Great Basin Adventure: Roadtripping in a U-Haul with the Dogs!

Welcome to a tale of goofiness, adventure, and new beginnings! Picture this: two canine companions, Ace, the Schnauzer/Terrier mix, and Bella, the regal Golden Retriever, packed into an overloaded U-Haul, towing our trusty Toyota Prius. The mission? To embark on an epic road trip through the Great Basin, mainly via the I.O.N Highway, from the sunny streets of La Crescenta, California, to the enchanting city of Boise, Idaho! 

On Friday night, with the help of friends, we finished packing up the U-Haul (and even used the extra space in the Prius to cram in the last of the paraphernalia from our time in California), finishing around 11pm. By the time I vacuumed the house, took a shower, and put on my traveling clothes, it was early Saturday morning, and I was behind schedule... 

So this adventure starts under the cloak of darkness at the ungodly hour of 1 am. As we bid farewell to La Crescenta, Ace & Bella gave me skeptical looks as if to say, "Who planned this crazy midnight adventure, hooman?" But we were ready for anything, or so we thought!

Ace, with his Terrier determination, immediately claimed the shotgun seat. Bella, my dignified Golden Retriever, grudgingly hopped onto the cab's floorboard. And so, our journey from California to Idaho began!

La Crescenta - Boise TripTik

As we headed North, we left behind the familiar, following nearly 18 years in the same house. I was excited and more than a little apprehensive. But let's be honest, my attention was primarily focused on the drama unfolding inside the U-Haul cab. Turns out, the cab was more suitable for hobbits than dogs. Bella tried to nap but looked like a contortionist in a doggy yoga class. Ace bounced from the passenger seat to the driver's lap, trying desperately to stick his nose out one of the rolled-up windows. After a quick stop to top off the gas tank and buy some caffeinated beverages, we climbed up the Newhall Pass toward California's high desert and the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Ace's antics were nothing compared to Bella's attempts at graceful snoozing, which turned into a hilarious game of "How many dog positions can you fit in a U-Haul?"

The first part of this trip was familiar. Through the Antelope Valley, Lancaster, and past Edwards Air Force Base, all places we had visited before. As we passed through Red Rock Canyon State Park and CA-14 turned into US-395, it was still too dark to make out the colorful rock formations of the canyon (side note: many Golden Era movies and television shows were filmed in Red Rock Canyon, given its relatively close location to Hollywood). But driving through California's high desert on US-395N in the middle of the night was like venturing into an otherworldly realm.

The stars above twinkled like a thousand little diamonds scattered across the night sky, guiding us through the vast expanse. The silence of the desert was both haunting and enchanting, broken only by the mechanical hum of the truck's engine and the occasional thump, thump, thump of our tires driving over Bott's Dots.

As we neared Lone Pine, California, on our journey through the desert darkness, the headlights of our U-Haul cast eerie shadows on the desert floor. While the faint distant glow on the Eastern horizon was simply the first pangs of False Dawn. The dark desert landscape revealed its secrets in the night – the silhouettes of sagebrush and Russian Thistle (tumbleweed) standing like sentinels, the silvery light of the half-moon glinting off the rocky terrain. The serenity of the night journey allowed us to appreciate the desert's stark beauty in a new light.

Ace and Bella, usually alert during daylight hours, seemed to sense the surreal magic of the desert night. Their eyes sparkled with curiosity as they gazed at the shadows dancing in the moonlight. The desert's mysterious beauty seemed to cast a spell on all of us.

As the sun rose, we drove through Bishop, California, the gateway to Yosemite and the Sierra Nevada ski resorts. We made a right turn, picked up US Route 6 (the Grand Army of the Republic Highway - famed as the road that Jack Kerouac's protagonist, Sal Paradise, did not take in On the Road), and headed across the Hammil Valley and the White Mountains into Nevada and the heart of the Great Basin. Always a sucker for scenery, the morning light illuminated the basin's valleys and ridge lines making for interesting driving companions. But by this time, Ace and Bella seemed more intrigued by the treat crumbs scattered around the cab than the natural wonders outside. I am pretty sure they staged a secret mutiny against the compact space, plotting their revenge in doggy code.  I could tell they were hungry and needed to stretch their legs, so I obliged...

Veterans Memorial Park, Hawthorne, NV

Our stop ended up being in Hawthorne, Nevada, for gas, breakfast, and their doggie potty break. After fueling and grabbing some quick food, I located Veterans Memorial Park - which conveniently has an off-leash dog park co-located within its boundaries. Even at this early morning hour, the Nevada desert was hot, so after the dogs ran around for a bit, they were happy to sit in the shade, eat some kibble, and lap water from their bowls while I ate my breakfast sandwich and downed another Coca-Cola (breakfast of champions).

Hawthorne's claim to fame is that it is the location of the United States Army's largest Depot (aptly named Hawthorne Army Depot). The town and the Depot were tranquil this mid-August morning, and although I didn't really have the time, I decided to check out the Hawthorne Ordnance Museum next to the park. Sadly the museum wasn't open at this early hour, so our travel resumed (and we've added another museum to our "to visit" list)...

