Easterly Finale

I don’t know what I was waiting for in postponing this update. Something felt incomplete about being home, and part of me wished I was still in the middle of the trip coming here. I wanted to be in Arizona, fingers and toes completely numb, about to watch the sun paint my first view of the Grand Canyon, or feeling the surprise again of entering Gila National Forest in New Mexico, or even just on the road in the middle of nowhere, excited by solitude and fully engaged in all of the unknown land around me.

Most people would be totally grateful for a week-long trip, and the thought of driving across the country would be terribly exciting. And believe me, I have been so excited and grateful. But when I woke up in Bradenton Friday morning, the settled-ness got to me, and I didn’t feel ready for it. I sensed a familiar restlessness, and this worried me.

But these thoughts began to change. I ran errands all day Friday, and the familiarity of this town was a comfort instead of a bother. Then Saturday, my mom and I went kayaking in Terra Ceia, through mangrove passages and hidden inlets, the sun bright and warm, the Gulf water splashing all over me. Later I drove to the beach to catch the sunset. It was there, sitting in the sand, watching the crowd gather at water’s edge to say goodnight to the sun, that I began to feel some sort of completion. And then excitement. I was overwhelmed, grateful to be around family and old friends and such familiar places, looking forward to this new stage in my life.

While I hope I will be traveling as much as possible in the future, I also believe that, no matter how long I’m here and where else I go, Bradenton will always be home. And, for right now, it feels so right to be here.

Three final thoughts about this trip:

1) As of Louisiana, I have now been in a car in all forty-eight of our continental states. I’m proud of this, though I am also consistently amazed by how gigantic our country is and how much there is still to see. I have lists of places around the world I want to visit, but even if I end up only traveling these states, I know there is enough to keep me thrilled and curious for the rest of my life. I want to wander the Oregon coast, hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and sleep by the river, become familiar with Gila National Forest, camp in Yosemite…there’s so much. And while I enjoy the idea of feeling settled here, I hope to never lose a sense of wonder and curiosity about the rest of our country.

2) For the past couple of weeks I have been reading and re-reading Jayber Crow by Wendell Berry. This trip, moving to Bradenton with some sense of permanence for the first time since high school, has allowed for all sorts of thoughts about the act of returning home, a process that encompasses every part of our being and creates room for seemingly endless reflections on life’s present, past, and future. This book has complemented and paralleled this process in an astonishingly beautiful way. Berry is the literary saint of small-town America, with a soft, thoughtful tone perfect for roadtrips and outdoor reading, and his ideas about returning home challenge and clarify my own. It doesn’t hurt that he writes with a careful eloquence that can make me close my eyes with a peaceful smile in one moment and then make me sick with jealousy in the next. I can’t imagine a better traveling companion for this trip. Except maybe Britton, or someone else who could have an actual conversation with me. But that’s beside the point.

3) Six days, nine states, and 3,373.5 miles, for anyone who was wondering.

On Wednesday I go to Sarasota to meet with the editor of the magazine where I hope to intern. If that works out, the temporary permanence (if there is such a thing) of my return to Bradenton will feel more complete. If it doesn’t, I am not really sure what’s coming next. But don’t worry…I’ll be sure to write.

Thank you for reading. Remember love.

Easterly Pt. 3

San Antonio left me with two surprises. The first came soon after I posted my last update. I hadn’t realized how late it was until I noticed the Panera staff cleaning up for the night. After I closed my computer and cleared the table, I was greeted by a young lady -- I would guess the night manager -- offering me a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread.

I understand that it’s normal for Panera to give away the bread they can no longer sell, but I was surprised by the gesture and felt all sorts of gratitude. I told her I was in the middle of a long trip, so this was perfect for me, then she and another employee started asking about where I was going and how long I’d been on the road, and before you knew it we were all the best of friends. At least according to Facebook. So to my Panera friends, thank you again.

San Antonio’s second surprise came as I was on my way out, back on I-10, and I started seeing signs for Houston. I suddenly realized that I had completely misread my map, and that the drive to Christopher’s was not nearly as far as I thought. This was cause for celebrating, which I did with a slice of cinnamon raisin bread and an unreturned wave to the car in the next lane.

Not too much later I crossed the Colorado River. It was too dark to actually see it, but I honked anyways and offered my thanks for the Grand Canyon. I stopped about half an hour out of Houston, found a place to park on a quiet street away from the interstate, and curled up for some sleep.

