The Sweatiest Road Trip Ever - Day 8 - Escape From Key West!

Day 8 - 

This is me, sweating through my shirt from walking across the parking lot to the van.

It seems I've been complaining a lot lately. The heat. The humidity. The crappy hotel coffee. The crappy hotel breakfasts. The sub-standard Cuban sandwiches.

Well, today we are leaving Key West and I will try to be upbeat and positive, like the ray of sunshine that I am.

On the plus side, this hotel is swanky and fancy so they don't provide any free coffee or breakfast at all.
No crappy hotel coffee or breakfast!
That's nice.

I took an early morning stroll around the hotel to try to get in as much walking as I can before we get in Squanket for many, many hours.
I like walking!
That's nice.

Do not swallow that water... especially if someone is breaking the rule above that.

Nobody who is ill with diarrhea should be in the pool where we swam yesterday!
That's nice.

Because they may be ill with diarrhea.

Nobody was touching or feeding the iguanas!
That's nice.

This was the smallest iguana I have ever seen. Most of them are the size of a kindergartner. 

When I got back to the room after my morning constitutional, Kerri was seated in a Dr. Evil chair, sipping non-hotel coffee.

Her coffee is... Evil!

My wife is hilarious, even first thing in the morning!
That's nice.

We packed up all our things and said goodbye to Key West.

Goodbye lovely view from our room.

Goodbye, untouched and unfed iguana.

Goodbye lovely pool area with nobody who is ill with diarrhea swimming in you. I hope.

Hello, highway.

Alex found a 110v. outlet next to his seat and made himself extra comfortable with a fan that he stole from Tori.

The ride back from Key West was much like the ride down, except in reverse, and with much, much more traffic.

I did suffer one bitter disappointment on the drive back north. I discovered that, somehow, we had missed a trip to Funland.

No, kids. We're not going to Disney. We're going to FUNLAND!

I couldn't figure out what makes it so fun and the mystery still haunts me.

There were other places that we didn't stop, either.

Look! They have antique cars you can drive! That's why it's for adults!

I will be installing one of these in our yard when we get home. Don't tell Kerri. It's a surprise.

I will also be carving some trees to look like these. Another surprise. Shhh!

We opted not to stop here.

Because, seriously - Where is it?!?

We also missed the Shed Stacking World Cup Finals.

And the world famous Beer Can Shorts.

But we did have another chance to see the natural beauty of the Keys.

Speed and crippling depression from seeing what we did to their islands.

Honestly, the rest of the day was spent driving. Or, at times, sitting in the van and not driving because the traffic was so bad.

The big highlight of the day was that, through an effective campaign of whining and sniveling and sobbing, I got Kerri to make a slight detour from the highway as we drove along the outskirts of Fort Lauderdale.

Were we going to pay a quick, surprise visit to Tori to check in on her?
Nooo...


Were we getting off the highway to avoid this guy and his Dangerous Appliance Stacking show?

Noooo...

Did we drive a few short miles out of our way to get another AMAZING CUBAN SANDWICH?

Maybeeeee...

Did Alex turn his nose up at an amazing, fresh Cuban sandwich and, instead, subject his body the horror of a burger from an international chain, specializing in crappy burgers?

Maybeeee...

Did we get stuck in more traffic?

Obviously.

Kerri is a trooper. She drove on, and on, and on, and on.

Past more scenic landfill mountains.

Ohhhh, Mt. Stinky!

Past an assortment of super classy bumper stickers.

Romantic!

Past more attractions that I was not allowed to attend.

Please let me go to Machine Gun America! Look! There are scantily clad blondes there!

Long past a beautiful sunset.

Long into the night, and past the longest stretch of No Parking signs I have ever seen.

Wait - can I park here? Along the highway?

We drove all the way from Key West to Tallahassee. A mere 13 hours in Squanket.

We found a hotel and I slept soundly knowing, because I asked in advanced, that there would be free, crappy, hotel coffee awaiting me when I awoke.

