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The West is the Best, Man


I sat at a weight machine in January, seven months after Ben and I’s epic journey across the United States. I was between sets, staring blankly across the gym, music playing in my ears, and not really wanting to be there. Then Ventura Highway began playing through my phone, and suddenly, I became overwhelmed with emotions that had become lodged deep down inside of me and weirdly knocked loose through my ears. The emotions rose like a tide through my soul and forced up through my eyes. I tried to hide this sudden faux pas of gym etiquette while still trying to deal with the stirring of memories I was being flooded with. And suddenly, there I was again…somewhere in the midwest under the hot summer sun with wheels chewing up the American highway.

The miles were endless and cliché. I could hear the roll of the wheels on the pavement and the noise of my cement gray 4Runner with the aftermarket black Gobi rack sitting high on top desperately and, failing spectacularly, to be aerodynamic at 65 miles per hour over the endless flat plains of the midwest of the United States. Ben sat in the passenger seat, his phone pointed out the window, recording video of the vast grasslands that were only broken up occasionally by some small town, a water tower, or a freight train attempting to race us across the country. The video was likely dull by itself and out of context, but compared to similarly shot videos of other vast landscapes we would encounter, it would stand in contrast and argue its own greatness. We did not know where we would sleep that night; my seat was starting to feel the miles, and we were a gas-burning terror to any reasonable environmental cause, but Ventura Highway by America played on the radio. We had candy, snacks, and coffee from one of the beacon-like gas stations that were like oases on the long, quiet stretches, and we just sat happily and watched the United States roll past our windows.

My mind now swims in the memories of all that we saw in our “crossing”…So many small tiny details and extraordinary moments…memories that became like silt falling through that gray asphalt river and settling into layers in my mind, becoming buried by the next set of details, moments and memories. Only the granite pillars of memories (emerging in Zion from the tunnel after a long day of traveling, the Sierra Nevadas at dusk, the world’s largest ball of twine in Kansas, etc) became outcrops through the layers showing themselves in the days, weeks, and months since then.

At that moment, sitting alone in a crowd in the gym on a cold winter day, Ventura Highway became the Colorado River and instantly dug down through the layers of memories to expose them like the Grand Canyon. It felt like nothing would stop that river of emotions, not even the Hoover Dam or the giant gym bro that gave me a strange look.

By walking down below the rim of the Grand Canyon, you are traveling through time, and you can see slices of Earth’s history locked into the crumbling rock. To unlock Earth’s memories, you merely need to scrape away at the rock (and maybe have some sort of advanced education). In the months that have now passed since that morning in the gym, my mind keeps scraping away at these layers of memories, and I keep unlocking new details of the trip. They had somehow become locked up and buried in my mind. Maybe it was the happiness and relief to be home. Maybe it was in my attempt to condense a two-week adventure into a one-minute recap to friends and family who asked. Maybe it is just the normal process of an aging brain, but it took the rock band America to unlock it.

Prior to the trip, my imagination in no way could envision what the silhouette of a prong-horned deer looked like standing on the horizon of the small rolling hill on the edge of the Great Plains. My imagination could not have possibly put together the image of vast fields of wildflowers that sent honey bees buzzing back and forth across the highway, bumping into our car windows, and then moving on again.

Nothing really prepared me for the majesty of Yosemite as I stood on Glacier Point and stared beyond El Capitan and Half Dome into the valley of the cold blue river that rolls across its floor and wipes away the dust of a long day of hiking when you find a gentle spot to float in the ice cold water. I floated in that water and imagined its travels down one of the magnificent falls that poured it into the valley…That violent, turbulent rush down those prehistoric cliffs, and how, now, it rolled gently across my skin, soothing me. I felt the awe and the peace of it all at the same time.

