On our second trip to Pullman, I continued on I-90 instead of State Route 26 as we crossed the Columbia River. I wanted to try another route and have options for future trips to visit my eldest at Wazzu.
Route 26 is a one-lane driving experience, whereas the I-90 always has one or two passing lanes. It’s a more leisurely drive.
We climb the eastern side of the Columbia’s canyon walls towards George, home to The Gorge Amphitheater. Last summer, two women were shot and killed during the Beyond Wonderland music festival at a nearby campground. A 26-year-old man said he had taken psychedelics that made him feel like he was going to die. Without a gun, he would have just had a bad trip.
We took a lunch break at Schree’s Truck Stop. Since Fat Burger was closed, we ate at Subway. The George Sandoval Market and a food truck outside looked delicious but crowded. Many Spanish-speaking men and women were sitting out front and socializing. Some were drinking, others were bloodshot and wobbly.
I’ve noticed agricultural workers in cornfields as pickup trucks haul water and Porta Potties along the edges of the corn rows. I learned that the number of domestic workers in Washington State has decreased due to the H-2A Temporary Agricultural Workers Program. Temp workers generally have fewer attachments than domestic workers, so they are preferred for economic reasons. Domestic workers have roots and rights.
Although the law now requires hourly wages, many workers prefer piecemeal work because it incentivizes them to work faster and make more money. Hourly wages can be a pay cut.
Inadequate housing, racism, mental health issues like anxiety and depression, limited healthcare, and addiction are common concerns for workers.
The Subway is inside the truck stop, a standard convenience store with restrooms. Some foods cater to agricultural workers. The restroom is disgusting, with puddles around urinals, wet toilet paper mixed in, and missing tiles with rust-colored drips. Traffic is busy with a mix of travelers passing through, sun-leathered locals, the Latino worker community, and, on occasion, Gorge concertgoers from cities and suburbs grabbing munchies, alcohol, and smokes. I fall in the city folk passing-through bucket.
Mulleted young men in work gear buy giant energy drinks and jump in their trucks. A glassy-eyed man holds a 12-pack of Coors Light by the cardboard handle and walks furtively around the building, out of sight. At Subway, though, we all know the rules.
Near Sprague, we head south on State Route 23. It's a winding single-lane road through miles of remote dry farmland. Harvester tracks leave attractive designs in the waves. No one is driving south with me for 70 miles until I get closer to Colfax. Sometimes, a vehicle passes going North. Otherwise, humanity is absent.
I drive through a quaint Main Street with old buildings and storefronts in St. John, but many look closed, and I don't see a single person. It looked like a Hollywood set and felt unsettling. Growing up in a populated New York suburb, I can easily be terrified by folk horror. Fed a steady diet of seventies and eighties horror, I know a flat tire could reveal a town's secret.
I'm relieved when I see a sign for Pullman 🪧.
