For a Few Dollars More

With the Devil's Tower silhouetted against the South Dakota sunset, we powered into the South Eastern corner of Montana and after a brief night stop, we started an EPIC journey through the vast state. As the sun burned away the early morning moisture, mountains loomed in the distance, their hazy forms barely distinguishable on the horizon. The pastoral landscape, dotted with cows, was becoming increasingly disturbed by angry penetrations of rock, hinting at the mountains to come. We stopped sporadically for keepy uppys and explored the American equivalent of JJB which had substituted tennis rackets and cricket gear for semi automatic weaponry. Our UK driving licenses were not sufficient ID to purchase the Sniper Rifle we had set our hearts upon, so we left.

We need guns...

Big Montana sky

Possible Camry replacement 

A common feature

Mike explains the operation of a Colt 9mm

Man in blue shirt soon to regret throwaway beard insult

Mike perfecting his small town camouflage

We drove hard towards Logans' Pass on the infamous "going to the sun road", a driveable trail that some claim is the most beautiful stretch of road in the world. With civilistation becoming sparse and a punishing driving schedule needed to reach the National Park before nightfall, a persisting problem reared its head: Mike's inability to do an on-the-go 'unofficial piss' at the roadside. With a creaking bladder, he powered through towards Glacier National Park where we hoped to find a hidden gem of a mountain town to use as a base camp before embarking on what promised to be the greatest driving experience planet earth had to offer. 

Browning, a small settlement poised on the edge of the park, geographically appeared the best option. We headed into town, and soon found ourselves an unwelcome minority in what we quickly realized was a Native American Reservation. Tension in the gas station forecourt led to a hurried top-up of petrol and an immediate exit from the town, arrows and spears ricocheting off the rear window - their horses were no match for the Green Machine. The map offered up nothing but gradients and empty road between us and the glacier, so once again, we dropped the hammer and started eating up the dark miles towards St Mary.

Insensitive racist stereotype

St Mary was not a town, it was a corporate owned lodge resort, posing as a natural settlement, strategically positioned at the very beginning of the Logans' Pass route. We headed in, well aware that there were no alternatives for lodging in 100 miles.

As soon as we'd handed over the Mastercard we were slapped in the face with two shattering realisations. Number one: the lodge was priced for Wall Street executives, and number two: the Going to the Sun Road, our single motivation for making the huge detour North to the National Park, had just closed for the season. 

err...how much was this room?

To further add to a rapidly worsening night, we discovered that the Lodge was in the process of shutting down and with no guests left to cater for, (besides us) had completely run out of even basic food supplies. In desperation we lined our stomachs with condiments from the bar and launched into an all night, $1 PBR-sponsored drinking session with the resort's staff, who were enjoying the last days of their seasonal employment. We left...hungry. And drunk. And bitter. We returned to our room, which aside from some insensitively stereotyped Native American details, was identical in form and function to the Econolodge, which was a fraction of the price. 

Seriously...how much was this room?

Have you still got the gun?

No caption

Dawn broke and daylight burst through the full length window, forcing us out of a food-deprived, alcohol-induced comatose, and suddenly we understood the value of our extra investment. We were faced with a majestic mountainscape, previously hidden by the Montana night. All the negative aspects of the lodge melted away as we sat on our personal balcony, sipping an early morning coffee and absorbing the scene in awestruck silence. We set about stealing everything possible from the room to maximise the value of our hefty investment, and left.

The car laden with newly acquired resort-branded toiletries, we set off up the steeply inclined mountain road to skirt the western boundary of the park. Words and sadly even pictures do not come close to communicating the majesty of the next few hours, nonetheless, here are some photos of our surroundings during that time.

Brokeback Mountain II

The heaving landscape finally subsided and mellowed into calm hills before once again returning to vast  swaying pastures. We stopped to catch our breath and reflect on the stunning scenery we had witnessed that morning, and used the break to make a courtesy call to our vehicle's expecting owner. The friendly voice of Tara on the end of the line revealed that she would be out of town for our agreed arrival date in Seattle, and asked if we could keep the Green Machine for an extra two days...we gladly accepted. Our 9 day dash across the states suddenly took on a whole new dynamic and presented us with a new problem: what to do with over 48 extra hours? 

