An odd melancholy swept over me when I pulled into the KOA in Milton, West Virginia around 7 p.m. on August 19th. I was about 6 hours from D.C. and planning on stopping for the night before driving home the next day. I’d spent the last week or so making my way home. After my stop in Arizona at Petrified Forest National Park, I’d driven to Leadville, Colorado to visit some friends for two days. From Leadville, it was straight to Salina, Kansas for an overnight; Salina to St. Louis, Missouri to sleep with a quick visit to the arch; St. Louis to Milton, West Virginia.
Everything after Colorado felt anticlimactic. Everything felt rushed.
I’d spent two months on the road, exploring some of the most beautiful wilderness in the country. I’d off-roaded all around Baja, Mexico (stories to come!). I’d hiked to glaciers, fallen asleep on empty beaches, camped in national parks, slept in the Jeep. And I’ve been repeating the mantra “slow-down” over and over to myself every day since my first camping stop in Minnesota. Yet, this trip would end after one short city stop in St. Louis, two solid days of driving, and basically a mad dash back to D.C.? That seemed . . . wrong. It seemed wrong even though I did need to get home, not because I don’t love being on the road, but because—surprise, I’m leaving the country for a two-and-a-half-month stint in Spain at the end of September and there are things to do.
Even with those things to do though, I didn’t want to end this trip on the wrong note.
I’ve spent a lot of time over the last few years thinking about endings. The ending of one’s job or career (ending my job to take this sabbatical, for example, and the related question of what that means for my legal career/what comes next). The ending of romantic relationships and friendships (there have been a few). The ending of familial relationships (2020/2021 was a tough year for family deaths, all of which happened in different ways). The ending of the way we think about normal, about life (I think probably no explanation needed here. We have all lived this pandemic). If I’ve learned anything it’s that the way we end things matters, or at least it does for me. When I end things on the right note, from a place of wholeness, understanding, with gratitude for what I experienced and for the lessons I’ve learned, it seems to make all the difference. There are fewer what ifs? If only’s? Or worse, the “should’ves.”
So, to avoid that litany, I did the only thing I could think of under the circumstances. I pulled out the map, looked at my route home, and decided to slow down the drive by spending the next day at New River Gorge National Park or, “the New,” instead of driving straight home. Camping one more night. Giving myself plenty of time to sit in my camp chair, hang out in the Jeep, and think about this trip before coming home.
Even better, spending an extra day at the New would put me home right at the two-month mark. It felt like perfect timing. It felt right. And that’s how I ended up closing the book on this road trip in West Virginia.
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The New (in brief)
I’ve always loved weekend trips to West Virginia. They are a mix of winding roads, views of rapid-filled rivers, mountains, forests, meadows, and funky small towns. They are also just far enough from D.C. to feel like a getaway, but close enough to feel like home. Ending the trip in West Virginia made it easy for me to take it easy, to sit on an overlook for a long time and stare at the river below, to chat with strangers, and to do pretty much nothing from the time I rolled into the campground at Babcock State Park until I went to sleep that night. I didn’t feel like I’d miss out on anything (it feels so close that I can always go back). And the scenery, even though different since I’d never been to the New, was familiar. I’ve spent a lot of time hiking through Appalachian landscapes in either West Virginia or Virginia since moving to D.C. The trees I recognize. The snakes I’m wary of but know how to handle. The trails are always just populated enough to eliminate any anxiety about hiking alone (welcome back to the East Coast!).
A few photos from the last day, including some shots from Princess. I don’t think I’ve ever showed you guys the Jeep set-up.
I didn’t really see enough of the New to talk about it in any depth, but I will say that the Long Point hike I did was excellent—a rhododendron forest opening into a rocky point with bridge views. My tacos and beer at The Handle Bar + Kitchen were even better, worth every star on the Google review, and I enjoyed watching people pet the goats. Yes, they had goats. The advertisement was something like, “Beer, Bicycles (for rent), and Goats,” go figure. And as much as I appreciate the ease of finding and booking at KOA’s while on the road, Babcock State Park, with trails and campsites backed up against the forest, was exactly where a cross-country, mostly camping trip should end.
Why a road trip?
While I loved the external (parks! trees! goats!), my experience on my last day was primarily internal, so I thought I’d share a bit of that with you. Mostly, what I kept thinking about is why? Why of all the trips I could’ve taken, all the places I could have gone, or all the things I could’ve done with my time this summer, did I do this? Was it just wanderlust? Jeep fever? Or was it something different? Why is this the way I had decided to fill my time?
I imagine I’ll be teasing that answer out for years to come, but what I found myself thinking about on my last night on the road wasn’t the wanderlust or the views. It was the setting-up and taking down of camp, the staring at maps, the thinking about and planning of routes, and all of the reaching out to friends I hadn’t seen in ages in the process.
Since I started practicing law, for better or worse and mostly out of necessity, I have slowly eroded away at my own participation in my life. First it was my house: No time to clean? Hire someone to do that (or just don’t so it). Then it was my meals: No time to cook? Let’s order those too. Exercise? No, not when you have a brief/depo/etc. Vacations? If I took them, someone else could plan them. Errands? Is there a courier?
I recognize that I’m privileged to have had the resources to weed out so many of the parts of my life that felt expendable, but what was I weeding them out for? Not to enrich my life with people, places, or rest (even if I told myself I was, even if I thought I was, even if I was trying to). As I weeded things out I just opened up more time for work. Meaningful and important work, yes, but work all the same. And for all the efficiency I was gaining in my work life, whether I recognized it or not, I was slowly chipping away at the tangible little reminders of what it means to be human. The daily tasks that keep us in the present moment; that anchor us, that anchored me, to life and to myself.
The road has been different though. It’s been tangible. The fights with the cooler (oh man, so many fights with the cooler); the constant cleaning out of the Jeep; the hiss of the propane burner right before the flame catches for coffee in the morning or dinner at night; the dirt on my hands (though not when eating =); the sore muscles from the hikes/surfing (Baja!); the sound of footfalls on the trail; the feel of my hands on tree trunks to steady myself; the sensation of moving every morning or evening stretching on the yoga mat. The luxury of waking up each day and deciding where I would go, what I would do, how I would get there because, well, I wanted to, not because anyone required me to be there. Not because deadline-fueled anxiety was pushing me out the door. Not because someone else planned it.
It’s hard to feel disconnected from yourself when you are so present, making your little corner of the world every single day. And I think maybe I knew that when I started thinking about how I should spend my time this summer. If my goal for a sabbatical was to take time to be intentional about my life, what better way to do that than by putting myself on the road and in a position to have to do this one slice of life, on my own, almost all the time? And those times when I wasn’t on my own, well I was with friends.
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I pulled on to Varnum Street on Sunday, August 21, one day shy of two months since I left D.C. and with 10,000 more miles under Princess’s tires. It felt good to be home, it felt right, but it also feels odd. The daily markers are different. There are places to go and many things to do. The cats are wonderful. The shower is definitely better without shoes. The oven is a welcome change. But it’s a bit noisier in the city, and I kind of miss the air mattress (props to Deepsleep, it was that comfortable).
I don’t think I’m the only one who feels odd either. Princess’s battery died the very next day. She’s in the shop as I write this, and I can’t help but think I was insanely lucky that she held out until home. What a crazy end to a crazy, beautiful two months on the road.
A fitting ending to a perfectly timed homecoming indeed.