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Old Man of the West (The West is the Best, Man)


This is dedicated to the National Park Rangers across this awesome landscape…the unsung heroes who guide, answer, and keep us (and nature) safe as we explore the physical beauty of our country. In the heat, the cold, the rain, and the snow, they are tirelessly working to make these journeys everything they can be. They are the heartbeat of our National Parks.

Our journey across the United States brought us through Grand vistas and glimpses of millions of years of Earth’s history. It steered us through the wildly bizarre and incredible landscapes that would humble the greatest science fiction writers. There were places where we could see for miles across rows of corn, rolling, dusty hills, and mountains rising in all directions. However, it was the tiny human contacts in these incredibly big places that stuck with me the most. It was these brief vignettes of people living their lives on some of the most extraordinary backdrops that showed me the heart that beat inside this great country.

Day five of our cross-country trip started with us watching hot air balloons over a golf course in Pagosa Springs, Colorado, and ended with us staring in disbelief at the Grand Canyon during sunset. In between, and almost (almost) as memorable, was a “quick” flyby of Mesa Verde, a nostalgic journey to the Four Corners, and a windy, turbulent trip through Monument Valley.

We barely had a plan for the Grand Canyon. We had no hotel, and our hope was to secure a campsite for a couple of days through the first-come, first-served system for a handful of non-reserved campsites. The night we arrived, we managed to grab a hotel room, which gave me a chance to do some research online and find out that those campsites can only be grabbed in person. With the Ranger Station at the campground opening at 8:00 and me wanting to make sure we got one, I headed over before 7 a.m.

When I pulled up, I noticed an older gentleman with a long white beard and sunglasses sitting next to the station. He had a shirt on that said “Sturgis” and plenty of motorcycle gear. It was immediately apparent that the motorcycle I parked next to belonged to him. I let bias influence me as I judged the book by its cover and was intimidated, even a bit fearful of him. We exchanged greetings, and I just stood in the neighborhood of him, ready to place myself second in line when the booth opened up.

It was an absolutely perfect morning. The air was cool, requiring a sweatshirt. You could almost taste the pine needles when you breathed in. The smell of campfire, eggs, bacon, and pancakes wafted through from time to time as I watched a couple of elk amble nearby, strutting without a care in the world. There was the normal migration of campers moving around, carrying basins of dirty dishes, towels, and toiletries for a shower to wash off the night, and some that were already ready to get in a hike before the heat of the day.

I was anxious about getting a campsite, about standing alongside this man, and possibly having to make small talk until a woman walked up. She had pulled up in a camper van, and she greeted us with a wide, chipper smile. I got the impression that she had stepped out of the cloud of the hippy sixties.

Other Post about the trip west (This post continues after):

I am not sure how it happened. I can’t remember if I optionally joined the conversation or if one of my two line companions pulled me in. However, we got to discussing how we all arrived at that particular moment in time together near the edge of one of the great natural wonders of the world. We would spend less than an hour together before parting, but I will remember them for the rest of my life.

ZZ Top, as I would forever label him in my mind, talked about traveling around the country on his motorcycle. He spoke of the places he has been and the people he has met along the way. Daisy, the hippy woman (not her real name), talked about traveling down to the Grand Canyon from Sedona in her camper van and how she was meeting her friend and daughter there later that day.

When it became my turn, I told them how I was traveling across the country with my 17-year-old son. The mix of love and awe flashed on both their faces as ZZ Top started repeating how awesome that was and telling me to cherish those moments. For a minute, I could see him become a much younger man and saw wonder fill his face, even through the dark sunglasses he continued to wear in the shade. I could see for a second, envy to be doing such a trip, but instead he seemed more happy for Ben and I than I did (which would be saying a lot). He started asking where we had gone and where we had been. As I told him of all the places West we were targeting, it was when he uttered, “The West is the Best, Man!”

Somehow, the subject of Andrea and Matt came up, and I told ZZ Top that they were scuba diving in Belair. In a voice made scratchy by what I assume years of talking to friends over the roar of a Harley, he said, “Oh, Wow, man…It is beautiful there,” and he started sharing his own scuba diving experiences.

Daisy seemed impressed, as well, as she smiled and listened.

