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Jan. 3rd, 2009 03:28 pmGreyhound is hell. We all know this, right? Right? And yet, it wasn't so bad.
It started off very unpromising. The ATM at the Denver bus station messed up, so I thought my account was dramatically overdrawn. Daunting, having to cross five states without any ready access to funds. My fellow travelers were no more encouraging, a handful of tobacco-scented fumblers with garbage-bag luggage and at least one screaming infant. My cantankerous unease was probably due to the sharp contrast between the hospitality of Tod's parents' and the grubby crowd of the station.
But the bus was posh, good seats and video screens above them, and it was the same bus I'd seen them put my luggage aboard. Making it even better was the fact that there were barely a dozen of us aboard. I had not only my seat to myself, but the pairs of seats in front of and behind me. We left a few minutes late, driving North to the accompaniment of some odd radio station. I began and unraveled four attempts at Tod's scarf-to-be, trying to teach myself to purl.
Gas was $1.31 a gallon in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Most of the bus was asleep by then, except for those few who had to go out and smoke. I picked up a wireless connection from a nearby hotel, but it wasn't strong enough to connect to AIM. GPS accuracy to 31' from inside the bus, but only right inside the window. Very, very windy, and very high. 6282' elevation, higher than Denver. My Mp3 player only lasted about two hours, sadly. Heading north on I25 at about 70, we were being slammed from side to side by gusts of wind. The driver said that the night before, he'd seen three semis on their side. That night, we saw two. The wind would slam us from one lane clear into the other, but we had the road to ourselves. The driver stopped every two hours or so to smoke off his nerves, and I don't blame him. I was carsick, even with my eyes glued to the road in front. Radio was talking about hurricane-force and hundred mile an hour gusts. Also about closed passes.
Billings, reached around 7 in the morning, was inhospitable and cold, rutted with packed snow. The station was another reason to loathe Greyhound, designed to drive one out into the streets, unheated and hard, with cold tile and benches and anti-homeless benches. Exhausted, it took me a little while to roust myself far enough to find a Starbucks, but once I did, so worth it. I spent the lion's share of my eight-hour layover comfortably installed in a plush chair, plugged in and surfing the quiet internet, quaffing cider and nomming doughnuts. The downside is that it was too comfortable for me to go out geocaching. Billings is full of micros anyway.
Reboarded at two onto a much more crowded, much less comfortable bus. No leg room, no video screens, and a hard bar between the seats to keep you from curling up across two. We wasted our daylight on the flatlands of Montana, and arrived in Butte just after dark. Starved for food of substance, I acquired a thick slice of pizza. And, sadly, a seatmate. I've already forgotten her name, but her infant daughter Kali was adorable. There was one point when I woke up from a state of demi-sleep to find Kali sound asleep in my arms, and her mother nowhere to be seen. Only the dim, dreamlike memory (years ago in the thnm of sleep) of her mom asking me to hold her kept me from panicking. Fortunately, she was back quickly. They got off in Spokane, and my new seatmate was much less interesting.
Snoqualmi Pass was the barrier looming this entire trip. When I was in that Starbucks in Billings, the report was that the passes were closed for avalanche testing. (This, apparently, is something involving big bean bag guns and lots of falling snow.) But by a few minutes before noon, they were open again. When we reached Snoqualmi around five this morning, they were still open, but the poor driver (A new driver, we'd changed in a tiny town called Saint Regis, Montana.) had to get out and put chains on all eight tires. It delayed us nearly two hours, some of that the time that he had to sit on his hands, warming them up again. Our hero.
We were still in the mountains as the sun began to rise, turning the darkness into a froth of snow-lined trees and ice-drawn walls. It never got brighter than grays and blues, winter in its chillest form. We even drove through a handful of flurries, though never anything to take seriously. And then we were in Issaquah, then Seattle. The driver swore at slick, steep hills and then we were in the station, two hours late. I had to wait only a few minutes to be on my next bus, the much less-crowded route north. Made friends with the people sitting near me, a couple from Whistler, B.C., and a girl from Adelaide, Australia, by way of New Zealand and Calgary. Finally, finally, I made a successful start on the scarf.
That bus dropped me off in Mount Vernon, and from there, it was a simple bounce of local buses to get me home. I can see why the local transit's in trouble, though. I was usually the only one aboard.
I did, however, get home too late to go join in the giant cache machine going on today down on Whidbey Island. Too late, too tired, and too weary of moving around. So instead, I watched X-Files with my sister and peeled apples to take to a family party tonight. Things are good, and I am a warm cozy hats.
