It was 2004, and I had no money. But I did have a few weeks between summer and fall terms, and all spring I’d been thinking about joining Rhiannon in the Rockies – how else could we do the annual backpacking?
In late August, I set out in my old blue Subaru, heading east across Oregon. I was nervous, though not about being alone. I was worried the car would break down before I was out of the state, dashing the dream I’d nurtured all year: just get in the car, alone, and drive… It was hard to believe the trip could actually happen.
Late that evening I stopped at Ochoco Divide, a familiar campground – just far enough from home (about three hours) that it felt like progress. In the morning, I spread my badly organized gear across the table to sort: these things to use, those to put away for later. (And of course this reminded me of our first trip across the Sahara, in an ancient Land Rover so full of spare parts that the extra weight itself led to additional break-downs.)
That afternoon, heading toward Idaho, I found myself beginning to relax: if I could make it beyond the Oregon border, maybe nothing would stop me.
I did make it beyond the Snake River. I camped across Idaho – at a sand dunes park, and the City of Rocks – and then at several places in Utah and Colorado. Thinking ahead to the Rockies, I looked for the highest hike at each camp: the top of the Bruneau Dune, up to Delicate Arch at Arches, a breathless walk to a viewpoint at that first 10,600-foot pass on Colorado’s Interstate 70. (I wasn’t expecting that one – neither was my car.)
During our three days of backpacking at Rocky Mountain, we reached 12,420 feet – the highest I’d ever hiked, before or since. After a day huddled under the tarp in snow and rain, we arose to blue skies. At the top of Tanima Pass, we found roseroot sedum blooming in the snow.
When I started that road trip, I feared I might be bored. How would I spend my evenings? What would I think about during those long days of driving? I packed maps and travel guides and notebooks and books on tape.
But in the end, the problem was lack of time, not lack of things to do with it. By the time I’d found a campsite, put up my tent, and heated a meal, there was hardly time to scrawl a few notes before crawling into my sleeping bag. The notes are still in that notebook, barely legible; I dreamed of one day having a laptop and a way to charge it. When picture cards filled, I had to beg Rhiannon’s colleague or my nephew in Santa Fe to download the photos onto a CD.
I found I liked traveling alone – I liked it very much indeed. I learned all the tricks of living on the cheap. Gas cost less then, and along with the canned soups and mashed potato packets in my car, the cheapest meals were the Polish dogs or burritos at the gas station mini-marts. Sometimes I’d heat a kettle on the camp stove and wash my hair.
By the time I’d driven west through New Mexico and Arizona, I was ready to travel forever. “A Journey Through Rocks,” I called the trip later, sorting my pictures; everywhere, there were arches and passageways and gaps in the rocks – not to mention the ancient houses in built into the cliffs at Mesa Verde.
One of the last stops was at Santa Monica Beach, where I was joined by Emily and my brother – it seemed that everyone ended up in California. (It was just a year later that I drove my 26-foot U-Haul to the Central Valley, followed by Emily in the blue Subaru.)
Driving the long straight miles up Interstate 5, I finally resorted to entertaining myself with story tapes. School would start within days. I’d been on the road for three and a half weeks, but I didn’t want it to end. I’d found it was possible to travel alone – possible, and very enjoyable. And I’ve been doing it ever since.
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