We packed the truck and travel trailer and pointed the wheels west. It’s an annual excursion, spurred by two sons living on the West Coast. We’ll take our time this year, we say— shorter hours on the road, a new route, fewer interstates, slower miles.
The weather is clear but windy. It’s always windy, and rarely in our favor for optimum gas mileage. We push on, feeling the guilt that comes from paying good money to release ancient carbon.
We dip southwest, crossing the Illinois and Mississippi rivers, passing through landscapes not so different from home. The six cylinder purrs, the rig feels balanced and solid. We find state parks new to us where we spend our nights, and settle into a rhythm on the road.
In the Great Plains we see remnants of once expansive prairies and think of the early settlers— immigrants traveling with oxen and wagons and every earthly possession, lured by a dream, crossing an endless landscape with bluestem, Indiangrass, and switchgrass swishing underfoot. Day after day, week after week, fording streams, repairing broken spindles, relying on questionable maps to guide them to a piece of land they hoped to call their own. Winter was coming. Their destination had to be reached with time to build a sod hut and lay in stores for the harsh prairie winter.
We’re reminded of the massive herds of buffalo that roamed here, the physical and spiritual role they played in sustaining a people for thousands of years; how their numbers were reduced from 60 million to a few hundred by settlers and the US government in a purposeful attempt to destroy the lives of indigenous tribes.
And less than 300 years later here we are, cruising at 60 miles per hour on smooth, paved roadways, towing a trailer equipped with food and furnishings and modern gadgetry. It’s not camping— it’s relocating a small and fully functional home on a daily basis.
The plains transition to high desert, to mountains flecked with juniper, sage, pine, and air rich with their fragrance. Tumbleweeds bounce across the roadway. There are magpies, ferruginous hawks, golden eagles, bobcats, foxes, pronghorns.
We’re in the land of petroglyphs and ancient cliff dwellers and perfectly preserved dinosaur tracks, where rivers slice through bedrock exposing hundreds of millions of years of geologic history in canyon walls. The immensity of time on full display.
We take a northwesterly course and cross more desert, stopping for gas at a convenience store stocked to the brim with fresh produce, meats and groceries. Little can be produced locally so it’s all trucked from California’s central valley, as is the bulk of foods across the US. Oddly, with reduced transportation, food in this desert may be more ecologically sound than elsewhere. It seems ludicrous that the Midwest, with the world’s finest soils and plentiful water, uses about half of its resources to produce highly subsidized and inefficient fuel rather than growing food for local consumption. Beyond ecological advantages, local food leads to tight-knit, resilient, welcoming communities.
These thoughts linger as we climb the east slope of the Sierra, where lodgepole and Jeffrey pines grow among giant, scattered boulders. We walk among them and climb to vistas overlooking the largest alpine lake in North America, then we’re back in the truck continuing west.
And a mere 3000 miles after departure we unhook the trailer on the edge of the continent. We reunite with two middle aged men we still call boys. We kayak through kelp forests, hike the headlands and redwoods, snorkel with octopus and seals. We eat great food, laugh, enjoy mezcal and michelatas.
A marathon is 26.2 miles long. Driving the distance takes a half hour or less and is a mindless accomplishment, but covering it on foot is a challenge with huge personal rewards. A road trip has similarities. Air travel is quick but poking along backroads keeps us grounded physically and metaphorically. In a hyper-fast world, slowing down is a balm.
There is a contradiction here as we inflict more damage on the environment in an effort to experience and appreciate new biomes. There is gratitude here for the means to travel at our leisure and spend time with our sons. There is opportunity here to reflect on geologic and evolutionary forces, to consider the history of humanity with all its warring and injustices, its progress and potential, its goodness. There is hope here, realizing that our abused planet is still strong, beautiful, and ready to heal for our sake if we’ll give it half a chance.
Crossing the continent on a road trip doesn’t change the world— it changes us. The destination isn’t the end; it’s a reason to keep going. Singer-songwriter Harry Chapin summed it up nicely: “That’s a thought for keeping if I could. It’s got to be the going, not the getting there, that’s good.”
