Night Driving with Dick Dorworth

By Chris La Tray, 11-26-07

	Caption: No hurry, Mr. Plow Driver, we ain't goin' nowhere soon!

Friday the 16th I went to a reading/book signing at Shakespeare and Company Books in Missoula for Night Driving: Invention of the Wheel & Other Blues, by Ketchum, ID’s Dick Dorworth. Dorworth’s publisher, Livingston’s First Ascent Press, calls the book “a splendid record of one man’s personal journey through the backroads and mountain ranges of the world; woven into the history of a wildly experimental, consciousness-expanding era. Part Edward Abbey; part Jack Kerouac; part Thomas Wolfe; part Hunter S. Thompson; Night Driving establishes Dorworth as THE ‘beat’ writer of the mountain community and he may well go down in history as the Godfather of the modern road trip.”

Given I travel a lot these days—have been for several years, really—and that I am in the process of putting together my own project related to travel (equally inspired by another great book, Deer Hunting with Jesus by Joe Bageant), I thought it would be worthwhile to experience the vision of another writer sharing a personal history with the world. I knew nothing of Dick Dorworth going in, it just seemed like a cool book written by what would have to be an interesting guy.

“Interesting” is only one adjective to use when describing Mr. Dorworth. I’m not a skiing or climbing buff, otherwise it is likely his name would have been familiar to me. The guy is a pioneer in both fields: a former world record holder in speed skiing (the first to exceed 105 mph strapped to two sticks), as well as former US ski team coach. A denizen of Yosemite Valley’s storied Camp 4, in 1968 he joined Yvon Chouinard (Patagonia), Chris Jones, Lito Tejada-Flores and Douglas Tompkins (North Face) in the 3rd overall ascent of Cerro Fitzroy in Patagonia. Throughout his career as athlete, adventurer, coach and guide his writing has appeared in publications including Ski, Skiing, Powder, Snow Country, Mountain Gazette, Alpinist, Men’s Journal, Climbing, Mariah, Wild Duck Review, Summit, Backpacker, and even here at New West. Today he is a columnist and “the guy who fills in for whoever is on vacation” for Ketchum’s Idaho Mountain Express. 

I read Night Driving on a flight that took me from Missoula to Minneapolis, then from Minneapolis to Wichita, KS. The trip began ominously; it snowed Sunday night and on into Monday. The power was out at my house when I got up, so I showered, dressed and packed by candlelight (fun, but put my usual anxiety over “what have I forgotten?” on steroids). A power line, laden with heavy, wet snow, was draped across the neighbor’s mailbox and over my front yard. This all contributed to a long, but not unexpected, delay at the airport. An 8:30 AM departure was pushed back to 4:00 PM, which caused me to arrive in Wichita about 8 hours late. Thus concluded what would turn out to be the easiest leg of this particular trip.

While reading the last essay in the collection, “Fourth Time Around,” I reflected on bus travel. After filming a ski movie with Warren Miller in Europe, Dick and his companion bolt early from overseas, eager to get back to the mountains. They land in LA and take a bus bound for Reno with the ultimate goal to immerse themselves in the blessed Sierras. I’ve never traveled by bus, and I’ve heard so many stories that it is something I’d like to do one day, just for the experience. As Dick writes, “Everyone can be found in the Greyhound bus depot. Everyone except the rich.” Sounds like my kind of place. Some of the best stories I’ve heard begin with, “So I’m on the Greyhound headed for. . . .”

I can certainly relate to the feeling shared in the story of being somewhere and suddenly needing to take whatever steps necessary just to get somewhere else. Big cities, the hustle and bustle, the crush of people, the noise and clouds of exhaust . . . it can evoke a desperation like nothing else I’ve experienced. Several days spent at National Manufacturing Week at McCormick Place in Chicago once left me so strung out I all but wanted to go Grizzly Adams on the world. Recently, waiting for a shuttle at BWA in Baltimore, MD, I noted the massive ramps and skyways and reflected that there was more concrete in my immediate vicinity than probably exists in all of Missoula. These monuments to civilization, as interesting as some may be, can summon an onset of claustrophobia that manifests so quickly as to border on what I’m certain some people experience as panic attacks. It doesn’t happen to me often, but when it does I find I just want to get the hell away.

