rachel on 31/3/2023 at 08:51
The TrailStuck inside the cover of one of my notebooks, protected by a plastic sheet, there is an old receipt I look at sometimes. The ink is starting to fade now but it remains legible, and I keep telling myself I should scan it before it is too far gone. The date of issue reads October 6th, 2007. The place is LaGuardia Airport in New York City. And in the series of references, codes, and prices that follows, one particular number stands out.
“Total distance: 4,331 miles”I had landed in San Francisco two weeks before, on September 20th. I was 27, it was my first time in the United States, and I was very nervous. You see, I was about to embark on my most ambitious journey yet. I was not just “going to the US”. I was going to see the US, on a road trip that would cross four time zones.
And I would be entirely on my own.
Improv is about letting the music carry youI was discovering a world I had only seen in movies before. Big buildings. Big cars. Big everything. I wandered the first day around San Francisco like a wide eyed, jet-lagged sponge, absorbing noises, smells, impressions... I saw the piers and the sea lions and Alcatraz in the distance. I listened to the waves as a foggy sunset framed the Golden Gate Bridge, watching a pelican nibbling at a fish on a wooden pole.
I picked up the car the next day and gave her (because it was obviously a
her) the name Molly. Why, I don't remember. I give names to everything. Was it Molly Malone? The trip was musically inclined, to be sure. The first leg took me to Monterey to listen to some good old-fashioned jazz. I got acquainted with the Big Sur area under the influence of royalty: Jim Hall, Gary Clark, Jr, Otis Taylor, Terence Blanchard... Dave Brubeck!
Every moment was a gift. I snacked on fried calamari, jambalaya and alligator on a stick. In the sunny glow of the last afternoon, the gipsy tunes of the Hot Club of San Francisco sounded like a prelude to what was yet to come.
For the roaming would begin in earnest the following day. No turning back.
On the footsteps of Butch CassidySeptember 27th. The horse moves at a steady pace and I barely have to do anything, which is great, because I barely have any experience riding horses and the last time I was on one was... nine years ago. My guide's name is Ty. We've barely exchanged words since we left the hotel, with her only occasionally pointing at some movement in the grass, some animal passing in front of us, too quick for the camera. I am grateful for this silence. It allows me to take in the scenery on my own terms. And it is absolutely blowing my mind.
After leaving Monterey, I crossed through Yosemite, to a small town called June Lake. I followed the Rockies south towards Death Valley, its lunar landscapes and scorching heat, before arriving in the oasis of sin, Las Vegas. Each of these locations left an impression; None prepared me for Bryce Canyon.
Stone pillars pointing defiantly at the sky across the horizon, a contrasting mix of ochre and azure that blows up in Mother Nature's special brand of Technicolor. As our horses step where the horses of Butch Cassidy and other outlaws may have stepped, I am discovering the true meaning of the word “beauty”.
Yes, I am grateful for Ty's reserved nature. Out there, she showed me her country in all its glorious, immemorial ruggedness. She understood, maybe, that words were superfluous.
Impressions of a third kindSeptember 29th.
“Do not feed the prairie dogs”, the sign says. I joke on my travel blog, they must have all starved to death, because I could not see any! Beyond that plain, what is in front of me is a kid's dream realized. After Bryce and Salt Lake City, I left Utah behind and headed north towards Wyoming to look for aliens. More precisely, to see where they landed in 1977. What I find in the Black Hills remains to this day, of all the places I've visited, one of the dearest to my heart.
I'm talking of course of Devils Tower, the magnificent mountain that appeared in Steven Spielberg's
Encounters of the Third Kind.
I have a particular memory of this place because beyond the expected awe, what I felt towards it went much deeper and became a mix of humility and respect. You see, Devils Tower is sacred ground to Native Americans. I had read some of the multiple legends surrounding it when I was a kid, before even seeing the movie. I suppose my visit was the first time I came in direct contact with a culture completely foreign to mine, and it made me feel very small. As I walked the path around the Tower, I often was alone, but I was almost afraid to take a wrong step, of offending anyone.
As I read my blog entry and try to put into words my feelings that day, it comes to mind that it may have in fact been the closest thing I have ever felt to a religious experience.
Passing under the ArchOctober 6th. I do not give it any particular thought at the time, but it is fitting, in retrospect, that I walked under the Triumphal Arch of Washington Square Park. Was I not victorious, after all? I even survived Manhattan rush hour traffic, clever that I was to arrive from West Point in the late afternoon... The quiet grandeur of the prairie had faded behind me long before, to be replaced by civilization: Madison, then Chicago. My route took me along the gray waters of Lake Erié, which I would have mistaken for a sea if I had not known better. Then, Canada and arguably the most famous point of this northern border, the mighty and thunderous Niagara Falls.
Hearing the music again. I could listen to the soothing white noise of waterfalls all day long.
I remember running out of superlatives there. I am sorry, Horseshoe Fall, but I just visited all these marvelous places just before coming here, and they grabbed all the adjectives for themselves. But rest assured I did not think any less of you.
The misty waters were replaced by the forests bordering the Hudson river as I drove the last miles towards the Big Apple. Stepping off Molly at the LaGuardia rental office, I will always remember the look on the employee's face when he asked if I had encountered any issues with the car. “It's been perfect,” I said, “I just arrived from San Francisco.” He chuckled... then looked at the license plate saying California, and his eyes visibly widened. A strip of paper came out of his little handheld machine, this paper that I still keep under a plastic film, sixteen years later.
It reads
“Total distance: 4,331 miles”. What it really tells me is
“I did it”.
When I was 27, I embarked on my most ambitious journey yet, and to this day I wonder what I ended up exploring most: the country, or myself?
One thing is certain, I have not stopped roaming.
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