That's nice.

Wood-Fired Pizza Oven Saga - Part 3 - Digging Holes and Filling Them Up Again

This pizza had better be delicious.

After raising the roof, the next step is to prepare a spot for the actual oven.

Wood-fired oven are, not surprisingly, rather heavy. Especially so if the pizza has a lot of toppings on it. And mine will.

I've been gathering locally sourced, free-range, organic rocks from our property to use for the base of the oven.

My neighbors have enjoyed the sight of me, staggering up the street, pushing a wheelbarrow with a  rock the size and weight of a '56 Buick in it.

They have taken to sitting on their porches, sipping cool drinks, and calling out encouraging words to me as I pass by.

"Wow. that looks heavy," they will say.
"Sure is hot today, isn't it?" they will ask.
"You look tired," they will observe.
"This cool, refreshing lemonade sure is cool and refreshing, isn't it?" they will inquire rhetorically of each other.

Rocks are really, really, REALLY heavy.

I have discovered that simply carting rocks around in a wheelbarrow and dumping them on our lawn isn't enough. These rocks need to be assembled, much like cheap, Scandinavian furniture. But much, much heavier.

In order to keep the oven base solid and happy, I dug a hole about 2 feet deep and then - wait for it - I filled it back in with gravel!

It reminded me of that old nursery rhyme:

Dig a hole
Then fill it up.
You'll sweat a lot.
A lot, a lot, a lot,
And all night long,
Your back will ache.
A lot, a lot, a lot.

On the plus side, thanks to my new roof, I'm not working in the sun. On the less-plus side, it's still really hot here. 

Kerri wanted a picture of what I looked like before I sweated myself into a piece of Marty-Jerky™.
Too late.

I know you're all jealous of my wheelbarrow. 

Is it deep enough?
Not yet.
Keep digging! 

Fun, fun, fun.

My shirt is incredibly absorbent.

After about a bajilliondy hours of digging*, my hole was deep enough to get filled back in.

*Kerri claims it was an hour. She lies.

And after all that digging, it's like the hole was never there.

It only took 7 wheelbarrow loads of gravel that I dug up on the far side of our property to fill that hole back in. I tamped it down and now, I'm ready for that pizza.

Which will be ready in a few months.

Kerri wanted to highlight the extreme moisture-wicking properties of my shirt.

Behold:

Can someone please get me a drink of water?

Please?

Next up:

Moving big rocks from their happy homes in the ground into a huge, round pile.

Stay tuned.

Day 15 - Hot Sand and The Trash Trough™

Day 15
Walnut, CA - Williams, AZ
Time in Transit - Many, many hours
Total Miles Driven - A lot
View From Hotel - A Small Church and a Soccer Field


I may have mentioned the fact that Tori has some sort of strange obsession with California beaches. Today, possibly due to brain damage from the skull cooking temperatures we have been experiencing, we agreed to take her to Santa Monica Pier, a beach that was attractive to us because it was the closest beach we could possibly have gone to.

Heather and John treated us to a wonderful breakfast at their home and then were kind enough to ned us their Fast Pass for the highway or, as those kooky Californians say, "the freeway" which, now that I think about it, should actually be called "the payway".

The Fast Pass is a small transceiver that you put in your car that allows you to drive in a restricted lane. Theoretically, this allows you to bypass all the poor people who are stuck in the free lanes. It only works on the supposition that everybody isn't going to buy one.

Fortunately, there were still a few people who didn't own one and our 30 mile trip to the beach only took 94 hours.

I think I see L.A.

"Take I-10 west and it basically ends at Santa Monica pier," we were told. "It's completely impossible to miss it unless you are a moron, the likes of which the world has never seen. The road literally ends on the pier."

Much like the rare and elusive Niagara Falls, I somehow managed to miss the pier.

In my defense, it is a smallish pier and the ferris wheel and roller coaster on it only served to further camouflage it.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

We pulled into a parking lot a few hundred yards north of the pier so that Tori could have the experience of walking along the beach.

