One of the many versions of bad fantasy is the Boring Quest: the protagonist decides to go from Place A to Place B and does so, with no obstacles or events of any significance en route. It’s a terrible way to tell a story, but few of us would choose a trip full of difficult obstacles and life changing events for our daily drive to work.

I confess, I had rather hoped that my trip to Camp Casey on Whidbey Island for the Fall 2010 residency would be more like a drive to work than a trip through the Mines of Moria. While I did not have to face anything so bad as a balrog, or even a cave troll, I did have to overcome a few challenges. The first in this line was the great Threshold Guardian of modern America: airport security. Perhaps I should have seen it coming, but TSA has never given me a problem before.

My backpack is wrenched open in front of me, and a small amount of digging produces a plastic cup of bright red goo the size of a single-serving pudding snack. It is clearly labeled to weigh four ounces, but I don’t understand why that would be at issue, since the goo is not liquid.

“What is this?” asks the Guardian, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. I can feel myself sliding in her mind from ‘traveler’ to ‘potential terrorist.’

“Physical Therapy putty. I need to it do exercises for my hand,” I say, pointing at my recovering left hand. I suddenly realize that the Guardian might see a potential explosive, and I worry that I will spend the next two hours in a small room answering unpleasant questions and submitting to uncomfortable searches.

I dig out of my backpack a piece of shaped plastic, less worried about it being misunderstood because it looks like exactly what it is, a makeshift cast. “This is the splint I have to wear when I’m sleeping, to maintain the hand in a resting position.” I indicate the Velcro straps that hold it in place. I start to put it on, to demonstrate, but she takes it from me.

She looks at the splint for a moment, then holds up the PT putty and says, “I’ll just run this through chemical analysis.” I barely notice what she actually does, because running through my head are news stories of false positive results on drug tests and concerns that my backpack might have transported fireworks, or something equally innocent whose residue might look guilty. What I do see looks as though she puts the open container of putty into an ice machine, takes it out a moment later, caps it again, and hands it back to me. Apparently it passed the test, confirming that I have no untoward intentions on my trip up the West Coast, but she doesn’t leave me with wishes for a pleasant trip or thank me for being cooperative. Instead she dismisses me by saying something like, “Your backpack is too heavy.”

The flight itself was far friendlier, and I arrived at Sea-Tac in good time. Getting my small suitcase from baggage claim took some time, but no hassle. I noted later that I was pleased to find that it had not been treated to special inspection like my backpack.

This time I would forego the shuttle to Whidbey Island in favor of getting a ride from a kindhearted friend and fellow student. Before leaving the area we would pick up another friend and fellow student, and the drive to her house brought me my first clue that getting to Camp Casey might not be as simple as I’d assumed.

The driver told me along the way from the airport that she didn’t really use directions or maps or a GPS. She told me that she drove much the way she had wandered the woods as a child, by landmarks. She knew basically where our other passenger lived and she was going to head that direction and we’d find it.

Now I live in the Bay Area, where people give directions by linking to Mapquest or Google Maps, or simply provide an address and expect people to use a GPS, often the one that came with their phones. Still, I drive as much by what I know of an area as I do by street names and addresses. I often remember what street a friend lives on because I know I turn right at the Starbucks – not the one by the grocery store, the other one. So I’m not terribly worried about her approach, and she brings us to the right house in short order, despite some seeming hesitancy along the way.

After the third member of our traveling fellowship kissed her husband and children goodbye, we were on our way. Well, following some discussion of ways to get to the freeway. Some small debate between the two Seattle locals later, we had settled on a route and were making decent time on the first leg of our journey.

We missed a freeway interchange, but I almost overlooked that fact when a semi tried to kill us. All right, that’s not quite fair. It wasn’t really the semi’s fault anyway.

The semi is in front of us and has been keeping a proper following distance from the car in front of it. We are just realizing that we missed the interchange, and traffic is slowing to a halt when some jackass in a tiny car slips in front of the semi. That safe following distance is cut by two-thirds and the only question is, can the semi’s brakes prevent said jackass from being scraped off of the pavement with a shovel?

For that matter, can we stop in time to avoid the same fate ourselves?

The semi does its best, brakes squealing and tires spewing smoke, while our driver stands on her brake pedal and we all brace for impact, drawing inexorably closer to the huge vehicle. Our brakes hold. The semi’s brakes hold. No one dies, and scant inches separate us from all that truck. We start breathing again and take the next exit.

We fought the great beast to a standstill, and were allowed to pass.

Rather than backtrack, our driver displayed either marvelous instincts or an excellent knowledge of the area, because she felt her way through a few city streets and back onto the freeway we had missed without much lost time.

The next major obstacle was a known variable of unknown value: the ferry. Techie that I am, I had checked the ferry’s website, and learned that no slowdowns in service had been a problem for at least three hours. Apparently I was more industrious about checking their status online than they were about updating it. We joined the line for the ferry and saw a more recent posting: ferry backup, two hours.

We were already running late. A two hour wait would delay us past orientation and perhaps into the dinner hour. The denizens of our SUV may have had mixed feelings about missing orientation, but none of us wanted to miss dinner.

The lone Californian of the group, I didn’t see how we had any options. We were going from the mainland to an island, and the ferry was delayed. I should have known better – dramatically speaking, some obstacles are to be overcome and others are to be circumvented. There was a bridge.

For me, at least, this obstacle concealed treasure: a dramatic view. The bridge to Whidbey Island is high above the waters of Deception Pass, a cavalcade of crossed-currents and whirlpools that churn and shift as though taking up arms against those who would cross them by boat.

We finally arrived at Camp Casey, having missed orientation, but in time to participate in the discussion of possible future expansion projects for the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts. Like all intrepid explorers at the end of a quest, I grabbed a drink, collapsed into a chair, and realized I had to go to the bathroom. If only I knew where that was. . . .

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