On the Road Again

In the weeks leading up to my recent cross-country journey, I channeled Willie Nelson: “On the road again, just can’t wait to get on the road again.” As a child, road trips were a summer tradition. My parents, both educators, believed travel was an essential part of our education, so each summer our family hit the road. The six of us crammed ourselves, our suitcases, our cooler, and our snack sack into the vehicle (first a station wagon, then a Suburban, then a van) and left Tennessee for two weeks.

On my family’s first cross-country road trip in the summer of 1973, we drove from Jackson, Tennessee, to San Francisco, California. I was almost 9 years old, Tifni was 6, Todd was 5, and Trev was 4. The Four Ts must have been quite a sight as we squirmed out of the station wagon at various scenic vistas along the way, including Petrified Forest, Grand Canyon, Sequoia National Forest, Golden Gate Park, Muir Woods, Lake Tahoe, Grand Teton, Yellowstone, and Pike’s Peak. Talk about an odyssey!

***The Four Ts visiting San Francisco in the summer of 1973***

As we mapped out those family road trips in advance, my Dad and I designed routes that would enable us to visit as many states as possible. By the time I graduated from high school in 1982, my state count was up to 46; I lacked only Oregon, Washington, Alaska, and Hawaii. My husband and son and I logged our 50th state in 2001 when we visited Alaska; our young son had insisted that he be allowed to catch up with our state count so we could all hit the milestone together. He was 9 the summer we flew to Alaska to take a mini-road trip in that massive northern expanse of natural beauty, the same age I was when I began road tripping with my family. I have since visited every state at least twice.

In October 2022, my brother Trev and I helped my son and his wife move their belongings from Bend, Oregon, to Asheville, North Carolina. This month, Trev and I did the trip in reverse to help their family return to Oregon’s high desert. On the west-to-east journey four years ago, Trev drove the moving truck and I drove my daughter-in-law’s car. On this trip, Trev reprised his role as truck driver, while I navigated from the passenger seat.

Participating in this beloved summer ritual of a long-distance drive was a helpful counterbalance to the grief associated with their move. I fully supported my son and daughter-in-law’s decision, but knowing I would no longer have easy access to my two grandchildren was heart-wrenching.

Crossing South Dakota on a windy Friday afternoon, I wondered how many times had I passed this way before. I had traversed these roads in many seasons of life - as a child with my family, with my husband when I was pregnant, with my son during his childhood, with my son during his graduate school days.

***The 4 Ts at the Gateway Arch in St. Louis in the summer of 1974***

As Trev and I made our way west in the Penske truck on our own version of the Oregon Trail, memories of past road trips came along for the ride. Familiar sights sparked family stories. As Trev and I recalled our family’s long ago western adventures, I realized that our memories were not in sync. The 4 ½-year age difference between us meant some events that had been seared into my memory were fuzzy or completely absent from his.

For example, as we passed Spearfish, South Dakota, on I-90, I pointed out the KOA Campground sign. During our family trip to Grand Teton and Yellowstone national parks in 1974, we were unable to find a hotel with a vacancy within 200 miles of Rapid City due to the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. As a result, the six of us were forced to sleep in our Suburban in the KOA campground on a summer night. Trev has no memory of this formative family experience.

The four of us would have our own "no room in the inn” experience on the fourth day of our westward journey. While we ate dinner in Missoula, Montana, we discovered that all of the hotels from there to Spokane, Washington, were fully booked. The combination of the Western Montana Fair, a Jason Aldean concert, and the influx of firefighters to the region meant we needed to drive an additional 100 miles before we could sleep - a 900-mile day.

Like most of my cross-country road trips, this one featured challenges that would be added to family lore. On day 1, minutes after leaving our starting point of Buncombe County, the “Check Engine” light came on in the Penske truck, necessitating a return to the rental office to have the vehicle checked out. On day 2, before we left our starting point of Davidson County, Tennessee, we had to take a detour because I-24 was closed due to a tractor trailer wreck. On day 3, since our original route was no longer an option due to wildfires in Eastern Oregon, we had to choose an alternative path. On day 4, our phones screeched with emergency alerts, warning us about evacuations in Spokane due to rapidly spreading wildfires. On day 5, we breathed a sigh of relief when we were able to uneventfully pass through the area where wildfires had forced the evacuation of the Warm Springs Indian Reservation in Oregon a few days earlier.

As I flew home from Oregon on Monday night, I catalogued the memories I had made on our westward journey. Although my body was weary, my spirit had been renewed. This is almost always the case when I have the chance to experience sights and sounds and smells that are beyond the realm of my quotidian routines.

In my spirituality groups, I regularly provide participants with the opportunity to create lists of their favorite sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and touches/textures. I frame this exercise as a grounding experience that naturally becomes a gratitude practice.

As I made my mental list of the sensory experiences associated with this cross-country journey, gratitude poured forth from the depths of my heart. I am grateful I was healthy enough to make this road trip less than two months after surgery. I am grateful I could have this adventure with my brother by my side. I am grateful we could help my son and daughter-in-law prepare a new home for my grandchildren. I am grateful for parents who prioritized travel. I am grateful I have been able to make a cross-country journey at least once in every decade of my life. I am grateful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain, for purple mountain majesties above the fruited plain. And I’m grateful to be back in the mountains I call home.

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