In order to properly address this, we decided to stop at the first town that looked good and dig ourselves in for some beer-lubricated planning. It wasn't long before we were settling into a quaint independent motel in Clark Fork, Idaho, nestled between densely forested foothills and vast glassy lakes. The town turned out to be what we'd been searching for the whole trip: a small town providing the holy trinity: a cheap place to stay, a place to get good (not fast) food, and crucially (and surprisingly the most difficult to find) a bar. Clark Fork had two of each. And nothing else. 

Imminent stomach ache

We strolled into a discrete diner attached to one of the two bars in town, and without any sign of life took a booth to check out the menu. From out of nowhere, an aging dwarf of a simple nature waddled out from behind the scenes and without saying a word, approached our table, flashing us a delighted toothless smile. After a few incomprehensible ramblings, he reached out with a small childlike paw and indulged himself in caressing our rapidly growing road beards. He made his exit as randomly as his entrance, and after several moments of silent confusion, a more conventionally sized human appeared from the kitchen. 

"That's Denny. If you meet him at the bar later on and want to buy him a drink, be sure to ask for a Denny's Drink"

Jackpot! We had found small town America, and it was truly the alien experience we were lusting after! 

As we chatted with our waitress, she explained to us about the social dynamics of the town, which was home to under 500 people. We tentatively asked what had just happened with our new found midget friend, and more importantly what was a Denny's Drink. She explained to us that Denny was a "Sweetheart" who effectively didn't really know what was going on, and alcohol consumption could lead to unfortunate results. The town as a whole had compassionately developed a system that allowed Denny to feel welcome and involved in the local bar life, by substituting his alcohol orders with a non-alcoholic 7-UP and blackcurrant mix.

If Denny wanted to escalate his drunkenness, (the 7-UP combo placebo frequently resulted in Denny acting drunk) Denny's Drink would turn to Denny's Shots. 7-UP with Blackcurrant...in a shot glass.

We had a quick beer, and decided to go on a Bar Crawl, which terminated promptly across the street in Camps Corner. We sat down and ordered our first beer (adding the label to our collection) and before long we were chatting to near enough everyone in the bar, even prompting a local to run home to fetch his video camera to record our presence! The Denny Drink system was in full swing here too, and once again the intimate nature of small communities showed itself. We got drunk, line danced, played pool, lost at pool, had our shirts signed with custom artwork from Tana and Carmen, the lovely barmaids, then made our epic stagger 50 metres down the road to our motel. 

As with almost all planning sessions held in an alcohol-rich environment, productivity was limited and the cold light of the next day exposed our lack of preparation. With no schedule or idea of what to do, we got in the car and steamed towards Seattle. We rotated seats to mix up driving with film editing, and noticing an interesting feature on our route, we stopped for a quick Keepy Uppy session to the backdrop of the Grand Coulee Dam. Tom resisted the urge to mercilessly end another ball's career and we moved on.

Mike gets revenge as Tom suffers the fate of ball no.1

Green screen background (with stunt doubles)

Twilight closed in around us; despite our new relaxed schedule we had powered through the driving day. After a long coffee-aided stint behind the wheel, and feeling the pressure from his bladder, Mike spotted the opportunity to make use of the developing sunset and proposed a dramatic shot for the film. We pulled over and set up the camera and tripod. Mike stepped into frame and heroically conquered his long-standing fear of roadside weeing to unleash a golden torrent, backlit by the sunset. A personal triumph, immortalized on film! 

As a newly liberated Mike contemplated why he had ever been so concerned with public defecation, the piercing wail of the local sheriff's siren brought his flow to an abrupt, but not complete halt. The officer stepped from his Highway Cruiser, eyes hidden behind the dark void of his aviator shades. Glancing briefly at our professional tripod setup, he failed to notice the growing wet patch around Mike's crotch area. Confused by our accents and impressed by our camera setup, he left us to our sunset photography then wrecklessly tore across the intersection and into the distance. Our second brush with the law, not a problem. 

Panic piss

We drove into the night in the vague direction of Seattle. With no firm idea as to where we were and needing to stretch our legs and get some fresh air we pulled over. The intense moonlight hinted at potentially impressive scenery, so we unleashed the Canon and set up a long exposure shot to discover what kind of environment we were in. We left the camera to expose and went for another leak, mike nervously scanning for the "law" at all times. Our return to the fully developed image unveiled a menacing vista of jagged mountain peaks and deep luscious ravines boldly lit by an unnaturally bright moon.

