CHP Meets CFC: Washington and Montana
In 1977, the ladies planned their route (in one night, mind you) based off places where they had friends. This is one of the prime benefits of a road trip, and thankfully, my school has flung people all over the country; we’ve spent most of I-90 E bunking with some of my friends from study abroad.
Our first stop was Bainbridge Island, which is kind of like a west-coast Cape Cod. Located off the coast of Seattle, the island of 20,000 offers a laid-back, upper-class existence that’s just a 30 minute ferry ride from the metropolis of Seattle. On your way home from work, you can stop at the Pike Place Market to pick up fresh 
cherries and fish, swoop by the original Starbucks from some french press action in the morning, and after a 30 minute ferry ride, roll into Mora’s for some gourmet ice cream. Once you get home, you can cook it all on your outdoor beach grill, looking at the city of Seattle and laughing at people struggling to cook in their pint-sized condos.
We stayed with my friend Liz Mundt, with whom I studied abroad in Prague (CHP Fall ’06…to be continued in Chicago). She spent most of the last year traveling after her Beijing bank went bankrupt, and while she saves up for her next adventure (check out her blog), she’s back with her parents. Thank God. Parents equal a level of comfort that we, as 20-somethings cannot possibly attain. They have a beautiful home on the beach, with a view of Mt. Ranier and the Seattle skyline from their backyard.
We spent a bit of time in Seattle, visiting the market and, our mecca, the original Starbucks. Dinner at the Seattle house went quickly and, if you ignore the fact that we got lost and went to the wrong Whole Foods, flawlessly. My trooper friend Jordan came along to help, and we all met up with Liz at a Belgian beer bistro for dinner. CFC, bringin’ people together all over the country…
We stayed on the island an extra day for a salmon bake, a west coast tradition that I like to think is similar to a clam bake. I wouldn’t know because I’ve never been to one of those either. But I can now tell you that to hold a salmon bake, you place half a fish on top of a stake like a piece of cloth, and secure it to the backbone with a series of other stakes that, in effect, cage in the fish. Then you stick it in the ground next to thefire and watch it sizzle. That’s it. In 30 minutes, we had smoked and peppered salmon with hummus, cheese, avocado salad, Argentine spoon bread made with the Mundts’ special polenta, olives and garlic bread.
The next morning, still full, we hopped on I-90, heading east towards Livingston, MT and my friend Angela, another CHP Fall ’06-er.
Throughout Bill Bryson’s book, The Lost Continent, he bitches that he can’t find the perfect small-town America. He clearly did not go to Livingston. I’ve never seen a town with so few McDonalds and such a strong grasp of its history. It sits in the cradle of magnificent mountains and soaring blue skies, and though places like Buffalo Bill’s Bar dominate the skyline, modern conveniences, like yoga, coffee shops and life coaches, tuck into the original landscape of the city. We arrive in the middle of the rodeo, a time when the town’s population of 8,000 swells to around 27,000, and the town bustled with activity. I wanted to eat every funnel cake in the square and give the person that I’d seen just 20 minutes earlier at the market a big, powdered-sugar smile, because I’d seen him 20 minutes earlier at the market.
We spent most of our time at Angela’s house, where she lives with her boyfriend Justin and roommate Beau (Bo? Beaux? Sorry, correct me). Most of that time, in turn, was spent eating Beau’s delicious food, playing with their dog Jackson and swapping stories about our friends. Because that’s what you do in a small town.
In all this gossip, Justin also told us about a game his friends used to play while stoned. Really you just ask a question–what is the most important word in the world to you? Since we are simply weird, we thought it would be fun, too. Here are our answers; what are yours?
Blair: Opportunity
Kelsea: Together
Stephanie: Home
A Regular Owen Meany
When we were playing on the sand dunes, Kelsea broke my camera. More specifically, she rolled down a dune with it in her pocket. So en route to Seattle, we stopped in Portland to attempt to rescue it. We left later than anticipated, got stuck behind a truck painting the highway at 1 pm and, once we arrived in Portland, circled the city while I chose between two repair shops.
Meanwhile, Peter Bircham’s meeting got moved to the Starbucks on Beaverton-Hillsdale Highway.
