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!

Trains, Presidents, and Baseball

A Cross-Country Road Trip with My Daughter

Earlier this month, Kailey and I packed up a rental Toyota Corolla and pointed it East—driving from La Crescenta, California, to Philadelphia, where she would begin medical school at Thomas Jefferson University. It was a practical trip on paper, but we planned to make use of the time to hit touristy things along the road. However, the trip soon became something more: a chance to share time, places, and stories with my oldest child in a way we hadn’t for years.

We set off under the California desert sun, bound not just for Philly, but for a series of mutual passions we’d charted together—natural wonders, national parks, presidential history, and baseball among them. First stop: the Grand Canyon. A classic detour. Entering the National Park, we were greeted by the sight of a family of Moose. We hurried to reach the South Rim of the canyon in time for the "Golden Hour," where I was able to snap a photo of her with the majestic vista of the canyon as the backdrop.  We continued our drive with the intent of seeing the Four Corners Monument, but we misjudged the distance and arrived too late to visit. We continued driving to our first overnight stop in Durango, Colorado, where I talked Kailey into indulging one of my more niche interests—the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad Museum. She was a good sport, smiling as I nerded out over old locomotives and track gauges. She even asked a few questions, humoring me like I must have done with my own dad at some point.

The proprietors of the hotel we stayed at directed us on a scenic route through the high desert of the Colorado Plateau, driving through valleys flanked by Colorado's 14ers, we made our way to Salida for lunch beside the Arkansas River’s headwaters, at the Boathouse Cantina. As we enjoyed our lunch, we watched as tubers and a Black Labrador frolicked in the river's gentle rapids before making our way through Monarch Pass and over the Continental Divide, down the Front Range, and across the plains via Interstate 80 to Kansas for our second night on the road. The next morning, we detoured off of I-80 to Abilene. Here we really hit our stride—at the Eisenhower Presidential Library. This wasn’t just a dad stop. Kailey and I both have a deep respect for American presidents and the stories that shaped their legacies. We lingered over Ike’s leadership in WWII and the 1950s’ transformation of America, taking it all in like two history buffs on pilgrimage.

After a couple of hours at the library, we decided to push on to St. Louis. Arriving in the early evening, I bought us two tickets to ride the tram to the top of the Gateway Arch, where we caught a few innings of a Cardinals game far below. After a quick stop in the museum gift shop beneath the Arch, we rushed to our car to avoid a thunderstorm rolling in. As we crossed the Mississippi into Illinois, the heavens opened up with some of the heaviest rain and most intense thunder and lightning I have ever experienced. Slowly making our way, we realized we totally forgot about dinner.  Kailey found a Steak 'n Shake near our hotel outside Springfield, Illinois, and we enjoyed a meal of burgers and shakes before calling it a day.

The next morning, we made another joint stop: Abraham Lincoln’s Tomb in Oak Ridge Cemetery, the Lincoln Home Historic Site, and the Illinois State House. This was holy ground for both of us. Lincoln has always been my hero, and Kailey has always been thoughtful and intellectually curious, and watching her engage so seriously with Lincoln’s legacy reminded me of how much we truly share—values, interests, and a reverence for history that runs deep.

That afternoon, July 20, 2016, we reached Chicago for a highlight we’d been looking forward to since planning the trip: a Cubs game at Wrigley Field. Colon vs. Hendricks. The Mets vs. the Cubs during what would become their curse-breaking championship season. It was sweltering, the energy was electric, and we soaked it all in. Sharing that game with Kailey, shoulder to shoulder in the Friendly Confines, was one of those moments you don’t fully appreciate until much later.

After the game, we cruised through the University of Chicago campus, then headed east again, spending the night in Ohio. The next day, crossing the Ohio/Pennsylvania state line, we neared my last wishlist item: the East Broad Top Railroad in Rockhill Furnace, Pennsylvania. Sadly, however, it had been closed since 2011, something I hadn’t realized until we arrived. Ever the trooper, Kailey gamely followed me to the Friends of the East Broad Top Museum in Roberstdale—but it too was closed. We laughed off the failed detour and made our way to Duck Donuts in Mechanicsburg to regroup, ice cream and donuts lifting my spirits.

