Road Trip
Laurie Reed
The road is a seductive path carved through mountains, prairies, towns and cities. It beckons to places unknown, encouraging exploration with whispered promises of adventure. Whatever the stated purpose, a road trip often becomes more about the journey than the destination – offering new perspectives that broaden our sense of place and of who we are. On the road, the vastness and diversity of this land we call home spools out slowly through the rhythmic spin of tires on concrete. And infinite configurations of sky, colors, and contours unveil a raw, wondrous beauty.
Traveling by car with others offers a shared experience but each window provides a different view. We travel well together on the road, my family of three – husband, son, and me. Several cross-country road trips served as our testing ground starting when my son was thirteen; not an age most parents would actively choose to spend time in a confined space with their offspring.
Photos from these trips document the dramatic changes of youth. Our son evolves from a boy with braces who I can look squarely in the eye, to a young man who towers over me and just passes his dad at six feet. The one constant: a kid with a grin, exuding joy and confidence.
When the time came for the move to college from Chicago to Oregon, it was never a question of how to travel, but how much time to allocate for the journey. As I learned though, our approach, traveling cross-country by car, failed to ease the pain of letting go and saying goodbye.
The college road trip. It seemed like the preparation for this event took all summer; the reality is, it took a lifetime.
Negotiation occurred throughout the summer regarding routes and the amount of time to spend on the road prior to move-in day. We finally settled on six nights and seven days of travel. One non-negotiable, we had to drive through Colorado, one of the few states our son had not yet visited. My husband, always eager to put miles behind us in the morning hours, pushed for an early departure.
Day One – Leaving
We hold close to the agreed upon time, but there were goodbyes that hadn’t been factored in. When you’re eighteen and leaving the only home you’ve ever really known, it’s impossible not to linger. And there is the dog, a big happy, furry beast that knows something is up and she’s not going.
The first day turns out to be a long one — Grand Island, Nebraska is the first stop —but the weather is good and there are no unwelcome surprises. My son periodically opens the shade to the sun roof just to check if the luggage carrier is still with us. In the afternoon he declares, “I have everything I need to live in this car.” It’s not a literal statement but a realization that he’s brought all he considers important in his life, at this moment, with him.
Later, in the hotel, the discovery of what was not packed – the phone charger, belts. Still, he has almost everything he needs, and isn’t that about the best we can ever hope for?
Day Two – Friends
By chance, a former college roommate contacted me shortly before we left on our trip. She happens to live in Colorado, just north of Denver. I haven’t been good about staying in touch and haven’t seen her in eighteen years. Yet I ask if we might visit. She extends an invitation for us to stay the night.
Shortly after ringing the bell, she flings the door wide open and flashes her mischievous smile, her eyes sparkling. We are in good hands.
We have a wonderful visit, meet the family, and the conversation flows easily. In the evening, photos come out revealing much younger versions of ourselves. It was a rarefied time, and impossible to go back. I wish this for my son from his college experience: friendships that last a lifetime.
Day Three – Pigs on the Highway
This was to be one of our shorter travel days. The plan, to drive from one side of Colorado to the other (Grand Junction) and hike in Colorado National Monument either in the late afternoon or early the next day. I-70 carves a lovely, winding path through the Rockies. It is the way through the mountains. There are few practical alternative routes. We stop for lunch in Vail, pleasantly low key in the off-season.
Afterwards, I pull back onto the interstate. About fifteen miles out, I notice big electronic signs indicating the road ahead is closed but, with no detours posted, I keep going. About eleven miles from Glenwood Springs, traffic comes to a complete stop. Little did we know we would be stuck on the highway for five-and-a-half hours.
The sun is intense, there’s no shade, but we keep the car turned off to save gas. Truckers around us begin to get information on their radios – a semi-trailer carrying over a hundred pigs has tipped over on the highway somewhere ahead. Pigs both live and dead are strewn across the road. There are so many questions without any answers and it occurs to me that we may very well be spending the night where we are. I take a mental inventory of what we have— a few granola bars, some water, each other.
