tour de sarah recap

Here are some interesting facts about my adventure!

Miles traveled Ohio-Oregon: 3,036.
Miles traveled Oregon-Ohio: 5,435.
Total miles elapsed (including adventures within Oregon): 11,306.

Days elapsed Ohio-Oregon: 9.
Days elapsed Oregon-Ohio: 17.
Total days gone from Ohio: 83.

Here are some places I visited:

Overnight
Athens, OH
Lexington, KY
Rolla, MO
Salina, KS
Englewood, CO
Boise, ID
Eugene, OR
Portland, OR
Newberg, OR
Seattle, WA
Auburn, CA
Oakland, CA
Valencia, CA
Chandler, AZ
Flagstaff, AZ
Albuquerque, NM
Oklahoma City, OK
Fayetteville, AR
outside Clarksdale, MS
New Orleans, LA
Birmingham, AL
Charleston, SC
Asheville, NC
Athens, WV

Day trips
(or places I stopped for a bit of time while traveling)
Frankfort, KY
Jefferson City, MO
Denver, CO
Lafayette, CO
Salem, OR
Florence, OR
Olympia, WA
Ashland, OR
Berkeley, CA
San Francisco, CA
San Jose, CA
Santa Monica, CA
Phoenix/Tempe, AZ
Sedona, AZ
Amarillo, TX (drove through)
Clarksdale, MS
Gulfport/Biloxi, MS
Athens, GA
Columbia, SC

State Capitals visited:
Frankfort, KY*
Jefferson City, MO*
Denver, CO*
Boise, ID
Salem, OR*
Olympia, WA*
Phoenix, AZ
Oklahoma City, OK
Little Rock, AR
Columbia, SC*
* are where I actually either went inside the capitol building, or wandered/drove around near it. I stayed the night in Boise and Oklahoma City, and drove on surface streets through Little Rock. I also drove through, strictly on the interstate, Montgomery, AL and Charleston, WV

Other major points of interest (National/state parks, etc)
Walnut Canyon, AZ
Painted Desert/Petrified Forest, AZ
Oklahoma City Bombing Memorial, OK
French Quarter, New Orleans, LA

Pacific Ocean - Florence, OR
Pacific Ocean - Pismo Beach, CA
Pacific Ocean - Santa Monica, CA
Gulf of Mexico - Biloxi, MS
Atlantic Ocean - Folly Beach, SC

I visited 25 states: Ohio, Kentucky, Missouri, Kansas, Colorado, Wyoming, Utah, Idaho, Oregon, Washington, California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Mississippi, Louisiana, Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Tennessee, Virginia, West Virginia.
That's half!

I drove on these major interstates:
North-south: I-5, I-17, I-25, I-55, I-65, I-77
East-west: I-10, I-20, I-26, I-40, I-44, I-64, I-70, I-80, I-84

several major US highways: US-24, US-33, US-49, US-50, US-56, US-60, US-61, US-64, US-71, US-78, US-90, US-101

numerous spurs of those interstates and highways, and countless state routes

Here is a map I made of my adventures. The black indicates the route I took in November; the purple is trips I took around the Northwest while there; the red is the route I took back in January. Enjoy!

country roads, take me home

I passed a delightful evening and morning with Sara and her boyfriend in Athens, WV. Nonetheless, after enjoying Pancake Saturday with them, my proximity to Athens, Ohio, sprang to the forefront of my mind. Itching to get on the road, and to find home, I bid a fond farewell to Sara and returned to the interstate.

I-77 becomes the West Virginia Turnpike, and it is a challenging if beautiful drive. If a driver is clever, you can avoid two of the three toll plazas by following specific state routes through rural West Virginia. On my last visit, Sara and Arden patiently delineated for me which routes I ought to take, a detour which doesn't add too much time and is generally worth the four bucks saved. Nevertheless, today I was impatient to get home, so I followed the interstate the entire way.

Saturday afternoon in January is a peaceful time to drive long distances, as I was nearly alone on the road. This left me able to enjoy the sun beaming down on the road before me. The mountains beckoned, seeming to say "Come home! Come home!" I heard bluegrass on the radio, and tears filled my eyes. I crossed through Charleston, one of my favorite state capitals, hidden up in the hills and framed by the rushing Kanawha River. I left exploration of that capitol museum for another adventure - I was too close to home to stop!

The Ohio River runs through Ravenswood, West Virginia, at the Ohio state line. I am in love with this river. Its majesty tells of its history: Significant in trade, westward expansion, and forming borders, I could just stare and stare. It's fitting, too, that on my first adventure of last summer, I played along its shores before exploring West Virginia for the first time.

I steered onto US Highway 33. Highway 33! This highway runs through Athens! Oh, I was getting so close. The day was mostly cloudy, but I still marveled at the rural beauty of the hills along the 37-mile drive. As I neared Athens, I crossed roads that I had driven on before, mentally retracing routes to friends' houses, rejoicing in familiarity. I took the southernmost exit for Athens, purposely driving through town the slow way. In awe, I took it all in.

Athens is still here! Athens exists! It was real!

Three months is both a long and short time to be gone from home. Matters are made all the more complicated when two of those months are spent somewhere once known as home. Although I knew this to not be true, often while in Eugene I found myself wondering if Athens was nothing but a dream. The natural features of the town, the people, the things I have done here, are such an encapsulated experience and so removed from Eugene that it was difficult at times to remember their existence, etched upon my mind as they were. I would hear myself speaking of Athens, enthusiastically extolling its merits, relaying anecdotes, and would almost stop to wonder at where in my memory they came from.

I steered through town, turning onto my street and into my awaiting parking spot. I could barely contain myself. I leaped out of my car and half-ran through the yard, patchy and soft under melting snow. I paused to gaze in wonder at the backyard before scampering up the stairs. I couldn't believe it: there it was! my apartment! looking just like I remembered it! I danced around the apartment, touching everything, turning on each light and opening every last cupboard. Emotion overcame me. Flinging myself onto the floor, I stretched out along the smooth hardwood, breathing in the sense of home. I wept, wracked with sobs indicating joy, relief, and other emotions I cannot even begin to express. It feels so right to be here, but altogether alien. I was gone for three months....but now I am back.

Daily mileage: 185. Total mileage: 5,435.
(more stats to come)

Four states in one day!

The sun shone down in Asheville, even as the forecast told of snow. I sped northward, constantly anticipating that around the next curve i would find piles of snow and ice, determined to make this good weather luck last as long as possible.

In all my days of driving on this adventure, I have faced precipitation very few times. (This is not counting the two months i spent in Oregon, where driving in rain is a given.) I faced an onslaught of snow as i approached Denver back in November, which eased within an hour. I fought rain (and low-hanging fog) as i crested the Siskiyou summit on my drive from Eugene to Auburn. and the majority of my drive in the western part of Alabama, from Mobile pretty much all the way in to Birmingham, was marked with rain. Every other day, though? Sunny skies, sparse clouds. I know that much of the rest of this winter has been brutally cold, and many of the locales I visited experienced unseasonable snow at other points.

I experienced some driving confusion trying to find the proper interstate in Asheville. This primarily has to do with the extremely silly nomenclature of I-26. Interstate 26, following the typical pattern of such things, ought to be an east-west interstate, but proceeds in a decidedly northwesterly fashion. Through Asheville, it runs nearly due north, and even has an interchange with my old friend I-40, which I just feel like should never happen. Somehow, as I left downtown Asheville, I found myself on I-40 heading west, a route that would take me to Knoxville, Tennessee. I stopped to ask for directions to I-26 West and was greeted with incredulous looks. "Well," I clarified, "it runs north, but it is called 26 West."

I have since learned that for a stretch in Asheville, I-26 West actually runs east. Now, what is the point of having a well-established system for naming interstates if you do not follow it?

Asheville is only about fifteen miles from the North Carolina-Tennessee border, which was a pleasant surprise. At about three other points on this adventure, I'd considered altering my route just to drive through Tennesse. These plans had never quite come to fruition. I had only decided to go to Asheville about a week ago while already on the road, so I hadn't had time to pore over potential routes. It certainly came as a surprise that morning when I looked on my map and realized I'd be traversing eastern Tennessee en route to West Virginia!

The sun shone brightly, illuminating mountains I was unaware existed in tennessee. Prior to this day, my only venture into Tennessee was at a rest stop in the middle of the night one summer on tour, so it hardly counts. I had envisioned Tennessee more like Kentucky - gently rolling hills, scattered horse farms, but an pervading sense of flatness. Instead, here were my Applachians, glistening in the crisp January sun. Perfect clouds rolled through the blue sky above, and I gaped at how idyllic the sight was.