The dogs attempt a get-a-way

In my rush to get back on the road, I failed to think about a bio-break for myself...  No sooner had we started driving again than I realized that fact. Fortunately, despite the lack of significant population centers in Central Nevada, I could see a small lake in the distance and assumed we'd find some form of civilization there. Walker Lake ended up being our pitstop. Typical of many small lakes on the western borders of the Great Basin, this "oasis" is fed through snowmelt on the Eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevada mountains (most of the Sierra's snowmelt actually flows westward into the Pacific Ocean - but sandwiched between high mountain ranges, the Great Basin is named as such because water can only escape through evaporation and/or absorption and can not flow to the ocean). At any rate, when I returned to the U-Haul, I found my canine companions were trying to drive away without me...Fortunately, I took the keys with me to the restroom...

The next stretch of our trip was long, hot, and outside of a few cars on the road devoid of humanity. Save for a stretch of driving on I-80, this section consisted of two-lane state highways that required lots of attention, limited use of cruise control, and miles and miles of desert and ranchland. The hours passed like dog years, and the clock seemed to tick backward as the sun crawled across the sky. North of Winnemucca, Nevada, we crossed into Southeastern Oregon and gradually climbed up the Jordan Valley escarpment to the Snake River Plain and our new place. However, just as the scenery changed from the desert of the Great Basin to the semi-arid plateau, the drowsiness of the lack of sleep for the past 48 hours started to rear its ugly head. 

To combat the drowsiness, I started by turning up the volume on my playlist and singing along at the top of my lungs. Then I rolled down the windows and let the wind slap my face in the vain hope that the fresh air would snap me back to alertness. But alas, my eyelids felt heavier with each passing mile, and on several occasions, the only thing that saved me from a horrible accident was the thump, thump, thump of the U-Haul's wheel driving over Bott's Dots.

I was desperate to stay awake and tried everything I could think of; I pinched myself, slapped my cheeks, and even splashed ice water from the cooler on my face. But it seemed that sleep was determined to claim its prize...

Just as I was about to give in to the sweet temptation of slumber, I noticed a peculiar sight on the side of the road. There, perched on a fence post, was a hilariously out-of-place rubber chicken, wearing sunglasses and a wide grin. The absurdity of the sight jolted me awake, and I burst out laughing.

Continuing down the road, my newfound mission was to spot more of these delightful road-trip mascots. And so, in my drowsy state, I kept score of each chicken sighting and narrated a play-by-play for Ace and Bella with each one...

The rubber chicken game was my lifeline during the trip. It kept my brain engaged, alert, and, most importantly, awake. Whenever fatigue threatened to overwhelm me, the thought of spotting another quirky chicken cheered me up and chased away the sleepiness, reinforcing our determination to reach Boise and start fresh in a new city with a new house and a new job.

Speaking of new beginnings, let's talk about starting over in a place where you know absolutely no one. It's like being the new kid at the world's biggest dog park – intimidating yet exhilarating. My strategy is simple: let Ace and Bella work their magic on the locals, and soon, we will make friends faster than they can wag their tails! At our last pitstop for gas and bio-breaks, Ace and Bella were zooming around the dog run when I noticed a friendly-looking couple standing nearby, smiling at my playful pups. They had an energetic Labrador named Bailey, who seemed just as thrilled to be there as Ace and Bella. To my surprise, they decided to initiate a conversation.

Ace and Bella at the dog run

With warm smiles, the couple introduced themselves as Cindy and Dan. They immediately admired Ace and Bella's boundless energy and playfulness. Soon, we were exchanging stories about our beloved four-legged companions, laughing at their quirky antics.

Cindy and Dan's welcoming demeanor made it easy for me to open up about my relocation. They relayed that they were from Boise and returning from a trip to Idaho's wine country. They showed genuine interest in us and eagerly shared their experiences and favorite spots in the city. They recommended nearby pet-friendly cafes and beautiful parks to explore with Ace and Bella and even suggested dog-friendly social events where we could meet more fellow dog lovers.

Our conversation flowed effortlessly as if we were old friends catching up. They shared heartwarming stories about their journey to Boise and their love for the community's warm and welcoming atmosphere. They even offered to introduce me to some of their other friends in the area, knowing that making connections in a new city can sometimes be challenging.

Throughout our encounter, Cindy and Dan exemplified the idea of "Boise nice" to the fullest. Their genuine friendliness and willingness to reach out to a stranger at the dog run showcased the city's welcoming and inclusive spirit. The way they embraced me, a newcomer, with open arms left a lasting impression on my heart.

But let me tell you, folks, the joys of making new friends and exploring a vibrant city can be both thrilling and exhausting. We finally rolled into Boise around 5 pm, and we must have resembled a circus act gone wrong. Ace's whiskers were drooping, Bella's elegance had turned into a furball mess, and I'm sure my hair looked like I had survived a hurricane.