Cover art for Tom's German Techno solo project

Realising we had to find somewhere to stay quick, and with the battery now completely dead, we ditched the camera and hit the winding mountain pass. Several hours and dramatic mountain tunnels later, we found a Best Western hotel we believe was themed on a Tracey Island Thunderbirds set. A late arrival at 2am was cushioned when we realized that we had earned another hour by racing against the spin of the earth into a new time zone. Result.

30 second exposure in the dead of night

We woke the following morning to find only 200 miles left until we hit our destination, and in need of a day to regroup, we headed straight for a Comfort Inn orbiting Seattle for an early check-in.

New ball...it's shit

We pulled into the car park, and before we'd even considered checking in we cracked open two cans of PBR, ripped off our shirts and kicked off a sunkissed keepy-uppy session. The hotel receptionist, Billy Jean, watched on breathlessly through the lobby window, dazzled and weak at the knees from our topless escapades. She was left with no option but to give us a discounted price for our room. She's not our lover. She's just a girl that thinks that we are the ones. But the kid is not our son.

Mike in the office

We edited some film, did some writing, bathed in the hot tub and took advantage of the rare down time to switch off our brains and indulge in some American TV.

Mike listens to his new Mormon Rock compilation as Tom reads the New Testament

Fully recharged, and with a finished film online, we headed into Downtown Seattle. Our relaxed and contented state would not last however. With the short term road trip swiftly approaching its conclusion, our focus shifted to planning the remainder of our 3 month stay, something we had neglected to even think about. The mood inside the car grew tense as we steadily came to the realization that we were running out of F**KING MONEY!

We pulled up on the waterfront and shot into Starbucks to access our online banking and assign some sort of tangible figure to the flaming wreckage of our budget. One cold coffee later, our parking ticket expired and without having made any progress whatsoever we walked through cold drizzle back to the car.

Crisis talks begin

We declared a state of emergency, panicked and moved frantically away from anything that looked like it could sap our precious remaining dollars. We found Aurora Avenue. One couldn't hope to find a greater hive of scum and villainy... but it was cheap! Our fanatical, panic induced hotel search eventually brought us to the Oak Tree.

The First Verse: NYC

TRAVERSES { The First Verse: NYC } from Tom Probert on Vimeo.

Close Encounters of the Furred Kind

We're thundering though the badlands of South Dakota as the last tendrils of sunlight retreat over the horizon. With just under an hour to go until we reach the Black Hills and Mount Rushmore, it's a good chance to catch up on the highlights of the past four days.

The conclusion of our last entry saw us leaving our new found Ohio friends with several hundred miles left to cover before nightfall. Our plan was to skirt the coast of Lake Michigan in search of a picturesque lakeside retreat and with this in mind, we headed straight for Michigan city, already picturing the waterside lodge, personal jetty, and beach bar that lay in store. With clear roads ahead, we were sure we'd be sipping our first beers of the evening well before the 10pm Autodriveaway curfew (a rule set to minimize road incidents after nightfall) Ignoring earlier warnings of wildlife on the highway, we powered through the dark forested landscape. Inevitably, a deer immediately walked into the road, we swerved hard to avoid it, and wiped out a racoon.

The one that got away

As we approached the Michigan City Limits we were dwarfed by a monolithic chimney which rose from the horizon, shrouding the industrial metropolis in a huge black cloud, it quickly became obvious that this wasn't going to be the idyllic retreat we'd hoped for. Our cast iron plan now laying in tatters, and the curfew weighing heavily on our minds, we headed for the next settlement: Gary. With industrial pipes lining the road towards the ominous glow of another petrochemical complex on the horizon, we reset the sat nav to Chicago and switched course to the interstate. Distracted by the distant Chicago skyline, we had neglected to pay attention to the fuel gauge, which was now frantically flashing a warning light at us. 