I-26 terminates just past Kingsport, TN, and from there I picked up Interstate 81 North. This is another interstate that doesn't exactly follow the designation assigned it. I suspect that in this part of the country, the blame for these inconsistencies is twofold: hills and history. It is much easier to carve a straight path through the desert or a valley than the seductively winding Appalachians. Also, by the time the interstate system was created in the '50s, the eastern half of the country was criscrossed by state-to-state routes that had been well-traveled for centuries, compared with the relatively recent expansion of their western counterparts. (Did you know that Arizona became a state in 1902? 1902! That's the most recent of the 48 contiguous states!)

In eastern Tennessee, the interstate in question traverses a distinctly east-west route, but no matter. I knew it would take me into Virginia's softly rolling western hills and farmland that evokes memories of colonial days. I had previously driven on a stretch of I-81 on my Memorial Day adventure that brought me to drop in on my cousin who lives in Roanoke. In short time, I crossed from Tennessee into Virginia. I stopped at the Welcome Center to acquire another of those coveted road maps put out by the state Department of Transportation that put AAA's to shame.

I saw thick clouds in the distance, and envisioned that they held snowstorms and torrential rain, but my luck held. A sprinkling of snow graced the bucolic hills, and piles along the side of the roadway reminded me of winter's presence. The hills, both green and brown in late January, were lined perfectly with a white dusting. I couldn't have painted a better picture.

After a while, I-81 met I-77, an interstate that actually follows the rules by heading north into West Virginia. I-77 goes through the biggest tunnel in Virginia, the Big Walker Mountain tunnel. This is what it looks like in summer, but today it was covered in frosty drifts of snow.

To my left, the sun threatened to set, shooting beams of light through the bare trees to the west. The clouds thickened, a little more gray than before, setting the stage for a peaceful winter's day. I drove through another majestic tunnel, the the East River Mountain tunnel, and entered West Virginia. Four states in one day! My anticipation quickened as I neared the exit that would take me to Athens, West Virginia, where one of my dearest friends lives.

Cautiously, I slowed to the off-ramp. The roadside snow, sparse in Virginia, here consisted of freshly piled drifts of snow, and the road was thick with salt and sand. I followed WV-20 as snow sparkled on tree branches around me and the sun, thankfully, shone on. I got my first feeling of homecoming as I pulled into Sara's drive and scampered up to her front porch, flinging her to me in a heartfelt embrace.

Daily mileage: 254. Total mileage: 5,250.

One more adventure in Asheville

This is the comforting sight that greeted me from the window of the guest bedroom in Kim's apartment outside Asheville, North Carolina. Her apartment is nestled in a wooded area just removed from the hustle and bustle of the highway. With every day that I got closer to the familiar hills of Athens, my heart soared with joy as I found more hills and more trees that sing in their own special way. Asheville is high up in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and the alpine atmosphere permeates the region. I felt strangely, surprisingly at home.

For dinner last night, Kim and i chose a cute little vegetarian cafe. The Green Leaf Cafe is tucked along the main drag of this hopelessly hip hamlet. Composed of two small main rooms, I was again reminded of home, Oregon-home and Ohio-home in some unique olio. A counter ran along the front of the humble kitchen, and a big man in a green shirt sat atop one of the few bar stools. aA dimpled young man, certainly no older than us, and probably many years younger, stood behind the register. His skin was a light copper, and his hair was hidden in a large round hat perched on his head in such a way as to indicate a pile of dreadlocks beneath. He motioned to us to sit anywhere we liked. We sat in the far room in a booth that was built into the window. We were the only ones in the room. The boy brought us two menus, then with a sheepish grin informed us that their server was out for the evening and he would be cook and server, letting on that he had little experience by way of the latter. He ably brought us waters and informed us of the specials, tolerating our many requests.

As we munched, a group of musicians filtered in. A young woman with smooth, caramel skin carried a guitar. Others followed after, carrying guitars, various hand drums, amplification. They began to set up in the back room where we were seated. Kim and i looked at each other in giddy anticipation. This was a surprise! What would happen next?

A duo of stocky, older black men - perhaps uncles or cousins - approached us and began raving about the young woman's talent. Dressed tonight in a neatly buttoned blue plaid shirt, she is the group's frontwoman and lead singer. The group is called Lyric, and I never quite catch the girl's name, so I refer to her as Lyric in my head. Tonight, they play an "acoustic" set, and only three members of the band are present: the young woman, another guitar player, and a man providing percussion accompaniment on a hand drum or two.

We finish our meal, and the chef/server clears our plates and patiently refills our waters. The back room of the cafe opens up into a wine bar and art gallery. We buy a glass of wine and sip, happily, excited about the music we are about to see. Lyric plays one song to lure us in, belting out a soulful tune while strumming on her guitar. The room fills with her passionate spirit and musical talent. We hum along excitedly, though the tune is unfamiliar to us.

After this teaser, Lyric stops and makes way for the opening act. Roberto is an energetic young man. His toned chest shows through his tight-fitting tee, and his Peruvian heritage shines through his face. He writes poetry and puts it to a beat - and what a beat! Roberto sets up a collection of hand drums; I don't know how many, but judging by the symphony of sounds he was able to evoke from them, at least five. Roberto's poems are of the usual angsty sort, but follow a clever and enticing rhyme scheme. Coupled with his frantic, able drumming, they take on a musical character. He is aware of his audience, and engages us with a "c'mon" here and there as he launches into the "chorus" verse of his poetry. He plays five or six charts, and we are dancing in our seats, grinning broadly, aware that we have stumbled upon something special here tonight.

Lyric then retakes the stage. The girl's youthful enthusiasm leaks out from behind her oversized plastic-framed glasses; we gauge her to be no more than 22 or 23. She tells of meeting Lauryn Hill, who recently performed in Asheville. They play song after song - some covers, some originals. In some, she raps, and others have a distinct soul, r & b feel. The night grows late, and my weariness, lingering from my early start with the sunrise and Atlantic ocean, shows. Lyric is still playing when we leave, and the uncles try to persuade us to buy one of their freshly-cut CD's. Even as we drive home, the energy of the night courses through us. Roberto was a treat, but this girl is going somewhere. I wouldn't be surprised if she crosses paths with Lauryn Hill again. Asheville is becoming known as a thriving spot for up-and-coming musicians, and this night showed it right to us!

sunrise to sunset in the carolinas!

Check that business out! This is the sun coming up over the ocean. It is an extremely large photo because...holy crap.

Although I was up late last night in a house full of friends, I jumped out of bed a little after 6:00. I rousted a few housemates out of bed, and we piled into Nora's sedan, heading for Folly Beach, about a half-hour away from downtown Charleston. I was on the edge of my seat with anticipation the whole time, an anticipation that grew as the first reddish glow of sunrise began to tint the sky. What if I came all this way and missed the sunrise? The forecast predicted that the sunrise wasn't until 7:17, but one could never be too certain!

Fortunately, the forecast was right on target. We pulled into a gravel lot at Folly Beach, nearly deserted at this early hour. I bolted from the car and scampered eagerly onto the sand. The Atlantic waves crashed on the shore, bold and blue. I ran madly up and down the sandy coast. Beautiful houses overlooked the shoreline behind me. I danced in place and watched as, every minute, a new shade of color overtook the sky.

At first, the sunrise formed a hazy ribbon of coral-colored clouds along the distant horizon. The waning moon was yet visible as the sky stayed a heavy lavender. Before my eyes, the sky's pinkish border rose, adding blossoms of orange to the nearly cloudless sky. The few clouds that hung above were the slightest wisps of cotton, and the sunrise made them a neon orange against the purple-blue sky. The ribbon of orange widened, and reflected off the sparkling blue waves. I danced madly in place, snapping photos and checking my watch.

At precisely 7:17, true to form, a brilliant ball of orange appeared where the water met the painted sky. It was a tiny orb, distant, and each time I blinked it loomed larger and higher in the sky until it had fully broken free from its watery home, bursting forth into new life. The sun glistened brighter than any gold can shine, more true than any flame, more perfectly round than any ball. I took off my shoes and dashed into the water. The ocean was cold, and my toes tingled as the waves lapped over my ankles. I gleefully splashed, never removing my eyes from the sky, which was now painted end to end with brilliant oranges and pinks, and huge swaths of light blue as the sun welcomed the new day.

