Tuesday, February 2, 2010

January 30, 2010
One of the joys you forget about when you live in Alaska is that of the ‘road trip’. Living in just about any other state (except Hawaii), roads are endless, spreading out in the four directions, and beckoning the wandering spirit in all of us.
If you drive a full day from Seward you might make it out of the state. A full day’s drive from Portland lands you in San Francisco. In Missoula, Montana. In Reno. And even deep into Canada if you wish. I love road trips. Love seeing the highway out in front of me, the cooler packed within arms reach, the dog resting plaintively between the seats watching, and a Sam with mismatched socks splayed on the dashboard. We pack the gear in the rocketbox on the roof next to the bikes, leaving Abby’s bed, a tote of “campstuff”, our clothes and some food inside the Subaru and off we go. And then we drive.
We did a fair bit of exploring this summer and fall but we recently drove down I-5 to California for Christmas with my family, and then I did it again solo about two weeks later to help my mom celebrate her 65th birthday. Now, road trips with family and friends and lovers are great as it’s all about the destination, not so much the journey itself, whereas the solo car ride is a more introspective endeavor filled with old songs played at great volume with bad singing accompaniment, some steering wheel drumming, a bit more flaunting of the local speed limits (hello 95 through Ashland at midnight) and maybe a more generous splash of gin in my tumbler.
Driving the I-5 corridor is a 75mph experiment of staying awake and staying between the white lines, as cops don’t care about egregious violations of speed but they do care if you are swerving at 80. The drive to Sanfran is ten hours in a straight shot, or broken up, into two manageable days by yourself. I left Portland at five in the afternoon (nice rush hour planning), drove til midnight then found a deserted little road disappearing into the Trinity wilderness and slept for eight hours in the comfort of my empty car. I cruised through the Shasta wilderness area in a blizzard, me and drive by truckers keeping pace while Kia and Mazda shuffled along at 35. I flew through he Sacramento River delta bird refuge seeing hawks on posts, geese in V formation a hundred strong, a melting sunset, countless ducks and waterfowl, and even a few deer.
I listened to the football game. I turned back the clock to the Grateful Dead and did the Jerry jam for an hour or two. I listened to cartalk. Twice in the same day (different editions!). I made up stories for the people in the cars next to me. I put my feet up on the dash while setting the cruise control to 72. I ate a chicken club at Carl’s Jr. I got excited when the odometer clicked over to 34,000 miles. I drank baileys and coffee followed by a Guinness (in the same cup).
Basically, I had a good time by myself doing exactly what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it and how I wanted to do it. It was a small bit of pleasure that I had forgotten how much I enjoyed. Sometimes we get too caught up in stereotyping aloneness, equating being alone with being lonely, but a solo road trip is anything but lonely as you have your whole head to explore and talk to.