Tolkkinen: America is still great, awesome, beautiful and friendly

EASTERN OREGON - The modest road sign in eastern Oregon whipped by too fast for us to read.

Did it say next gas 98 miles? Or was it 89? Or 189?

We considered going back to check but didn’t. We had well over half a tank of gas and figured we were fine.

Except the next gas station didn’t look like a gas station. No canopy, no bright lights, no huge sign warning us to stop. Just a run-down little building so unassuming that we zipped right by. And the gas station after that, 80 or 100 miles or whatever down the road, was closed. We gulped and pulled back onto the road. Less than a quarter tank left, and another 100-some miles to the next filling station.

It was our introduction to eastern Oregon. We were driving through Harney County, one of the biggest counties in the U.S. and one of the most sparsely populated, with less than one person per square mile. It struck me that the lack of prominent warnings reflected this vast place; its isolation must foster a degree of self-reliance unusual in today’s interconnected world. Plan ahead, and don’t blame anyone else if you run out of gas.

Cattle trucks barreled toward us around curves and down steep grades. We passed pronghorns and cattle and dry, scrubby land as the gas tank grew lighter and the sun dropped lower. About 12 miles outside Burns, population 2,030, the gas light went on. It’s a little unnerving, driving on E after dark. Every mile we drove I thought, “That’s one less mile to walk.” I didn’t relax until we rolled into a 24-hour gas station.

It was Day 3 of our family’s 10-day trip through the Great American West in June. South Dakota, Wyoming, Idaho, Oregon, California, Nevada, Utah. There’s nothing like a road trip to get you out of your bubble to appreciate all that our country is, especially when it feels like we all hate each other and can’t get along. And not a road trip along interstate highways, either. To see real Americana, take the two-lane roads that drop to 30 mph in towns.

And our country is enormous. And gorgeous. There were times I felt like an ant moving across the landscape. There are places that will rock you back on your heels in awe.

At a rest stop in Wyoming, we didn’t know until we read the signs that 175 years before, pioneers had also paused there. Behind the bathrooms, a huge mound of granite curved out of the earth. It was Independence Rock, a landmark for the Oregon and California trails and for Mormon travelers. It was so named because they typically arrived around July 4, Independence Day, in time to cross the mountain passes before winter. Many travelers chiseled or painted their names in the rock, and you can still see some of those names today and imagine the person who carved them, how they stood then exactly where you stand now, yet they’re gone now, just as you will be too, someday, and it’s OK. The circle of life never ceases.

In California, we visited Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park, the home of some of the biggest, oldest trees on the planet.

They’ve been dubbed “ambassadors from the past,” but they’re also ambassadors to the future. Redwoods rarely sprout from seed, a ranger told us. Instead, they grow as clones of the existing giants, sprouting from their bases. If they survive, they could live to the year 3000 or beyond, and it’s hard to fathom what human civilization will look like then, and whether someone from the future will step where you are and gaze up with the same awe that you feel.

We drove home through Salt Lake City, settled by Mormons, or the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, as they’re formally known. The broad streets allowed horse-drawn wagons to turn around in its early days, and today a gilded statue of the Angel Moroni blows his horn from atop the temple. It can be seen from nearly all quarters of the city, and it reminded me of how Minneapolis allows Muslims to broadcast their call to prayer, how our country can encompass so many perspectives and beliefs.

On the day we were there, Salt Lake City was preparing for Pride Fest. One of its streets is named Harvey Milk Boulevard, after the first openly gay man elected to public office in California. Ten years ago, the state passed the “Utah Compromise,” protecting LGBTQ people from discrimination in housing and jobs, and the rights of religious people to practice their beliefs. The state might not be LGBTQ Shangri-La, but people co-exist.

In Faith, S.D., we watched young Native kids riding horseback toward town. In Wyoming, a former saloon keeper with fading eyesight told us about her family connection to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and also about a long-ago customer, a Jewish man who survived a concentration camp. On the California coast, as gulls squealed over the wild waves, a mother volunteered her adult daughter to take our picture, and afterwards they sat in their car, laughing and listening to music, watching the sun go down.

How immense our country is! There’s room for all of us here. As Woodie Guthrie sang, this land is your land. This land is my land.