It was cloudy, and a fog hovered over our heads when we arrived at the Pacific Ocean…It was not a shining sea right then. However, the hundreds of starfish that peppered the jagged rocks and small cliffs rising up from the sand as the salty sea crashed against them gave off their own light and welcomed us to the West Coast. Across the long asphalt stretches, I had thought…maybe even dreamed… about what that jagged, rocky coast might look like, but never envisioned how those colorful stars nor the sounds the water made as it hit the coast would move me deep in my core. We crossed a continent, but 700 miles from Los Angeles, and we were greeted with a scene straight from Hollywood.

There was an overwhelming sense of insignificance I felt wandering through the alien world of a Redwood forest, smelling the pine needles, and feeling the moisture of the air on my skin. As overwhelming as that insignificance felt, the strange, all-encompassing peace I felt in those moments among those pillars that reached towards the heavens still sits in me now, almost as if they had brought heaven back down with them and deposited it in my soul.

Other Posts About our Trip West (this post continues after)

I felt a similar peace in the chill of the near-desert air around me as I stared up through the mighty trees on the rim of the Grand Canyon, sitting near the campfire, reliving in my mind the hot, dry hike down below the rim of the canyon that I still felt in my legs along with the heat of the fire. We took a respite from our travels on that rim, set up camp, and spent a couple of days breathing in that miracle of time, geography, and nature. With so much more we wanted to see and less than halfway through our trip, it felt like a guilty pleasure to just unwind and enjoy a good cup of campfire coffee or a nice glass of bourbon, but part of me wishes we had spent more time there.

I was surprised by how moved I was by the visions of some of the land’s most majestic beasts (and prairie dogs, as well). For days, we were on the lookout for what we thought were the elusive pronghorns. They covered souvenirs and dominated some artwork, but we just could not catch even a fleeting glimpse of one. However, as we rolled east along the rolling prairies of Wyoming, they peppered the rolling hills and were outnumbered only by cattle (they probably even outnumbered the people). 

Earlier in the trip, Ben had me pull to the side of the road, and then he quickly scrambled up to the roof of my car to catch a glimpse of the equally elusive and mighty wild buffalo herds that we had all but given up on seeing until we saw their majesty far out in the grassland in the shadow of the grand teton mountains. I would have loved to have been closer than the probably half a mile that we were from them, but they were breathtaking, nonetheless.

In the early morning quiet of that campsite at the Grand Canyon, I watched a momma and baby elk creep around the tents and burnt-out fire pits, just casually strolling through as if inspecting all of us and making sure we were enjoying that gift. Meanwhile, at the same time, a mile away, Ben would encounter a couple of big horned sheep that had wandered past him on his jog, unconcerned by what I imagine was a teenage boy star-struck, smiling and giddy that they had graced him with their presence. 

We were in awe of the moose we saw running in circles, playing almost as if it were a dog doing the zoomies, under the twilight-washed sky with the golden hour casting its light around the rim of some random basin in the Rocky Mountains. That basin will forever be named the Moose Face Basin to us. It had some strange magic, and that moose was its wizard. (Ben is almost certain it was a moose…. It could have been an elk, but we saw several elk later in the trip, and this creature seemed much larger.) 

I felt at home as I watched the turkeys that seemed so unnatural in the setting of Devil’s Tower, just strutting through the brush. The Devil’s Tower, no thanks to Close Encounters, had an almost supernatural aura around it, and those turkeys seemed to shatter that mystique but somehow added a new type of magic to it. 

There were so many little surprises and discoveries, the memories of which still pop up when I see a picture of a very tall pine tree, hear someone mention the West, or see some random video on TV. We stumbled upon things like the country’s smallest chapel when making a detour to the geographic center of the continental US. We were absolutely giddy when Ben found and navigated us to the potato museum in Idaho. There was the absolute chaos of driving into Monument Valley during a windstorm that whipped up a dust devil that engulfed our car and sent a tumbleweed into our windshield moments after Ben mentioned he had yet to see one.

