On the road

I made it to Crescent City, California yesterday, and all I want to do is talk to you about the road.

When I decided to take a sabbatical, I thought a lot about what I wanted this year to look like. What would leave me feeling rested? What would help me feel whole? How, having **infinite** amounts of time, should I spend it? Would I travel? (Of course). Where would I travel? What would I do? Questions swirled around in my head for years, changing and shifting as I did while I saved the money to take time off. 

There was one thought that was persistent though: the road. Images of the great American road trip— windows down, top off, hair blowing in the wind, diner drop-ins, small towns, the world’s largest ball of [insert something bizarre]—filled my head. I read Kerouac for the first time. I picked up travel anthologies about free spirits, road trippers, boon dockers.  No matter how decided to live this year, the more I thought about it, the more I was certain I needed to live at least some of it on the road. Free. Unencumbered. Maybe a little lost. In awe (or at least amused) by the things around me. And largely uncertain about what would come next.

So, I began with California. I’d had a Pacific Coast Highway trip on my one-day, someday list since 2008. I would finally check that off. But as I investigated renting cars and flying to the West Coast, I’d stare out the window at Princess taking up space on a D.C. Street. Surely, if my hair was going to blow in the wind in Cali, it should do it in a purple Jeep, right? Right.

California became cross country, and my Pacific Coast Highway trip slowly morphed into a partial national park tour. (I’ve told you about Teddy Roosevelt and Glacier. Since then, I’ve also seen North Cascades and Olympic (the post about Olympic is on the way). Tomorrow I’ll get my first glimpse at Redwoods National Park).

As stunning as the national parks have been this trip, however, has always been about the road. I just had to make it to Washington, down the entire Oregon coast, and hit California to remember that.

After I left Glacier, I headed toward Washington State with the aim of getting to Bellingham to visit an old friend and, hopefully, wash my clothes. (Big thank you to Brad, for hosting me, playing tour guide, and letting me wash my laundry). As I planned out the route, my GPS had me traveling South and up through Seattle to get to Bellingham, but I noticed that if I went north, I could drive through the Cascade Mountains to get there.

So, I set the GPS aside, pulled out the map, and I got on the road.

As I wound my way up to and then through Hwy 20, I wasn’t just driving from one destination to another anymore. Sure, I had plans to stay the night in North Cascades to hike the next day. Eventually I was headed to Bellingham, but that was no longer the draw. The draw was stopping at overlooks along the highway to peer at mountains and glacial lakes. It was lunch at Three Fingered Jack’s Saloon because the town (Winthrop) looked interesting. The saloon claimed to be the oldest in the state, and I wanted to explore. It was street side espresso shops (these little drive-thrus are all over Washington and Oregon). Strawberries, cherries, and raspberries at stands on the side of the road. And even after making it to Bellingham (clothes washed and dried), it was a stop in La Conner while sightseeing with Brad because the town looked cute, and I saw an “art gallery” sign. The road had me, and I hadn’t even made it out of Washington yet.

Once I did make it out, heading south from Olympic National Park and down Highway 101, the road pulled me back in. It took me all the way to the Columbia Basin where I stopped in Astoria to fill up on fish and chips from Bowpicker, a food boat (yes, boat, not truck), with a line a mile long. Post-lunch, I fed my nostalgia with a self-guided Goonies tour. I wandered along the river and meandered downtown, checking out shops, trying out coffee, losing myself in the day. Losing myself in the moment. Losing myself in the feeling of being on the road.

Then there was yesterday (7/16). Tiny towns (with more espresso drive-thrus for me to sample), lush green fields and farmland, mountains in the distance, the Siuslaw National Forest surrouding me while giving me the barest glimpse of the coast, then the forest dropped out opening to dramatic cliffs, rocky shores, white sand dunes and beaches for miles. From Seal Rock until Brookings, Oregon, I stopped whenever I got the chance to stare out at the sea. (And, because the road sometimes gives you more than you ask for, at my last stop I also got an eyeful of a naked man changing behind his truck. To be clear, his truck was facing the railing for the viewpoint. Behind his truck means he was between his truck and the road. Oh, Oregon. I cannot make this stuff up). Halfway through, when I hit Dune City, I got out for a bit to wander around the sand dunes. Stretch. Sit on an empty beach. Watch the birds. Take a lunch break.

There was no destination to stop at yesterday. No park to tour. Today, it was just me, Princess, and whatever the road held around each bend, and aside from the unexpected full frontal, I think it might have been the best day yet.

**Please excuse all typos, grammatical errors, and other weird punctuation. Sometimes the light in Princess isn’t the best for proofing. Since this isn’t a legal brief, I’m just going to let it go until I get to a place where I can fix it.**