Category: Heading home

At some point on the second day of my drive home in 1971, I believe, my AM-FM stopped working. No worries. I had an eight-track tape player in the car and tape cartridges . . . two of them. Even though they were two of my favorite albums — American Beauty by the Grateful Dead and Bridge Over Troubled Water by Simon & Garfunkel — listening to them during 10-12 hours and more driving each day got old fast.

That wasn’t the main factor that encouraged me to get home as soon as possible, but it may have played a part. I can remember at least a few times just screaming as I drove to add some sound besides car engine to the ambience.

I know that two nights after I left Green River, Utah, I stayed in Terre Haute, Ind., just over the state line from Illinois. Those towns are 1,350 miles apart, so I have to assume I stayed somewhere in-between, in Kansas or Missouri. Don’t know where. The only times I stopped during the last three days of my drive were to refuel, eat, make a head call, or stay the night. It was a driving grind.

Leaving Terre Haute, I originally planned to stay next in New York City, crashing at Jack and Pat Roberts’ place. I had not contacted them ahead of time, of course, but communication was just not as easy then as it is now, so dropping in unannounced was, I think, considered less offensive than it would be now.

As I started to get close to NYC, though, I began to consider a straight shot to home. Springfield, Mass, was only 2-3 hours beyond New York. Heck, based on the last several days, that was a short jaunt.

Done deal. Just kept going. I pulled into Springfield late this night 50 years ago. I still remember cruising down Sumner Avenue on that summer night, windows open, noticing some old haunts and some changes. I assume at some point I had notified my folks that I was going to be coming home, but I think I was expected a few days later.

I remember my father being surprised at my arrival, not annoyed just surprised. I expect I caught him just before he left for his 11 pm work shift, otherwise I would have spent the night somewhere else, maybe a friend’s place nearby. But I stayed the night at home.

My mother was not there. She was due to return the next day from a trip to Ireland she had taken with family and friends. I accompanied my father to Logan Airport, where she got the pleasant surprise of both her and her son coming home.

That straight shot from Terre Haute to Springfield was 950 miles, maybe 15 hours of driving. I believe it is still my personal record for distance driving in a day. It was worth it.

I think I got up a little late in Las Vegas and headed out to southern Utah on this day, 50 years ago. I actually don’t remember if I had intended to visit Zion National Park or just saw signs for it and figured it would be a good idea. Even though I think I spent only a few hours there, I found it to be an amazing place.

I recall pulling over in Zion, turning off the engine, and sitting on the car’s hood, listening. Besides the occasional sounds of birds, the only sound I heard was the creaking of the car metal as it expanded in the heat.

Here are some photos from Zion and the surrounding area. (Use arrows to advance the images.)

Much of Interstate 70 in Utah was two-lane and undivided. I remember being somewhat daunted by the approach of 18-wheelers at a combined speed of about 140 mph. Their wind wash moved my car sideways more than I liked.

Here’s a scene I’ve found so typical of roads in the West. Maybe it happens everywhere, but I have a ton of such pictures from out here. The skid marks, I expect, foreshadow a sad tale.

As nighttime approached, I started to look for a place to stay. Eastern Utah was then, and likely still is, a pretty isolated area. Between the infrequent small community that might have been a reason for a highway exit existed many miles of desert. The image below is a satellite view of the area currently.

I depended on road signs to tell me how far the next community was. I remember driving by Green River and seeing signs saying “No vacancy” so I continued. After driving for quite a few miles more and feeling sleepy, I thought it risky to keep going. I figured maybe there was another option in Green River and I returned. At least I knew it was there.

Traveling down the main street, really the only street, in Green River (population 952, 2010), I saw a couple of motels with no vacancies. Then, however, I saw what appeared to be a hotel. It didn’t have a sign indicating vacancies or none, but a light was on, so I figured I’d check.

The “lobby” of the hotel contained a couple of pieces of aluminum lawn furniture. There was a “front desk” with a bell on it and, beside it, a room from which I could hear the sound of a TV. I rang the bell.

A guy with overalls, but no shirt, as I recall, came out and asked, “Can I help you?” I asked if a room was available. He said there was one left. I took it and, as usual, paid in cash. I don’t remember what it cost.

He showed me up to the second floor and to the room. Bathroom, he said, was at the end of the hall. Outside the room’s window, a neon light was in operation, fitfully. On the wall, a fly swatter hung on a nail. The window, which was open because of the heat, had no screen.

I don’t remember if I had a restful or troubled sleep that night. I just remember being happy to have gotten through the night and to leave the next morning. I wish I had taken photos of the interior, but, before I left Green River that morning, I took a picture of the exterior.

Salina Hotel, Green River, Utah. Book it. It’s unlike any hotel in which I ever stayed.

When I learned I would be released from active duty early, I considered taking a long way home. I thought about just driving up the West Coast from San Diego to Vancouver before turning east. Then I realized I would be adding about 1,400 miles to an already 3,000-mile journey. I might have done it had I a companion, but, after spending a total of less than a month at home in the past 34 months, I wanted to get home.

I spent most of this day 50 years ago doing a final checkout at the BOQ, packing up my car, and hitting the road for Las Vegas, first stop on the trip east.

Back in those days, Coors beer was only available in several states west of the Mississippi River. Thinking of my Coors-deprived buds back East, I stashed a case in my trunk.

These days, San Diego to Las Vegas is a straight shot on I-15. In 1971, State Route 15 started in Riverside County and was not a multi-lane road all the way to Las Vegas. I bet I got a map, but not a TripTik, from AAA to find my way home. I assume I took State Route 395 north out of San Diego. (Interestingly, that route would have brought me quite close by where I live now.) Connected to the 15 near San Bernardino and headed out through the Mojave Desert to Nevada.

At some point, I heard an odd noise, or series of sounds, from the trunk. I pulled over to check out what happened. The scent of warm beer wafted from the trunk as I opened it. The jostling and heat from the desert (it’s mid-July, remember) had caused several cans of Coors to explode. (I’m pretty sure I considered the effort to bring Coors east as noble but in vain, and dumped whatever was left when I got to Vegas.)

This was my first time visiting Las Vegas and, arriving at night, it was a spectacular sight. Not sure how I picked out a hotel, probably just by seeing a “vacancy” sign. It was, however, at least slightly above the quality of places I usually stayed on road trips. A bellboy accompanied me, bringing my bag up to the room. Awaiting his tip, he asked me if I wanted any “company” for the evening. I declined. Pretty sure I was tuckered out and spent my first night in Vegas in my hotel room. . . .alone and asleep.

Next morning, I drove around a little bit and took these photos of “the strip.”