How to drive a baby from Maine to Montana in the middle of winter

Or, the things you see in America on a 10-day pre-book launch tour in 2026

One of my best friends from grad school, A, is a primary care physician who practices in rural parts of America, because those places are in desperate need of doctors and she likes to get to know her patients. A is one of my favorite people. She’s my first call whenever my body is doing something I don’t understand, or when I have so many thoughts about something that I need to yap with someone as extroverted as me.

So, when she asked me to help her drive her family, including her 11-month-old son E, from tiny Fort Kent, ME, to much-less-tiny-but-still–fairly-small Great Falls, MT, over the course of seven days so she could start a new hospital job in early March, I said yes.

This is our route. Yes, really.

This was the plan: A’s husband and his friend would drive ahead of us in a U-Haul and truck with the family’s schnauzer, husky, and cat. A and I would follow behind with E, her mom, and her mom’s Pekingese mix. A needed someone to either drive one of their vehicles or mind the baby while she drove, and I’m pretty good with both cars and babies. So it made sense!

However, my reasons for agreeing to become a part of a convoy driving from Maine to Montana in late February were not entirely unselfish.

First of all, A paid for my flights, hotels, meals, everything on the trip that wasn’t a fridge magnet or tooled leather toilet seat cover (more on that later). Secondly, it would give me the chance to take my freshly-minted promotional bookmarks and hype my debut novel Be Well at bookstores across the Northeast and upper Midwest, and buy a book for E at every stop for his upcoming first birthday. Plus, there was a small part of me that enjoyed the looks of stupefied awe on people’s faces when I told them the plan. (“You’re doing what?”)

So here is my log of what happened on a seven-day road trip, in the middle of winter, with an 11-month-old baby, from Fort Kent to Bangor to Syracuse to Toledo to Madison to Fargo to Miles City to Great Falls. Read with a bottle of Tylenol handy.

Day 1: Fort Kent, ME to Bangor, ME.

To get to Fort Kent (almost the furthest point northeast in the U.S.) from San Diego (almost the furthest point southwest), one must fly into Presque Isle, Maine. Presque Isle Airport only has two flights a day: one at 5am to Boston, and one that arrives around 10pm from Boston. The same people are the bag drop desk agents, the TSA agents and the gate agents. Some of them may even pull double duty directing planes on the tarmac.

During my layover in Boston, after I’d read a story about how Anthropic executives think Claude may be sentient, a man in hunting camo yelled out to me as I strode through the terminal, waterproof duck boots clacking: “Oooo, you sound like you’re the school principal, coming down the hall to get me in trouble!”

In hindsight, I should have said “Good, I’m glad I scare you.” Instead, I chuckled awkwardly and said something like, “Yeah, I give off that impression sometimes.” He was on my flight, of course. But thankfully, so was A’s husband’s friend.

A’s husband picked us both up from the airport and drove us another snowy hour to Fort Kent, chatting while keeping a watchful eye out for sudden moose. The morning of the move, A and I joyfully hugged, reunited, then immediately spent the next eight hours packing the rest of their belongings and carefully playing car Tetris with baby luggage while her mom watched E. We hit the road a full six hours after we anticipated we would (we make plans, God laughs, etc.), forcing us to change our itinerary and stop in Bangor.

Things were pleasant enough at first. We had a 7-11’s worth of processed snacks. A was thrilled to be finally on the road, and E was greatly entertained by me holding up individual Cheerios before popping them in his mouth like a Catholic priest giving communion (“The body of Christ”).

But after three hours on the road with E and multiple trips navigating the icy parking lot of the Holiday Inn Bangor with a luggage cart, the weight of my decision began to hit me. This happened precisely as A and I struggled under the weight of a 150lb suitcase packed with a mistaken double shipment of baby formula, which she didn’t want to leave in the car overnight lest it freeze.

There were no indie bookstores open at 9pm in Bangor. Nothing appeared to be open nearby except the neon-lit dispensary across the street blasting Sublime. So I went down to the lobby, ready to exaggerate exactly how famous an author I was, and attempted to chat up the front desk worker so I could dispense my first bookmark.

“Hi there, I’m an author with a book coming out in June. I’m helping my friend move, and we’re stopping here on our drive from Maine to Montana. Do you like to read?”

“No.”

“OK. Um, do you have any friends who like reading?”

“Not really.”

Cool.

I briefly considered popping across the street to the dispensary and buying an edible, but then I remembered I may or may not be allergic to marijuana.

The dispensary, practicing Santeria.

Day 2: Bangor, ME to Syracuse, NY.

After breakfast at a diner, during which E simultaneously charmed everyone and threw every toy in A’s arsenal on the floor, we began the day’s eight-hour stretch of driving. 45 minutes in, A remembered she left her medication in the hotel fridge, and we promptly turned back, adding a further 90 minutes to the trip.

E spent much of the first part of the drive staring at me and bursting into ecstatic giggles whenever I played peekaboo with him. This was very good for my ego, as Auntie Flocks. However, after about three hours and one diaper change in a 30-degree Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot because all the rest stop bathrooms lacked a changing table, it became clear that E was no longer having this car seat business.

We stopped at a Starbucks somewhere in western Massachusetts so E could stretch his legs and presumably bury the memory of his mom and auntie alternately swaddling him with blankets and scrambling for wipes in the overflowing car with the speed of a bomb squad. It was here that I perfected my back-saving half-squat baby-support walk, as E made friends and A ordered the rush hour caffeine that would propel us to upstate New York.

E spent the rest of the drive punctuating his vocal anti-car seat protestations with 20-minute naps, during which A and I communicated entirely in hand signals. While awake, E would only stop fussing if I waved his stuffed Mickey Mouse in front of him and spoke in the Mickey voice (you know the one). A and I discovered we could have conversations relatively uninterrupted as long as I used the Mickey voice in my responses. (“Well gawsh, I think it would be just swell if the man could just stroke out on live TV! Boy that would sure make our lives a lot easier!”)

It’s worth noting at this point that I am not a short woman. A’s car is one of the roomier crossover SUV models, but every last bit of available space was packed with baby gear, up to and including the bag of clean bottles at my feet. The carefully packed baby gear shifted further into my space with every execution of car gymnastics to fetch a bottle, binky, book, or toy.

By the time we arrived in Syracuse, many hours behind A’s mom, my legs were scrunched up to my ears. Delirium had set in, as had my craving for Oreos that surfaces in times of physical and mental distress.

Day 3: Syracuse, NY to Toledo, OH.

The day’s agenda included a stop at Syracuse University, A’s alma mater, so she could walk E around and take some pictures, so the morning was much more relaxed. The hotel’s front desk worker, I was surprised to learn, actually enjoyed reading and was working on her own novel. I gave her some bookmarks and we talked about fantasy books, actively ignoring the scrum of sleepy pancake machine seekers in the lobby.

Syracuse marked the turning point where we decided that I would take over driving the other car while her mom and the Pekingese mix rode with A and E. This, along with my visit to Parthenon Books in downtown Syracuse, improved my mood. I bought E a copy of Everyday Bean and wrote a note to him on the inside front cover, with the date, location, and bookstore. Spirits were high as we set off to Toledo, me with my Heated Rivalry Mocha from Parthenon’s cafe and A with her bag of adorable baby-sized Syracuse gear.

Caffeinated and glad to be in the driver’s seat.

An AA meeting was taking place in the ground floor conference room when we arrived at the Best Western in Toledo, OH, so I kept my desire for an alcoholic beverage to myself as A and I brought the formula suitcase and other bags in. She did, however, cheerfully relay the details of E’s blowout en route, uttering the words “shit his pants” loudly as we strode past the watchful eyes of Ohioans in recovery.

A ordered us Lebanese takeout because, in her words, she missed “vegetables and spice” after multiple winters in northern Maine. We had adjoining rooms, so mine was set up as the buffet station.

Day 4: Toledo, OH to Madison, WI.

We woke up to news that the U.S. had begun airstrikes on Iran. There is no good place to learn that your country is launching yet another Middle East war, but the Best Western in Toledo is particularly low on that list. Even though E is not even my child, distraction and sleep deprivation from the night before and existential exhaustion led me to commit the stereotypical new parent gaffe of brushing my teeth with skin cream.