We veered off the Interstate towards my chosen repair shop, and at the light, the man in the black Volvo beside us honked. We looked. And he motioned for us to roll down the window. “If he tells us our car topper has fallen off, I’m absolutely going to lose it,” I thought. I rolled down the window.
“What’s Casseroles for Cancer?” he asked
“Oh,” I laughed, “It’s a philanthropy project we’re doing.”
“And it’s yours?”
“Well, yes, all three of us,” I responded.
“Oh, OK, listen, I’m writing a book about people doing stuff like this,” he said. “Would you mind talking to me for a minute? “
…..
OK. We followed him down the road to Starbucks. This man had stopped us on the highway, told us he wanted to maybe put us in a book he’s writing and then took us to Starbucks, our favorite place in the world. Was this really happening? (Yes, Dad, we contemplated he might actually be a serial killer. If he We’d planned an escape route.)
Peter introduced us to a couple other people he’s working with, chatted about the book and, perhaps most significantly, told us about an organization he belongs to called Humanity Unites Brilliance, or HUB. The for-profit business operates around the principle that every individual has the ability to change the world and that the key is to bring people together to make their dreams possible. Membership costs $99 a month–40% goes towards established charities and the remainder covers the cost of faculty, workshops and educational tools that you, as a member, have full access to. The entire series teaches you self-empowerment, how to use your resources and talents to have a positive impact on the world. To top it all off, the organization connects you with the people needed to make your dream possible.
Peter told us story after story of families that HUB has helped, of their charities in Africa devising innovative way to provide water and food to rural areas, of the school he’s working to build in Thailand. It was one of those conversations you can’t possibly participate in but rather sit and listen, process and learn. We were in awe. And all we could blubber is “Oh my God, this is exactly what I want to do.”
Several potential projects have spawned off this conversation, and I love being able to look back and connect the dots. Because I broke my foot in January, I stayed in New York rather than go to Southeast Asia; because I stayed in New York, Kelsea and I were able to plan this trip. Because Stephanie’s mom had a dream about our mom, she agreed to financially back Steph and let her go on the trip. Because Steph was on this trip, and because Kelsea broke my camera, and because we got caught in freak of nature traffic jams, we were on the Interstate precisely when Peter Bircham pulled off. And now all three of us may have something new.
I’m not particularly religious, but I would say that I’m spiritual with a firm belief that everything happens for a reason. I guess you could call destiny. I’m not sure myself, but I do know that trips like these shake things up, open your eyes and present you with a plethora of opportunity. You just have to pay attention.
Oh, and I fixed my camera. Peter is a photographer, and his favorite repair shop was two blocks down.
I Came Here to Wash: The Oregon Coast
In the town of Coos Bay, OR, in a restaurant called the Kozy Kitchen, the most absurd thing happened to us in the bathroom. First off, the Kozy Kitchen does not krazy klean its toilets, so when I hear someone next to me peeing I think “That is really disgusting. They didn’t even flush first and now they’re getting someone else’s pee all over them.”
So of course, it’s Stephanie. And though our standards have clearly dropped to that of Neanderthals, we still huddled in the foot-wide space in front of the sink to wash our hands and laugh at her filth. And then she walked in. This tiny little Dakota Fanning look alike who stared at Stephanie for so long that it got uncomfortable.
“Oh, we’re not waiting; go ahead,” Steph said. The girl looked at her without a flinch or a smile, rolled up her sleeves and said:
”I came here to wash.”
And then I apologized. I apologized to a 7 year old for washing my hands when she wanted to wash her hands. I finished quickly, turned to get a paper towel, and she stepped on my foot to get to the sink.
So, yeah. Oregon is an odd state. Besides creepy 7 year olds without manners, they paint the road lines on Mondays at noon, old Asian men hand you dollar bills on the street and places will close and forget to take down their open signs. Pioneer cemeteries are crammed between the SafeWay and Bobby’s Breakfast Place and a fair share of residents seem to stand on highways and stare at stuff for their evening entertainment.
