A Slice of American Pie: Part 4
Pass The Salt, Please

I’ll never look at a salt shaker the same again. We crested the top of a mountain range and, like a mirage, what appears to be white sand spread out across a broad valley and far into the distance. It is Utah’s Bonneville Salt Flats and the birthplace of Morton Salt Company. The floor of the 30,000 acre basin has been the setting for high speed auto racing since 1914. The Blue Flame rocket car broke the land speed record in 1970, peaking at 1001.4 kpm (622.4 mph). We failed in our attempt to better that though it might be a record for a Harley Davidson carrying two people, a cooler, three-person tent (still unused, save for the practice nights in our lounge at home), 2 (meagre) luggage compartments, a laptop, SLR camera, two mats and sleeping bags and a paua shell necklace.

This was the point we abruptly ceased complaining about the cold weather and slipped into a hypnotic haze. I felt drugged and slumped in my seat as the thermometer rose. Cars scuttled like shiny beetles running for shade along the flat, white landscape that ran for miles into the distance. The flat landscape was decorated with a unique three dimensional type of graffiti. Names were immortalized in lines made from small rocks laid in the salt, tooting everything from the usual love to Frodo and the YMCA. There were a few creative sparkles added from broken coloured glass. A succession of tire tracks also garnished the area that tended to run about five feet straight off the pavement. These were made by even bigger gamblers than those frequenting the casinos. The drivers were trying their luck at cruising onto the salt flats. They lost.

I had been allowed my first photo-stop that very morning of our tenth day on the road. I had suggested that maybe we could actually take some photos of where we were going. I silently willed Paul to stop again as we crossed the dazzling salt flats, but the engine roared on, ever eastwards. At a rest stop, we finally shed our jackets and stowed them away behind me under an expandable cover that I made for this very situation. That left us without protective gear but we decided heat was the worst adversary in this situation.

The soda machines were bolted and fenced. It reflects what a thirsty person of lesser valour may do in such arid country. Do you realize how thirsty you can get driving through acres of salt and 100 ° heat? My feet were so swollen in the high black waterproof boots I couldn’t even wiggle my toes. The Draggin’ jeans (lined with Kevlar, the stuff used in bullet-proof vests,) were cooler than our riding gear in New Zealand but they are still heavy enough to stand up by themselves. The oil cooler Paul had added before we left was working well, keeping the engine oil down in temperature enough to maintain the all important viscosity and keep parts lubricated.

One has to marvel again at what drove the pioneers west. The distance is hard to fathom, and the hardships even more so. The Mormon women must have threatened mutiny when the wagon train finally halted in Salt Lake City in the 1800’s. “This is it – not one more mountain.” They had probably been talked into it like I was by the bold or crazy. The line blurs. The allure to head west kept calling the pioneers. At this point, I would have settled for a swimming pool and glass of iced tea or air-conditioned van.

Suddenly the desert gave way to Salt Lake City and the comforting shelter of friends we knew from Maine. “It takes a long time to make an old friend.”

Photos I had taken of their family through the years graced the walls. We had welcomed most of their six children into the world as infants. Bill worked in the Chiropractic centre with Paul, while Robbie and I raised families and baked for food stalls. They had also uprooted family and lived in Italy for a year. Six kids and six zillion loads of washing and nappies later, it’s finally Robbie’s turn in the land of opportunity. An idea. A thought. And a birthing of a whole different dimension. “Health, Wealth and WOW” is the name of her baby – a radio talk show that she is co-hosting. Their aim is a national Oprah-style radio show, highlighting the best in women, interviewing women who have dreamed dreams, found balance in their lives and done “wow” things. Right now they command the airwaves of two radio stations but the seeds are growing.

Mormon-country is unique in the world, and they were our guides into the headquarters of this fast-growing and perhaps most misunderstood religion as we ventured into the heritage centre one evening. The square is staffed by pairs of very attractive “sisters” who are serving their mission time here, rather than overseas. Proof of their humanity came when they asked where I got my sparkly red glasses. It proves again that “girls just wanna have fun.” By this time I had added a matching red rhinestone Harley-Davidson t-shirt and, having donned both, I felt like a walking neon sign in the centre of Temple Square.

As the sun was setting, we took a stroll up into the hills behind their house, with Salt Lake City spread out behind them, and the mountains dominating the scene. The grand houses that awed us as we drove in were now like mere stubble on a day-old beard. These homes built as self-monuments became dots against the snow-covered mountains that cradled them. There is a new perspective from here.

“I always wanted to live by a mountain,” mused Robbie. “I walk up here every morning at 6, and fall on my knees and say my prayers.” You could not help but be both humbled and inspired in this setting.

Unlike the Mormons who reached this great salt lake as their longed-for Mecca, the spirit of travel lured us onward and it was time to break camp and continue east. As we left Apline, we passed another of the bronze sculptures that visionaries had left as their gift to others. A father knelt beside a child, pointing into the distance. It read: “In youth we learn, in age we understand.” If home is truly where the heart is, then every friend’s door that we enter welcomes us home. And when we take our leave, each time we bid farewell to this dear home. Tears blurred the majestic mountains as I reluctantly let time and distance assert their presence in our relationship again. I had been excited about the ‘hellos’. I had not anticipated the pain of goodbyes once again.