Soon, we were joined by others, like “Sunshine,” the built-up blonde-haired dude who looked like he could be the starting quarterback for UCLA. He talked about the drought canceling his boat trip to Lake Powell and forcing him and his girlfriend to camp there instead. His girlfriend appeared to be Navajo or of some other Native American descent, and together, they seemed to be the main characters of a true American love story.

At one point, a tall, older German woman walked through in broken English, asking where to dump her camper. She had a big smile on her face, and her mix of English and German words as she looked for the RV hookup seemed to have everyone in line amused. She was endearing despite the subject matter of what she needed to do. There was no shortage of people who stepped up to try to help point her in the right direction.

When the park ranger showed up, she immediately reminded me of Ron Swanson wandering around the national park in the final episode of Parks and Rec. She seemed so happy to be there and filled with pride. She explained the process of obtaining a campsite to us as the group stood around her in a semicircle. She smiled and laughed as she then came up to each of us to make sure we were in the right spot and to see if we had preferences of where we camped to try to accommodate us as much as possible. She was so sweet and friendly as she did so.

Also in line was one older man, “Rosco.” He was in contrast to everyone else…He had sadness in his eyes and talked short and gruffly when the park ranger asked him questions. I did not feel the warm fuzzies from him. He ended up at the campsite next to us, and he made me uneasy the whole time we were there. He did not have a tent, just a sleeping bag, which he unrolled on top of the campsite picnic table over some extra blankets. Every time I saw him, he was either sleeping on the picnic table or sitting in his old, faded blue car straight out of 1984, playing 70’s rock loudly.

At night, he continued this pattern, and I would hear Rosco’s car start up as his headlights came shining through the side of our tent. I woke up and fell asleep more than once to the music from his car. I assume he would bear the cold as long as he could on the table and then warm up in his car.

By the second morning, as Ben and I started packing up, he was still there, and I began to feel a sense of loss from him. I wondered if maybe he was there, mourning someone or trying to work through some other tragedy. Instead of fear, I began to feel the sense of sadness he was showing. After spending the last two days trying to avoid eye contact with him, I encountered him as I walked to wash dishes. This time, I looked him in the eyes and greeted him with “Good morning.” It looked like I had knocked him out of a stupor for a moment as he flinched in surprise. He let across the smallest of smiles and repeated back the greeting before we both continued on our way.

I often find myself wondering about him more than anyone else we have met along the way. He just looked so sad and troubled. I regret not inviting him to join us at our fire…to be more like ZZ Top and start a conversation with him, at the very least. At worst, he was just awkward, a state I spend most of my life in. At best, he spends a few moments out of the dark cloud in which he seemed to exist.

The Grand Canyon is where our interaction with other people was most intense, but obviously, we encountered so many others across the country. Sure, there were stretches where we drove for a half hour and encountered only one car for every 2,000 cows we saw (I am looking at you, Wyoming…and looking forward to returning), but there were other places where we were reintroduced to civilization.

In Kansas, at the world’s largest ball of twine, we encountered a group of college-aged boys who rolled up in a van loaded with bikes. The markings on the side of the van seemed to indicate they were part of a cross-country cycling trip, so I wondered if they were on a brief respite. Stretching out on the benches around the giant ball of twine in the shade of the almighty twine’s gazebo must have felt like paradise. They happily joked with each other and seemed to enjoy the freedom of that early morning.

In Rocky Mountain National park, we struck up a conversation with a guy wearing a Bourbon Tour t-shirt as I asked for details on the trip that involved bikes and booze (clearly, I was still jealous of the cross-country riders and wanting to dig into the stash of whiskey I picked up as we went through Kentucky [it was near the end of the long hike]). He and his wife excitedly talked about the experience and gave me a new item for the bucket list. (For those interested, The Bourbon Country Burn.)

At our campsite under a full moon in Yosemite, two young couples set up camp on the site next to us, filled with all the excitement of youth, just starting out in life and doing the things they chose to do. Their laughter and joy joined the campfire smoke in the air and made a magical place under the stars and a near-full moon feel all the more enchanted. We had no interaction with them, but it was great to see young people enjoying nature and our National Parks (now I feel old again, having written that line).

