Greetings from the road.
Currently I’m in the back seat of the family truckster. We’re barreling along Route 40 out of Steamboat Springs making our way to Park City and, ultimately, Yosemite. We stopped for breakfast in Steamboat before getting back on the road. (I had the huevos rancheros with refried beans before getting back in a packed car. What could go wrong?)
I took the first shift driving. We “camped” in the parking lot of the Walmart in Fort Collins, Colorado, last night. I woke around 4 a.m. and took the scenic route because the more efficient route was blocked by a biblical snowstorm in parts of Wyoming, Nebraska, and Colorado—and by “parts,” I mean the parts we needed to get through.
As you may recall, last month I took my daughter on a surprise trip to Austin for her birthday. We were besieged by a once-in-a-century winter storm. Now, a second winter storm is gunning for us as we set out for a family adventure coinciding with my birthday. I am starting to take this personally. If I were of a different bent, I might suspect Mr. Snow Miser—known in earlier epochs as Ullr, Norse God of Snow and stepson of Thor—of trying to tell me something: “Yo, Goldberg, stay home!” Or, maybe Ullr is anti-Semitic, in which case my preferred pronunciation of Yosemite—“Yo, Semite,” like they say in Commentary editorial board meetings after a long weekend—could end up being overly literary.