Eventually, we arrived in Philadelphia. Kailey was eager to move into her new apartment and begin this next chapter of her life. Thankfully, her grandparents lived nearby and had furniture to spare. We picked up a U-Haul, conquered IKEA, and even caught a glimpse of the SS United States docked along the Delaware River—a quiet, majestic piece of history just waiting to be remembered. One last fitting tribute.

It took a long day, but between her grandparents and me, we got her settled. I stuck around just long enough to see her begin her journey to becoming a doctor. Not quite ready to finish the trip and return home, I decided to take a walk through Washington Square, Independence Hall, and the Liberty Bell—sites I’d visited before, but which now carried a new emotional weight. They reminded me not just of America’s story, but of mine—and Kailey’s.

This trip didn’t just deliver my daughter to medical school. It delivered us back to each other. In between the national parks, presidential libraries, the baseball stadiums, and yes, even the train museums, I saw how deeply we were connected. Kailey may not share my passion for narrow-gauge railroads, but she shares so much else: a curiosity for history, a love of learning, and a reverence for the moments and people that shape our world.

Somewhere between the Grand Canyon and the Gateway Arch, Ike and Lincoln, Hendricks and Colon, I realized the rift that had opened between us during her teenage years had quietly begun to close. Not through a single conversation or dramatic reconciliation, but through something much simpler: miles on the road, shared passions, and time.

A Father-Son Journey: Baseball, Heartbreak, and Redwoods

Eel River in Humboldt Redwoods State Park

Sometimes the most meaningful trips aren't the ones that go according to plan. Our journey to Eureka, California for the 2009 Babe Ruth Pacific Southwest 13-Year-Old Regional tournament was supposed to be about baseball glory. Instead, it became something far more precious—a father-son adventure that taught us both how to find joy in disappointment and beauty in the unexpected.

The Road North

The drive up to Eureka was electric with possibility. I squeezed into our minivan alongside three of Ted's teammates, their energy infectious as they talked strategy and dreams of making it to the World Series. The hours melted away with teenage banter, music, and that particular brand of nervous excitement that comes before a big tournament. These boys had worked all season for this moment, and watching them—especially Ted—live in that bubble of pure anticipation reminded me why I love being a baseball dad.

Discovering a Different California

Before the games began, we had a chance to explore Eureka itself—a revelation for a bunch of kids from Southern California. This wasn't the California we knew. Gone were the palm trees and endless sunshine, replaced by towering redwoods, cool ocean breezes, and a misty climate that felt almost otherworldly to us high desert dwellers.

A Samoa Cookhouse server

We wandered through the historic Timber Heritage Museum to learn about Eureka's logging heritage. The boys were fascinated by the massive lumber operations that once defined this region, and seeing those enormous logs stacked along the waterfront gave them a new appreciation for the redwood forests surrounding us.

One evening, the entire team piled into vehicles for dinner at the legendary Samoa Cookhouse. Sitting at those long communal tables, being served family-style meals just like the loggers of old, was like stepping back in time. The boys devoured plate after plate of hearty food while listening to stories about the cookhouse's history. For kids used to fast food and chain restaurants, this felt like dining in a living museum. Ted was particularly impressed by the endless platters of food—though I suspect that had more to do with being a perpetually hungry teenager than historical appreciation.

Five Days of Baseball Drama

The games at Eureka Babe Ruth Field were a rollercoaster that would have made any screenwriter proud:

Game 1 (August 6): We opened strong, beating the host team Eureka 4-2. Ted slid safely into home in the fourth inning—a moment captured in a photo that still makes me smile. That slide somehow encapsulated everything about Ted's approach to the game: fearless, determined, and just a little bit reckless.

Game 2 (August 7): Reality check. Tri Valley shut us down 4-1. The boys were quiet that night, but you could see the fire in their eyes. One loss wasn't going to define them.

Game 3 (August 8): Redemption came in the form of a 13-5 demolition of Somervile-Yaqui from Arizona. The bats came alive, and suddenly we were back in contention.