A heavy fog moved in before sunrise. This was beautiful, because it cooled the air and gave the day’s beginning an eerie significance. But it was also unfortunate, because it turned everything kind of sticky and damp and made the funny smell in my car a little bit funnier. So I rode into Houston with the windows down to let everything air out.

Dark clouds were hovering over the city by the time I reached it, threatening but never delivering rain. I spread some apple sauce on my new cinnamon raisin bread and made a sandwich, then pulled out my bike and wandered downtown for a bit. I wasn’t in much of a city mood, though, so before long I was back on the interstate. It was only a couple hours to Beaumont, and the drive was pleasant enough, if not exceedingly memorable. I remember the sky clearing up quite nicely, and I remember crossing increasingly frequent bayous and rivers, with colors and textures that spoke unmistakably of an allegiance to the Gulf of Mexico. This made home feel close and allowed for a pleasant frame of mind.

I reached Beaumont around lunchtime. Yes, my brother lives in Beaumont, and yes, this allowed at least a few moments of narcissistic satisfaction on my part. As a man next to me at a gas station said so eloquently, “Wait, your name’s Beau? And you’re in Beaumont? Oh wow, what a gas!”

I was surprisingly and thoroughly charmed by Beaumont. By this point it was a gorgeous, clear day, and the downtown streets wound through a collection of small parks and old buildings. There were pillared government centers, weathered brick buildings, an ancient limestone church, some small theatres and a great regional art museum, even a Back to the Future style clock tower on an old hotel. I biked down Main Street, which wandered past shady parks with fountains and flowerbeds, then ended up at The Barking Dog café for lunch. There I noticed a sign saying that, starting next month, they could no longer afford to stay open during the day. This pointed to a sad theme hanging over the town: despite its charm, it was eerily still and quiet for a Monday, clearly overshadowed by the endless miles of development surrounding it, filled with fast food restaurants and chain stores you can find in any city in the country.

With the heavy realization that this perfect little corner of America was fading away, I biked down to a rolling riverside park, complete with a terrific steel bridge for trains and pedestrians. Downstream a bit the river was lined with factories and smokestacks, but even so it was a beautiful scene and the soft breeze carried a wonderful woodsy scent, so it wasn’t long before I was stretched out in the grass asleep.

Later that afternoon I found my brother’s apartment and took a long, much-needed shower. I hadn’t realized how gross I had become until standing in front of his mirror, but after the hot water and about a gallon of shampoo I was as good as new. I visited with Chris for a bit when he came home from work, then we both decided to nap for a couple hours. His couch was the closest I’d come to a bed since California, and when I stretched out I could feel knots in all kinds of new spots on my back from the nights of curling up in my front seat, so this was perfect.

Christopher treated to a hearty dinner, then we wandered a bookstore for a bit before heading home. We stayed up for a couple hours sharing about our lives. He’s in an interesting place right now, carving out a life in an area so far removed from anything we’ve experienced before, and I loved being able to see him there.

I regretted having to leave so soon, but there was still a whole lot of road in front of me, so after a long and full night of sleep I climbed back in the car and said bye to my brother. I noticed then that the tingling in my right hand, which had been there since I got so cold and numb at the Grand Canyon, was finally gone. A good night of sleep can work wonders.

Texas ended after not too much longer, and before lunchtime I was in Louisiana. This stretch of I-10 was interesting; at several points the road transformed into low, flat bridges, one of which lasted more than half an hour. These bridges tore through the heart of swamp country, which allowed for an odd sensation: still being closely surrounded by trees, but looking over the edge of the road and seeing water in every direction. I was intrigued by this terrain, and would have liked to see a little more, but I wasn’t terribly sad to keep driving. I think my heart may still have been on the rim of the Grand Canyon.

Just before Baton Rouge I crossed a gorgeous steel bridge spanning the Mississippi. This, crossing such a monumental landmark, always feels significant. Now I have to remember to add “east of the Mississippi” to all my superlatives. Baton Rouge came and went fairly quickly, as did New Orleans. I had taken this route with the intention of exploring New Orleans, but I was in a driving mood and before I knew it I was crossing another state line.

Mississippi was remarkably unmemorable. The landscape could have been compelling in its simplicity if not for the monstrous casinos and the endless miles of billboards advertising them. I have heard good things about parts of Mississippi, especially the Biloxi area, but by this point I was rather grateful for the relentless interstate, and I had no thoughts of slowing down.

