terribly unlike the interchange just a few miles outside of Declo that takes travelers from I-84 to I-86 and then to I-15 and on to Idaho Falls. Imagine that.
There are probably a plethora of parables and metaphors that could be applied to this minor adventure, not the most inaccurate of which would be that if senility is my required destination, the road is probably not as long as I might have once thought it to be. Since I’m driving this story, though, I think I’ll steer you, gentle reader, in another direction. You can take your pick as to what lesson you’d like to learn. I think I’ll stick with one of the good old standards like, “Enjoy the Journey” or “The Road Less Traveled.” And in case you’re wondering, we made it home by midnight.
