‘Runaway’ trip has miles of smiles

A recent decision to run away from home turned out to involve driving 14 miles short of 3,000 miles during a 27-day odyssey.

One fact learned: unpacking your luggage is worse than packing in the first place. This is possibly because when one packs clothing it’s neatly arranged in drawers or hanging in a closet. But on returning, your apparel is messed up.
But that isn’t the most important fact learned.

One primary finding is this: There is no place like home. No idle talk there; as two of my three children and several friends have said that at my “old” age (80 and counting) I should think about moving from the Big Horn Basin to be closer to their homes in Oregon and Washington state. In fact, a primary reason why I decided to drive was to prove that I’m still capable of darn near anything. Besides, I’ve discovered the secret of living longer: Don’t be afraid to get older. There, I’ve said it.

Another significant nugget is that I am addicted to my lightly populated part of the country and the Cowboy State motto. So, no relocation for me, at least in the foreseeable future. Thanks, but I prefer my current casa. Having to contend with tons of traffic and surrounding crowds beyond belief are neither my cup of tea nor coffee. Not to mention my bottle of beer or any other beverage.

I decided to drive instead of flying, as per usual, for the following reasons:

The reports of airliner parts falling off or failing in flight.

The reports of passengers causing problems of many sorts, also while airborne.

The fact that I did not have to endure airport terminals (don’t like “terminal” either),
and I made the whole trip without getting sick, which has happened every time I’ve flown. And I had my own vehicle instead of having to rent one and going through that rigamarole.

It was great to visit family and friends in Edgewood, Washington, and in Oregon’s Newberg and Brookings. It also was enjoyable to view the tremendous scenery on my drive: the Pacific Ocean, the mountains and many valleys, vast expanses of prairie, lovely rivers, forests and other extremely attractive sights.

However, it needs to be said that the scenery here at home, sans the Pacific, rivals any I saw while driving myself about. Thus, I’m here to stay. It behooves me, I believe, to briefly review parts of my outing or what I was thinking at various times.

One of my thoughts was to appreciate interstate highways, thanks to President Eisenhower, who in 1956 signed legislation to fund construction of the interstate system. He had found during a convoy from Washington, D.C., to San Francisco in 1919 that the country’s roads were not good.

And especially, during his time as a five-star U.S. Army general in WWII, when he served as Allied supreme commander in Europe, he observed that moving personnel and materiel was a huge chore due to the lack of suitable roadways. He never wanted our country to be so handicapped.

Additionally, bits of U.S. history popped up, as in southwestern Oregon on the coast where I recalled the site of the only direct bombing of our country in the forest near Brookings. It was in September 1942 when Japanese Flight Lt. Nobuo Fujita made two bombing runs in attempts to start forest fires. However, because of rain the attempts fizzled.

He piloted a float plane catapulted from a 356-foot-long submarine some 25 miles off the coast near Port Orford. In 1962 he returned to Brookings in a gesture of international peace and goodwill, donating his family’s Samurai sword to the city. It had been in his family for 400 years, and he had it with him in his cockpit during his bombing runs. The sword and a finely crafted model of the sub are in an attractive display case in the Brookings Library. They comprise an impressive sight.

This review could continue for many more miles, but it’s likely time to wrap it for now. A final thought: The best journey takes you home.