“Wow, sounds riveting,” Zach deadpans.
“It’s fun, honestly. And you can only play on super flat roads like this, so it’s a special game. We spot a point on the horizon, and we both guess how far away it is.”
“Pretty much what I expected. Riveting.”
“Hey. It’s more fun than it sounds. Okay, I’ll pick a spot, and we both guess. See that windmill up there? How far?”
Zach sizes up the target. “Uhhh…one and a half miles.”
“No way. That’s more like two and a half.”
“Well, let’s see. Speed this car up.” Zach slaps the dash.
I reset the trip odometer, and we both watch tenths of miles tick away. By the time it reads 1.0, we still have a way to go.
1.3 miles.
1.5 miles and still not there.
1.6 miles.
Zach cries out. “Lame. Is this Price Is Right rules? Like, no underbidding?”
“No, just straight-up the nearest guess wins.”
“Okay, I’m still in it.” Zach rubs his hands together.
The odometer is at 2.0, and the windmill is rapidly approaching.
“Come on, windmill. Get here.” He shakes his fists.
Just before we pass it, the odometer ticks to 2.1 miles, and Zach lets out a big groan. “Fine, you win. I want a rematch.”
I laugh. “See? It’s fun.”
“Shush. Rematch.”
We keep playing that for a while. It kills time and takes the tension out of the air. It works so well that we’re driving up to the Columbia River before I know it.
The road we’re on comes right up to the massive gorge. We’re on the edge of a high desert plateau that drops a thousand feet to the vast Columbia River. The land is barren, without a tree to be seen for miles. Only sagebrush and rocks dot the desolate landscape. The massive river runs through the middle of the gorge and is nearly a mile across. I pull the car over at a good vantage point, and we both get out. I walk over to the edge with binoculars from my backpack.
The river heads north and south for miles. Off to the south, a bridge spans it where Interstate 90 crosses. I’ve been worried about this part of our journey for a while. There are only a few ways to cross the Columbia River, and this is the primary route. If militia were guarding anywhere, this would be the spot to do it, at a choke point.
I focus the binoculars on the bridge, scanning the entire span. It looks clear. I don’t see any sign of people or cars. And then I spot it—the slightest bit of motion on the west bank near the bridge. A man dressed head to toe in combat gear, carrying an assault rifle, emerges from behind a large boulder. I scan the area and see camouflage netting. Behind it, there are several military vehicles.
I hang my head low. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
“The bridge is guarded. See for yourself. Look on the west bank.”
I hand the binoculars to Zach and point to where the men are.
“Yeah, that looks bad.” Zach nods. “Are they FLA?”
“I’m not sure. But it doesn’t matter. We want to avoid anybody with guns.”
“What are our other options?”