Like an early Apollo mission, we hurtled through the outer rings of the city, with only enough fuel to make a botched landing attempt. Heavy gang presence made it impossible to refuel in the city's outer neighbourhoods, we ploughed on towards the ever present Sears Tower. For several minutes we were locked into the inner city road system, mesmerised by the inky beauty of the towering skyskrapers, and when we were released from our orbit, a gas station presented itself like an oasis. As the last drops of gas were vapourised into exhaust fumes, we relied on momentum and pure concentration alone to coast onto the flourescent forecourt. 

Last known footage of football no.1

The Green Machine thirstily drank up a fresh tank of gas, but our sigh of relief was cut short by the realisation that it was past midnight and we still had nowhere to stay. A fluke coincidence of a Bears game and a mystery international conference had left all the accomodation within a 50 mile radius (literally) fully booked. As in all moments of peril, we got the football out, for a quick inner city keepy uppy session. Our only option now was to load up on coffee, put pedal to the metal and head west until we either fell asleep at the wheel and ended up in hospital (better for the budget) or found somewhere to stay (better for our health).

Caffeine fueled night driving

We found a (super-budget) Motel 6 and checked in at 3am. The next morning we woke up panicked, having missed our check-out time. As we sat, head in hands, contemplating the damage to the budget imposed by our mistake, Tom discovered we had crossed into the next time zone, mercifully gifting us an extra hour. We hit the highway. The flat farmland of Wisconsin passed by without event, and soon we hit the Mississippi. After a midge infested photo op, we crossed a dramatic iron bridge into Minnesota. 

Mississippi River

Swirling black storm clouds descended as we began our nightly ritual of looking for a place to stay. We spotted a sign quoting Money Magazine, declaring Rochester as the best place to live in the USA. Confident we'd discovered a hidden gem, we entered the town and began scouting out the hotel options. Rochester was living up to its reputation, its bustling town centre bars packed with young locals. Hotel prices drove us past these scenes however, and once more on the outskirts, we struck a rich seam of cheap motels. In our blind enthusiasm for the cheapest possible rate, we committed ourselves to the Rainbow Motel, a Psycho-esque museum for the distorted memories of its owner, a creepy old lady. The occasional flash of lightning added to our general sense of terror as we inspected the ornamental paintings hanging above our beds.

Creepy motel room

After a rigorous morning of driving through South Dakota, we made it to our eagerly anticipated destination: The Badlands. The vastness of the desolate scenery was breathtakingly beautiful (see photos). We had been excited for some time about the mouthwatering prospect of filming ourselves showing our freestyle football skills in front of America's greatest sights. Armed with all our photography gear, and most importantly our now beloved football, we headed down to a treacherous windswept outcrop, poised hundreds of feet above the valley floor to get an introductory shot for the sequence. As Mike busied himself with the tripod and camera setup, Tom sat in awe of the view, but on seeing great potential in a shot of Mike against the dramatic background, he shifted precariously around to get the right angle. Mike watched in horror as through the viewfinder, he watched an out of focus ball roll helplessly off the edge and plummet hundreds of feet to its demise. It would be several hours before we would speak to each other again).

(That's not us)

Badass Badlands

Spot the ball

• Went to base of Mount Rushmore to take photos at night. 
• Couldn't find monument. 
• Begrudgingly stayed in tourist hell at base of mountain. 
• 'Presidential View' suite had view of car park. 
• Woke up to thick fog. 
• Found monument, couldn't see it through fog. 
• We left. 
• Hit the road. 
• Bought football. 
• Started speaking to eachother again.

Mount Rushmore

Star Spangled Balls

We entered Montana, a state which for us epitomises the dramatic landscape of the northern states. After no more than a few minutes we were re-routed to Wyoming, having seen a sign for Devil's Tower, the rock formation immortalized in the film Close Encounters. Following a long drive on vulture-patrolled roads, we finally spotted the solitary silhouette of the Tower, violating the otherwise flat horizon. We left the car and circled the enormous structure, our path occasionally blocked by house-sized sections of the columns that had broken off the vertical face. Our time with the mountain was brought to a poignant end when we met an old couple taking in the view from the comfort of a bench. They were on a road trip of their own. The old man's philosophy that you should fully enjoy every moment, we realised, was one reinforced by his knowledge that he didn't have many left to enjoy. We pensively returned to the car.

Awaiting the mothership

9 Days to Seattle

We've been on the road now for 72 hours now, each day offering its own sights, smells, characters and lessons. 