Thankfully, we love odd stuff and so we love Oregon. The Oregon coast is one of the most geographically diverse, scenic places we’ve yet to see. I know I say that about every new place. But seriously. The whole coast sits in a bed of wildflowers. Vivid shades of pink, yellow, purple and an array of ornamental grasses grow on the sides of the roads, in the cracks of the roads, up the mountainsides. Flowers grow out of rocks, and rocks grow out of the ocean, anchoring the cliffs that drop straight in.
After stopping at every scenic viewpoint on the highway, we got a room at the Pacific Avenue Inn in Gold Beach, a tiny, poor beach town that’s still undeniably quaint. A path behind the hotel led to the beach, and we each got lost in the driftwood on our morning runs and later, in the car, discovered that while running we each think about what we’d do if significant people in our lives were to die. Except Kelsea. She talked to Zach for 20 minutes about the pros and cons of purchasing a gecko.
We zipped up the coast to Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area. Dear God, please go here if you’re in the area. We spent half an hour rolling around in dunes up to 500 feet tall. The wind whipped the sand into thin slivers that snaked along the side. And now that we’ve been to Red Rock Canyon in Vegas, we know those wind lines will be sedimentary layers when the dunes harden to rocks in 20,000 years.
That night, we stayed at our nicest campground yet, on a bluff overlooking the ocean. It had flushing toilets, a shower, individual faucets and an electrical outlet right on site (Note to campers: go for RV parks).
Stop, Drop and Casseroles
Austin webisode is up. Kelsea catches on fire. Check it.
The Other California
On a whim, we decided to indulge our little wine buff, Stephanie Whitaker, and stop in Sonoma Valley. Thank. God.
Though I don’t normally cite Lonely Planet as an example of stellar writing, its description of Sonoma as “bliss realized” hits the nail on the head. Seriously, it may be the most perfect small town in America. As soon as you hit the valley, the San Franciscan fog burns off and the temperature rises 20 degrees. Vineyards stretch on for miles and miles and invite you in for Free Tastings! Free Food! Meet the Wine Makers!
The town of Sonoma centers around a lush, green square where people picnic in the park with artisan breads and cheeses and local wine. We found parking right 
on the square, even though it was Friday evening, and promptly wandered into a wine shop that was sampling 8 different flavors of olive oil, with flavors like lime and rosemary basil. We couldn’t afford anything. We wandered down the street and spent 30 minutes browsing in a used book store, where we couldn’t afford anything. Then we wandered into a home store, where also we couldn’t afford anything. Then we wandered into the Lisa Kristine gallery, where…you guessed it.
But, marvel of marvels, I still liked wandering around the shops like a diabetic in a candy store. Though shop keepers know we might as well not own wallets, they are kindenough to chat with us and answer our questions. Laura Bennett, who operates the Lisa Kristie gallery (amazing photographs, do check it out), let us in even though she was about to close and after chatting for 10 minutes, she ended up showing us her nephew’s latest YouTube video. Granted, her nephew is the lead singer of Vampire Weekend, so the video was inherently cooler. But still. I would have liked it if he sang for Sesame Street.
Laura also directed us across the square, to the opening of the Sunflower Cafe. This is perhaps the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. As Sonoma’s latest and greatest outdoor wine bar, they had free wine, free food, free music, and everyone in town seemed to be at the opening. People who settle in a town like Sonoma have a laid-back appreciation for the little things in life, and this translates to a town full of happy people.
As the evening progressed, one thing led to another, and we ended up pitching our tent in someone’s front yard to sleep for the night. We woke up at
7:30 in the morning to a pig being hauled out of a truck bed. Yes, we had woken up in the middle of preparations for BurtFest ’09, an annual party held the weekend before the 4th of July that, three years ago, put the town’s 4th of July party out of business. At least, that’s what the hosts told us over breakfast at the Creekside Cafe, where we inhaled huevos rancheros, fresh fruit and French Toast rolled in oats. The pig was for later.
Sonoma is the first time we threw the itinerary out the door. And I don’t think it’s coincidence that it’s one of my favorite places. Rolling into a place with no knowledge ofwhere you’ll sleep, who you’ll meet or what you’ll do produces a rush that can’t be found by connecting coordinates on a map.