Yeah. that's it! I didn't miss the pier; I drove past it on purpose.

Santa Monica's scenic bathrooms.

We got out of the van and were assaulted by the scorching sun. Dizzying waves of heat blurred the air.

Convenient "Trash Troughs™" are an attractive feature along the beaches. 

A wide selection of garbage adds a splash of color to the otherwise dull monotony of the sand.

I'd like to take a minute to point out my feet in the photo above. Not because they are beautiful or anything, but because they are naked.

A boring, but temporarily important fact about me is that I do not like sandals. I like wearing shoes or going barefoot. Sandals represent a sort of wishy-washy, vague middle-ground that I don't care to visit.

Generally, this does not pose a problem for me. Generally, I am not trekking across 73,000 miles of super-heated sand, however.

The sun, as it is wont to do, was shining brightly and as a result, the sand on the beach was about 3 degrees shy of being melted into glass.

We began walking toward the water.

"Oh, my!" I exclaimed. "This sand is slightly warm."

We walked on.

"Goodness me," I exclaimed, walking a bit more quickly. "It certainly is toasty."

The water seemed to be getting farther away somehow.

"Dear me!" I exclaimed. "Does anyone else smell cooking flesh?"

I shielded my eyes against the sun and looked to the water, my one chance of cooling my feet, which now seemed to be several hundred miles away.

"Jiminy Cricket!" I exclaimed. "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!"

My scream rolled across the beach, merging with and augmenting the screams of other foolish souls who had dared to cross the beach barefoot. Our collective scream is, no doubt, still causing seismic disturbances throughout coastal California.

I splashed into the water and, kicking aside some of the floating garbage that had escaped from the Trash Trough™, stood in the roiling cloud of steam that engulfed me as my feet cooled down.

We walked along the waterline , passing people with asbestos feet and slightly flattened heads who were selling all sorts of things on the beach.

Fruit? Water? First aid ointment for your feet?

Soon, we reached Santa Monica Pier, which I need to emphasize, I drove past in purpose, okay?

We sauntered along the pier, the splintery wood adding a bold sort of texture to the thrumming pain in my scalded feet. Fortunately, the pier is designed specifically to keep your mind away from the pain you are in so you can spend money.

You can sign up for trapeze classes. 

You can purchase a seven inch long Bob Marley joint from these kids who were rolling one on the pier.
In front of the police.

You can get some imported chain restaurant food.

You can take a  ride in the DEA helicopter, circling the pier, looking for those kids with the joint.

You can go play "What's This? Will It Kill Me?" in one of the mysterious spiral piles of garbage along the beach.

You can gaze in awe-struck wonder at the unnatural green of the water near the pier.

You can be my daughter, pretending that you are modeling this year's white dress line.

You can match wits against Sam, The Savage Seagull as he tries to steal the food you just bought at that crappy chain restaurant.

When we had absorbed all the fun, sun, pain, and splinters our feet could handle, we began the long, arduous walk back across the burning Sands of Endless Suffering to Towanda, who was baking in the sun, eager to incinerate us with a blast of hell-fire as we opened the doors.

We made a quick stop back to Heather and John's to return their PayWayPass (thanks, guys!) and then, we headed off to Arizona to see The Grand Canyon.

I'm amazed that almost every state we traveled in, west of Illinois, had parts that looked exactly like this.

This little rainbow nub tried and tried, but he just couldn't make it.

This is NOT The Grand Canyon.

A scant 7 hours and 413 miles later, there we were, in Williams, AZ, near the south entrance to The Grand Canyon.

At 11:30 at night.

We decided that it would probably be easier to see in the daylight and we got a hotel.

My only requirement for the night, excluding the requirement that no cars come crashing through the front wall of my room as I sleep, was that there was an ice machine so I could cool the burns on my feet.

Tomorrow: Scenic Photos of Morons at The Grand Canyon and Horrifying Medical Grade pictures of the actual burns and blisters on the soles of my feet.