Later, after a breakfast of improvised peanut butter-banana-coconut pancakes, I bid farewell to my friends and hit the road for North Carolina. I zigzagged across the state, idling momentarily in Columbia, the capital of South Carolina. Interstate 26 originates in Charleston, and led me straight into North Carolina. The Blue Ridge Mountains, which had certainly been awaiting my entrance from the same position the entire time, suddenly made their presence clear, looming above me as I swept down the first hill and into the state. The sun had begun to set to the west, and shot rays through the trees, casting a glorious ligh
t upon the huge, blue mountains in front of me. Trees surrounded the interstate. I opened my window, and smelled the scent of forests long forgotten. I arrived at my friend's house just as the sun was nestling behind the mountains, lending a soft orange glow to the hills around me.

back to the hills!!

I woke up early this morning and greeted a gray, windy Birmingham. I parked downtown and went for a brisk jog around the city blocks. Birmingham is one of those silly cities that is laid out with number streets crossing number avenues; that is, 2nd St. crosses 16th Ave., 16th St. crosses 2nd avenue in an entirely different place, and so on. As such, I got rather turned around and ultimately frustrated with trying to find my way in Birmingham. I also realized how long it would take me to get to Charleston, and that Birmingham was a big enough city (around a million) to have a rush hour I ought to avoid, so I was on the road before the sun was high in the sky. All the museums I wanted to see didn't open until ten or later - more things I will have to save for a future adventure.

I'm going to attribute this phenomenon to being back in the hills, but everything seems to take so long now! Side routes and back roads which aided my speedy journey across the flat plains often took less time than the interstate - not so in Alabama and Georgia. I also decided on the spur of the moment to check out Athens, Georgia, which is not on any beaten path at all, and I improvised directions to it. Nevertheless, a trip which I anticipated to take four hours (Birmingham-Athens) took upwards of six.

I headed north on I-59 first thing. Out of Birmingham I had two choices to progress in a northeasterly fashion toward my first destination of Athens. I-20 heads reliably due east, so perhaps that would have been a better route. I-59, however, took me northeast to US Highway 278, which in turn headed due east through the town of Gadsden and a few Civil War historic battlefields.

The morning clouds cleared, and the sun began to beat mightily through the thick trees. Most of the trees in these forests are deciduous, but they are close enough together that the sun lit their brown branches. The further east I got, I found more and more evergreens curving along the hilly road, illuminating the woods with their color.

Continuing along US-278, I entered Georgia and Eastern time, setting me back yet another hour. I picked up GA-120, which led me through Marietta and Roswell. The hills beckoned, rising above me and in the distance to my every side. I was still far from home, but felt comforted by the hills. I neared Atlanta, and picked up Interstate 75 to the I-285 bypass, so I easily skirted the capital. I left the interstate and headed east on US-78, and instantly the hills rose again above me, bushy branches reaching skyward.

I wish that I could take a photograph of everything I see while traversing these highways. I will just have to further hone and practice my skills of description. Skills of memory, too, for as profound and beautiful as each bend, each ray of light through the underbrush may be, they tend to run together after a long day of driving.

My plan based on my map had been to take US-29 toward Athens, Georgia, but signs on the interstate instructed me to follow US-78, which I'm not sure why because it's a highway that is surface streets almost the entire way, whereas US-29 is elevated and goes a little faster. Nonetheless, it was a lovely drive into Athens. The sun came out, and I passed through a series of small towns with names reminiscent of colonial days - Washington, Lexington. By the time I reached the University of Georgia, I was ravenous. I had planned to eat a little bit of my granola while roaming what I hear is a pretty awesome town, but then I thought that it would be interesting to check out a local eatery. The kids at the UGA welcome center were extremely helpful, and I enjoyed a drive through the thriving campus en route to my lunch destination. I ordered a salad, which turned out to be the hugest salad I have ever seen. The clerk must have seen the famished desperation in my eyes!

It was an extremely windy day in Georgia, though the sun shone down brightly. As I continued eastward on US-78, the trees continued to enchant me, reaching toward the road and telling me stories of days past. Farmland began to appear, though, interspersed with the ancient woods. I saw cows and horses under perfect clouds in the sky. I passed a few plantations, suddenly remembering how far south of the Mason-Dixon line I was.

As I drove through the Georgia hills, my thoughts frequently strayed to Athens. Though I was still over 500 miles from home, I could taste it. It was a struggle to direct my car to continue traveling eastward, but I was committed to this adventure!

The day I played in the surf in Santa Monica I realized that, before this adventure could be complete, I needed to see the Atlantic. I had never seen it, and I wanted to watch the sun rise over the ocean. It was a little difficult to justify going a day's journey out of my way just to run my feet along the crashing waves of the Carolina shore, and more than ever on this absolutely perfect Appalachian January day. As I neared the South Carolina border, though, my anticipation of reaching the Atlantic coast grew, so I felt like I had made the right decision!

I followed US-221 to connect with Interstate 20. By this point, the sun had begun to set and I was still a state away from my destination! I observed the sun begin to set through my rearview mirror. The entire sky behind me filled with shades of orange and red, like the skin of a ripe mango. I crossed into South Carolina, where the speed limit was five miles higher and everyone around me drove more madly and boldly. The sun followed suit, burning a bright neon orange.

The interstates in South Carolina are counterintuitive because they don't run due north-south or east-west. Also, to the intrepid back route-wanderer, they seem like hardly the most direct route across the state. US-278, a spur of 78 that I had been on earlier in the day in eastern Alabama, seemed like the best route by far, but at this point I was over Route 78. I took I-20 in a northeasterly direction into Columbia, the capital, which led me to I-26 southeast into Charleston.

In the southern peninsula area of South Carolina, Charleston has a distinct beach feel to it. Images of television shows set in Miami danced through my head, and for some reason I had a hard time remembering I wasn't in Florida. Dreams of the Atlantic danced in my head, and I could barely sleep with excitement.

Today's mileage: 557. Total mileage: 4,716.

day 13: birmingham, al

I know, right? Today is my thirteenth day on the road. It's starting to feel a little surreal, honestly. It's strange to think about how much time has elapsed since I left Eugene, and how it's been nearly three months since I left Athens. I get giddy just thinking about returning (which I'm planning to do on Saturday). But for the moment I'm extremely excited to be where I am! I am in Alabama!

First, let me back up. Allow me to describe my adventure day in New Orleans.

The sun shone bright yesterday morning, and temperatures hovered around 60 degrees. A breeze shook the trees (still bright with greenery!), warning of an impending storm, or at the very least reminding the visitor of the city's proximity to several bodies of water.

I enjoyed a quick jog around the neighborhood I was staying, a little to the north end of the Garden District. I soaked up the sun as I trotted past old houses of every shape, size, and color. But it was time to head further into town. A rickety green streetcar runs along St. Charles Way, slowly ferrying residents and tourists to and fro around the western half of New Orleans. A buck twenty-five, exact change, will get you a ride, and I gazed out the window as we passed through several neighborhoods. The area where I boarded was primarily residential; next we screeched to a stop outside the majestic entrances to Tulane and Loyola universities. As we progressed toward the French Quarter, bars and restaurants began to crowd the street just as more and more riders crammed into the streetcar. The line ends at busy Canal Street, so I hopped off, ready to explore.

I decided to dedicate much of my day to the French Quarter, Canal Street, and other such ultra-famous locales that thrived on tourist dollars. It was a Monday in January, but the street still bustled with activity. And then, the most surprising thing that happened to me all day: I ran into two guys I know from Athens, who just happened to be adventuring in New Orleans! We chatted briefly, but it was extremely awesome.

Canal Street intersects several famous streets in the French Quarter: Bourbon, Royal, Decatur. I turned on Decatur, which took me along the Mississippi River. (In my last post, in my excitement I declared I drove into New Orleans between Lake Pontchartrain and the Gulf, forgetting that that was entirely impossible. I actually drove between the lake and the river, though it is also difficult to conceptualize the Mississippi River turning and heading east, but it does!) I wandered along the street, checking out a shop here and there, trying to avoid tourist traps but still get a feel for it. I paused and looked at Jackson Square, as the figure towered over the street. I stopped at Cafe du Monde, where dusty awnings proclaimed it to be the French Market's first coffee stand. Inside the open-air cafe, waitresses in matching, neatly pressed white aprons and caps served up "New Orleans-style" coffee and trademark beignets. Just outside, a middle-aged man with skin the color of dark chocolate played lazy notes on an old trombone. He wore a Saints sweatshirt. His notes rang true. He played recognizable standards, and occasionally would set down the horn and sing instead. His voice was soulful, but his eyes were sad.

