Welcome to Washington

So far, my first impressions of Washington are clouded (get it?!) by the difficulties of the move. At 7:30 it is barely light outside, and by 4:30 it will be growing dark. I’ve never been a bronzed sun worshipper (stop, stop laughing), but this is ridiculous. And my viking bones tell me it will get worse before it gets better. I have not, as so many people predicted and as my husband has done, fallen instantly and madly in love.

One major difference between New York and Washington is how green it is here during a time of year that, back east, is already scrubby and grey. The whole state looks like a Christmas tree lot. I am hoping that, at some point as I shake off the exhaustion and weariness of moving and the sadness of leaving friends and family so far behind, I will find some comfort in being surrounded by life that is both so old and so eternally fresh.

The drive west was difficult for many reasons, not the least of which was snowy and icy weather along the mountain passes of the Rockies and the Cascades. It’s spooky passing signs that tell you to return to the previous town when the light is flashing. At one town, we had to detour off the main highway because winds were gusting at 60 miles an hour that day, equivalent to a tropical storm.

I’ve never been particularly enchanted by the idea of The Great American West. My enchantment has always been for New England. When my brother and sister-in-law moved to Massachusetts for the first time many years ago, I had an almost lustful envy for their Salem, Mass., zip code, which started with 01-. The fact that their house number was a single digit drove me into wild fits that could have gotten me burned at the stake in another century. I love the cobblestone streets lined by colonial buildings.

My appreciation for the mythology of the West has always been intellectual, instead of visceral. I get that other people get it.

Then I drove from Billings to Missoula, and something happened. I saw how the sky can make a seamless arch between mountains in a very particular way that can only be called “Big.” I felt the ancient, heaving rumble – older than any Massachusetts zip code – that pushes rock miles into the sky. In the backseat, my 6-year-old daughter Sparkle pointed ahead. “I see myself on top of that mountain!” she marvelled.

I saw her, too. And I saw myself. I was light-headed in the icy clouds. I sprouted wings and took a free-falling dive into a river for fish. I prowled on all fours. I heard the squeal of saddle leather. I rode the range. I bellied up at the saloon. I had a showdown. I built a railroad. I chased down a roadrunner and ate that fucker whole.

Now, nearly as far west as a person can go without being in the Far East, I am calling on that vision of myself on top of the mountain, reins in hand, ready to push on to the next town no matter what lights are flashing.

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