We are on a bridge, so there is nowhere to walk off to relieve oneself discreetly. The car ahead with little children pulls to an angle and opens the doors as screens to let their kids pee on the side of the road. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I realize that panic would be a very appropriate reaction in this situation, but honestly, it’s so hot, I begin to melt instead.
After a few hours, the line of cars creeps forward until we are just outside a tunnel. Here the traffic stops again.
At least we are out of the blistering heat. People are mingling. My son is taking pictures using the manual settings on his camera. My husband gets caught in a long conversation with a truck driver. Later he’ll tell me stories about truckers, what they carry, their worry the bridge won’t hold us.
When the sun is low in the sky, we’re suddenly moving, really moving, not a start and stop exercise but moving quickly through the canyon’s twists and turns.
The place where the semi-trailer tipped over, although there are no pigs and there is no truck, is marked by a missing guard rail, flattened brush by the roadside and mud hardened on pavement. We pass by, caught in the line of cars all trying to make up for lost time.
It’s still about a two-hour drive to Grand Junction. At first, the view is breathtaking as the mountains become dark, silent giants silhouetted by the setting sun. When it gets quite dark, I’m tired, startled by the headlights of oncoming cars, and unsure of the road. I am deeply grateful when we make it to the hotel safely.
My husband feels compelled to get us checked in;, my priority is a bathroom. I do not have the time to negotiate the front-desk formalities and I am maddened by his stamina. When I return, we get into a nasty argument. None of this is rational, but after navigating the canyon roads in the dark, my nerves are frayed.
My son becomes the voice of reason which catches me off balance. Motivated in part by hunger, and wanting dinner, he mediates between the two of us. Our only option, without getting back in the car, is the hotel restaurant which is about to close. We head upstairs to drop off the luggage.
Once we are in the room, I take a minute before joining my son and husband for dinner. Tears well up and I struggle to catch my breath. We are a family of three. How will we go on just as two? Leaving our son behind at college and making the reverse trip without him is simply unfathomable.
Later that evening, our son wants to show us all of the more than one hundred pictures he took. Several shots look virtually identical but with minor differences in shading. We listen patiently as he excitedly explains why he likes one particular frame better than another. Does he realize how fortunate he is to have such a captive audience? He’s not looking for approval, he just wants someone to witness, to take part in what he considers interesting. I hope he finds people on the road ahead who share his passions, enjoy the enthusiasm, and are willing to fully engage. But will anyone ever love him as much as we do right now?
Day Four – Since We Are Here
The original plan included exploring Colorado National Monument before heading to Arches National Park for more hiking. We have a beautiful panoramic view of Colorado National Monument from our hotel window. Still tired from the day before, I ask whether we really need to drive over and look around. Both my son and husband feel it is important, since we are here, to get a closer look. I defer, secretly delighted my son wants to take advantage of opportunities at hand. We drive through a portion of the monument but save the hiking for the national park.
Arches is impressive. Rugged cliffs and massive rusty red rocks, weathered by rain and wind, form all manner of shapes. The sun is unforgiving though, with the temperature well over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. I worry the plastic shrink-wrapped clothes in the luggage carrier are melting in this heat. We manage two more hikes before leaving the park in the late afternoon for Provo, Utah.
On the way, the sky darkens, the clouds threatening. We’re in a small town on the edge of a canyon. I ask a gas station attendant about the weather ahead with no satisfactory insights. Has the storm already passed or are we driving right into it?
I want answers and I don’t think we’re getting the information we need to make a decision. I delay by walking around the station’s convenience store, unsure of what to do next, with my son trailing behind me. He thinks we should push ahead. I snap at him and regret it immediately. While my son may have an opinion, he doesn’t have the experience to appreciate what it’s like to drive in blinding rain on a two-lane highway through a canyon.