At about this point in the day the overly touristic nature of the neighborhood started to put me on edge. I tried very hard to just take it all in, observe this famous city that I had never been to. It was a dreary day, and as rain and wind moved in, tourists dissipated. A girl working at the French Market along Decatur told me it had been a colder winter than normal, and tourism was down. Another vendor told me how business had never been up since Hurricane Katrina.

After walking the length of Decatur, I turned north toward Bourbon Street, a few blocks away. I walked down lesser-traveled side streets, lined with skinny, tall houses painted a rainbow of colors. Plants and lights covered balconies that overhung the roadway, barely wider than an alley. Flyers preparing residents for Mardi Gras were tucked into each mailbox, reminding me that I was only a few turns away from the center of it all. Very interesting! I walked down Bourbon, which was its own adventure. Again, midafternoon on a Monday in late January, it was relatively sparse, mostly peopled with New Orleans residents and a chance group of tourists. Neon lights flashed, each bar offering a special more enticing than the last, as employees stood outside, calling to passers-by. I could certainly imagine what this place was like with even a little more hustle and bustle!

I reached Canal Street again, and it had begun to drizzle. I still had a lot of New Orleans I wanted to see, though, so I forewent the streetcar and walked along St. Charles Way. I ambled through the Warehouse/Arts district, though the museum I wanted to visit was closed on Mondays. I made my way to the lower Garden District, checking out shops here and there, thinking about a place to go for dinner. Eventually, I tired of walking and tossed five more quarters into the streetcar's slot to get back to my friend's place. I also had made an unfortunate misstep right before catching the trolley, and my feet were soaking wet. I curled up inside and regrouped.

We went out to dinner at a tapas restaurant down the road, where the waitress recognized my friends and conversed freely with us. Later, we went to a cramped sports bar a few blocks away, somewhat closer to Tulane's campus, though Tulane is similar to the University of Oregon in that there isn't a concentration of bars huddled around the campus. This was a neighborhood where 3-4 feet of water stood in the street for weeks after Katrina hit. Throughout the day, I couldn't get images of flooded streets and mass evacuations out of my head. I tried to picture what the city must of looked like, and the feeling of utter devastation and chaos that was certainly everywhere.

Today dawned gray and humid, as last night's drizzle had continued through the night. Though the rain had ceased by the time I awoke, the moisture from all that precipitation hung above the city, reminding me of muggy summer days in Athens. I packed up and hit the road, easily finding I-10 and sailing east out of the city. The interstate stayed up on bridge-like pilons for dozens of miles eastward, a fact I still just find extremely exciting.

The interstate arced into a bridge right before the border with Mississippi, and as I drove along the Gulf I crossed a few more rivers, lakes, and arms of the ocean. One bridge soared up at such an angle that before I reached it, it appeared to drop off dramatically into the Gulf. Once I entered Mississippi, I followed MS-607 to pick up US Highway 90, which closely follows the southernmost curves of the region. This added probably an hour onto my trip, but it was worth it.

US-90 goes right through the Gulf towns of Bay St. Louis, Pass Christian, Gulfport, Biloxi, Pascagoula, to name a few. I gaped as, to my right, about fifty yards of white sand separated the roadway from the Gulf of Mexico. In Biloxi, I pulled over, pulled on my old jogging shoes, and skipped along the beach. I was the only such carouser I could see in either direction. The sky was hazy with latent moisture, but the early afternoon sun shone through. I let the waves lap over my feet for a few minutes, relishing the time I got to spend with the water. I really, really love being in and near water. One of the greatest things about last summer was the amount of time I got to spend swimming. I'm lucky to live so near to Stroud's Run, but I miss the ocean.

My grandfather (as have countless servicemen) spent some time in Biloxi before he went off to World War II, so I thought about him as I drove along the highway, past towering casinos and sparkling resorts. I wondered how the tourism industry was doing here. In some of the first towns I drove through, the economic downturn was obvious, as the highway was lined with shuttered souvenir shops. Shopping plazas stood empty, parking lots covered in residual dirt.

I don't mean to linger on my presumptions about post-Katrina New Orleans and Mississippi. I am sure that I have only the slightest of ideas as to what life is actually like in the region, but even so I was moved thinking about what I do know of the utter destruction the area experienced.

I crossed into Alabama, and soon tired of US-90's slower speeds even as it curved away from the coastline. I returned to I-10 and headed to Mobile, Alabama, where I hooked up with Interstate 65 going north. I originally chose this route because I wanted to stop in Montgomery, to check out this southern state's capital. I soon realized that I had spent too much time on the beach for such a stopover, and indeed by the time I reached the Montgomery city limits it was almost 5:30, and all the museums were certainly closed. I guess that is yet another thing I will have to save for a future adventure!

I-65 arcs up and around through Alabama, never quite heading due north-south. It takes a pretty directly northeast route from Mobile to Montgomery, and veers northwest out of Montgomery into Birmingham. What I could see of the scenery before night fell was just as I remembered it - thick and lush with trees and plants of all sorts. I sighed happily. I crossed a series of rivers outside of Mobile, and reflected again on the geographical makeup of the region, how all these rivers and lakes have changed course over time, moving silt with them.

Tomorrow morning I will check out Birmingham for a bit, and then head eastward again!

Today's mileage: 416. Total mileage: 4,155.
(the adventure-mobile turned 177K today! go car go!)

cottonfields to the big easy

My friends in Mississippi live along a dusty gravel road off of Mississippi State Route 1. MS-1 never strays further than a mile or so from the river. It follows a path the river once carved. I am in the Delta, the Delta, and my friends regale me with stories of "life on the Delta."

They live in what once was the town of Deeson, populated mainly by sharecroppers. Anymore, about five houses remain standing. Some fields are still fertile, but huge swaths of land lay barren. Vines entangle scrawny trees, bare in this colder-than-average January. I thought of books that are set in this environment, the stories suddenly popping to life before my eyes. One of the books on tape I've been listening to on this adventure is Let the Circle Be Unbroken, and the author's sultry prose filled my ears as I looked around.

It's things like this that make me want to find a way to teach history via outstanding fiction.

To get to Deeson, one follows MS-322 out of Clarksdale for quite a ways before finding Highway 1. The house is 24 miles from Clarksdale, at pop. 20,645 is a thriving metropolis. The house is drafty, and we heat it with radiators as we huddle under blankets overnight. In the morning, we have coffee and oats cooked on a hot plate. We walk the dog in the sparse woods, and then I am on the road again.

My goal today: New Orleans! So exciting!

The day was gray and cloudy as I motored south, continuing along MS-1 as far as I could. The mighty river rumbled along to my right, and I was humbled by its presence. I drove through several small towns. Many were no bigger than a few side streets, a boarded-up gas station, and an overgrown brick school building. On this dreary, dusty Sunday morning, few people were out and about, and those that were lingered idly.

Eventually, the clouds gave way to a glorious sun that warmed me as I drove south. I grabbed MS-14 east for a few miles into Rolling Fork and the subsequent junction with US-61. I drove through Gunnison, MS, where bluesman Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil, or so they say. I drove through Onward, MS, where Teddy Roosevelt famously refrained from shooting a bear, giving birth to a generation of children's toys.

I feel like I spent a lot of time talking about the same things: the sky, the weather, the fields, the horizon, the sunrise/sunset, routes. All of these things are spectacular, every day. So I don't really mind. The trees grew thicker around me as I drove; there is something utterly magical about the way sunlight streams through trees in January. It's as if the branches are crying out for more. When I look through the leafless trees, I feel like I can see all the way through the woods and out the other side into the past.

I followed US-61 around Vicksburg, picking up MS-27. I was reluctant to leave the back roads; with two extra hours of driving time, I could have made it to New Orleans without ever seeing the interstate, but I wanted to get there as soon as possible! MS-27 was a gorgeous, invigorating ride as I crossed over lakes that were once part of the Mississippi River, wound around plantations that grew ever-greener as I went southward. Ultimately, I sped onto Interstate 55 which would take me into the bayou. This, too, was a beautiful ride. I-55 is thickly framed by trees, some brown and bare, others full in their piney green foliage. I crossed the 31st parallel and into Louisiana, where I stopped at the first rest area. I've learned that the first rest area of each state comes complete with a fully staffed welcome center, maps of all sorts, and friendly staff who will eagerly direct you throughout the state. And free coffee! The lipsticked ladies behind the desk gave me stern, drawling directions to the area of New Orleans I was headed to.

