![]() This is where those Canadian truckers disappear from U.S. Look at the street names: Orchard, Prairie, Garden, Appleway. Would they recognize any of this? This was once forest and farms. I imagine beaming someone in from 20 or 30 years ago. What’s not here is coming: “Future Home of Fred Meyer.” There are doctors and drillers, carpets and cars, movies and motor homes, boots and boats and barbecue. Starting where the corny grocery billboard says “Nibble an ear tonight,” I start tallying businesses on U.S. Which makes me, as I approach Coeur d’Alene, an accident waiting to happen. The trooper thinks most accidents are caused by inattention. State Police officer Jonelle Hessler once stopped a man who was zipping by at 104. It’s a good place to speed, or a bad one. The ride’s intricate wooden supports look woven, like a giant basket. There’s no missing Silverwood Theme Park, with its new Grizzly rollercoaster. It’s open only in the winter and is being considered for permanent closure. There’s the exit to Round Lake, a good place for perch. That road leads to my favorite rock-collecting beach. Signs point to Garfield Bay Recreation Area, Harbor Marina. South of Sandpoint, the highway gets markedly easier to drive. I snake my way through town, sandwiched between a truck and a Saskatchewan sedan, and head toward the Long Bridge. Or, more accurately, its “suburb” of Ponderay. Wal-Mart, K-Mart, Burger King, McDonald’s, Pizza Hut. The vista of tan dirt gives way to a red and gray “We sell for less” sign. This project’s gone on approximately forever as workers discover the joy of building in a bog. Then they abruptly slow for highway construction at Colburn. South of Bonners, cars zoom along a good stretch of road. The hill bottoms out on a new bridge spanning the broad Kootenai River. Overturned swine trucks have earned it the nickname Pork Chop Hill. She means the twisting plunge into Bonners Ferry. Just look at the North Hill, she says they’ve been going to fix that for forever. ![]() But Three Mile manager Slim Vanetten isn’t holding her breath. The state may put the Panhandle’s first year-round rest area here. Turns out, it’s going into the big, green-roofed store sprouting nearby. But what happened to the Three Mile Cafe? It’s disappeared from the intersection of U.S. If you could, you’d be well-fed in Boundary County. A white-cloud icing is spread atop the chocolatey Cabinet Mountains. “Hash browns,” I think, wincing at the steep drop.Īs the highway straightens a bit, I look up. It was the fifth truck in two years to do that. Today, a work crew is repairing a guard rail smashed by a potato truck. Heading south from Eastport means negotiating 25 mph curves. Asked about the road’s reputation, staffer Dave Flick responds: Up the sidewalk at the Canadian customs office, I begin to suspect that truckers have other names for U.S. “This is the road that feeds Calgary and Alberta.” “Canadian truckers call it the salad route,” says U.S. Many trucks rattle southward empty, headed for California and Texas to fetch produce. The number of trucks has steadily climbed, with 46,000 expected this year.Ĭattle and swine pass through, mostly bound for slaughterhouses. The figure depends on the value of those loonies tucked in the pockets of Canadian tourists. ![]() One hundred thousand cars, give or take, come through every year. I’m half surprised that it’s not already sold at Eastport’s duty-free shop, along with the booze, snoose and trinkets.Įastport is where Boundary County greets British Columbia. Maybe I could bottle this misty air and sell it down south to quench dusty noses. I do know there will be desert at the Oregon state line. ![]() I’ve sung some white-knuckle blues on it I’ve gawked at golden skies and giddy rapids.īut I’ve never reached the end of the 538-mile route. There’s history and industry.īut the tale of the trail that ties Idaho together is best told top to bottom.Īs I begin my journey on an unusually cool summer morning, I ponder my two decades of driving Idaho’s U.S. There’s scenery to die for, or to die in. Highway 95, and folks worth listening to. There’s great cafe eavesdropping to be had along U.S. “Now, don’t go repeating that one,” she said as I stifled my own laugh. When one gray-haired riding pro told a bawdy joke about cowboys, her lunchmates roared. They might have ranged in age from 30 to 70, the oldest decked out in hot pink western wear. I discovered that while sitting near a table full of ‘em at a Grangeville eatery.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |