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.