About 23 miles north of New Orleans, I-55 goes up on pilons, like a bridge, and never comes down. I realized I was on the bayou. The sun began to set to my right, glinting off the intense blue water. Trucks sped past me, but I was enjoying this ride. I got closer and closer. The gulf loomed ahead of me, or perhaps that was just my anticipation. I-55 ends at I-10, my old friend which got me across the desert, and I headed east into New Orleans. As dusk fell, Lake Pontchartrain rose boldly to my left, and the Gulf bracketed the road on my right. I giggled with excitement; I can't explain what it was like to be driving between two enormous, influential bodies of water.

I'll write more about my New Orleans adventures later but for now, it's time to go have some today!

Daily mileage: 347. Total mileage: 3,739.

arkansas and mississippi!

I am a few days behind on posting about my adventures. I feel bad about this, but not too bad because I have been busy having adventures. So it goes.

After poking around Fayetteville on that cold, sunny morning, I got on the road. I wasted a little bit of time going the wrong direction leaving town after following the drawling health food store clerk's directions, but eventually I was heading south on I-540 as the Boston Mountains rose to one side of me. I had to head back to my old friend I-40 to then continue southward to Mississippi. Suddenly, though, it struck me - back roads!

Up to this point on this adventure, my dedication to following back roads had not matched that of my previous adventure in November. Much of this was geographical. There are, it turns out, very few roads that will get you across the desert in the Southwest, and call me shy, but I wasn't terribly excited about exploring roads that might lead me off the beaten path in that region.

But now I was back in hill country! Dozens of country roads were already firmly entwined into regular usage before the creation of the interstates, and as such, I had options. I stopped at beautiful Lake Dardanelle, another reservoir (and as it turns out, home to Arkansas' only nuclear power plant on the side away from that reserved for recreation...) to survey my map. A few miles later, at Russellville, I left the interstate on US-64, which follows I-40 pretty closely for a ways.

A friend I made in Fayetteville had told me of some of the state's major economic influences. Tyson chicken plants exist all around the state, in addition to Walmart's corporate headquarters in Bentonville. Indeed, the interstate swarmed with semi-trucks bearing the logo of one of these two companies. As I wound my way into the more rural, agrarian part of the state, farm after farm bore the Tyson logo. I tuned into Spanish-language radio; I don't know why I love it so. In Arkansas, the Hispanic influence is relatively recent, and directly correlated to the rise in Tyson and similar employment. This leads to a new kind of racial tension; I'm told that some small towns in the area have up to 50% Hispanic population!

From US-64, I picked up Arkansas State Hwy. 9, which took me south to AR-10. The sun shone down as I breezed past farms and trees, many of which still bore green foliage. AR-10 becomes a surface street along the north edge of Little Rock. I appreciated this; I had had a fleeting desire to explore Little Rock, but decided I didn't have the time to wander around the capital city. The western edge of Little Rock was a well-groomed suburb, but as I worked my way inward I saw a more industrial side to the city. I stopped in North Little Rock at a gas station that also sold fried chicken, and realized with a start that I was the only white person in the building. A few hundred miles later, and I was in the South.

I followed AR-10 along the railroad tracks until it met up with US-70, which like US-64 in the western part of the state, hugs I-40 pretty closely for a ways. I dipped lower into the southeastern corner of the state, and then I was in cotton country. Brown cotton fields extended all around me as the sun sank lower in the sky. I mused on how cotton was grown in Arkansas, shipped to China to make clothes, then returned to Arkansas to be distributed by Wal-Mart. And somehow this is cheaper than making the clothes here?

I caught a beautiful sunset, brilliant pinks and lavenders, over rows and rows of farmland and dusty gravel roads, before turning off onto US-49 which would take me to Mississippi. Night had already fallen by the time I reached the mighty river, just past Helena, AR. I continued on US-49, and could feel the proximity of the rushing Mississippi. Clarksdale, Mississippi, touts itself as a home to the blues, and I was meeting friends there, so I exited the highway onto MS-161 into Clarksdale. I stopped at a gas station to ask directions, and soon found the town's downtown area, where blues joints lined the streets.

I met my friends at Ground Zero, a huge barn-type watering hole, which I hear is owned by Morgan Freeman. Walls were covered in posters from past shows and Sharpie-d autographs of anyone who'd ever walked in its doors. A Southern-rock cover band was setting up on stage. The bar bustled, bartenders breezily handing out shots and bottles of cheap beer. We sat at a long picnic table near the pool table, and the waitress brought us fried green tomatoes. The tomatoes were tangy beneath a savory flour breading. Not exactly my usual fare, but I'll take it in the name of adventure!

We soon tired of the cover band, and wandered over to a hole-in-the-wall called Big Red's. A blues band was jamming away, but we were reluctant to front a second cover charge for the evening. The band's singer Shariya cut us a deal at the door, convincing us of the merits of Big A and the All-Stars. She was right! We sat on a couch in the corner of the small, warm bar. Shariya had a powerful voice, booming to all ends of the room. The frontman played a tidy blues guitar, and his crooning too was soulful. Big Red, the proprietor, surveyed the room from his perch behind the bar.

Today's mileage: 388. Total mileage: 3,392.

over the river and through the woods

In April 1995, I was a month shy of ten years old. My awareness of current events was growing. I was beginning to read the newspaper every morning. The bombings in Oklahoma City on April 19 were, then, the first major national news event of my lifetime to really strike home, a pivotal event in the foundation of my worldview. Yesterday, I went to the memorial which now stands where the federal building once stood in downtown Oklahoma City. It is a heartfelt tribute, simple yet impressive. It was a frigid morning, and a cold breeze blew around me under the blue prairie sky.

The night before, Jessica and Dwight took me out to a cramped little punk-rock bar tucked off a main street in Oklahoma City. The bar, The Drunken Fry, offers up a specialty menu of fresh-cut fries and 25 dipping sauces to choose from, served up by tattooed bartenders as the Ramones blare overhead. I stopped for an oil change in the morning, and the two men who helped me, grizzled, black, prairie-worn, were warm and friendly. Herman, the owner of the shop, grew up in the Bay Area and we traded stories of exploring the Midwest and South and what we like better out here. He complimented my accent, though through his y'alls and honeys I could barely discern what he was saying at times.

Jessica enthused to me about Fayetteville, Arkansas, so I hit the road for this mid-sized town that is home to the University of Arkansas. For the third morning in a row, I started my day motoring east on Interstate-40 (it is, after all, the third-longest major east-west highway in the U.S.).

The terrain in eastern Oklahoma is sparse but not barren. Groves of trees extend their bare, brushy arms skyward. As I gaze eastward, I see them climbing in droves up what I can only assume are the Ozarks, far along the horizon. A sprinkling of packed snow sits on the north side of each gently sloping brown grass hill along the road. Much of this prairie grass is auburn in hue, and I wonder what grows there.

I cross Lake Eufala, which seems to stretch southward all the way to the Gulf. Snow covers the trees along its rocky banks, and a few houseboats dot the water. I am shocked into remembering my newfound proximity to the Gulf states, and grow excited, thinking about my destinations in the days ahead.

The past few days in Oklahoma and eastward have been hit with a startling burst of cold winter weather. It is a slow, gray day, the sort made for curling up indoors and sleeping. The sun agreed, as ribbons of orange begin to appear on the horizon behind me before the clock even strikes four.

I cross into Arkansas, and the day's gray cover remains. Just through Van Buren, I finally leave the interstate. I had two choices of routes from there to Fayetteville - I-540, a spur of I-40, or US-71, a U.S. highway which runs from the Canadian border nearly all the way to the gulf. Guess which one I chose! I had been on interstates for three days, and I needed a break. I needed adventure. Winter be damned! US-71 takes you through a small mountain range, which I suspect in the geologic time spectrum are related to the Ozarks.