At first Alabama didn’t feel a whole lot different. Except no casinos, which made for a much more pleasant drive. Then, Alabama began to Floridafy. My word. The land dried up, the trees grew and thickened, the grass became distinctly Floridian, and by the time I reached the state line I was already feeling at home.

This feeling continued through the panhandle, which lasted for about an eternity but somehow remained enjoyable. It might have been the dusk sky, or the fact that I was in my home state again, or maybe the rolling hills that always surprise me about this part of Florida…whatever the reason, I was in a ridiculously good mood.

I had been planning on pulling over for the night, but somewhere before Tallahassee I realized I could finish it all in one drive. When I stopped for gas I called Jacksonville to make sure I had a place to land when I got in town, and with a renewed burst of energy I continued across the northern middle of our state.

Of course by now it was fairly late, and I had been driving since morning, so that energy didn’t last too long. By Lake City the main thing keeping me awake was the occasional action required to flick off my brights for oncoming traffic, that great nighttime equivalent of the friendly wave, a way of nodding at my fellow travelers and saying “Hey, I see you and I don’t want you to go blind. Now drive safe, you hear?” For the last hour or so I was also kept up by the thought of being so close to a familiar place, a place with memories, where I share a meaningful history with a community of people terribly close to my heart.

Quick side note: at one point I saw a bumper sticker that said “Thank a Vet.” And I thought this was a wonderful idea, showing some appreciation to the people who care for our pets. This might be a sign of how tired I was, but it wasn’t until I was about to pass the car that I realized the sticker was talking about an entirely different kind of vet.

When I reached Jacksonville I stopped to mail some Grand Canyon postcards to a few people I would be seeing the next day. That seemed strange, but something about handing out postcards in person feels so silly to me. Then, after almost fourteen hours of driving, I pulled into the house of some friends, just about the closest thing I have to a home in Jacksonville, and immediately settled in for another long night of sleep.

The next day I joined a few people for lunch, then wandered the campus where I had studied, amazed by the growth and the changes. I got to see a couple of friends and old professors, but it was spring break so most people I had hoped to visit with were gone for the week. Then I headed out to the beach, stopped by the Atlantic for the sake of capping off the feeling of a cross-country trip, and met up with my friend Brendan for a few hours. Many parts of my time in Jacksonville are rooted in the different stages of that friendship, so it felt good to be with him again.

We had a relaxed night, dinner with a few friends and some conversation back at the house where I was staying. My relationship with these friends is such a central part of who I am that it felt as if no time had passed, like I had been there all along, so our time together was natural and refreshing.

In keeping with a theme of this trip, my Jacksonville stay ended entirely too quickly. After an early lunch the next day with my friend Shailyn, I was on the road for Bradenton. Partly because of the nature of our lunch conversation, and partly because of having to leave so soon, that last drive was emotional and difficult. But I’ll be back in Jacksonville again in a few weeks, and that thought was a comfort.

So was the idea of being close to Bradenton. I’ll have more thoughts about this in the next post, but something about the journey of returning home speaks powerfully to me, and by the time I turned from 301 to I-75, which led me through the rolling farmlands and sunny fields north of Tampa, I was once again wearing that ridiculous and shameless grin which had marked so much of my trip.

Thursday night we had a giant family dinner, complete with Kathryn home for spring break and the family’s new special someone, about whom I don’t feel ready to write in such a public place. The night was lovely and delicious and an absolutely perfect way to mark a homecoming.

I think that’s all for now. I’ll post a few final words in a bit to wrap up my thoughts here. In the meantime, remember love.

Easterly Pt. 2

If you’re just getting here, be sure to check the first update below this. And enjoy…

Last time, I wrote that my preconceived image of Arizona was “entirely misinformed.” It turns out I probably should have gone without the “entirely” part.

Pretty soon after Flagstaff, Arizona devolved into the dry nothingness I had been expecting. Don’t get me wrong, it was amazing at parts; the road unfolded in a series of plateaus, so everything would look endlessly flat then all of a sudden you’d be at the edge of a slope descending a thousand feet. And I know up north they have the reputation for being the Big Sky states, but my goodness…at parts I felt convinced that if I stopped and looked hard enough I’d be able to see the Pacific in one direction and the Atlantic in the other. I even drove past a few dust devils, those windy towers of sand that glide for a while with a quiet whistle before disappearing.

