Fourteen thousand years ago, Lake Bonneville overflowed the natural dam of Red Rock Pass, sending millions of gallons of water crashing over the terrain, ripping the earth open, and carving a 600-foot-deep scar across the state of Idaho. The flooding surged all the way to the Pacific Ocean, forever changing the landscapes of Idaho and Washington.
A landscape once swallowed by water and disaster now stretches before me as I drive along Interstate 84 to Boise, Idaho. And my cousin has to pee.
Thankfully for him, there are no longer any signs of the dramatic flood that once covered this land thousands of years ago. Only bleak brown hills roll past the windows, and there isn’t a rest stop in sight.
The drive to Boise is long and boring. Tumbleweeds roll across the highway like something out of an old western.
“I have to pee so bad,” my cousin Cort exclaims.
I look at my maps. We’re in the middle of nowhere, and the nearest rest stop is forty-five minutes away.
“I can’t wait that long,” he groans.
“Just pull over,” I say. “You’re a man. It’s easy.”
“No, I’m not doing that.”
“Fine. Then suffer.”
Two miles later, he suddenly points out the windshield. “There!”
Off the highway sits a gas station.
“It’s not on the map,” I say.
We pull in slowly.
In the middle of an empty field stands an old Mexican-style building with peeling yellow paint and exactly two gas pumps. A corral made of chicken wire sits out front. Inside it, two donkeys and several llamas stare at us.
“Llamas!”, I exclaim!
I hop out of the car and run over to them. You can’t see their faces because their fur is so overgrown. They look like walking brown cotton balls. I pet the back of one of their heads. It just stares at me, munching on hay.
“I think these are alpacas,” Cort says.
“I thought that alpacas were smaller.”
Cort shrugs his shoulders.
“Either way, it’s weird that they’re here, at a gas station in the middle of nowhere.”
The donkeys have noticed us and march over. We scratch their heads and pat their backs.
A dusty gumball machine labeled “Animal Feed 25¢” sits by the door. Cort flicks me a quarter.
“I’m finding the bathroom.”
He steps toward the entrance and freezes.
NO RESTROOM.
The words are painted in thick black letters across the glass.
He lets out a moan. “I really have to go!”
“Makes sense why it’s not on the map,” I say, pouring pellets into my palm.
Cort trudges towards me, defeated. I hand him some pellets in sympathy, and he holds out his hand to one of the donkeys.
The donkey lunges forward at Cort and releases a sound that I can only describe as a scream.
Cort shrieks. He flings the pellets into the air and runs back to the truck while I double over laughing. The donkey stares at us, unblinking.
The llama comes over to see what the fuss is about, but the instant it nears me, the donkey turns on it and rams its head into its side. They begin nipping at each other.
“Cort, I need your help breaking this up.” I shove the donkey away from the llama, but it turns instantly and keeps going after it.
“I’m not getting involved in that,” Cort yells from the safety of his truck. “That donkey's evil!”
I grab more pellets and throw them towards the donkey. It leaves the llama alone to go munch on the food. I pet the llamas some more before heading back to the truck.
Cort is annoyed and still has to use the restroom.
“This was so much better than a Maverick,” I say.
“I hate this place,” Cort responds. “It has evil donkeys and no restrooms.”
I open my maps, “I’ll look for a rest stop with no donkeys and restrooms,” I tell him.
“That should be the bare minimum when you pull up to a rest stop, he says, annoyed, “A bathroom and no live animals that want to kill you.
“I like this place, we should come back.”
“Maverick would never have llamas.”
We pull back onto the long stretch of highway.
Fourteen thousand years ago, this landscape was ripped to shreds by crashing waves of water. Now the only sign of chaos is a gas station home to llamas, a screaming donkey, and my cousin, who still has to pee.