The moment I started on 71 was the moment I left the plains behind. The trees which had been encroaching were now everywhere, fully dusted with snow. I passed through a smattering of small villages: Mountainburg, pop. 682, Winslow, pop. 399. The land between these hamlets was primarily wooded, with an occasional farm. Old brown fences stood starkly against a snowy white backdrop. Lake Fort Smith extended eternally along my right. The closer to bayou country I get, the larger the lakes grow. An enormous crystal-blue lake, beyond Lake Ft. Smith to the east lay indigo mountains spotted with snow and thick with trees.

I slowly wound up and down, curving left and right through the hills. The road was clear but edged in packed snow. The snow, in turn, was framed by sepia-toned trees, gray-green bushes. I saw open fields and mountains in the distance. Far to the west, a raspberry-hued sunset spilled onto the thick clouds.

I reached Fayetteville just as darkness was complete, and drove around for a while getting my bearings. The night was bitter cold, the town charming and alive. I poked around a bookstore or two, and visited a pub called the Smoke & Barrel. Tucked behind a Mexican restaurant along the main campus drag, Dickson St., the joint offers blues on weekends and a welcome escape for faculty and grad students. The bartender knows most of the customers, conversing freely as he pours drinks. I sit at the bar, reading Huck Finn and scribbling furiously in my notebook. I make the acquaintance of a man, Jonathan, who has an MFA in creative writing and has lived in Arkansas his whole life. He regales me with tales of life in other parts of the state, describes Wal-Mart's influence (headquartered thirty minutes to the north of here). We talk about writing, about travel, about Mark Twain.

This morning was less frigid than the last few, so I went on a jog around the campus area, treading gingerly on packed snow and ice. I get coffee and a bread stick at a darling bakery tucked into Fayetteville's historic downtown. I must get on the road again. Next stop: Mississippi!

1/21 mileage: 270. Total mileage: 3,003.
(the adventure-mobile turned to 176K yesterday. Good job, adventure-mobile!)

ooooklahoma!

I woke up early yesterday, double-checking weather reports, which forecast relentless snow all along the I-40 corridor. Fortunately, by the time I awoke, those reports were amended. Although the Midwest did receive quite a pummeling, or so I hear, everywhere on my planned trajectory was safe. Indeed, as the last bits of another perfect orange sunrise dissipated over Albuquerque (isn't Albuquerque fun to type? Yes.), the sky was clear and blue.

I stayed with my dad's cousin, Nels, in Albuquerque. I hadn't seen him since 1992, and had never even met his younger son. Not that I remembered Nels or his wife very much either, though I had vague memories of them arriving in Auburn after my grandmother passed away in '92. I called them up because I needed a place to stay in New Mexico, and we wound up having a fantastic time. Everywhere I go on this adventure, I keep finding more and more great, fun, wonderful people who I wish I could see more often. Nels' wife, Pat, and I cooked dinner, a flurry of activity as we both dashed around the kitchen, talking energetically about every subject imaginable. Pat shared stories about my dad's parents, and those warmed my heart. I think often about how I wish I could have gotten to know them more, so I eagerly listened as Pat told of them making an effort to come to her wedding.

Snow aside, newfound family ties aside, I was on the road before nine a.m. I knew I would lose an hour once I hit Central time, and I kept expecting my good weather blessing to fade as I progressed east.

For the first time on this adventure, I spent the entire day on the same road, and an interstate no less! Going through the American Southwest, a person has few options to deviate, especially if they're trying to make any sort of good time. It's about a nine-hour drive from Albuquerque to Oklahoma City, and at that only if you stick to I-40. As I headed east, the landscape became once again prairie-like. I climbed and climbed from Albuquerque's 5,312-foot elevation. At one point in eastern New Mexico, I felt like I could touch the clear blue sky as I crested a peak.

I entered Texas, and again the sky was open, the land stretched forever. The prairie grass was discernibly more yellow and beige in hue. I still love going into new states; there is just some little thing you can sense that is different in each one. In Texas, there is a different speed limit for daytime and nighttime driving. The signs along the road admonishing you not to litter boldly proclaim, "Don't Mess With Texas!" I bought a mug at the gas station that said the same thing.

The interstate leads right through Amarillo, a surprisingly humble city about the size of Eugene. Throughout Texas, the interstate stayed two lanes in each direction, and through Amarillo, traffic calmly maintained at around 60 mph. I was in Texas for about 100 miles, and I never really saw big bold trucks steaming past. However, I wish I had stopped at the one rest area along the I-40 corridor in Texas, if only to snap a photo. This rest area was composed of several large buildings, a shiny, colorful playground, a prominently displayed enormous silver star (Texas is the Lone Star State).

I muscled forward into Oklahoma. At some point, elevation must have begun to drop, for Oklahoma City rests at around 1,200 feet. It must have been so gradual I didn't notice it, which is consistent with my experiences driving east through Nebraska and west through Kansas. Oklahoma, too, was surprisingly colorful. I have been in three states in a row that boasted a Red Rock State Park, which I think is a pretty awesome occurrence. The tawny prairie grass was interspersed with more and more greenery, and I saw a few cattle ranches.

The sunset took me by surprise. I kept checking my rearview mirror, hoping for a glimmer of the life-changing prairie sunset I saw in Kansas in November. I could see streaks of orange, glimmers of yellow, stretching along the horizon behind me, and I figured that would suffice. I am learning more and more about the ways the sunset reflects, and how the entire night sky lights up with twilight, no matter what direction you are pointed. This was true, here. Ahead of me, a haze of pink framed the horizon as a lavender night began to fall. Then the twilight began reflecting off the red rock outcroppings in the distance around me, and everywhere I looked, I saw twinkles of red, pink, orange. I have a more difficult time focusing my eyes at dusk than any other period of the day, and this was no exception. I pulled off at a gas station to wait out the phenomenon, stunning though it was.

Today, entering into Central time, realizing how I've been closer to Ohio than I've been in months, I was slightly tempted to divert my course, and steer straight home to Athens. But I remind myself, time and again, how unique this epoch in my life is, how special this adventure, and how I need to take that extra week to explore the South like I've always dreamed, and I will be home before I know it. Also today, with my approach eastward, I did start to get ever more excited about the places I'm about to explore. Oklahoma borders Arkansas! Arkansas borders Louisiana and Mississippi! Deep South, here I come!

Today's mileage: 545. Total mileage: 2,689.

A painted day

I awoke this morning to a sunrise stretching over Flagstaff, brush strokes of orange stretched along gauzy clouds. Pinks and reds reflected off snowcapped Humphrey's Peak (the highest point in Arizona) to the north. This burst of color would set the tone for the day as I proceeded west, happily leaving behind the shades of brown that compose so much of Arizona.

I busted straight east out of Flagstaff on Interstate 40. I marveled as the landscape changed before my eyes. Once again, the elevation rose and fell; Flagstaff rests just under 7,000 feet up. Throughout the day, I ranged between 5,000 and 7,000. As I headed east, though, the scenery changed, and suddenly I was reminded that I was heading toward the plains. I was yet again graced by warm sunshine and clear blue skies. The blue sky stretched forever to my left and right. Waving grasses became more and more prevalent, and they too reached out interminably the way only prairie grass can. I recalled fondly the days I spent in Kansas in November. In Arizona, though, this eternal horizon bears a different topography. Huge mountains loom in the distance, and everywhere I looked I saw mesas and buttes of all sizes.

Just past Holbrook, I opted on the spur of the moment to pull of the highway to check out the Petrified Forest. Now, I know this sounds like somewhat of a hokey tourist attraction, but the AAA book talked it up, and besides, I got to fulfill my constant goal of driving on back roads. I followed US-180 for eighteen miles southeast from I-40. Honestly, even if there had been nothing to see at the national park, I would have been satisfied. I was the lone traveler for almost all of those eighteen miles, as a glorious ribbon of road extended before me, the sun shone down as brightly as could be, and all around me the landscape began to show signs of the beauty yet to come. I passed a few lonely trailers, basking in the tawny grass, fluffy sagebrush, and mesas and rock outcroppings of all shapes and sizes. I rolled the windows down and breathed in deeply. I felt free and happy in ways I had only felt while trekking across Missouri and Kansas a few months ago. Realizing that I had reached the high plains, I felt a tickle of excitement.

I reached the park entrance, and already I had an idea of what I was in for. Behind the visitors' center, I could see mesas, vibrant and red, and conical gray mountains termed tepees. The park is set up such that the visitor drives on a winding road through the park, stopping as they like to hike around, sit a spell, or simply gawk at the vista.

Here I will have to summon my best powers of description, though I fear they will not suffice to depict the beauty I saw today, and I know photographs will only begin to tell the tale.