After saying adieu to BurtFest, we pushed North so Steph could continue her search for the legendary Rodney Strong Pinot Noir ’06. The Rodney Strong Vineyard is sold out as well, but we met some incredible people at our tasting. Thank you to Donna for the cheese and crackers! They are already gone and they were quite delicious.
Next stop: Redwoods and Oregon Coast! Bring on the beach towns.
San Francisco
In San Francisco in 1977, the ladies saw Berkeley, Union Square , Chinatown, the Civic Center, Fisherman’s Wharf, Lombard Street, the Cable Car Barn, the Natural Sciences Museum, the Japanese Tea Garden, Twin Peaks and the Golden Gate Bridge. We spent most of our time at my friend Rachel’s apartment, playing Apples to Apples and gushing about how much we love Trader Jo’s.
Yes, these weary travelers have found that small-town America holds more appeal than bustlin’ big cities. Every time we drive through some place like Coos Bay or TiddlyWump, we go “Oooh oooh, it’s so cute!” and end up staying for a handful of days, talking to locals, poking in bookshops and getting ourselves invited to drum circles. In cities, we just walk a lot and become uncomfortable because of the weather, no matter what the weather is, and sit at the end of the day wondering where all of our money went. We’re too cheap to actually do anything, so every time, this is a puzzle.
We did explore San Francisco’s wonderful park system, full of trails and hills that seem to reach out and say, “Here, please come burn your fat off on me.” People do so in full sweat suits because, as an uber-liberal hotbed of anti-conformity, San Francisco has also seemed to rebel against summer. The temperature didn’t go above 60 for our entire visit.
It is, nevertheless, perfect weather for exercise, so with calves burning, we made dinner at the San Francisco RMH. We met incredible people, as we do at every house, but there was one boy I’ll never forget. His name was Mustaf, a 3 or 4 year old Iraqi whose ear drum was destroyed when a bomb blew up near his home. UCSF had donated a cochlear implant, and the RMH had housed him and his father for the past 6 months. Mustaf was the happiest child at that house. He pointed at objects all over the room, eager to learn what they are called, and spent the majority of
dinner stealing food off his dad’s plate and laughing about it. All the while, a little gray box with wires, similar to an adult’s hearing aid, sat behind his right ear. It’s like he didn’t even know.
It seems we needed the entire Southern coast of California to catch up on our sleep, but refreshed and rejuvenated, we’ll push out tomorrow for the Pacific Northwest. I’ve never been, but a movie or two suggest I’ll like it. Hang on spider monkies (ahem).
My DiddlyBoop for Loma Linda, CA
A few days ago, I wanted to quit. Perhaps I am a bad little philanthropist, but three weeks of exhaustion, smelly laundry, maps, farting and the constant disappearance of my stuff had left me a little lackluster. I know this is selfish. But I’m going for honesty on this blog.
I think the biggest part of the problem was the travel. On a trip like this, you don’t live in reality. You live in a cesspool of germs and crumbs, crammed in a car with two other people and thinking only about what you’re going to eat next, what you want to see and where you want to camp that night. For the last week and a half, we had not served dinner, so these ego-centric parameters guided our lives. It’s like we lived in a bubble.
We rolled dusty and dirty into Loma Linda, CA, a tiny town east of LA that revolves around their hospitals and universities. Their Ronald McDonald House has served over 11,000 families since its founding on September 11, 1996, and their 24 rooms are usually at capacity. We cooked for 50 people that night, made seven casseroles (our most yet, thank you very much), and they were gone within the hour, steaming on plates as people mingled on the patio and watched the hummingbird who had nested in the oak tree behind the house.
Our mom loved hummingbirds, so I found it ironic that one showed up here, at this house, in the town she called home for her radiation treatments. During the 6 years she was sick, she came to Loma Linda twice, for three months at a time, and each time, we also came out for a month. We stayed at Loma Linda Springs, a near by apartment complex, that partners with the hospital to facilitate short-term stays for patients. Just seeing it reminded me how helpful it was to have a place to practice piano and chase road runners down the sidewalk. To have a place to call home.
