There are two schools of thought regarding road trips. One is to hurry to your destination so you can see it all. Two, you can meander and explore unknown roads and impromptu diversions. For me, a road trip is all about option two.
A few years ago, my wife and I drove through the quaint Victorian town of Ferndale in Northern California. Our plan was to continue north toward Oregon but we took a detour on Mattole Road along the coast. Little did we know we’d found the route to California’s “Lost Coast.” The road was battered and strewn with potholes. At one point, we had to maneuver off the road and roll through a patch of scrub land. We opened the windows and smelled a sweet odor, a scent we later learned was California sagebrush commonly known as “cowboy cologne.”
The steep hills led to black sand beaches dotted with piles of driftwood. An oncoming storm triggered whitecaps on the grayish blue sea. Turbulent waves hit massive rock formations just off shore. A squadron of pelicans soared through low-hanging fog. They looked prehistoric with massive wings and rubbery-like pink bills.
We came upon a ranger parked at a viewpoint. He said we were standing at the westernmost mainland point of California. He pointed to Sugar Loaf Island, a tiny outcropping serving as a breeding ground for cormorants and puffins. The wet breeze smelled of briny saltwater.
We asked if there were hiking trails in the area. He mentioned the Punta Gorda Lighthouse that had been deactivated in 1951. It could be reached by hiking four miles through rugged coastline replete with ticks, rattlesnakes and poison oak.
“Maybe next time,” I said.
We continued driving and the road transitioned into dense forest with massive redwoods and roadside ferns. This was the Rockefeller Forest, the largest old-growth collection of coastal Redwoods in the world. We pulled over and craned our necks to see the treetops. This was impossible since some trees were 350 feet tall.
My wife grabbed her portable watercolor kit, sat on a fallen log and painted the vista. I opened a book I’d purchased back in Eureka. It was called The Wild Trees by Richard Preston.
The deep redwood canopy is a vertical Eden filled with mosses, lichens, spotted salamanders, hanging gardens of ferns, and thickets of huckleberry bushes… Thick layers of soil sitting on limbs harbor animal and plant life unknown to science.
We took in the pine-scented air and musty scent of damp earth and decomposing logs. The woods felt alive with rustling leaves, snapping twigs and buzzing insects. Birds sang to each other from the heights, a soundtrack from a vivid dream.
I remembered a conversation I’d had years earlier with a hiker from Sebastopol. He described the Japanese meditative practice of Shinrin-yoku translated as forest bathing. This is where you take in the forest with all your senses, tasting the mist, smelling the earth, touching the trees and spongy-like moss. The goal is to absorb the forest, let it permeate your being as if being baptized by nature.
It’s easy to become numb to daily life. We fall prey to the urgency of paying bills, battling traffic, raising children. Road trips remind you what it means to be spontaneous and alive. They detach you from your routine and allow you to reconnect with the mysteries of the world around you.
In the 1972 film Deliverance, a line is spoken by Burt Reynolds as he and his friends search for a river in backwoods Georgia. “Sometimes you have to lose yourself before you can find anything.”
This is the essence of a road trip. You meet new people and see unfamiliar places. Your experience can be mind-opening and joyous. Or scary.
In my 20s, I took a weekend road trip to explore the small towns near Kern County, California. One day I drove along a road adjacent to a grove of almond trees. I felt my car dragging to the right accompanied by a rhythmic flapping noise. I pulled over to find I had a flat on my right front tire.
These were the days before cell phones. I had a spare tire but I’d never changed a flat before. There were no houses, only fields of produce as far as I could see. It was cold and nearly dark. I leaned against my car hoping a car or truck would come by.
As night fell, I saw thousands of stars and murky space dust. I spotted the Big Dipper and a gleaming white orb that was either Venus or Jupiter. I had a full tank of gas so I left the car running and turned on the heater. I stretched out on the back seat and fell asleep. About an hour later I heard a knock on the window. A scraggly man in his 20s with long hair, beard and backpack stood beside my car. He looked feral as if he hadn’t showered in weeks. I resolved to stay calm, warily stepping outside.
“You okay,” the man asked.
“I have a flat.”
“Why don’t you change it,” he asked.
“I don’t know how.”
“I can do it for you,” he said.
