On American Landscapes and Other Discoveries

Before I became a quasi-adult and responsible for planning and funding my own vacations, I was spoiled with trips to places like Southern Mexico and The Bahamas. In high school, I lived in San Diego, CA, one of the prettiest cities in the U.S., and spent one summer back from college doing nothing but surfing and reading books every day. Travel, when you're in your twenties, in school, and living on a graduate assistant's stipend, is often more creative than glamorous and sometimes involves sleeping in bunk beds while a stranger with sleep apnea gasps below you. But I've taken some trips on the cheap that, despite the spoiling of my youth, turned out to be pretty great.

The summer before Josh and I got engaged, I finished up my MA thesis, purchased a digital SLR camera, and took my dog on the road from Huntsville, Texas, to Huntington Beach, CA. I used the opportunity to visit my dad in West Texas, where I stayed for free, and to eventually spend a couple weeks with my mother - also for free. Growing up, my friends spent their summers in camp or playing baseball or visiting the Grand Canyon, and I always felt left out of those "normal" kid things, so I made a point to swing north and check out a few of America's natural attractions for myself. While it sounds like a fairly typical summer vacation to visit the Grand Canyon, this trip was important to me in ways that I didn’t anticipate when I set out, and I was excited about taking my first long trip alone.

My route took me from Dad’s in Midland through Roswell, NM, stopping in Gallup the first day. The hotel I’d booked turned out to be a cement block with faulty locks, burned out lights, and shady guests, and for about twenty minutes, I felt woefully incapable of travelling alone. Then I found another place, bought a cheeseburger, and put the setback behind me. There was a fantastic rain shower, which made the air smell dusty and wonderful. Though it was mostly a full day of driving, the dog kept things interesting: apparently, without grass, she couldn't relieve herself, so we got to know a few different parking lot-adjacent beds of rocks while she sniffed and sniffed and sniffed.

Next stop was Window Rock, AZ, where I circled the monument, which sits in the midst of Navajo tribe government buildings. I circled and circled because everything there looked so official, and I wasn't totally sure visitors were welcomed. When I did eventually park, I took several pictures of the monument, which is basically a rock face in which wind has eroded a large hole. It was sort of startling up close, and the peace and quiet of the place - at least until my dog started barking from the car - was meditative. The quiet got inside me, if that makes sense. It felt good there.

I drove through Indian Territory all the way to Tuba, AZ, before taking the interstate to Cameron, which is nothing more than a trading post outside of the Grand Canyon. From Window Rock, I felt more and more introspective the whole way through Navajo and Apache territories. For long stretches, there was literally nothing but land and more land in sight. And even though it looked similar to other places I've driven through without taking notice, that much of it is hard not to be affected by. Around one bend, there were wild horses right by the shoulder of the road. I actually turned off the radio and just drove, which is probably the longest amount of time I've sat in relative silence without feeling edgy ever. I was small and lost in the world, but in a good way. There's something reaffirming at the same time that it's terrifying to know you could actually be lost like that.

My room in Cameron overlooked the Colorado River. I still had plenty of daylight left, so the dog and I headed up to the Grand Canyon. The drive ascends quickly there, and not knowing at all what to expect, I actually mistook the deep ravine made by the Colorado River for the Canyon. The Grand Canyon itself was both impressive and a little disappointing. I think I expected to feel something as soon as I peered over the edge and saw how far down and across it stretched. Truly, when you think about something like that being eroded little by little over time, it's impressive. But when you step up to that giant depression expecting to be moved, and all you can think is that you've gone your whole life without seeing this quintessential attraction, it's hard to immediately see the beauty. The noise of all the other people was jarring compared to my day of solitude. But I still drove around to the various lookout spots. Some were more exciting than others. Back in Cameron, I ate a meal alone in the restaurant there, took a nice long shower, and watched the sun set over the river.

I returned to the Grand Canyon the next morning, when it was much quieter and the sun had only just risen, and that was when I was able to see how huge and arresting it is. I hardly took any pictures that day because I just didn't think about it. I wished I'd had more time to sit around and look out at it all morning. Alas, I had to hit the road. The last leg to Huntington Beach was long, hot, and full of time-consuming construction. I didn't mind it so much until later in the evening when my back began to hurt and the dog starting drooling on my shoulder. Even with so many miles behind me, I could actually feel something changing or settling inside of me. It wasn't something that I can even put a finger on now. It had something to do with independence and becoming an adult, but it was also about quieting down and listening to the world. Sometimes I forget about the beauty in simple things. That trip was simple. And it was mine.