After a week and a half of pure travel, this was a good town to come back to. The house has the strongest support network we’ve yet to see, with a grant that covers most of their food costs, a beautiful, remodeled home (local businesses donated 90%) and strong contacts with places like the Hilton, which housed residents during the remodel and continues to house special guests that just don’t fit. Seeing the place we had called home during our ordeal only emphasized how important such a network can be.
We left Loma Linda refreshed; showering helped, yes, but interacting with people other than ourselves really snapped us back to reality. It’s good to be back at the houses.
Site Updates!
1. Check out our brand new Photos page, a more or less accurate account of our trip from beginning to now, courtesy of Slide.com!
2.A lot of people have asked questions on how we travel–everything from where we get our ideas to how we get along. We’ve added a new widget on the right (sweet travel links) that highlights the sites we use and the books we read. We’re constantly getting new ideas, so check back for more resources.
3. The posts have gone up in numbers, so we’ve added some search features, including a search bar and category clouds. Hopefully this will make it easy to find what you’re looking for.
4. Big thank you to Wes Hughes of the San Bernardino Sun for his great article on CFC. It was a pleasure meeting you all!
If you have any other questions or suggestions, please let us know!
On Oil Changes
When we rolled into Loma Linda, our cleanliness level had digressed to that of primeval man. The entire car smelled like dirty laundry, I pulled moldy bread from under the seat, the casserole we spilled on the dashboard in New Orleans was still there, everybody’s back hurt, we’d eaten peanut butter sandwiches for the last three meals in a row, and Stephanie had peed outside of three gas stations. She only did it because the line was too long. But come on.
We weren’t the only ones hittin’ the skids. From Zion to Vegas, Betty wouldn’t go above 65. She shook a little bit and roared louder than usual, and every time I floored it, Kelsea got mad that I pushed her into 6 RPMs. The car top carrier looked like it was about to fall off the car, and somewhere along the way, a rip appeared in its upper left hand corner. Dirt plastered the outside of the car, someone had hit the passenger-side door, and the hatch in the back wouldn’t stay up on its own. We had worn down her treads, left her sitting in the heat, took her off-roading in the desert and let ants into her engine.. Indeed, we had neglected Betty for the last 3,580 miles.
So you know what we did? We gave Betty a makeover. We threw out every bit of trash, wiped off the stains and re-organized the car. We did the laundry so it wouldn’t smell anymore and, most of all, we paid someone $20 to change her oil. She looks a little happier sitting in that parking lot.
Seeing how happy she looked, we gave ourselves an oil change, too. The RMH in Loma Linda had graciously secured us a room at the Hilton, so with the money we saved, we ordered breakfast in bed, stayed in said bed until 11, lounged by the pool, worked out twice and were in bed by 9. After several minor breakdowns after not eating for 7 hours, we made sure to fill up at least every 4 with real food, like salads. (OK, fine. We got an In-N-Out burger, too).
We know eating, sleep and exercise is absolutely essential to our group happiness (well, it’s essential to my happiness and therefore that of the groups’), but somehow, we’d lost that tid-bit along the way. So thank you, Betty, for reminding us about the importance of an oil change.
You Wondered When We’d Lose It?
ACT ONE.
MOJAVE DESERT – DUSK –Cars creep along the Interstate at 20 miles per hour. BLAIR HICKMAN, 23, and STEPHANIE WHITAKER, 21, sit silent in the front seat, amongst coffee cups and Fiber 1 bar wrappers. Blair drives. KELSEA HICKMAN, 19, reads a Jodi Piccoult book in the backseat. The seat next to her is folded down, and coolers, blankets and food explode onto her seat. Somewhere between Vegas and Loma Linda, California, they’re entering their sixth hour of what should have been a four-hour drive.
BLAIR: Hey Steph, would you mind grabbing your computer and transcribing this post? I’m feeling inspired.
STEPH: Yeah, hang on.
Steph pulls her computer out of a bag at her feet. A tangled mass of cords wrap the computer
STEPH: Alright, go.
BLAIR: OK…After many days of camping, we re-entered civilization at the home of the Alsups, the people who may have well…I mean, may as well have…might as well have birthed me…yeah, that’s it. These people have seen me naked, graduate from swimmies to the deep end, let me eat their food and indulged burping competitions after eating of said food.
