Tribute to My Car
By Jeannine Patané • September 2005

     You, a 1993 sea green Toyota Turcel, are so much more than a mere machine. No one will ever understand the relationship we had for the six years I drove you. You were often my home and sanctuary. You let me soundly sleep, read books, write letters, eat meals, study maps, transport supplies and friends and have phone conversations; you were my support and affordable way of spontaneous travel throughout North America.
     But now I’m going places where you can’t take me; my pace has changed and I’m traveling differently. It’s not fair or feasible to ask you to patiently wait for my return, whenever that may be. We bid farewell without sorrow, only the pleasant memories of our journeys. You were a trooper of a travel mate, and you took me places I wouldn’t have gone otherwise.
     I did my best to take care of you and keep you maintained, and over time, I became familiar with your idiosyncrasies. I knew when something wasn’t right, and I remedied problems as soon as I could. If there comes a time when I own another vehicle, I have you to thank for all that you’ve taught me. May your next driver treat you as well, if not better, than I did.

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     The following journal extract was written during my road trip from California to Alaska, October 2002:

Reading Maps in the Moonlight

     The sun was at its highest point in the day as I cruised North on Interstate 5 through California, and the day’s heat had me stripped down to my bra as I drove with my left hand dancing in the wind out of the driver’s window. A natural breeze was my cooling method of choice over processed air conditioning. The car’s radio was tuned to an alternative Chico station, giving the moment an appropriate rhythm to the sound of Pearl Jam. My car approached the rear of another 18-wheeler. I gently pushed on the turn signal lever and began to pass. The truck driver craned his neck to look at me in his rear-view mirror. I passed, and he laid on his horn, letting me know he approved of my driving garments. I smirked and took another sip from a warm bottle of iced tea.
     After I pulled back into the right lane, the California Highway Patrol passed me, making my eyes instinctively check my 65-mile speed limit. Intense odors of cow manure ran up my nose as I went by grazing fields. Someone’s dog, a blue heeler, lay dead on the side of the interstate. Unfortunate dog. Sport cars with boy drivers wearing baseball caps, and blonde-haired women driving shiny bright-colored pickups passed by me, too fast to take in the day’s surroundings.
     Getting off Interstate 5, the Oregon back roads became winding, turning through farmland. The sides of the road displayed sagebrush, white crosses with plastic flowers faded by the sun, fields of dried amber crop and crows sitting on fences. A rumbling motorcycle zoomed by. I put a Counting Crows tape in the tape player. “Oh I’m driving on a freeway beneath this graveyard western sky; gonna set fire to the city and out in the desert we’re gonna ride.”
     Farther north, night had begun to blanket the sky. I spotted a shooting star and made a wish. An oncoming truck driver flashed his headlights to warn me about the grazing deer on the side of the road ahead. My eyes began to get heavy. A rest area was spotted around 12:30AM, so I parked there under the moonlight and stars.
     During my six-hour slumber with two sleeping bags, the full moon had made its way around the sky and its light shone into the car. It was so bright that I could read the well-worn road maps by the light. The engine was started and I continued through gorges that produced a morning fog. Speed limit sign numbers jumped around—50, 65, 70 miles per hour. Adopt-a-Highway signs were frequent. Many residences consisted of mobile homes, utility pickup trucks parked next to the homes and farm equipment that sat in fields. Some homes had the lights on as the occupants began their early day. As the sun began to rise, its light touched the higher mountain peaks, sliding downwards towards my climbing vehicle, and we met as I crested a mountain pass. However, the moon seemed to move slower as it continued to be visible in the sky until mid-morning.
     There was construction ahead on a Washington State road. Merge right and wait in line for a pilot car. I pulled out another stick of Trident gum, took off my sweater and put on some deodorant. Personal hygiene is nice to have at arm’s reach on the road. My toothbrush was tucked in the passenger’s sun visor next to the sunglasses case. A roll of toilet paper lay on the passenger seat for quick pit stops. It wasn’t long before the pilot car arrived to lead the caravan of vehicles through the construction.
      As I climbed altitude on Route 155, north of the Coulee Dam, the sunlight and the tree shadows interplayed their passing dance. A few oncoming drivers gave me a friendly steering wheel wave. The fall foliage colors were brilliant against a blue sky. Greens, reds, oranges, yellows and browns. There were miles and miles of apple orchards. Soon I would cross the border into Canada.
     On my way to Prince George, British Columbia, I observed that more log homes replaced trailer homes, and moose crossing signs replaced the many deer crossing signs. The scent of burning wood frequently made its way to me. Towns became more spread out with more highway kilometers to separate them. I put a Dave Matthews tape in the car’s cassette player. The driver’s window was opened only a few inches as the weather got colder, and temperature fluctuations made the crack in my windshield spread further. I was getting anxious to get back home by the following evening, and it was clear I was getting closer. Heading north, I saw the first vehicle with Alaska plates. It was headed south with a U-Haul trailer behind it. Dogsleds on top of a truck rolled by. The speed limit was 100 kmh, but my anxiousness pushed 110 kmh.
     North of Dawson Creek the evening sun appeared out from the fog and the fog turned into puffy clouds. The leaves on the trees turned from golden remnants to being off the trees completely. Logging trucks rumbled down the road. I changed tapes to one an old partner made for me, titled, “Just 4 You Babe.” It was time for another pit stop. I knew I was getting closer to home when I could pull over on a stretch of highway, pee on the side of the road and not worry about being seen by traffic. Continuing on, the low position of the setting sun cast a profiled, long shadow of the car. The shadow fell against the golden grass that formed the easement on the Alcan Highway. I filled my car with gas for the last time that evening, and continued through heavy snowfall on the mountain passes.
     When driving into snow at night while looking directly ahead, it can appear as if you’re doing Mach two through the universe with the hypnotic snow appearing as stars flying by your spacecraft. Fortunately there was some maniac in a mini van that passed me, and I made it my challenge to stay close enough to see their tail lights and let them guide me through the snowy course. As we approached the highest pass, the clouds were left beneath us like a sea of softness. We drove out of the storm by going higher than the clouds. The surrounding snow-covered peaks reflected the moonlight, and green Northern Lights danced in the sky in front of the stars. It was heaven at night. I slowed my speed, without the need for further guidance, to take the scene in. As I began to descend, my fuel got low and I got dangerously tired until I made it to a closed gas station at 1:30AM to park for the night.
     My car was covered with a light dusting of snow when I pulled the sleeping bags off me later that morning at the gas station. It was 6:00 and the station was open now; I refueled and got a cup of the day’s first batch of coffee. Whitehorse was a few hundred kilometers away and I was pushing 130 kmh in the Yukon morning light. The roads were clear of snow. I was close to home. The multi-dimensional sky was colorful with layered clouds and surreal light. I got to US Customs, and for the first time, they let me pass through with minimal questions. The officer must have seen me glowing in the face, happy to be going home.
     The trip into Fairbanks was quicker than I expected, giving me time to shower at the Laundromat, stock up on provisions and get my mail before I settled down at home with some dinner and a glass of wine. I was ready for a long night’s sleep. With another 3,800-mile road trip to add to my memories, I couldn’t have accomplished it in a better vehicle.