Who was this guy? Why was he in the middle of nowhere on a desolate road at night? I opened my trunk and removed the spare and jack kit. He retrieved a tiny flashlight from his backpack. I shined it on the tire while he went to work. It took him about 20 minutes to jack up the chassis, remove the old tire and replace it with the spare. He said he’d changed hundreds of tires in his life working at body shops. I remained on edge fearing his malicious intent would show itself any second.
It didn’t.
Afterwards, I was so grateful I opened my wallet and gave the man $100.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said.
“I would’ve had to pay a tow truck driver anyway.”
I asked if he needed a ride. He accepted. He directed me back to Interstate 5. As we drove south, his funky odor permeated the car. I opened my window to disperse the smell.
“What are you doing out here,” I asked.
“Trying to get back to Bakersfield.”
“Is that where you live?”
“It’s where my mom lives.”
He turned on his flashlight and showed me a barbed wire tattoo on his arm.
“You know what that means,” he asked.
“No.”
“I was incarcerated. Now I’m free. Time to make amends.”
I realized I’d put myself in a bad situation. I didn’t dare ask why he was in prison. I couldn’t relax until I saw the lights of Bakersfield. I exited at Highway 99 and dropped the man off at a Denny’s. I wanted to give him more money. (Not just for the tire but for not killing me.) He wouldn’t take it. I drove away having never asked his name.
Road trips show you what you’re made of. Sometimes bad things happen like accidents, dead batteries, empty fuel tanks. In On the Road, Jack Kerouac wrote:
They have worries, they’re counting the miles, they’re thinking about where to sleep tonight, how much money for gas, the weather, how they’ll get there. And all the time they’ll get there anyway, you see.
A close friend was going through a difficult breakup. He struggled for months, unable to process the pain. Desperate for change, he drove north on Highway 1 toward Big Sur. Trees always made him feel better. While driving through the Santa Lucia mountains, he saw a sign for a monastery. He took a two-mile dirt road up a steep hill and came upon a cathedral at the top of a mountain overlooking the ocean. This was the New Camaldoli Hermitage.
He entered a small cathedral where Benedictine monks sat in prayer. He joined them. He was overcome by a feeling of mourning. He wept. He ended up staying at the cloister for a week. He spent his days hiking through the forest, praying and meditating. He went days without talking. He ate simple meals with the monks, basking in their presence. When he finally returned to Los Angeles, he was ready for a new chapter in his life.
Road trips are healing. They teach you to go with the flow, that things will work out and that life is a journey. Even if you’re confused and filled with anxiety, everything will be okay.
When I was 28, my girlfriend broke up with me after two years. My best friend Lee convinced me to take a road trip with him to the Grand Canyon. While driving through a small town in Utah at night, we stopped at a gas station with a cafe. We filled our tank then sat in the diner for a meal. A pretty young waitress in a white Mormon garment took our order. She looked miserable, a harsh frown on her face. I felt the same way bemoaning my breakup. Lee ordered a cheeseburger, I went for chicken pot pie.
When the food came, it was half frozen. We summoned the girl asking her to reheat the grub.
“Our oven is broken,” she said.
“How’d you heat this,” Lee asked.
“Microwave.”
“Can you give it another zap?”
The girl left without taking the food. A gruff man appeared, presumably the owner.
“Is there a problem,” he asked.
“The food is cold,” Lee said. “We’re hoping you can reheat it.”
He wasn’t happy.
“You Jewish,” he asked.
Lee and I locked eyes, concerned.
“I am,” I said. “He’s not. What does that have to do with the food?”
“I think you should leave,” the man said.
He stood above us, resolute. We left. The moment we were back on the road, we fell into a bout of laughter. This was the first time I’d laughed since my breakup.
Road trips remind you that we live in a weird and wonderful world. There are many things to see out there, some beautiful, others strange. Every encounter leaves you wiser, stronger and filled with a reverence for life.
I always turn to road trips when I need to renew my passion. Unlike air travel, road trips allows you to bring a large collection of your stuff. You can haul pillows, blankets, coolers of food, sleeping bags, tents. Your car becomes a mobile closet. Visiting a new town is like test driving a new car. Is this somewhere I could see myself living? Having your stuff makes this a much easier assessment.
More than anything, a road trip creates memories. There are so many wondrous things to see just beyond the bend. All we have to do is get in our car, choose some unknown road and see where it takes us.