Travel is always exhausting. When we were younger, it was merely tiring; now, for a guy in his mid-60s, it’s enough to wipe one out. Youth, they say, is wasted on the young, and never is that more apparent than when one is contemplating a few hours sealed up in what is essentially a giant pop can with wings.
So, you can appreciate that at this point in one’s life, proceeding from Alaska’s Susitna Valley to the nation’s capital – well, across the river from the capital, in National Harbor, Maryland – it’s a considerable undertaking. The experience of the Conservative Political Action Conference (CPAC) will certainly prove worth it, with a cavalcade of interesting speakers, not to mention the chance to hang around and gas with friends and colleagues that we only see once a year.
But oh, that trip. It’s enough to make one wonder how much a private jet costs.
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It’s nearly a two-hour drive from our lodgings to the airport at Anchorage. We left the homestead in the care of our house-sitter and headed to Anchorage on Tuesday evening, there to catch a red-eye flight to Denver. The first flight was, at least, on time, but we did see (in addition to what appeared to be a lot of young oil field workers heading home from the North Slope) some of the usual traveling stereotypes:
The young family with nineteen kids, from babes in arms to surly teenagers. I actually feel some sympathy for the parents of these kids; although, yes, they chose to have all of these children. I mean, we now know what causes children. But an almost six-hour red-eye from Anchorage to Denver is enough to slam-dunk those parents, and on deplaning in Denver it was good to see we weren’t the most exhausted people to walk off the jetway.
The two drunk guys who talk too loud. All the way down from Anchorage through to Denver. For five hours. Through the night – the plane left Anchorage at almost midnight and arrived a while after six a.m. Mountain. These two idiots spoke at approximately the decibel level of an F-16 making a tactical take-off, and wouldn’t shut up throughout.
The Woman With the Horrible Laugh. I use caps, as in a title, because this person on that red-eye surely deserves it. It’s pretty certain that this woman probably holds a Guinness Book of World Records title for Most Annoying Laugh, and she brayed it out every few minutes. Fortunately, she went to sleep after about an hour in the air. The only place I've heard a worse cackling laugh was the last time I watched Kamala Harris speak.
On landing in Denver, the only breakfast items I could find were two breakfast burritos that appeared to have been under a heat lamp since the Eisenhower administration. The potatoes had the consistency of vulcanized rubber. The tortillas may have been shoe leather. The eggs were probably put up for field rations in the Great War, and the bacon was about as crispy as overcooked convenience-story ramen noodles.
Then, the flight to Reagan International Airport – the penultimate leg of the trip. We were almost 90 minutes late leaving, due to a technical problem. I have no issue with this, especially given a couple of recent incidents; if I’m going to climb into a giant aluminum can and go up to 37,000 feet, I want that thing to be absolutely perfect before it takes off. Some on that flight were annoyed at the delay, but my wife and I were content to wait until that plane was perfect.
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There were some stereotypes on that flight as well:
The dog-coffin guy. Airlines rarely seem to enforce their “carry-on bag size” rules. Two rows ahead, a guy brought on a backpack that might have well served for a party of trekkers summiting Mount Everest, and tried to stuff it into an overhead bin, then got in a stammering argument with the flight attendant when told he’d have to check it. Another guy brought in a huge hard-sided suitcase that one could have buried a Great Dane in. The airlines let them do it, so the practice continues.
The other was the guy who couldn’t sit down. He was in an aisle seat and had to be told several times to sit down and buckle up, the flight attendant telling him in no uncertain terms that the plane couldn’t move until he sat down. But there always seemed to be one more thing he had to get out of the overhead bin – or put back in the overhead bin – or he just needed to stand up. Sit down!
But now, here we are, at CPAC 2025. Watch for more on that. It’s great to be here – but boy, getting here. Travel is the price we pay for being here.
But there is a payoff. Last night, after waiting in line for what felt like several days for our media credentials, we got to sit down and have a quick dinner with a couple of those friends we only see once a year.
Yep. It’s worth it.
