I lost my mind somewhere between Baker City and Plummer

It's a long drive from Coeur d'Alene to Boise.

It's an even longer drive back.

In our case, much, much longer.

Allow me to explain.

My wife and I headed to Boise early Saturday in our 2013 Honda Fit to join family members for a surprise birthday party for our oldest daughter. My preferred route, despite the winding, hilly, two-lane highway, is U.S. 95. I always stop in Lewiston, Grangeville, Riggins and McCall for walking breaks, thrift stores and gas. It can be a peaceful drive.

My biggest pet peeve is getting stuck behind a driver going exactly the speed limit, or even 5 to 10 mph under it. Then, when a passing lane finally appears, that same driver speeds up to 80 mph as you try to get around them. It sounds crazy, but it's practically a rule of the road.

Still, we made it to Boise in less than 8 hours, which may have been a personal record. For a roughly 380-mile trip, it was one of our easiest drives.

We would not be as fortunate on the return.

I like taking Interstate 84 through Oregon on the way back. It's about 75 miles longer, but it's straighter, smoother and generally more relaxing. We enjoy taking a shortcut through the back roads near Stanfield, where we can admire some of the older farms along the way. And with two lanes in each direction, there's less chance of getting stuck behind traffic or running into roadblocks.

Or so I thought.

We left Boise late Monday morning and hopped onto I-84. Everything seemed fine as we passed Ontario with light traffic. Then a message flashed across an electronic sign:

HIGHWAY CLOSED 43 MILES AHEAD

Wait. What?

Why?

My wife grabbed her phone to figure out what was happening. Sure enough, the interstate was closed near Baker City, though there was little information about when it might reopen. Her navigation app suggested an alternate route along Highway 30 from Baker City to La Grande before reconnecting with I-84.

I wasn't worried. Surely the highway would reopen, or we'd find an easy detour.

They can't keep an interstate closed for very long.

Wrong.

They can.

They did.

When we reached Baker City, cars, trucks and semis lined the shoulder of the freeway for miles. It was a massive cluster of vehicles fighting for space. The interstate had reportedly been closed for about 12 hours because of an accident, and no one seemed to know when it would reopen.

We stopped for gas, and I asked a clerk about taking Highway 30.

He advised against it.

The apps all show it as an alternate route, he said, but it's narrow, slow-going, and could take hours. Some sections might not even be passable.

"You should not go that way," he said.

For once, I listened.

According to him, our options were simple: wait for the highway to reopen or turn around.

We turned around.

Back to Ontario we went, where we picked up U.S. 95 and started north.

Simple.

But agonizingly slow.

The route took us through beautiful country. We passed endless rolling hills and vast open spaces with almost nothing in sight. Frankly, it unnerved me. If we broke down out there, God help us. We rolled through Payette, Midvale, Cambridge and Council. Nice towns, all of them, but I found little comfort in their existence.

The miles stretched endlessly.

At some point, they stopped feeling like miles and started feeling like eternities.

Anxiety set in.

I began mumbling. Then grumbling. Then quietly cursing under my breath.

I'm not a good traveler under normal circumstances. When things go wrong, I'm even worse. I panic easily. Fear takes over. Then comes irritation. My poor wife has heard it all before.

Somehow, I held it together until we reached New Meadows. At least I was back on familiar ground. The unknown was behind us.

My wife took over driving duties and guided us along the Salmon River, up the dreaded White Bird Hill and onward to Grangeville.

By then it was dark, and night driving has never been my favorite. When I got back behind the wheel, I slowed to about 55 or 60 mph. Then construction south of Lewiston reduced traffic to a single lane. We sat and waited for a pilot car to lead us through the work zone.

I was incensed.

Absolutely enraged.

By that point I was driving in silence, gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles hurt and staring straight ahead as if sheer concentration might somehow get us home faster.

I had reached my limit. I hadn't snapped like this since getting lost in Ireland and running into toll booths on every road.

We stopped for gas in Moscow and pushed on toward Plummer. Home was close, but I was finished. Completely spent.

I asked my wife if she could take over.

"No problem."

She calmly slid behind the wheel, a stark contrast to my unraveling mental state.

Start to finish, the trip took nearly 12 hours, making it our longest and slowest drive home from Boise yet.

That's one record I have no interest in breaking.

And I suspect my wife discovered yet another situation in which I cannot be trusted to behave like a normal, rational human being.

At least I learned a few lessons.

Before heading out, make sure your route is actually open.

If a highway sign says the road is closed ahead, believe it.

If a gas station clerk in Baker City tells you not to take the so-called alternate route, listen to him.

And finally, when a 12-hour travel nightmare unfolds, don't hand the steering wheel to the person who's muttering, panicking and gripping it like he's trying to keep the car from falling off the earth.

Let your wife drive.

She'll get you home.

She always does.

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Bill Buley is managing editor of The Press. He can be reached at [email protected].