His feelings are hurt and arguments begin over petty things. It’s my own fault. If I would have acknowledged his opinion and rationally explained the reason for my concerns, I might have avoided this conflict. Maturity and wisdom are often elusive. I find them to be life-long pursuits.
We push ahead. Thankfully, the rain isn’t bad and we miss the brunt of the storm’s fury. Dinner provides a balm to a long day. Once more, we are able to regroup, reconnect. And we end the night with a round of cards, a family tradition on road trips.
Day Five – Life Lessons
Out of Provo, our son is the day’s first driver. As we search for a lunch spot, his defenses get tripped and he’s on high alert. Any innocuous comment is a slight. He wants to be treated as an equal. And while he is very knowledgeable, he’s not all-knowing. I want to tell him that growth comes from recognizing that while you might know a lot, there are things you don’t know, and there will always be things you don’t know. Staying open to this possibility requires being humble and being curious.
I don't actually say these things, or, I say them clumsily so I'm unsure if I'm fully understood. We are running out of time for teaching life lessons. I should laugh at the absurdity of trying to start now but instead I feel a wave of panic. Have we done enough? Is he ready for the next stage in his life?
Day Six – Where You’re from, Sticks
Our second day in Boise. After lunch we drive over to a town I lived in as a child. The place has lost a bit of grace. The public library, once a lovely stone building shaded by tall trees on a bustling street now sits abandoned, plywood boards planted crudely across its windows and doors. The schools look disheveled, less like spaces for learning and more like holding centers.
The neighborhood is in disarray as well. My old home appears so small now, yet it used to be my entire world. It is no longer well-tended; my father spent hours on the yard, planting flowers and cultivating a vegetable garden out back. Homes of other neighbors — the lawyer, the mortician, the family physician — do not reflect the status and prestige of their former owners.
Despite disappointing appearances, I am in love with the silvery blue sky, the essence of dust and tall grass stirred up by a dry wind. I am home. I want to spend time slowly exploring more of this town, this place I come from. My family is impatient. I turn the car and head out, aware that my son will always know the sound of crickets, the pungent smell of a light breeze on a hot and humid summer evening, and the bite of a bitterly cold, windy midwestern day, blinded by the sunlight bouncing off the frozen snow that crunches beneath his feet.
Day Seven – We Arrive
Forest fires are burning throughout the northwest. The road we’re on cuts a straight line across the deserts and open plains of eastern Oregon and we’re able to make good time. After Bend, Oregon, the road curves through forests and peaks. We spot charred trees and burnt hillsides, stark reminders of fires that have only recently passed.
We finally arrive at our destination on the other side of the mountains. The feeling in the car is one of accomplishment as well as nervous anticipation. We have successfully made this part of the trip together, but how we navigate the next part of the adventure is uncharted territory.
Day Eight – Final Preparations
This day is an opportunity to sleep in, do some laundry, and pick up last minute items for the dorm room. My son playfully bumps me with his hip and I instantly burst into tears. He’s taken aback. I quickly make an effort to recover, but the complexity of thoughts and emotions his simple gesture stirred surprises me as well.
When my son was growing up, I always knew when he was sick because it was the only time I could hold him on my lap without complaint. I could rarely initiate affection – like tousling his hair, sitting close, or even a hip bump like the one he just gave me – without him pulling away. His playfulness only serves to underscore the impending separation.
That night over cards my son says, “Starting tomorrow, it will never be the same.” The air suddenly spins with our hopes, worries, sadness and excitement tangled in gossamer threads of love. And he is right.
There is a lot of road between where we live and where our son lives now. We’ve traveled part of the road together, and there is so much more he will travel without us. We travel well together. We will learn to travel well apart.
Laurie Reed
Laurie Reed is a writer recently transplanted to the Pacific Northwest after too many years in the central parts of the country. She currently is working on a book looking at the importance of advocacy and support during a serious health challenge. Road Trip is an essay on loving and letting go. In this era of pandemic, Laurie spends her time writing, reading, blogging, and tweeting–all Covid-19 approved activities.