The Petrified Forest resulted from a specific sequence of events a few hundred million years ago that caused logs, branches, and entire trees to be fossilized and polished in such a manner that they gleam with many colors. Resting amongst sandy desert rocks, they call to mind a prehistoric time.

Along with the one-of-a-kind petrified wood, this area is known as the Painted Desert. Here is why. Imagine an enormous canvas. The top half of this is filled with a brilliant robin's-egg blue, with perfect cottony clouds sponged atop. Beneath, the horizon stretches to all ends of the earth. And the land below! Filled with canyons and mesas alike, the desert hums with a rainbow of color. Strata of red shoot one way, pink-hued layers one step below. Gray rock outcroppings appear, blanketed by white snow on one side. The earth is a light brown, and every shade of green and brown appear in intermittent sagebrush and prairie grass. Sweeping canyons and tall peaks proudly display a rainbow of crimsons, browns, pinks. As I rounded each curve, my jaw dropped further.

There are several places in this national park where the traveler can pull off the road to walk around a bit, or stare and take photos, but for the most part you have to keep driving. By the end, sights such as this one in the photo appear commonplace. This detour added about two hours to my journey, but I absolutely recommend putting it on your life to-do list. If you don't have a life to-do list, go make one, and put this on it.

As I progressed into New Mexico, color slowly began to return to the land around me. New Mexico's state nickname is the "Land of Enchantment," and, truly, everything I saw I just found to be utterly beautiful.

Oh, yes. And I skipped the Grand Canyon. Why? Because this is my adventure, and I just didn't feel like going! Also, for the first time on this adventure I found something that I would rather not do solo. So I'm saving the Grand Canyon for later. It will still be there. I think the Painted Desert more than made up for it.

The day ended as a wispy orange sunset rose over Albuquerque. I stood in front of my dad's cousin's house and watched as it reflected off tall peaks ahead of me.

Today's mileage: 365. Total mileage: 2,144.

changes in altitute, changes in latitude

I spent the day yesterday visiting with relatives in the greater Phoenix area. We went on a hike up Hayden Butte, more commonly known as "A Mountain," because of the golden A prominently displayed on the butte's side as it overlooks Arizona State University. After scrambling up the hillside, the climber is rewarded with a view that stretches for miles and miles beyond the Phoenix city limits. This view, however, is clouded by haze, a reminder of the mount's urban location. I suspect that it's the aridity of the area that causes the pollution to rest as it does, hanging just above the city. In fact, it wasn't until I was at least a half an hour north of the urban boundary that the sky cleared. Nonetheless, I still am just in awe of the number and size of peaks every which way. In the desert! I honestly never thought about this.

At any rate, this first picture is not of A Mountain - rather, a mesa that I saw on my adventure today.

This morning, set to be my departure from Chandler (a Phoenix suburb where I stayed with a cousin) was a mix of emotions. I rose early, buoyed by thoughts of adventures yet to come. But I was equally reluctant to leave. My mom has several cousins who live in the area, forming a tight-knit community that will gather at a moment's notice. Due to the distance, our visits there have been all too infrequent; the last time I visited these relatives was in June 2003. This visit was utterly enjoyable from start to finish, and just like everyone else I have visited so far on this adventure, I could have stayed for days and days. Hmmm... I seem to be finding ever-more places that I have roots - this is making things complicated!

Yesterday I decided that I ought to go to the Grand Canyon. I mean, why not? Grand adventure, grand canyon. If nothing else, I figured that I should head up north in that direction. My ears were filled with suggestions from every relative about this butte, that mountain, such-and-such national monument, pueblo, back road, etc. A person could spend a week alone exploring northern Arizona, or so it would seem!

Arizona highways 101 and 202 form loops around Phoenix, and I took AZ-101 out of Chandler this morning. I had a series of slightly frustrating adventures searching for a spot near the highway to fill up with gas, but ultimately I succeeded (thanks to a tip from a barista at Borders) and was on the road. Just north of Phoenix, AZ-101 meets up with I-17. My general disdain for interstates melts away when I have a long haul of mountainous desert road ahead of me. Besides, I had never driven that route, so it was all new.

As I drove north out of Phoenix, the landscape changed dramatically all around me. I wasn't far from the city when I began to wind my way higher and higher. In one ten-minute period, I rose a thousand feet in elevation!

Something changes between 3,000 and 4,000 feet. In Phoenix, the land is a mixture of cacti, brush, and a surprising amount of trees. Everything else is shades of brown - rocks, earth, even street signs and freeway onramps. This terrain continued, and I focused mainly on mounting this summit. I curved around and around, focusing on the interstate as the elevation changed. I nosed up and out, sped gratefully past the sign declaring I'd reached 4,000 feet, and looked around. I was greeted with a sea of grass, dry, blond, waving in the wind. The tops of mountains were gray and only speckled with sagebrush. The high plains? I think I may have found them!

I continued northward, dropping 1,000 feet in altitude here, gaining 1,000 there as if it were nothing. At Camp Verde, I pulled off the freeway for a bathroom break and briefly considered visiting the Montezuma Castle national monument, but didn't feel like paying the five bucks. I returned to I-17, exiting about ten miles up the road at AZ-179, which passes through Sedona, Arizona, and the Red Rocks recreation area, among many other stunning sights.

The sun shone brightly again today, and not a cloud was in the sky. I'd dressed in anticipation of the chilly weather awaiting me north of Flagstaff, but here the temperature was easily in the sixties. I stopped at a turnoff south of Sedona to eat lunch and hike around a bit. I had a mission, to get to the Grand Canyon, but how could I be in the car when it was so utterly gorgeous out?!?

I should mention that one of the advantages of living in Ohio is a person has an even greater appreciation for warm, sunny days in January. I showed up at my mom's cousin Beth's house fresh from my time in Santa Monica wearing a swimsuit and a sundress, while my Arizona relatives shivered in long sleeves, bemoaning the temperature that had fallen into the 50's. These days are a summery gift! Yesterday in Phoenix the temperature climbed to 78 - as much as I do love snow, I'll take that any day!

Sedona is an interesting, if touristy, locale, and I would like to spend more time there in the future. Even in January, it was in fact crawling with tourists, who crowded into jeep tours, western-themed restaurants, and new-age-guided tours of mystical zones in the area, while peaks of enormous size framed the town from every direction.

Out of Sedona, I took AZ-89A northward. Here was where I encountered my second major change of the day - temperature. Literally two minutes after I left sun-kissed Sedona, the road curved into the shade, where snow covered the shoulder and nearby vegetation. The wind blowing through my open windows suddenly became frigid. I rolled up the windows and put on a sweatshirt. A few minutes later, I curved back into the sun and the temperature shot back up thirty degrees. The rest of my day continued as such, temperatures alternating between icy and balmy. Between the changes in altitude, the changes in temperature, and the winding mountain road, I was feeling rather woozy by the time I reached Flagstaff.

Historic Route 66 travels through "Flag," as Arizonans call it, as do a bevy of other highways: I-17 (which terminates there), I-40, US-180, AZ-89A, AZ-64. As such, I spent a great deal of time first selecting a route, and then locating it. As the sun calmly warmed me, time ticked on, and I opted out of making the trek over the San Francisco Peaks to reach the Grand Canyon. Instead, I headed east out of town seven miles along I-40 to the Walnut Canyon National Monument. Walnut Canyon was once home to the Sinagua people, and still exhibits many of their pueblo-style dwellings. Keeping with the theme of the day, it also boasts a steep climb down into the canyon, one side of which is covered in snow while the other shines in the sunlight (that's what I'm trying to show in this picture).

I had a great time exploring Walnut Canyon. I paused frequently to consider the lives of the ancients, the spirits of the Sinaguas, their intentions, their legacy. The air was absolutely silent. I heard nothing. 7,000 feet up, I basked in the clear, crisp air and soaked up the sun. As I drove away from the park, a herd of deer (elk? they were large) passed on the access road in front of me.

I drove back into Flagstaff as twilight extended over the town. Flagstaff isn't large, but receives many visitors due to its proximity to the Canyon. The streets were lined with charming gift shops and inviting restaurants. Lines of pink shot through the gray-blue sky over old-fashioned brick buildings.

Back on the road tomorrow.