Despite this, it didn’t take too long to start feeling monotonous. The terrain was populated only by those prickly little kinds of plants that manage to grow without ever actually seeming alive. I kept spotting intriguing rock formations, but they were always so far off that they never amounted to much more than brown smudges on the horizon. I passed a few dusty collections of trailers and prefab homes, always gathered around a single gas station, but otherwise it was a remarkably remote couple of hours.

When I stopped for gas there was a table where you could buy a raffle ticket to win a free handgun…apparently it was a fundraiser for the local fire department. Preceding and following each little town was a parade of billboards promoting such things as an all-Styrofoam Flintstones Bedrock City, massive ceramic dinosaurs, and an endless supply of trinkets “MADE BY REAL INDIANS!” I was ready to be somewhere else.

And to my surprise Arizona responded in my favor. The road gradually began to rise, snow started showing up again, and the occasional towns, while still small, became quite charming. In one of these a prominent real estate agent was a lady named Wendy Golightly. That made my day…I felt like each of her signs was a little encouragement to me, a way of telling me to enjoy my travels.

Which I did, so much, as the slope became more intense. By now a perfect layer of snow was covering everything. I drove past frozen ponds and rolling farms covered in snow, then through a perfect ski town called Alpine, up the foot of a pine-covered mountain and into Apache National Forest. I quickly realized that this road was no longer efficient; it slowed into a series of switchbacks with surprisingly sharp curves. But I loved it, and even when I passed more level highways that would have carried me around the mountains, I could not help but continue forward, the windows down and a full grin on my face.

Eventually I stopped at a scenic point and discovered that, while surrounded by the dense forest, I had driven into the middle of a mountain range. The forested and snow-capped peaks extended as far as I could see, with rolling hills between them and, far off, a bright blue lake that was absolutely gorgeous.

Not long after that the road leveled out at the Alpine Divide and I crossed into New Mexico, passing a sign that welcomed me to Gila National Forest. The road was winding down now, and the forest was slightly thinner, so every curve offered a new view: snowy mountains to the north, forested hills to the east and south, rolling fields to the west, everything cloaked in the orange light of dusk.

This stretch was the biggest surprise so far on this drive. I expected to be amazed by the Grand Canyon, and I had heard good things about the mountains around Flagstaff, but I hadn’t been to New Mexico since I was about ten, so I had no expectations. I certainly did not expect it to be this gorgeous. As I continued leaving the big mountains behind, the hills were no longer completely covered in snow and rolled through a landscape of pine trees, open grass, and stunning rock formations.

Toward the southern end of the forest I followed a side road up to a picnic area to catch the sunset. While there I read a display about Gila National Forest, learning that it was the first stretch of land in America to become officially protected wilderness, set aside by a man named Aldo Leopold, who seems like he was an absolute saint. Here are two of his quotes that were displayed there…

“Man so often kills the thing he loves, and so we pioneers have killed our wilderness. Some say we had to. Be that as it may, I am glad I shall never be young without wild country to be young in. Of what avail are forty freedoms without a blank spot on the map?”

“Wilderness areas are first of all a series of sanctuaries for the primitive arts of wilderness travel…I suppose some will wish to debate whether it is important to keep these primitive arts alive. I shall not debate it. Either you know it in your bones, or you are very, very old.”

I guess my enjoyment of the bit about “wilderness travel” was ironic as I climbed back into my car, but I loved it. Here’s a final one I just read: “Examine each question in terms of what is ethically and aesthetically right, not simply what is economically expedient.”

As I drove on the sky was still glowing with the sun’s remnants, and I realized I could not remember the last time I felt that content. I was so content that, when I decided to turn on some music and my shuffle skipped from Sleeping at Last to “The Bridge of Khazad Dum” from the Lord of the Rings, and then to Green Day of all things, I smiled and let it continue because nothing would be able to ruin this moment.

Except, of course, a mammoth stretch of commercial development with lights that were entirely too bright. This came in the form of Silver City. After stopping for gas, I found that the road had grown flat and was perfectly straight for hundreds of miles. By now it was dark, and I headed toward Texas, terribly sad to be leaving New Mexico so soon.