Game 4 (August 9): A 15-8 slugfest victory over Madera put us in the championship game. The boys were flying high, and I was already mentally packing for the next round.

Then came August 11th. The championship game, a rematch against Tri Valley. Ted started at shortstop and then moved to the mound in relief. Just when everything seemed within reach, a line-drive back up the middle ricocheted off of Ted's knee...an injury...

I won't dwell on the details of that moment—any parent who's watched their child get injured in a sport they love knows that sick feeling. What matters is that we finished second, our World Series dreams ended, and suddenly it was just Ted and me facing a 12 hour drive home.

The Healing Power of Highway 101

Here's where the real story begins.

Instead of rushing home to nurse our wounds, we decided to make the most of our time together. Sometimes life's detours lead you exactly where you need to be, and our meandering journey south became one of my most treasured memories.

It was the redwoods that first worked their magic.

Standing among those ancient giants in Humboldt Redwoods State Park, our baseball disappointment seemed to shrink to its proper size. These trees had been growing since before baseball was even invented, surviving ice ages and droughts and countless human dramas. Ted posed by the welcome sign, in his hoody, and I watched him crane his neck up at the towering canopy, maybe gaining some perspective on what really lasts.

We could have spent hours in that cathedral of trees, talking or just walking in comfortable silence. Ted climbed over fallen logs the size of train cars, and for a while he was just a kid exploring, not an injured athlete carrying the weight of a lost championship. But we had many more miles to go...

On the way south, we stopped at the Charles M. Schulz Museum and Snoopy's Home Ice in Santa Rosa. Walking through the museum dedicated to the creator of Peanuts, seeing Charlie Brown dressed as a hockey player and Snoopy in his dapper formal wear, brought some much-needed lightness after the heaviness of the tournament's end. Ted humored his old man as I snapped photos, both of us finding comfort in Schulz's gentle humor and the reminder that even Charlie Brown knew something about dealing with disappointment.

One final stop before it got too dark was the Golden Gate Bridge. Seeing Ted pose there—still wearing that gray hoody, his injury making him move a little slower but his smile genuine—reminded me that some moments transcend wins and losses. The bridge stood there in the fog, magnificent and enduring, a reminder that some things are bigger than baseball.

The drive continued past the scenic bridges spanning San Francisco Bay, through foothills, mountains, and farmland valleys. We stopped for photos, shared gas station snacks, and talked about everything except baseball. Well, mostly everything except baseball.

The Gift of Going Slow

What strikes me now, looking back at those photos, is how this "disappointing" trip became something invaluable. If we'd won the tournament, we would have rushed off to the next competition. We would have missed the redwoods, missed the long conversations, missed the chance to just be together without the pressure of the next game looming.

Ted's injury was heartbreaking in the moment, but it gave us something we rarely had during those intense baseball years: unscheduled time. Time to be tourists in our own state. Time for a teenage son to let his dad take goofy pictures without rolling his eyes too much. Time to remember that the relationship matters more than the results.

The drive home took us the better part of two days, when it could have been done in one. We saw things we never would have seen, talked about things we might never have discussed, and created memories that have outlasted any trophy we might have won.

What Lasts

Ted's injury healed. The sting of finishing second faded. But those photos from our journey home—Ted by the Golden Gate Bridge, among the redwoods, grinning despite everything—those capture something that winning never could have given us.

Sometimes the best trips are the ones that don't go according to plan. Sometimes the most important conversations happen when you're not trying to have them. And sometimes, when your baseball dreams end in disappointment, you discover that the journey home can be the most beautiful part of the whole adventure.

The redwoods taught us something that day: the things that really matter take time to grow, and they're strong enough to weather any storm. Including the storm of a thirteen-year-old's broken baseball dreams and a father's broken heart. Resilience isn't about avoiding disappointment—it's about growing deeper roots that can sustain you through whatever comes next. Those trees had witnessed countless storms, countless seasons of loss and renewal, and they were still reaching toward the light.

But hearts heal, and memories grow stronger with time. And sometimes, if you're very lucky, you get to take the scenic route home.