to the promised land

The sky was gray and misty, the air the slightest bit chilly, as I left Boise this morning. Nostalgia for the trip I was still yet to complete poured over me as I drove through downtown and accelerated west onto I-84. I have come to love this adventure so much, and the first leg of it is now over. Now I am on Adventure Phase 2: Oregon, in which I spend a prolonged amount of time hanging out in Eugene, resting, reconnecting with friends, family, homeland. That is another main goal of this adventure. And I have no doubts that it is exactly where I need to be right now, but even so I am sad to see my days on the road go.

I have pretty much decided I want to be a professional adventurer. I figure if I come up with enough spiffy ideas of adventures, and write books about them, people will buy my books and then I will have money to go on said adventures. I already have a few adventures I want to go on: One where I go to all 50 U.S. capitals and write about them (update: I can now say the states and capitals in reverse alphabetical order), one where I see a sunrise and sunset in every state, and one where I drive across the country only taking back roads, even if I have to go far out of my way and have adventures. Those are just my ideas for today.

Coming out of Boise, you are at a fairly high elevation, and you still have a ways to go. The Blue Mountains stand between our intrepid traveler and the waiting greenery on the other side. I continued my observation as to the distinction between central and west, plains and mountains. I also mused quite a bit on the pioneers who traversed these routes before me, and I was once again grateful that they did the dirty work. I feel like I have a little bit of perspective, now, on how they must have felt as they neared their Oregon treks. After driving straight west for a few thousand miles, you start to notice these things.

And, let me tell you, Oregon must have looked like the promised land to my forebears. After spending a few hours winding through northeastern Oregon's mountains in high anticipation of what was to come, I dropped down into the Grand Ronde valley, and there it was - the sun shone brightly through the clouds which were now far above, and the valley's bright colors danced. Around another bend, a ridge to my left was populated with more varieties of verdant evergreens. I knew that, as I continued, I would see the great Columbia River, and what a sight this whole scene must have been to the weary adventurers making this trek without knowing what they would find! No wonder Oregon is so ingrained in our collective consciousness.

But before I get too far ahead, let me back up - I saw a ridge populated with evergreens. TREES. That is my answer! That is the difference! That is how you know you are out of the mountains, past the infinite grasslands! Goddamn TREES! (This is what I may or may not have been shrieking as I made this discovery - after nine days on a solo adventure, you talk to yourself a lot)

I had forgotten what it was like to have so much greenery everywhere. I had never noticed how many varieties of trees we have, and what massive contrast that is to elsewhere in this country.

And the Columbia River! I tried to imagine what Lewis & Clark must have been thinking when first they discovered this mighty waterway. Could they have sensed that it would lead them to their long-sought-after destination, the Pacific Ocean? Even not knowing this, they surely stood in awe of this majestic river, certainly aware of its power. At the first chance I got, I pulled over and ran along a retaining wall, letting the gusts of wind whip my hair around as I exclaimed with joy and breathed in the magical air coming from this river. I spent a lot of time during the Summer Of Adventures rejoicing in the Ohio River, flinging myself on its riverbanks at various junctures along its course, spending hours pondering its historical and geographic significance. I feel much the same way about the Columbia - oh, the mighty Columbia! And what it means to the generations of adventurers who have traveled all the way across this great continent - relief, hope, destiny.

So why do I feel this pull westward? Is it simply my own personal roots, that the genesis of the Sarah Nelson story lies mixed up in these valleys, rivers, rainy winters and evergreen-lined streets? Or is this a deeper instinct, one that runs deep among my fellow countrymen and countrywomen, that manifest destiny, that compulsion westward that led most of our ancestors to populate this continent? (From a European standpoint, certainly, but for the sake of argument let's continue) Christopher Columbus, for all that he was not, he nevertheless stood on a shore in Europe and felt the need to explore westward. Words fail me in trying to describe my own feelings on this: "right," "true," "correct," "accurate" - these words do not sum up how I feel, but suffice to say that traveling west has felt like one of the most absolutely right things I could be doing.

This realization, in turn, breaks my heart. Athens is not west of here, and I love it so dearly. How will I reconcile this? What do I do now that I have gone almost as far west as I can? I have a few months to chew on this dilemma, and by then I might be more than ready to turn my sails to the east. I know I'll certainly be itching to get on the road again (with sails?), for I know that that has felt right.