A little before Texas I merged with I-10, which will be my home until Jacksonville. I was miles from the nearest city and the stars were out in full force. In the distance I could see silhouettes of what were apparently impressive mountains, but in the spirit of interstates I-10 shunned everything that might impede its relentless efficiency. For all I know that first stretch of Texas could be the most beautiful land in the country, but my encounter with it was marked only by darkness and interstate-ness.

Eventually I passed El Paso. I am noticing that big cities in Texas follow similar patterns: they start with a series of strip malls and fast food restaurants that go on for about an hour, then there’s a massive sprawl of neighborhoods and a handful of skyscrapers, then they close with more strip malls and fast food. This makes me feel at home, considering that Jacksonville and Los Angeles are two prime examples of ridiculously sprawled cities, but it kind of ruins the quiet routine of a long drive.

About an hour after El Paso I drove away from the interstate and parked beside a field in the middle of nowhere, stepped out for a pee and some time with the stars, then curled into the front of my car with my blankets and pillow for a few hours of sleep.

This morning I stepped outside to brush my teeth and noticed a row of houses across the street, which I had somehow missed the night before. While I stood outside my car a lady emerged from one of those houses and walked toward me. “I noticed you were up,” she said with a smile, extending a plate with a slice of toast and a piece of banana bread.

I wanted to hug her, choosing instead to thank her with a huge smile and a few minutes of friendly conversation. She offered a full breakfast if I could wait a while for her husband to get home, but I thought of the size of Texas and decided to get on the road. I left still smiling, greeting I-10 with a quiet gratitude for the generosity of strangers.

The next part of Texas was exactly as I expected: flat and brown, covered in the same scratchy, lifeless bushes as central Arizona. But like Arizona, it began to improve after a few hours. I rode over hills that turned into mountains, and this time the interstate was considerate enough to go over them. The road wound dramatically, repeatedly cresting in views that caught my breath, then descended and started over again.

There was still a good deal of dusty brown, but now there were trees and a more appealing variety of bushes, not to mention plenty of creeks and flat-bed rivers, and little towns with names like Two Guns and Pecos, the slightly ominously named Car Lake County, and, of course, Copper Ass Junction. I found myself wishing I was in a Louis L’Amour novel, shotgun strapped to my saddle, riding into the next town to make eyes with my sweetheart and confront the man who shot my pa.

After a few hours the pleasure of the drive was lost to the strip malls of San Antonio. But I couldn’t be upset for too long because I saw a sign for Panera, the goddess of free WiFi.

So here I am, about to eat dinner, watching the sunset over I-10 from Panera’s porch, preparing myself for a dark drive through the heart of Texas. I hope to reach Christopher by tomorrow so I can stay with him for the night, then it’s off to Jacksonville.

Thanks for reading. Remember love.

Easterly

I didn’t expect to cry that night. But, then, we rarely get to foresee or decide such things. So I found myself on my last nightly walk, under the big tree at Gardner and Willoughby, with tears in my eyes. I guess I should have expected some emotional moments…it had only been one day since I decided I was leaving Los Angeles, and the next morning I would be climbing in my car and heading east. My time there had been full, of excitement and newness and frustration and so much else, but it did not feel complete. I was vaguely aware of the fact that, no matter how much I have learned and experienced, I have nothing tangible to show for my time in California. I hate the feeling that I am returning home empty-handed. And I know it’s not true, but I know other people will think it so the idea stirs up an emotional reaction that might have more to do with my own insecurities than with the act of returning home. So let’s move on…I was also emotional about leaving David and Neil and of course Britton, who has been such a steady presence in my life over the last seven months.

Since I last wrote here, I found out that I won’t be getting into the graduate school in Oregon this year. And since I had only recently learned that most application deadlines for creative writing programs have passed already, it appears as if that option is going on hold for at least another year. So I went back to the bookstore in Pasadena, where I worked for a grand total of three days before learning that I have the opportunity to go back to Florida and try my hand at a magazine internship. It will be unpaid, so I considered staying a few more months to save up money, but I’ve grown tired of the waiting periods, and once it was clear that the magazine internship was my likely next step, I became anxious to get started.

So I packed my car and, with much less warning than my California friends would have liked, placed L.A. in the rearview mirror and headed east. I teared up a little again after circling downtown and seeing the skyline I’ve come to love so much. But it was a beautiful day, and the excitement of a roadtrip and a new stage in life was growing, so I sped up and began to cross the mountains.