Today's mileage: 226. Total mileage: 1,779.

from the hills to the desert

I've spent the last day in the greater Phoenix area, where I have an abundance of relatives. I have had absolutely the most delightful time visiting with everyone, getting from one end of town to the other. I did allow myself to sleep in this morning for the first time in days and days - adventures generally take precedence over sleep - but otherwise have been going non-stop since I woke up yesterday morning in Valencia.

The land changed before my eyes yesterday.

I started out the morning as I could start any morning, I reckon. Visions of the perfect, blue Pacific rousted me out of bed early Sunday morning. I drove south on I-405 (the "San Diego Freeway" - I love it when freeways have place names. It seems that much more exciting) to Santa Monica. Traffic was sparse, and even at the beach the population was light. I parked easily, and jogged along the beach. My feet glided comfortably through the sand as the waves crashed on one side of me and the sun rose high on my other. After getting in a good 25 minutes, I took off my shoes and shirt; I had my swimsuit on underneath (of course!) and played in the water. I could have done that all day! This summer, I got in the habit of swimming nearly every day, and I really think that if I could do that every day, it wouldn't matter what other situation I found myself in. I could almost forgive SoCal for being so SoCal if I could jog on the beach every morning!

It was time to hit the road, though. Interstate 10 originates in Santa Monica, and I headed east from there. I was still graced by Sunday-morning traffic, so I escaped the infamous L.A. snarls, even as I rode through the city. I'm not sure if I'll ever get used to freeways several lanes across, but it was painless enough. I wound through quite a bit of hilly terrain the first ninety minutes of my drive. After a few years of living in the Midwest, I easily forget how varied the topography is elsewhere in our country. Despite pop-culture references otherwise, I really had forgotten how hilly parts of Los Angeles are. All at once, emerging from the city, atop a ridge, I could see the valley below me. This is my favorite part of winding, hilly terrain - the view one is afforded from the top. I felt like I could see into eternity. And in L.A., several shining freeway overpasses criscrossed; cars whizzed overhead, giving the whole scene the air of something futuristic.

I left the city behind and headed for the larger mountains I saw in the distance, another reminder of what was yet to come. The desert encroaches slowly, the populace ebbs, towns grow slightly farther apart, then - BAM! You're in the desert. Suddenly, I realized that the air carefreely whipping through my windows was dry, dry, dry. Exits were now ten, twenty, thirty miles apart. Sagebrush appeared to the side, here and there, and red cliffs rose up beyond. I was in the desert, stuff of legends.

I pulled off and looped through Palm Springs for a few minutes, trying to grasp the enormity of this new environment. Many towns in the desert have "palm" or "springs" in their name, and I imagined how glorious it must feel, after countless treacherous hours traveling through the unexplored desert, to come upon even the smallest grove of trees. I filled up with gas in Indio, California, selecting the lesser-traveled of the four Indio exits. I perched by my car and ate some granola for lunch, again trying to imagine what life must be like out here, way, way in the middle of the desert.

I pressed on, up and down, round and round, but mostly straight ahead through the desert. I crossed into Arizona, continuing to marvel at the humongous outcroppings of rock on all sides of me. I drove on, and fifty, sixty miles ahead, Phoenix began to rise out of the desert ahead. Huge, luminous buildings arose under the setting sun. Mountains in the distance ringed the city.

Sunday mileage: 465. Total mileage: 1,521.

un dia de espanol

And off I went today, heading southward!

I learned a lot about southern California today. Namely, I'm aware of the relatively unpopulated expanse between the Bay Area and the greater LA blob. All of the times I'd been to southern California I have either been on an airplane, or on a bus in the middle of the night.

Something I have been in extreme awe of throughout this adventure is how much open space still exists in our country. How much? SO MUCH. There is farmland in every state that I have been through, wide swaths of rolling grassland, hills, farms, dotted with houses or fences or small burgs or sometimes just nothing. Right before reaching Santa Barbara, 33 miles pass with no services at the exits. That's what it's like driving through Wyoming, but one doesn't usually associate such open space with Southern California.

I left Oakland via I-580 this morning. Just as I was about to leave, I heard from another old college friend who currently lives in San Jose. 580 became 880 and I pulled off to enjoy a cup of artisanally-brewed coffee while basking in the sun. I lingered a little later than expected, but it was absolutely worth it. I followed I-280 until it ended and I was able to soar off on U.S. 101, the classic north-south route!

The sun beat down brightly, and as I zoomed south I got nearer and nearer to the ocean. The Pacific breeze blew through the car and through my hair. I tuned into Spanish radio stations and hummed along to mariachi and other musical styles as I left the humming mass of Bay Area behind.

Highway 101 cuts through endless rolling hills. Carpeted with green, the rider feels like they could reach out and stroke the velveteen cover. The sky was blue, and I gasped at the sight of hills rising in the distance over farmland. I arced over fields of garlic, and scents of all sorts blew in through my hair. I slipped in my teach-yourself-Spanish cassette tape and practiced as I drove: "Quiere comer?" "Si, vamos a comer."

Every road sign held the name of some city buried deep in some romantic consciousness somewhere. I'm not sure what it is about southern California, but even hundreds of miles north of Hollywood, something just seems so epic and glorious. Salinas, King City, San Miguel, San Luis Obispo, Santa Barbara, Ventura. I passed through San Luis Obispo not long before sunset, and pulled off at Pismo Beach to see the sun sink behind the Pacific in all its glory. I ran down to the waterfront, and I was not alone. Swimmers paused in the water to watch the sun pull down the cover of night. Cars stopped by the side of the road, emptied as their passengers rushed to find the best place to view the spectacle. It was a beautiful evening, perfect for a stroll and a look at the sunset. I allowed the waves to lap over my bare feet as the sky filled with pink and orange.


I continued to follow 101 through Santa Barbara, past Oxnard and Ventura. Though grateful to have beheld such a sunset, I rued the darkness that had fallen. I followed the coastline, and knew the ocean was only a few hundred yards to my right (or I pretended as much, anyway), but could see little by way of vistas. Once through Ventura, I followed the Santa Clara River on CA-126 to reach Valencia, my destination for the night.

Mileage for the day: 442. Total mileage: 1,056.

a journey into the slightly more recent past

After pulling myself away from Auburn (which was strangely difficult to do), I headed for the Bay Area. It was an easy drive, as I zipped past Sacramento on I-80. I thought about stopping and crossing off that state capital, but it was not meant to be yesterday. As I neared the Bay, carpeted green hills rose up on either side of me, rolling into the distance as the interstate stretched toward the sky above me. The sun blazed down through an almost cloudless sky. I wriggled through traffic on I-580 and I-880 and squeezed out in Oakland, where my friend Alicia lives.

First stop, though: Berkeley.

The Bair's Lair is a bar in the student union on the UC Berkeley campus. As such, it was closed because apparently it is still winter break. I ought to have realized this, knowing that they're on semesters and my sister Laura is just now heading back to her semester school, but ah well. If I recall, there used to be a cookie shop above the Bear's Lair called the Cookie Bear, which is where my mother worked as a student at Cal. As such, this is where my parents met. I really, really wanted to go in and have a drink in their honor.

I spent a few hours wandering around Berkeley. It was a perfect evening, a blue sky turning pink with sunset, the street coming alive with people. Berkeley is still Berkeley. The streets are lined with music stores, book stores, eclectic clothing shops, gritty restaurants. The sidewalks are populated with vendors hawking everything imaginable. Panhandlers and guitar-players alike crown every corner. It's rather magical. I walked around, basking in the Pacific air.

I rode BART (one of the country's first full-scale public transit systems) into San Francisco with Alicia, where we met up with another friend from college. The three of us explored San Francisco by night. San Francisco, too, is still San Francisco, always alive, equally vibrant with the nouveau and the rich past. We walked down Kearny Street, and again I thought of Kerouac as we passed the City Lights bookstore. The alley next to it was pleasing; a man juggled knives, while another mysteriously sprayed air freshener on everything and talked to any passerby would pause.

It was wonderful to reconnect with these ladies I knew in college. Over the years, we actually have become more of friends. One thing I'll thank social networking for is how it alerts us to people who are suddenly interested in the same things we are, and keeps us in contact long enough to learn it!

This morning Alicia and I went on a jog around a gorgeous lake in her neighborhood. I mused on how, arbitrary as state borders seem, you can almost always tell if you're in a different state, and which one you're in. I am definitely in California, and it isn't the license plates. There's something in the air, I can tell I'm further south, closer to the ocean - whatever it is, I am quite enjoying it.

Day 2 mileage: 110. Total mileage: 714.