The people we met along the way live in my memories most strongly. On an early morning, I rolled up to the Grand Canyon campground to try to snag a campsite for a couple of days. I found myself standing next to a scary-looking motorcycle dude and a hippy-type woman with a van that was just one or two upgrades from a stereotypical 1970s VW van. It wasn’t long before I was charmed by them as they shared their own stories about traveling the country. They expressed awe as I told him of our journey and the fact that a 17 year old boy would want to spend that kind of time with his father. It was Mr. “ZZ Top” Prather who would turn to me after I expressed marvel at the surroundings and say, “The West is the best, man!” 

I also met this young blond haired man from Utah (but seemed like he was the living, breathing stereotype of a California kid who stepped out of the pages of a surfing magazine) that talked about his last-minute vacation with his Native American-looking girlfriend to the Grand Canyon after their original plans got canceled because of the drought (apparently, you can’t put a boat in the water if there is no water). He was unphased by the change of plans and talked with wonder about the javelina family that had wandered through their campsite the night before.

Ben had his own encounter with a potato farmer at the potato museum who proudly talked about his job, mashed against his two very bored-looking teenage daughters, desperately seeking a way to escape from that potato nightmare. There was the lovely waitress straight out of casting of a Hollywood movie in Bend, Oregon, who seemed to see the exhaustion of two hungry and weary travelers still overwhelmed by the beauty of Crater Lake earlier that day but still encouraged us to go up to the mesa to watch the fourth of July fireworks. Yes, she did try to sell us on the fresh apple pie and another cup of coffee.

I wanted to spend more time talking to the Navajo woman working in her little shack selling Navajo frybread, proudly reminiscing about how long she had been there as I told her of one of my favorite memories was getting frybread at the Four Corners when I was a child. She could have been the same woman who sold it to us all those years ago. She told me how working that little booth had put her children through college, and she could not mask the pride. It felt like a cool metaphor as a momma bird who had made a nest in the corner of the booth (away from the food) chirped and grabbed our attention.

It was a true joy meeting up with my high school best friend after so many years of not seeing each other in his house near Chicago for a much-needed home cook breakfast, meeting his wife for the first time, along with his kids. It was interesting introducing him to Ben, who was now almost as old as we were the last time we spent any significant time hanging out together. The nearly 30 years seemed to evaporate in moments.

There were, of course, the tired half-smiles of other weary travelers across the many, many, many gas stations and convenience stores we stopped at along the way. There were the other campers, hotel receptionists, enthusiastic park rangers, joyful fellow hikers, and so many other people that we met who make up the fabric of this country and were the consistent bedrock through the layers of my memories. You could go miles and miles out west without encountering another soul, but every time we came across another person, I could feel the common bonds we all share.

However, more than anything or anyone else, this was about one other person, Ben, and the time we spent together. The conversations about what we had seen, the next leg of the journey ahead, the impending college application and decision process, the top drummers of all time, where should we stop to pick up some steaks, and did we get enough potatoes while we were in Idaho filled those long miles. I had this unforgettable memory of the excitement in his voice when we realized that we were at the Grand Canyon and the sun was just setting…He barely let me get the car in park before he jumped out. I’ve seen the Rocky Mountains before and peered over the edge of the Grand Canyon. I have stood in four states at once and have watched dust devils race our car before. However, taking it all in again, this time with Benjamin, was like experiencing it all again for the first time.

There was one special moment I will never forget. We had spent the day hiking Rocky Mountain National Park and decided to make up some time by driving the few hours down to Pagosa Springs and spending the night there to get an early start the next morning. After we got dinner along the way, I let him drive, and soon, we arrived at “Mooseface Basin” at dusk. Ben’s face lit up as we came down the side of the mountain and out onto a plain. These “plains” seemed vast, yet the mountains dominated the horizons all around us, some steeped in the late day shadows and some lit up in the light of the golden hour. The few buildings among the grass and small streams seemed something out of a painting. Ben’s face held a smile and wide eyes as he appeared to struggle to take in the absolute beauty that surrounded us. Finally, he pulled over and climbed up on the roof of my car to survey the surroundings. I have never seen that look on his face before…It was as if he was staring into the face of our Maker and, like me, struggled to find the words.