Having previously done some basic math we realized early on that despite having olympic standard legs, walking coast to coast would not be conducive to a country of this scale. 

We got the bus to Autodriveaway, (a private/commercial vehicle relocation specialist) to take on a car desperately needing delivery to Seattle as a birthday present to some lucky grandma. After some alarmingly simple paperwork, we stepped into the parking lot, our thoughts racing with the sleek powerful lines of the American muscle cars we'd been lusting after. With giddy anticipation we laid eyes for the first time on our steed, poised, like a dead toad!  Not quite the archetypal American dream car we had hoped for, the 2001 Toyota Camry did however boast great fuel efficiency, and with budgetary concerns at the forefront of our minds we loaded the 'trunk' with our gear and promptly christened it the "green machine" (it is green).

The Green Machine

The second important step was striking out onto the highway, the logistical backbone of this gas guzzling nation. A sense of heightened reality washed over us: this was it, it was finally actually happening. Mike managed to successfully navigate his way to the right side of the road, and after a few hesitant miles we were confidently buzzing down the Interstate, dwarfed by hundreds of gargantuan trucks and surrounded on all sides by lush New Jersey forests. As the clouds closed in we raced across state lines into Pennsylvania!

Naturally, with our badass driving (and out of state plates) we had our first brush with the law. Mike spotted the 'blue thunder' bearing down from afar and after a few moments of sheer confusion, it dawned on us that as he wasn't overtaking us he probably wanted us to pull over. We considered flooring it as a night in a cell would take the strain off our hotel budget, but we did the sensible thing and pulled over. The state trooper seemed strangely baffled by our foreign licenses and his reasoning for pulling us over, and just as it looked like he was going to pull his gun out, he suddenly lost interest, handed Mike back his license and disappeared into the night.

Driving towards the sun in Indianna

After our first night in a motel, Tom got his hands on the wheel for the first time for a stint down the i90, heading west through the pastures of Ohio. The procession of corporate fast food outlets went by like a looped background in a cartoon until we decided to break off the interstate and find a small town for lunch. 

It was a pivotal moment as suddenly a whole new world of real human communities seemingly predating the Interstate, opened up. We found a charming diner for lunch, then continuing on through picturesque villages and past old fashioned farms, we vowed to avoid the interstate. Our new philosophy was rewarded when we stopped in Edgerton and in search of a drink, wandered into a dark bar to a frosty reception. By the time we left however, our new friends had insisted on paying for all our drinks and Darl, one of 16 siblings, was visibly upset when we had to turn down his invitation for a bean stew and a bed in Hicksville (No joke).

Darl (left) Paul and the F14 fighter plane electrician from Edgerton, Ohio.

Death in Queens and Life in Brooklyn

"Good evening officer" Tom stammers as the electric window winds down and the wing mirror reflects a mirage of red and blue light into the drivers' nervous faces. 

The state trooper's expression is obscured behind the uncompromising glare of his flashlight.

24 years of American film reference kick in, Mike sheepishly leans towards the passenger window and blurts, "Is there a problem officer?"  

"I was doing 80, and you were blowing me away! Where are you heading?"

"Err...Seattle?"

"What, in one night? you boys got a long way to go..."

We explain to him that we are delivering the vehicle to an old lady in Seattle on behalf of Autodriveaway, a car relocation specialist that we had discovered during our stay in New York, and that our client has imposed a gruelling 9 day schedule to cover the 3000 miles along one of the longest coast-to-coast routes on the planet.

As Mike's quivering hand presents the officer with his license, this explanation comes out as a barely audible whimper.

Clearly impressed by our professional driving credentials, the state trooper hands back Mike's license and disappears into the night. 

Tomorrow will be the 2 week anniversary of our arrival in New York City. Our hectic lifestyle has left us little time to share what we've been up to, in fact this is being typed up in a rare window of free time as we cruise into the night down Interstate 80 on our way through Pennsylvania, having just marginally escaped a night in state penitentiary.

During our stay in NYC we have been feverishly recording, observing and writing about our experiences, ranging from befriending newly wed ex-marine bikers and meeting a human canvas, to facing death in Queens and sketching life in Brooklyn. 

During our 9 day road trip to Seattle, we'll be keeping a log of our adventures on the road, and using the time to compile and present excerpts from our time in New York.