I headed northwest toward Las Vegas, through high desert country where everything -- the landscape, the mountains, the buildings -- was some shade of dusty brown. After the great L.A. sprawl finally retreated, the area was remarkably empty. This is why I decided to drive through downtown when leaving…there is nothing like trading one of the busiest city centers in the world for barren, jagged emptiness. And I loved it. Occasionally I passed small settlements of trailer parks and prefab homes around a single gas station, but city life had been definitively left behind for the moment.

The mood changed immediately crossing into Nevada. The state line somehow escaped my notice, but right away the casinos were everywhere. Giant, Disney-esque resorts, then shady establishments of obviously questionable repute, then nothing again. Trailer parks and gas stations, but mostly nothing.

Until Las Vegas. The traffic was pretty thick by the time I crested a hill and saw it sprawled out in front of me. From up there I could see the famous strip, a couple of other areas I wasn’t familiar with, and then miles and miles of neighborhoods off to the side, looking from that distance remarkably like concrete turds. Except for the poop neighborhoods it was all radiant in the desert sun. I drove the strip, recognizing the famous spots that make Las Vegas what it is. But in the daylight it was a little bit sad, so I kept driving.

I had missed the next road I meant to take east, but there was another one coming up that led to the same place. This, I eventually found out, was the highway that led to and crossed over Hoover Dam. By accident I had driven to one of the most celebrated manmade structures in our country. The crowds were incredible, RV’s and cars lining the shoulder miles away from the dam. I was thrilled by the abrupt cliffs and the way the road wound through the mountains, offering stunning glimpses of the lake. The dam passed and I considered stopping, but the crowds bothered me and I was in a driving mood. A mile or so later I stopped on top of the next hill and admired it from a distance.

The ground leveled out for a little bit, though I could see mountains ringing the horizon in both directions. If you ever want to get a feeling for how big our country is, take a drive through the southwestern states. Boulders and hills and cacti extended as far as I could see and seemed as if they would go on forever.

At some point after crossing into Arizona, the ground began to rise. I crossed a succession of hills, each taller than the one before it, until you could eventually start calling them mountains again. These were made of the brilliant red rocks that this region is known for, and they were absolutely radiant in the setting sun. Bizarre rock formations blazed in every direction, and I was having an increasingly hard time watching the road. A few minutes before the sunset I stopped on a bridge that crossed over the highway, then watched it dip out of sight, eventually dragging the colors with it.

As I kept driving and kept rising, I started noticing patches of snow on the side of the road. The landscape was slowly becoming thicker with pine trees, and after a while I noticed that I was in the middle of a pine forest surrounded by an absolutely perfect blanket of snow. This was unexpected…I had forgotten that mid-March is still considered winter in many places.

Snow still stirs up something childlike and hyper in me, so I stopped long enough to touch it and lick it and walk on it and throw it, then I kept driving. I headed toward the Grand Canyon, hoping to find somewhere to sleep in the little town outside the entrance. But while in this town, reading in a little café that smelled inexplicably like mulch, I found out that the main entrance to the park never closes. The lady I spoke with went on to explain that I would find plenty of places to park and sleep for the night, and that the chances of being asked to move were pretty slim.

So with growing excitement I drove into the park a little before 9:00, using the pass Britton and I bought back in Maine. The road wound past empty parking lots, a few lodges, and several shops that were closed for the night. I followed a sign pointing to a lookout point and parked in the abandoned lot by the trailhead.

As soon as I stepped outside I rushed to my trunk to find my jacket and something to cover my head. The elevation had risen another two thousand feet since I had first stopped for snow, and night had thoroughly settled in, so the degree of cold was a bit of a shock.

Successfully bundled, I followed the trail through the woods, lit only by starlight. I should mention how brilliant those stars were, but considering I was in the middle of the desert on the edge of the Grand Canyon, I think that goes without saying.

The trail curved past a couple signs I couldn’t read, past what I found out the next morning was the official viewpoint, with guardrails and everything, then right up to the edge of the canyon. This may have been the most breathtaking moment of my life. In front of me lay a patch of snow about a foot wide, glowing under the stars, and beyond that was the deepest darkness I have ever seen. At one point I thought I saw a campfire at the bottom, but besides that there was no reference point to show how far down I was looking. Something about that darkness, though, spoke of the canyon’s size. And the force of the silence, the way it seemed to swallow everything around it, suggested something extraordinary. Not to mention the random and powerful gusts of wind, which felt eerily like the canyon trying to pull me in.