I’ve always been a fairly religious person, but through the years, my faith has become more and more private. I believe there is a higher power watching over us, and I was reminded of that on this trip. My biggest concern before this trip was whether or not my six-year-old, 95,000-mile SUV would be able to make it to the Pacific Ocean…and back. As I spoke to Him quietly in my thoughts along the long miles, He reassured me with the great natural pillars, altars, temples, mosques, and cathedrals that man could only wish they could create, symbols of His majesty in the world around us. It was more than just the car; Benjamin and I returned safely, baptized in the dust thrown up by our wheels and boots and memories that will last a lifetime … It was a lot more.

It didn’t feel like luck when we stumbled on the world’s largest ball of twine or arrived at the Grand Canyon at sunset. It felt Divine. The near perfect weather throughout and finishing our hike up to Angels Landing just before the 100 + degree weather set in did not feel like “just” fortune. The near glass-like clear waters of Crater Lake in Oregon and finding that small campground restaurant in Wyoming that hit the spot perfectly felt like a miracle. The eyes of those countless animals staring at us could have been His eyes, enjoying our wonder in His creations. Those small, simple conversations we had with people across the United States … their stories… their laughter… their joy in their own adventures … felt like we were listening to scripture.

No, at no point did I feel we were lucky or fortunate…Throughout this trip, I felt that each and every one of those moments was a blessing.

In an unrelated conversation, a year after this trip, Matthew was talking about how, when you see these natural, majestic places in the world, it makes you wonder why man created cathedrals, temples, and other structures for worship. God had already made these in places like Bryce Canyon and Crater Lake and the Appalachian Mountains and even just the shade of a maple tree. His cathedrals, temples, and mosques are all around us.

We encountered some Navajo people when we were in Arizona (Monument Valley is Navajo land), and I believe the Native Americans had it right, finding the Maker(s) in the world around them. There was no need to create structures to worship when it was clear the Divine was all around them. (And Navajo frybread is like manna from heaven.)

No, I am ashamed to admit that I am uncomfortable talking about my relationship with God, but not here, not after this trip.

The last official stop was the Notre Dame campus. An unofficial college visit for Ben and a return to a place that had become sacred to me in college…the Grotto (I didn’t attend ND, but took a road trip out to it to visit my friend). As I had done nearly 30 years ago, I lit a candle, took to my knees, and silently expressed gratitude and love for the life I had. I thanked Him for Andrea, Ben, and Matthew, for the journey, for the safety, for the health, for the family, for the ability to make such a journey, and, most of all, for the love that filled my life.

I write this now, more than a full year after the trip ended. Benjamin graduated high school and is now at Georgetown. I don’t know if I’ll be able to spend that kind of time with him again, but I hope I do. To be lucky…no, blessed…to have my son want to spend two weeks out of his summer before senior year traveling with me across the country is truly one of the most extraordinary things in my life. I often find myself thinking about him and those moments and realize how fortunate I was to have that.

There is so much left to write about this trip, just like there is so much left to explore out there, not just places we have not seen but places we have seen. There are other parks to see and other states to visit. There are canyons and forests and deserts and prairies and rivers and lakes and oceans, and so, so much more to see. It was like just getting to smell a seven course dinner, but only being able to take a couple of bites. It doesn’t really satisfy you; it just makes you hungrier. We have just started to see the country.

I often find myself thinking about John Steinbeck and quietly longing for my own Rocinante, a modern pickup truck with a camper cabin sitting in the bed and a laptop and some notebooks among the mess. Instead of Charlie sitting in the passenger seat, perhaps it is Andrea or Ben or Matt keeping me company. I sometimes fantasize about taking a trip like that again on my own, knowing that there is so much more out there to see, and not just in the West, but in the South, the North, and the far, far North. I also know how incredibly lonely it would be to not have Ben, Matt, or Andrea with me. 

For now, I’ll just fantasize about being on the road again. There is still some work I have to do, scraping away at those layers in my memories and exposing the finer details of this trip.

Categories: Faith, National Parks, Observations, Travel, Vacation, West is the Best, Man

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