While my fellow breakfast room-goers stared at the TV news, I tried to focus on the pancake machine (another one). My husband loves hotel lobby pancake machines, and is always excited when we stay at a hotel with a free breakfast featuring one, so I took a picture for him.

After hours in a row of driving down I-90 through near-empty stretches of highway in Ohio and Indiana, traffic in Chicago was a welcome reminder of civilization. Because E had developed the fun trick of pooping 10 minutes after A and her mom had left their last gas stop, I ended up a full hour ahead of them. I was able to make stops at the gorgeous and relatively brand-new Prairie Pages in Sun Prairie, WI (where I bought E a copy of Hippos Go Berserk!, a true banger by Sandra Boynton) and the incredibly charming Lake City Books in downtown Madison (where I bought E the equally charming Introducing Teddy: A Gentle Story of Gender and Friendship).

The Staybridge in east Madison felt like luxury compared to the Toledo Best Western, and it was across the street from a brewpub that served local beer and cheese curds. A had promised me cheese curds in Wisconsin before the trip, and I was ready to make that a reality. E threw all his toys on the floor from his extra-tall high chair just for bar tables, but greatly enjoyed flapping the beer menu.

Despite the illegal war being waged with taxpayer dollars that could have gone to, you know, healthcare, I had fond feelings for this part of my country. Wisconsin, the place with fried cheese and good bookstores, was an America I would fight to save.

I pledge allegiance to beer and cheese curds.

Day 5: Madison, WI to Fargo, ND.

E spent the morning being handed off between me, A, and her mom as we packed up. A’s mom had the news on TV, which was airing a clip of Benjamin Netanyahu. I bounced E on my knee, pointing to the screen, saying “That’s Bibi, he’s a war criminal, can you say war criminal?” Then, when Trump came on: “That guy, he’s lots of words I’m not supposed to teach you yet.”

E began to fuss, so I took him to the window, where he smacked the glass and laughed when he saw a dog outside.

The drive to Fargo would take us through Eau Claire, WI, so I put on a good Bon Iver playlist, for the sake of being thematically appropriate. I wondered if I would drive by his cabin. I did not, but Flora’s Books & Bread was on my route. A combination bookstore/coffee shop/bakery ticks every serotonin box in my head, so I was very much looking forward to this stop.

The one thing I did not realize until arriving was that Flora’s shares a space with a gun store, run by the owner’s husband. This, I later learned, is a King of the Hill plot line come to life, except with real people, and the guns were sold legally. They did have an excellent selection of books and really tasty sourdough. I bought a cheese and herb ciabatta loaf, which became my emotional support bread for the next two days, and purchased a copy of Chicka Chicka Boom Boom for E.

Books, bread, and guns in Eau Claire, WI.

When I told A about the books/guns combo, she was unfazed.

“Yeah, I’m surprised I’ve never heard of that in Montana.”

Driving through Minnesota, I wished I’d had time to stop in the Twin Cities, but traffic was getting bad and we had to get to Fargo before E’s bedtime. Part of me was relieved to not have to put my angry rants about what I would do if I saw an ICE officer to the test.

Arriving in Fargo a few hours later, I was surprised again at how large the city was. I will admit that before this, my only impression of it was from the movie Fargo. I scanned the side of the road on the way in for bodies in wood chippers, but no dice (pun sort of intended).

We ordered Thai food for dinner. A and her mom were once again delighted to be having food with spice and vegetables. E tried some of my pad see ew and liked it.

Day 6: Fargo, ND to Miles City, MT.

When a group of adults are changing a baby on the side of the road during the dead of winter, they become a pit crew minus the rehearsed precision. This is what happened 90 minutes outside of Fargo, in Jamestown, ND, after I’d had another pancake machine breakfast as the news flashed images of very expensive missiles off to decimate girls’ schools in Iran. A and I had by then developed a voice-to-text communication strategy, like truckers except in mid-sized crossover SUVs. A told me to pull over at The World’s Largest Buffalo monument in Jamestown, because E had a blowout.