Eventually I turned and followed the trail back to the car in an awed silence, rested under the stars for a few minutes, then piled all of my extra blankets and jackets in the front of the car and climbed in.

I slept well, waking a couple times to the chilling sounds of wolves or coyotes howling (I’m not sure which…do coyotes howl?). I would sit wide-eyed for a few minutes, then readjust the blankets and fall back into a peaceful sleep.

My alarm went off at 5:30, just as I heard someone else pulling in beside me. I wrestled my way out of the car and greeted the older couple emerging from their van. The night was still at its darkest point, and the thermometer by the trailhead told us it was twenty degrees out. We walked slowly to the official viewpoint, where we could lean against the rails without worrying about the canyon inviting us in for a windy plummet.

By the time the sky began to lighten, there were about a dozen of us on the platform. After whispered greetings and polite smiles, everyone was perfectly silent, huddled by their companions or clinging their arms against themselves under their jackets.

The moon rose a while before the sun, a tiny sliver, and it looked as if it was dragging the color behind it. Blue gave way to purple, to orange, to red, until the entire horizon was painted. At one point a lady beside me leaned over and whispered “Remember: you’re not just hear to watch the sunrise, you’re here to watch the canyon.”

I looked in the other direction and saw exactly what she meant. The color that streaked the east was pouring onto the canyon walls in an orange glow, illuminating the sheer depth of the scene before us. I began to understand why so many people have likened sunrise over the Grand Canyon to Creation. There is a powerful feeling that you are seeing the birth of something entirely new, and as the canyon walls emerge from the darkness it is as if they are being formed for the very first time. The whole crowd of people, almost thirty of us by the time the sun had completely risen, remained perfectly silent for the ceremony. Because that’s what it felt like -- a ceremony, a ritual, something for which people gather in silence and stand together in shared awe.

In the full daylight I wandered the rim trail to different outcrops that offered new views of the canyon. I’ve talked to many people who describe their visit to the Grand Canyon as walking to the edge, nodding and saying “Yep…sure is a big hole,” then walking back to their cars. I cannot understand this at all. The overwhelming magnitude of the scene is enough to capture me for a while, but on top of that it is unspeakably beautiful. The walls are painted different shades of brown and red, layered on top of each other in a way that speaks to the relentless passage of time. From certain angles you can catch glimpses of the Colorado River at the very bottom, silently enjoying this landscape it has worked so long and so hard to create. I decided then that I would return one day to hike to that river and enjoy this more fully.

At one viewpoint, I stood next to a family of five lining the railing like statues. After a few seconds a group of college students broke loudly from the trail, talking in voices much too noisy for a sanctuary like this. The little girl to my right, no more than ten, turned from her family and put her finger to her lips to shush them. “You can’t hear the canyon if you’re talking,” she said. I swear she did. I wanted to hug her.

With the most painful reluctance I walked back to the parking lot, bought a few postcards, and drove out of the park. Arizona wouldn’t let my sadness last too long, though, because the road between the Grand Canyon and Flagstaff is gorgeous and I could not help but smile the whole time.

The road wound through a national forest, rising over hills and between mountains, and again there was a perfect coating of snow as far as I could see. I passed farmhouses covered in snow that were so quaint and American I could have cried. But I didn’t, because there’s been enough of that lately. I drove through the San Francisco Peaks, which are surprisingly big, their peaks a canvas of snow dotted by pine trees and interrupted by the occasional red rock outcropping.

Eventually I found myself in Flagstaff, where I met my friend Grant from UNF for breakfast. He moved here of his own will about a year ago to chase a girl, now his fiancée, and I thought he was crazy. But I have been so terribly pleased to learn that my image of Arizona was entirely misinformed. Flagstaff is a charming city, surrounded by mountains and pine forests, not to mention that most grand of canyons only a couple hours away, and I would love to spend more time here, but I have a whole lot of driving in front of me. I’m hoping to visit with my brother Chris in Texas, then stop for a night in Jacksonville, then be home in time for a family dinner Thursday night. I’ll try to find somewhere with Internet later to post this, and I’ll check in again whenever I next find myself with some writing time.

In the meantime, thanks for reading. Remember love.

Oscar

In case you are Amish or something and you hadn’t heard yet, tonight was the Academy Awards, that great propagan-tastic circus in which famous people cry and pat each other on the back so they can make more money. It’s wonderful. But I was at work, so I missed it.

