Apologies to Erica Jong who wrote a best-selling book by the same title that I have given this piece. However, her book was about sex and had nothing to do with flying. This column is about why I would rather drive than fly, with nary a mention of sex.
I fly only when time precludes the use of a car or my truck. When I fly to any major city, I am nearly always faced with a sprint across the airport while lugging heavy bags, to meet a connecting flight. I end up more tired than if I had driven 800 miles.
I’m not alone in these views.
Novelist, poet and gourmet Jim Harrison also prefers driving, a practice he described as the only way to see the country not served by “despotic airports, that allow you little more freedom than a feeder calf or sardine.”
And we arrived at those feelings well before the formation of the TSA, which searches old ladies and confiscates cigarette lighters, clippers and even bottled water in their never ending war on terrorism. By the way, TSA stands for “thousands standing around.”
Like Harrison, I like to see country, something you can’t do from 25,000 feet. Country is best seen from the cab of a four-wheel drive truck, sitting high enough to afford a good view, and other than their tendency to gulp gas too rapidly, you can traverse slick roads and even leave them if you wish.
A few years ago, I drove to Las Vegas, and there isn’t much to see between my home and Sin City. The drive across Wyoming’s Red Desert on Interstate 80 is bleak. My friend Jon Davenport asks, “How do you know you’ve lived too long in southern Wyoming?” And then he provides the answer. “It’s when you put an addition on your trailer house.”
The most scenic part of the drive is 10 miles down the Virgin River Canyon, which Utah shares with Nevada. From there, it’s an easy six hours into Vegas. You know you’re getting close when the billboards grow glitzier, advertising lobster tail dinners for $5.95. Once in Vegas, you realize that’s just a big come on, and they have figured more creative ways to empty your wallet.
I have always been a boxing fan and on my last trip, vowed to see the much ballyhooed heavyweight title bout between Mike Tyson and Evander Holyfield. We were staying at Ceasar’s Palace and decided to walk the two miles to the MGM where the fight was to be held.
Upon arrival, I was hit with a scorching migraine headache and walked back to Ceasar’s where I darkened the room and covered my head with a cold wet towel until the pain subsided. Turns out the only thing I missed was a piece of Holyfield’s ear when Tyson bit him.
But I do like to see country. I have traveled across Minnesota and Wisconsin countless times and while others are talking about the beauty, all I can see is 37 slow moving cars ahead of me all following a truck going 45 mph that slows going up even a minor slope. That and trees. How can you see the country for all the trees?
No, I’ll take the central and eastern parts of the Dakotas. Like the glacial lakes region in northeast South Dakota. Stop at Roslyn and visit the world’s only International Vinegar Museum. And, of course, it’s also the home of Lawrence Welk accordionist Myron Floren. At nearby Eden on any Friday night, you can fill up on fried bullheads, at the same price you would pay for overcooked lobster in Las Vegas.
The Black Hills are pretty but drive from Rapid City to Spearfish and it’s a case of urban sprawl run amok. Each time I do, I think of Doc, the character in Edward Abbey’s “Monkey Wrench Gang,” who would saw the legs off billboards and then torch them. Doc would make the Black Hills a much prettier place.
And Bottineau, clear up at the top of table-top flat prairie at the foot of the Turtle Mountains. It’s one of my favorite towns. How about the drive south of Mandan to Fort Rice, which rivals the Badlands for beauty.
You can’t see any of these places from a commercial airliner, and if you can, tighten and buckle your seatbelt. Otherwise drive and see these easy-on-the-eye places.