In some of the great, vast stretches of highways, there were times when we did not encounter another car or another soul for miles. However, when we inevitably had to stop at one of the giant gas stations that served as an oasis, humanity hit us like a tsunami. We ran into all sorts of people…Truck drivers doing a job that keeps America moving, baseball teams stopping for snacks on their way to a game. Tourists like us, carefully looking around, afraid to disturb the locals. The workers who were just living their everyday lives, watching the world drive past them with hospitality and a smile.

There was one particular gas station in Bakersfield, California, that, to me, seemed more of a gateway than the St. Louis Arch. It was almost the exact definition of an oasis as we emerged from the Mojave Desert in 108-degree heat, surrounded by farms and businesses that were tailored for travelers emerging from the East or about to make the trek across the desert from the West. Despite the nearly $7 a gallon gas price, it was absolutely the busiest gas station we stopped at. People from all walks of life wandered around looking for snacks or picking up a quick meal. I got the sense there of what it must have been like in one of those ancient cities like Damascus that stood at the crossroads of civilization, where people from all known places were funneled into one location, sharing the memories of the road behind and hope for the continued journey ahead.

We began July 3rd in Yosemite with a long day of travel ahead of us up to Oregon by way of the Pacific Coast highway. It was the longer route to Crater Lake, but I wanted to see the Pacific and the Redwoods, and so, in the evening, we found ourselves at a gas station that seemed to mark the gateway into Humboldt Redwoods State Park. As I filled up the 4Runner, I looked at the road ahead, which disappeared into the forest of enormous trees. We weren’t among the Redwoods yet, just these massive trees, and the road ominously disappeared into them (look up Cooks Valley Patriot in Piercy, California on Google Maps and then do the street view…You will see what I mean). Across the street was a weird little tourist attraction that celebrated the Redwoods and had a “One-Log Cabin” out front. In hindsight, I wish we had stopped there.

While at the gas station, I noticed a group of kids sitting and playing around a table off to the side. Some were laughing and playing catch with a football while a couple of the boys sat at the table selling something. I honestly forget what they were selling…I want to say they were pendant necklaces, but I just can’t remember (I was tuned more into the scene around us). They were also selling some candy. We went over to them, looked at what they had, and went with the candy. However, it struck me that Ben and I were on this Grand adventure, a vacation of my dreams, and while we had encountered others on similar trips, we had experienced so many people just living their everyday, ordinary lives in what I thought were extraordinary locations.

They were park rangers in Zion National Park and cheerful waitresses at restaurants sitting at the bottom of mesas in places like Bend, Oregon. They were Navajo people working on the lands their ancestors lived on for centuries before Europeans arrived. There were these kids hanging out on a cool summer evening, trying to raise money for some group or charity. Maybe some of them have a dream trip of traveling across the country to see the Outer Banks, New York City, and Acadia.

At the Idaho Potato Museum in Blackfoot, as I ordered loaded baked potatoes from the cafe (what else would you get in Idaho at a potato museum?), a middle-aged gentleman with his two embarrassed teenage daughters struck up a conversation with Ben. He talked with pride about how he was a potato farmer, and he had taken his family to the museum to try to give them a bit more insight into his life. While his girls looked like they wished they could disappear into the Idaho ground with the potatoes, he happily talked about his life. We were on our way home at this point, and this man helped me realize that even though we had seen wonders that I still fail to capture in words, it was all these ordinary people living their ordinary lives that made this trip extraordinary.

The journey across America wasn’t just about the natural and unnatural monuments. It was about the people of America and the people visiting America. It was all those different faces speaking different tongues across all these magical places that made it truly special. While the West is the Best, it was the people at the WaWa where we got gas to start our trip. It was the night shift hotel clerk who kindly found a room for us in Ohio, and the waitress in the diner in Oregon who suggested a place for us to watch the fireworks on the 4th of July. It is all those hard-working Park Rangers at the St. Louis Arch, Rocky Mountain National Park, Bryce, Zion, Yosemite, and all the other parks across the U.S.

The West is the Best, but it is the people that make this country truly amazing. Man.

Categories: Four Corners Monument, National Parks, Travel, West is the Best, Man

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