(But really, BBC? All those options and that's who you chose?)
It started off very unpromising. The ATM at the Denver bus station messed up, so I thought my account was dramatically overdrawn. Daunting, having to cross five states without any ready access to funds. My fellow travelers were no more encouraging, a handful of tobacco-scented fumblers with garbage-bag luggage and at least one screaming infant. My cantankerous unease was probably due to the sharp contrast between the hospitality of Tod's parents' and the grubby crowd of the station.
But the bus was posh, good seats and video screens above them, and it was the same bus I'd seen them put my luggage aboard. Making it even better was the fact that there were barely a dozen of us aboard. I had not only my seat to myself, but the pairs of seats in front of and behind me. We left a few minutes late, driving North to the accompaniment of some odd radio station. I began and unraveled four attempts at Tod's scarf-to-be, trying to teach myself to purl.
Gas was $1.31 a gallon in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Most of the bus was asleep by then, except for those few who had to go out and smoke. I picked up a wireless connection from a nearby hotel, but it wasn't strong enough to connect to AIM. GPS accuracy to 31' from inside the bus, but only right inside the window. Very, very windy, and very high. 6282' elevation, higher than Denver. My Mp3 player only lasted about two hours, sadly. Heading north on I25 at about 70, we were being slammed from side to side by gusts of wind. The driver said that the night before, he'd seen three semis on their side. That night, we saw two. The wind would slam us from one lane clear into the other, but we had the road to ourselves. The driver stopped every two hours or so to smoke off his nerves, and I don't blame him. I was carsick, even with my eyes glued to the road in front. Radio was talking about hurricane-force and hundred mile an hour gusts. Also about closed passes.
Billings, reached around 7 in the morning, was inhospitable and cold, rutted with packed snow. The station was another reason to loathe Greyhound, designed to drive one out into the streets, unheated and hard, with cold tile and benches and anti-homeless benches. Exhausted, it took me a little while to roust myself far enough to find a Starbucks, but once I did, so worth it. I spent the lion's share of my eight-hour layover comfortably installed in a plush chair, plugged in and surfing the quiet internet, quaffing cider and nomming doughnuts. The downside is that it was too comfortable for me to go out geocaching. Billings is full of micros anyway.
Reboarded at two onto a much more crowded, much less comfortable bus. No leg room, no video screens, and a hard bar between the seats to keep you from curling up across two. We wasted our daylight on the flatlands of Montana, and arrived in Butte just after dark. Starved for food of substance, I acquired a thick slice of pizza. And, sadly, a seatmate. I've already forgotten her name, but her infant daughter Kali was adorable. There was one point when I woke up from a state of demi-sleep to find Kali sound asleep in my arms, and her mother nowhere to be seen. Only the dim, dreamlike memory (years ago in the thnm of sleep) of her mom asking me to hold her kept me from panicking. Fortunately, she was back quickly. They got off in Spokane, and my new seatmate was much less interesting.
Snoqualmi Pass was the barrier looming this entire trip. When I was in that Starbucks in Billings, the report was that the passes were closed for avalanche testing. (This, apparently, is something involving big bean bag guns and lots of falling snow.) But by a few minutes before noon, they were open again. When we reached Snoqualmi around five this morning, they were still open, but the poor driver (A new driver, we'd changed in a tiny town called Saint Regis, Montana.) had to get out and put chains on all eight tires. It delayed us nearly two hours, some of that the time that he had to sit on his hands, warming them up again. Our hero.
We were still in the mountains as the sun began to rise, turning the darkness into a froth of snow-lined trees and ice-drawn walls. It never got brighter than grays and blues, winter in its chillest form. We even drove through a handful of flurries, though never anything to take seriously. And then we were in Issaquah, then Seattle. The driver swore at slick, steep hills and then we were in the station, two hours late. I had to wait only a few minutes to be on my next bus, the much less-crowded route north. Made friends with the people sitting near me, a couple from Whistler, B.C., and a girl from Adelaide, Australia, by way of New Zealand and Calgary. Finally, finally, I made a successful start on the scarf.
That bus dropped me off in Mount Vernon, and from there, it was a simple bounce of local buses to get me home. I can see why the local transit's in trouble, though. I was usually the only one aboard.
I did, however, get home too late to go join in the giant cache machine going on today down on Whidbey Island. Too late, too tired, and too weary of moving around. So instead, I watched X-Files with my sister and peeled apples to take to a family party tonight. Things are good, and I am a warm cozy hats.
(But really, BBC? All those options and that's who you chose?)
