How I Got To (and Out of) Weston

3 years, 2 months ago Blog, Uncategorized 1

It was my fault that I lost control of the car. I shouldn’t have leaned on the gas. Now my heart was skipping a beat or six as the tractor trailer — as much of it as I could see in thirty foot visibility — loomed large off my right front bumper. Steady were my hands, but steadier still was the Pontiac’s traction control. Technology kicked in and the moment of danger passed me by, at least for the moment. The weather conditions included red-ink phrases like “high wind,” “blowing snow,” and my favorite asterisk, “freezing fog.” I resolved to not die in Idaho and to take it a little slower on southbound interstate fifteen.

I mention this in passing: Edward Weston was a photographer legendary for documenting the faces and landscapes of the Great Depression. I’m woefully uneducated in photography, but I’ve been making an effort to learn more. I’d spent an afternoon with Weston last month in the local library.

By and by, my rearview racked up the miles, and the sky cleared. My seven-day roadtrip was winding down, and I was honestly satisfied with everything I’d seen and done. My mental calculations suggested I had just enough fuel to make Salt Lake City. Perfect. I didn’t need any more adventure.

Or, did I?

Near the border before Utah, I saw an exit off the long, hypnotic fifteen for route thirty-six eastbound to a town called Weston, Idaho. This perplexed me. I double-checked. Neither route thirty-six off the fifteen — nor indeed Weston the destination – existed on my map! Remembering Edward Weston’s legend and glowing at the idea of uncharted territory, I yanked the wheel and took the exit.

Route thirty-six wended its rural way past remote creeks and hills, twists and turns, empty and deserted. I chewed up miles cheerfully, a sense of adventure sloshing around in my soul.

I slammed on the brakes.

I had less than a quarter tank of gas! What in blazes was I doing? I was maybe halfway to Weston. Maybe. I stopped in the middle of nowhere, with a choice to make. Keep going, not knowing if gasoline existed at any point ahead of me, or turn back to the known, the freeway, safety. Decisions, decisions.

I started on again. To Weston. Easy does it. I glanced at my phone. Bonus points for no reception. Of course there wasn’t. I turned off the radio because this was tense business. Still onward, over hills and valleys, coasting where possible.

I rolled into Weston to a few amusing signs. One announced a population of four-hundred twenty-five, the other led this way to “City Center” — two opposing concepts made me chuckle bitterly. Was there gas? So, city center sure, but, not a gas station in sight! Except my interloping outsider eyes didn’t see it immediately: A small, white pump outside a general store of some vaguely impossible decade. Of course. Relief.

I went into the store and announced that I’d like some gas.

Yeah? was the baffled reply.

Don’t I need to pay in advance?

No, sir.

All right, then.

I started pumping, transfixed by the analog dials spinning, spinning. Counting off the gallons as well as the spinning the years back into the past.

You’re a long way from home! A man’s voice behind me announced, slightly amused.

How could he know? Of course, the car had California plates. Otherwise, I’m sure I blended in seamlessly.

Sure am, I replied to the old man who had appeared from nowhere. Just passin’ through, I said. But he was already on his way. And, the pump has spun past the twenty-dollar mark I was shooting for. Oops. I went back in and paid twenty-two dollars to the now mute cashier.

I parked in the silent and deserted center of this tiny town, and started to walk around. More silence greeted me. I saw the City Office. I saw a peculiar enclave home to decades of cherished broken machines and, of course, a very ominous bomb. Welcome, I might not have been. I saw a curious schoolbus that was not of this earth. I saw Weston Park, strangely in memory of nobody at all. The sound of my footsteps on gravel and snow awakened the sun, which started to peer down disapprovingly. I took pictures.

And, there he was again. The old man was walking down the street towards me, a bundle of mail in his arm. I hailed him. He told me he was out getting his mail. It was his exercise. I introduced myself as Michael and offered my hand. He shook it warmly, and told me that Michael was his brother’s name. He told me he’d lived in Weston his whole life. I told him I liked it there. It was quiet and pretty. He told me he helped build the church behind me. It was nineteen fifty-two. No, no it was nineteen fifty-three. I asked if I could take his picture. Is your camera insured? he quipped. I snapped, and with that we bid each other good day.

I walked back to my car, and loaded my cameras into the back seat. Down the street, a loud buzzing. I looked up to see four-wheeled all-terrain-vehicle roll into the street, another human. But, it turned and sped off in another direction. I paused for a very long time.

Silence returned. Nothingness. Did I even remember my own name?

I climbed in to the car, far from home, and drove off out of Weston, Idaho, back towards the the fifteen and Utah beyond.

With a mostly full tank of gas and abnormally high spirits, I was fired up! I turned the radio back on. Incredibly, “Stranglehold” came on. One of my all-time favorite jams! With a giddy smile, lucky as sin, I leaned on the gas, turned up the volume, rounded a bend, and disappeared.