Travel back from Wichita was uneventful; my plane arrived on schedule in Minneapolis, then after a couple-hour layover and a slight boarding delay I was headed home. It was about midnight on Wednesday morning when we finally got into Missoula airspace and were informed that the clouds were too low for us to land, and that we would divert to Great Falls in hopes of being able to land in Missoula a little later. Turns out the new planes Northwest is flying between Minneapolis and Missoula (the Embraer 175 Jet) are so new that they don’t have clearances for the types of weather they will be encountering just about every week going into my home town. Should be an interesting next few weeks, given I have trips scheduled for nearly every one of them.

We landed in Great Falls. The airport was essentially shut down. What that meant to us passengers was that without TSA people to screen anyone, if we left the plane we would not be allowed to get back on; then, if the weather cleared and the plane left we would be stuck in Great Falls. All but one passenger decided to tough it out on board – the one guy disembarked in an angry huff (can’t really blame him, I recognized him as a participant in the Monday morning debacle as well). The rest of us waited.

And waited.

How do you kill time on an airplane planted on the tarmac, snow blowing and swirling outside, in the wee hours of the morning? I was seated in first class (auto-upgrades being a benefit of all the miles I log), and we chatted a bit, read, some dozed, but mostly tried to endure peacefully. It’s interesting to observe the flight attendants evolve from “professional” service providers into regular folks stuck in the same irksome situation: in this case 20-somethings fresh out of college, getting goofy with the passing hours. The conversation wasn’t particularly interesting, but it seemed that throughout the plane no one was getting too peeved. I’m certain they were, they were just being quiet about it. The most amusing event was when some older fellow walked up into first class, looked around with his hands on his hips for a couple moments, and then turned to return to the back of the plane without saying a word. He did not pass quietly: clearing the third row, which is where I just happened to be seated, he unleashed a fuselage-rattling fart that did not go unnoticed by any of us in the vicinity. “I think he just fired a shot across our bow,” I remarked, and the giddiness of the hour made it a lot funnier than it may have otherwise been.

We sat on that thing until 4 AM, waiting for the weather in Missoula to relent. It never did. Finally the captain pulled the plug on the flight (with only 20 minutes left before the crew reached their time limit before having to be off for 8 hours) and we stumbled down the icy stairs and into the Great Falls terminal. Nearly two hours later the buses, which had been initially promised us in 30 minutes, arrived to haul us to Missoula.

I enjoyed the adventure. When we first diverted to Great Falls I was bummed; lately my travel has been a nightmare every week and I was convinced Monday’s debacle fulfilled this trip’s frustration quota. Once the initial irritation wore off, however, I settled in to enjoy what might happen. I felt for the people whose plans were being impacted by our inconvenience, but realistically that is all it amounted to: an inconvenience to the tune of about 8 – 10 hours. In the big picture, not a huge deal; there are certainly worse things that can happen when airplanes collide with bad weather and regional airports! Some folks thought otherwise. They kvetched about “disaster preparations” as if our event were even a disaster. One woman with a thick East Coast accent blurted, “I mean, what if this were a terrorist attack?!” I actually laughed out loud at that one. A terrorist attack? Please. Others urged everyone to write letters, which probably isn’t a bad idea, considering the issue of flight clearances is also what hosed me on Monday. One woman declared, “Well, I am writing President Bush, because this travel nonsense must be stopped!” Yes, ma’am, I’m sure he’ll get right on that. Part of what I appreciated was the idea that so many folks expect the world to run full speed 24 x 7. Montana doesn’t work that way, and damn if I don’t love that about it.

On to the bus we clambered! Though it wasn’t the typical Greyhound experience, I can now say that the big diesel mode of getting from Point A to Point B has been added to my travel resume. Despite cresting the 24-hours-without-sleep threshold, I enjoyed the ride, though a working heater would have added a nice touch. There aren’t many prettier drives at dawn than Highway 200 from Great Falls to Missoula, especially during a snowstorm that breaks with the sunlight. I was getting home, I knew I was going to blow off work that day in favor of sleep, and I got to be a passenger and look out the window. Saw an elk, several deer, and lots of gorgeous countryside. Life could have been a lot worse.

What does all this have to do with Night Driving? For me, the ultimate point Dick makes in his book, and during his reading, is that life is to be lived. I’m planning my future based on not having to continue this gig that doesn’t do a lot for me emotionally or spiritually, but until the day comes when I leave it behind I am going to live the life that is happening. Relaxing, taking things as they came, and looking for some humor and enlightenment instead of just enduring salvaged this trip. It became something worth writing about, not just a gripe shared over Thanksgiving dinner. I think Dick Dorworth would appreciate the sentiment.