West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (#OutOfOrder)

West Rear-View

It's not as if it was the last time I would ever see the place called home, but leaving so quickly does things to one's head that often come as a result of driving 40 or more hours by oneself.

As it were, I left in a fog - the mist enveloped scenery, bounding once again to a life that would lead me away from the crashing waves. The only thing I could see in front of me were the eastern Mountains silhouetted against the sky and two feet of road. The crisp air smelled of salt and dew, and my mind was in a swirl of ghost like passing. Perhaps it would get clearer, so I went on. 

The two lane highway headed Southeast into the desert barely bore a soul. As the salted wounds began to shake off, and the border drew closer, the skies began to clear and I could see my first sight of green grasses and ascending desert-like mountains, which seemed small in comparison to what I experienced in the mist. The sight of it was like watching a painting in motion of brilliant earth tone colors welcoming me away from where I had been. 

Three hours and Yuma, Arizona was in sight. The deep sigh that escaped my breath made me realize I already need to stretch my legs, so  I spotted the nearest gas station, filled my tank the rest of the way and paused a moment to reflect on the idea that well, I just didn't know when I would cross that sweet California border again. 

I was headed to see my Papa, just months after his surgery. He was in his own house, had a walker and a new leg to boot - a boot that attached to his stump and made for a good story, even in its saddest of moments. The aunt, the uncle, they were nearby - pushing prodding and making good to keep an eye on him. 

Getting back on the road seemed a little more bearable and the dry air gave me motivation to work the second half of the first leg of a long cross country trip. 

Descending south led me to a border checkpoint, though I can imagine it's nothing compared to those that would make themselves home in desert countries overseas. Still, it wasn't the first time and as usual, it was a little odd. Needless to say, as the checkpoint got closer, I slowed and rolled my driver-side window down. The young Border Patrol cop, who looked younger than me and scarcely older than a high school student asked, "Can you roll all your windows down please?" 

"Sure," hoping that he wouldn't mistake all of my "travel-for-a-month" supplies as a sign that I had human beings stuffed underneath. 

"Where are you headed?" 

"Georgia" 

"Is that where you live?"  

"Yes." 

"Are you a US Citizen?"

"Yes."

"Where were you born?" 

"Ohio, sir." 

"Anyone else in the vehicle?"

"Nope."

"Ok, move on!" He commanded it, almost as if I had disappointed him. I can only imagine that a good smuggle was all the excitement these guys got. Semi-trucks are like treasure chests and the dogs were their shining hope. 

Considering how easy that really was, I kept thinking they needed a better system. But who was I to say? 

Quickly forgotten; I continued on to Maricopa. After several road detours I made it to the aunt & the uncle's house, two hours later than I had expected. A little dinner, wine and jacuzzi joy...the end of the night had finally come. Breathe.

Only seven states to go....