STEPH: You know, I’m writing down everything you say.
Blair pauses
STEPH: Well?
BLAIR: I’ve got to think carefully. OK, Las Vegas pleasantly surprised the CFC…no. Us. It pleasantly surprised us. Though Belagio Fountains and four million dollar glass Chihuly ceilings sit downtown, there’s a whole other side of Vegas that no one knows about. State parks and federal recreation lands circle the outside of the city, making a veritable adult playground that transcends gambling and booze. And since Steph bought $2 reading glasses at the drug store, she could see every bit of it.
STEPH: HEY!
BLAIR: Write it down! OK, um, after chicken salad, pasta salad, bread sticks, wraps, fruit salad, steaks, regular salad, twice baked potatoes, apple pie and banana pudding, we rolled out of the Alsups clean, full and happy.
Steph starts to close the computer
BLAIR: I’m not done yet. But then we started driving again. Despite the front seats’attempt to spice up the music, Kelsea started bitching that she wished the trip had been over 2 days ago.
KELSEA: Don’t put that in there.
BLAIR: Well, it’s true; you just said it. Anyway..meanwhile, I took it upon myself to quote Twilight and imitate the When Harry Met Sally pecan pieee scene for 10 minutes straight. We got stuck in bumper and bumper traffic all the way from L.V. to L.A. and found a Zoltar machine at a gas station with $4 gas and a man that looked like a gorilla. Seriously, he was about 10,000 years behind evolutionary progress. He really freaked me out…The Mojave Desert stretched on and the dunes started to pick up shadows from the sun. I couldn’t help to wonder how much longer to the Hilton so I could ditch this bus for a little solitude….actually I probably won’t put that in there. It’s not true. It’s actually kind of morose.
STEPH: It’s not funny. I don’t know why you’d say that.
BLAIR: Well, I don’t know how to end it.
STEPH: Well you shouldn’t have put that in there.
BLAIR: Whatever, I have another 100 miles to figure it out. Kelsea, will you get me an oreo?
KELS: No.
BLAIR: Kelsea get me an oreo.
KELS: I can’t reach.
BLAIR: Yes you can. I fed them to myself all day yesterday.
KELS: Ugh, fine.
Kelsea grunts and stretches, as if moving a very large animal. The noise bothers Blair.
BLAIR: No no no
KELS: No what? Here, I got it.
BLAIR: No, nevermind. I don’t want one…I just don’t..just don’t get me one. Forget it.
KELS: What is your problem?
BLAIR: Nothing, I just don’t want the Oreo anymore.
KELS: God, you are so annoying.
20 minutes later. Blair and Steph laugh and sing in the front seat.
KELSEA: Traffic sucks.
BLAIR: I think we’re having fun on this trip.
STEPH: This is exactly what we’d be doing in the hotel.
KELS: The back seat sucks.
STEPH: You’re right there.
KELS: Yeah, but I can’t even hear you.
BLAIR: Maybe the car will break down. Then we can all hang out together.
STEPH: We’re close
BLAIR: We’re close?!???!!
STEPH: No. The car’s close to breaking down
Steph and Blair laugh hysterically at the confusion.
KELS: I like this song
Blair turns up music but continues to talk with Steph.
KELS: I really like this song with the sunset
Blair and Steph keep talking
KELS: I said, I really like this song with the sunset.
Blair laughs and whispers to Steph.
BLAIR: She thinks we didn’t hear her but really we did, and we’re just ignoring her.
Blair looks into the back seat. Kelsea is in the fetal position.
BLAIR: Kelsea?Kelsea? KELSEA??! I heard you! I turned up the music! That was my response to hearing you! I listened!!!!
Kelsea sits up, laughing so hard she’s crying.
KELS: Why is it always me?!!!
STEPH: Hahahaha, this is great.
Steph re-reads the script.
KELS: That’s not what I said.
STEPH: Alright, what did you say then?
KELS: I said, “I like this song.” Then I said “I like this sunset.” And then I said “I like this song with this sunset.”
The mood in the car falls somber. As the sun sets on the horizon, the girls look at each other and wonder if they will, in fact make it to Loma Linda.
THE END.