Bella finally gets to sleep in the new house...

As we parked the U-Haul and took our first steps into our new home, we collapsed onto the floor in collective exhaustion. But as we caught our breath, we knew this adventure was just the beginning of a heartwarming and laughter-filled chapter in our lives.

So, dear readers, let this remind you that life's greatest moments often leave you exhausted and exhilarated. Our Great Basin adventure led us to Boise, where we discovered that sometimes, the best way to embrace a new beginning is with a dose of humor and a duo of adorable canine co-pilots.

As Ace, Bella, and I continue to navigate this delightful new chapter, we'll cherish the memories of our road trip. So, to all the adventurers out there, may you embrace the laughter, welcome the unknown, and let the journey take you to places you never imagined!

Until next time road-trippers, I wish you smooth roads and happy wagging tails!

Saying Goodbye...

I hope you’ll forgive a detour from my usual posts. Today, I need to write about someone who was my faithful hiking companion, who loved to chase a tennis ball with unrelenting enthusiasm, who was always by my side during quiet nights, who greeted me at the door with joy, and who taught the kids, and me, more about unconditional love than most people ever will. This is a memorial for Madison—Maddie to us—our beloved Yellow Labrador Retriever.

The better part of a decade ago, we rescued Maddie with the help of the Pups and Pals rescue. She’d been found living on the streets, estimated to be around two or three years old. She was skittish—especially around men—which led us to believe she’d been mistreated in her early life. But the first time we saw her, we knew. Faith, my daughter, reminded me recently that we fell in love with that goofy Lab at first sight. There was a spark in her, a sense of joy just waiting to come out.

She warmed up to us quickly—especially to me. Despite her size (she weighed over 90 pounds), Maddie was convinced she was a lap dog. If I sat on the couch or in my recliner, it wasn’t long before she climbed right into my lap, tail thumping and tongue ready. She had no sense of scale, and we loved her for it.

A little over a year ago, we brought another rescue into our home—a puppy named Ace. From day one, Maddie took him under her paw. She became his surrogate mom and big sister, teaching him the rhythms of our household: how to play gently, where the best sunspots were, when to bark, and when to nap. Ace adored her. He followed her lead, cuddled beside her each night, and looked up to her in every way. Her absence is confusing for him now—he still searches the house, tail wagging hopefully. He misses her as much as we do.

This past New Year’s, I started noticing that Maddie wasn’t quite herself. She was slower, less playful. I chalked it up to her age. But a couple of weeks ago, she began limping on one of her hind legs. I took her to the vet, hoping it was something minor. There was no obvious injury, but the X-ray revealed a faint spot on one of her lungs. Labs are sadly prone to lung cancer, the vet said. We went home with pain meds and instructions to rest.

Over the following week, her condition declined. I knew I needed to take her back to the vet, but I hesitated. Part of me was afraid of what I might hear. By the time I finally called, the soonest appointment was Monday evening.

That weekend became a gift. We spent long hours together—quiet time on the couch, short moments in the yard, peaceful companionship. My son came home from college and had a chance to sit with her. My youngest daughter was off from school for Lincoln’s Birthday and spent the day curled up beside Maddie. When I got home from work that evening, the two of them were snuggled close on the couch. That image is one I’ll carry with me.

When I picked up Maddie’s leash for what would become her last car ride, she still perked up. She struggled off the couch, tail wagging faintly, happy just to go somewhere with me. We sat on the grass outside for a few quiet minutes. Then we headed to the vet.

The second round of X-rays confirmed what we feared: the light spot had developed into an aggressive tumor. The cancer had spread to her ear canal and leg. The fluid in her lungs made breathing difficult. Her body was failing her.

It was time.

In those final minutes, I lay down beside her on the floor of the vet’s office, holding her gently, cradling her head in my arms. I whispered to her, telling her what a good girl she was—what a gift she had been to our family. I didn’t want to let go. I wanted to stop time, to stay there with her just a little longer. She was calm and trusting, as always. And when the moment came, and the light left her failing body, she was wrapped in love.

Letting her go was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made, but I know it was the right one. She’s no longer in pain. Still, the space she filled in our home—and in our lives—feels enormous now that she’s gone.

I like to think she’s somewhere free now, unburdened and unbothered. Running through open fields, tail up, nose in the wind. Rolling in the grass, barking at nothing and everything. Just being a dog again. I hope she’s found that place. And I hope she knows we’ll meet again someday. Until then, Maddie—run fast and look for me at the rainbow bridge.

One of my favorite photos of her, taken seconds before she licked the lens, became the basis for the “Yellow Labrador Retriever lover” microbadge I created on BoardGameGeek. It’s a small digital keepsake, but now, it’s also a quiet tribute. A reminder of her presence and her joy.

Rest well, girl. You were so deeply loved.

Maddie and the kids, Christmas 2011