One could be forgiven for believing that this entire city exists primarily for this single event. Sure there are lots of warm-ups and rehearsals in the form of the Golden Globes and the guild awards and the bajillions of others hoping to milk as much attention as possible, but all these other events collide off each other in what amounts to little more than Oscar testing ground, and everything gains a frenetic energy moving through February to the point that you cannot check the weather or go for coffee without hearing predictions and being updated on the controversies and the preparations.

Those preparations were an interesting part of my week, as the event is housed next door to the Metro station I take to work. As the week progressed the mass of trailers and tents and security and blocked roads grew relentlessly. Even for someone who has no part, and desires no part, in this industry, it was exciting to watch.

On my way home on the Gold Line, I met a lady named Belle, clearly well into her seventies, who bore the colorful personality and apparel indicating lots of stories and a full life to share. She stepped on the train singing a song, of her own invention from what I could tell, and smiling at everyone she walked past. After a couple stops she leaned toward me and asked if I knew who won Best Picture. I didn’t yet, but a suited man in front of us announced that it was The Hurt Locker. From behind, a teenaged girl told us it won Best Director as well. I couldn’t help but smile.

“I’m so glad that monster movie didn’t win,” Belle said, with the most amazing enunciation.

“I think Avatar was more about aliens than monsters,” I offered.

“Hush. I’m not talking about the blue people, I’m talking about that monster who directed it.” And we all kind of nodded, knowing exactly what she meant. There is something thrilling about watching small budgets and unassuming personalities win over mammoth budgets and towering egos.

Side note: I am super excited for The Hurt Locker, and especially for Kathryn Bigelow. If you are unfamiliar with her, you should start at Blue Steel, with Jamie Lee Curtis as sort of a female response to Dirty Harry, then move on to the tubular excellence of Point Break, maybe continuing on to K-19, which, though not quite a masterpiece, has well-developed conflict and a few moments of stunning subtlety, and finally arriving at her latest, which is unquestionably a masterpiece and so profoundly displays everything she has learned and developed as a filmmaker. Side note on a side note: my thanks to Jillian Smith, who I’m pretty sure will not be reading this, for turning me on to Bigelow with Blue Steel.

After Oscar opinions had been shared and the others returned to the personal space mandated by public transportation, Belle leaned over and whispered “Wake me up at Union Station.” Considering her former energy and volume, I thought she was joking, or maybe referencing a song from way before my time, but next time I looked she was asleep, chin on chest, head rolling slightly with the train.

At Union Station I gave her a gentle nudge, and she stood immediately. When she noticed that I was getting off, she asked if I was switching to the Red Line too, then extended her purse for me to carry, weighing in at about half a ton. With a full smile and a bouncy stride she led the way through Union Station and down the stairs, just in time for the train to Hollywood.

A few stops later, four girls stepped onto the bus wearing dresses which, all combined, may have been almost enough fabric to swaddle an infant. They stood close together, frequently pulling their dresses up or down or whatever direction they thought might divert the leering gazes surrounding them. “Let me know if you girls need help looking for your clothes,” Belle said, eyebrows raised disapprovingly. Then she turned to the older man by the door, who had been unashamedly staring since the girls walked in. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she hissed. “They’re children.” With that, she lowered her chin and fell asleep.

At Hollywood and Vine, the crowd in the station literally froze as the four girls rode the escalator, wrestling with their dresses in the sudden and diverse gusts of wind found in every subway station. Something about this scene made me feel sick, and if I was more awake now I might try exploring the contrasts offered by Belle, Kathryn Bigelow, and the four girls.

But I’m tired, so I’ll close by saying that the night was beautifully wrapped up by my bike ride home, with the air cool, the crowds on the sidewalk, and the limousines out in full force celebrating this quintessential night of Hollywood’s obsession with itself, which is thrilling and sickening and entirely entertaining. And then by saying that, as much as I try to distance myself from this place with my words, I cannot stop being intrigued by this culture, and I know I will always look back on my time here with a special kind of fondness.

Then I’ll close for real by attempting to justify my passing use of the word “tubular.” I mean, you’ve got Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze skydive-wrestling and surf-battling and robbing banks in president masks, presided over by the ever-snarling Gary Busey…what more can you ask for?

Goodnight. Remember love.