Getting ready for a road trip is far more work than the actual drive. For every additional passenger, add a factor of one. For every child, multiply by anywhere from three to nine.
Prepping our adventure to Montana, my daughter, Betty, was in charge of packing for herself and her 2-year-old daughter, Sutton. Her sister, Susan, was in charge of everything for herself and 8-month-old Amy. She also had to pack for her 8-year-old son, Devon, who was flying up with his dad for the weekend. Hers was the hardest. Mine should have been easy. It wasn’t. I laid out everything I was sure I needed a week ahead and then spent six days weeding out the stuff that wouldn’t fit.
Space in the Durango is tight and, with one motel overnight on the way, had to be carefully allotted. Adults could take one duffle and one tote. The toddler, one duffle, one tote and a bag full of books and toys. Babies need furniture-port-a-crib/playpen and stroller, which can double as a highchair-formula, bottles, jars of mashed peas, diapers and wipes.
The plan was to put the duffels and big stuff in the Yakima, an oddly shaped storage thing perched like a bicycle helmet on the SUV. The port-a-crib and all the stuff for the road and the overnight totes could fit inside. Good plan. Impossible to execute.
Betty repacked everything three times, and still had to climb up on the roof to get stuff out of the Yakima at the motel.
Rule number one when traveling with babies: timing is everything. You can plan each lap, stopping where the restaurants and motels are good. But potty stops are unpredictable. For 2-year-olds, the urge to purge strikes without warning and qualifies as a AAA emergency complete with ear-splitting shrieks. Anal retentives are born on the I-15 in Nevada. About 30 minutes shy of Las Vegas, Amy’s diaper situation requires immediate attention. And we’re in the middle of the freaking desert without a can of air spray.
Even with a 75 mph speed limit, that is one boring, butt-numbing drive. Finally, we’re out of the damn desert and crossing into Utah. Wow! There’s real scenery here. Red rock cliffs, trees, meadows, huge round hayricks by fields of newly mown alfalfa. And cows. Many, many cows.
We make it to St. George, where I know there are good places to eat lunch. The kids are too frantic to look for one, and we wind up at Denny’s. A Super Bird doesn’t quite make it for me, but I’d promised myself not to kvetch about food as long as we don’t do Mac, Jack or Dairy Queen.
We know we can reach Salt Lake City the first night, but it’s only about 5 p.m. when we get there, and the kids are quiet, so the moms decide to press on. About 30 minutes north, we see some hotels and a sign for the Olive Garden. Too late. Betty’s got the pedal to the metal. Next off ramp has a Red Lobster and a dozen other dinner spots, but the sun’s not set and Betty’s still flooring it. The map shows Logan about another half hour, but in 10 minutes, both kids are approaching meltdown. Turns out Logan is several miles east of 1-15. No detours, no backtracking.
We wind up in a tiny berg with a semi-grubby AAA motel next door to, guess what, Denny’s. Twice in one day? Beyond the pale.
Susan stays in the room with Amy. Betty and I take Sutton to the dreaded D. Just looking at the menu turns my blood to sludge. Batter-fried everything: chicken, shrimp, even cheese sticks, all with French fries. Sat Fat City. I opt for the Boca burger with onion rings. I can’t believe I’m doing this. We take a sandwich back to the room for Susan. I think I’ll whip out my PowerBook, but the kids are wired and need a darkened, quiet room to sleep. Oh, well.
On the road again at 4 a.m., so the kids will sleep the first lap. Three hours later, we’re in West Yellowstone. The main street is lined with the same fast food franchises-they just look better with wood siding and discreet signs. Smaller golden arches. We turn down a side street lined with shops and I spot the 3 Bears Inn and Pancake House. I’m not passing this one up if I have to yank the key out of the ignition.
Perfectly scrambled eggs, one thin blueberry pancake, blueberry syrup, orange herbal tea. The kids have eggs, hash browns, toast and bacon (so crisp I can’t resist a taste). Nobody orders the homemade biscuits with sausage gravy, but at least it’s an option. I’m lovin’ it. Denny’s be damned. We’ll be in Bozeman by noon.