It was 20 degrees outside. The clearly tourist-oriented pioneer town outside of The World’s Largest Buffalo was closed for the winter, empty except for some roofers working on the “general store.” As soon as I pulled up, A and her mom ran out with supplies. I held E aloft as he screamed and his mom and grandma wiped him down at lightning speed, to minimize the amount of time he was exposed to the cold. Another outfit change later, he was ready for a picture with The World’s Largest Buffalo, which had an icicle developing off its chin.

Five minutes after absolute carnage in a diaper.

North Dakota, by the way, has more microclimates than San Diego. Thick fog and freezing temperatures gave way to “50 degrees and sunny” by the time I stopped for gas in New Salem (home of Salem Sue, The World’s Largest Holstein Cow), and then even warmer in Theodore Roosevelt National Park, near the Montana border. A friend from Minnesota told me to look out for prairie dogs, but I couldn’t see any.

Arriving in Miles City that afternoon, I finally got to see the small Montana town where A had first begun practicing medicine and met her husband. A made sure to show me the charming half-timber Tudor Revival that was the first home she owned.

We stayed with friends of hers, who also owned a beautiful historic home that they had lovingly restored. That home was filled with three dogs, three cats, and five children, one of whom played a lot of Metallica medleys on electric guitar. There was also a trampoline in the backyard. Normally, I can never resist a trampoline. I abstained, however, because I had to remain uninjured for the drive to Great Falls. I considered how quiet my life in San Diego seemed by comparison as I played peekaboo with one of the five kids and helped A feed E so she could have a conversation with her friends.

Day 7: Miles City, MT to Great Falls, MT.

I had some time in the morning, so I stopped into the historic Miles City Saddlery, where I told the very nice ladies who worked there about my book. I was unsure what souvenir to get for my husband, and the ladies presented me with multiple options, including a tooled leather toilet seat cover and a bottle opener made of antler. I ended up buying a silver Christmas ornament and hurrying out after realizing how late it was. I’d have to see the Saddle Museum upstairs another time.

The tooled leather toilet seat cover tax, paid in full.

The drive from Miles City to Great Falls shook me to my very citified core. Where before I had happily zoomed ahead of A’s car in order to schmooze bookstores or bring luggage into the hotel, I wouldn’t let them out of my sight for the next five hours. The stretches with no cell reception made me wonder how I would fare in a post-apocalyptic landscape where there were no functioning cell towers. Then I remembered that this was probably called “life in the 1990s.”

We were greeted by A’s husband and father-in-law in Great Falls. A’s father-in-law hustled over, eager to greet E, who he had not met yet. We had arrived. The relief was palpable as we emptied the cars into the rental house they were staying in. A was giddy at being able to drop her old Spectrum equipment off at a UPS store and then go to Target, all of which would have been an hour-plus drive for her before.

That night, we celebrated the end of the journey by going to the Sip n’ Dip Lounge, a hotel bar featuring extremely impressive women with insane lung capacities, wearing mermaid tails in a tank, swimming and waving at patrons through the glass. I wondered if “bar mermaid” was an AI-proof job.

Pictured: a total f*cking pro.

The next day, I went shopping in downtown Great Falls with A and her mom. Both were thrilled to be somewhere with a walkable downtown and multiple amenities. A’s mom thumbed through a paper guide featuring things to do in Great Falls as A tried on dresses and jeans. I bought turquoise and porcupine quill earrings that were apparently featured on an episode of Yellowstone, because A told me that the price of turquoise is going to skyrocket in 5-10 years since the mines are running out.

I also had the chance to stop into Cassiopeia Books in downtown Great Falls, where A and her mom bought multiple books. I wrote a note to E in a copy of Strega Nona, which A had purchased for him. I know people in Great Falls now, so I hope I can do an event there and bring a crowd in.

The airport in Great Falls, by the way, features taxidermy and multiple fireplaces. I bought a huckleberry-flavored lip balm and Christmas ornaments before flying back to San Diego.

E, if you’re reading this in a couple of years, a lot of adults love you. Please read the books they buy you. The country we drove you across depends on it.