The Great American Road Trip
An abundance of Americana and cheap T-shirts
Devin Ankeney
Katie Preston
The Grand Canyon is over 1,500 miles away from Oxford, Ohio. I’ve concocted ambitious road trips before. But I’ve never pulled together a group of five friends to cross two time zones and six states in five days to make it to the epitome of the American West — the epitome of American greatness.
It was time.
Months of talking and hours of planning went into crafting the most feasible trip to Arizona possible. We only had a week and a day. We had Luke Macy, Sean Scott, Meta Hoge, Sarah Frosch and me. We had one midsize orange Toyota SUV and a dream.
To see it.
On Friday, we’d ease into the expansive West. Less than six hours of a drive, we just had to get to Sarah’s condo in St. Louis. Saturday, we’d hoof it through flatter-than-a-pancake hell in Kansas to stop in Boulder, Colorado. Sunday, rest and explore the magnificent city and the Rocky Mountains.
Monday, we’d take our wills and prayers through the Rockies west through Colorado, down through Utah, and into Flagstaff, Arizona. Then we’d have two days. Two days to see the Grand Canyon and whatever else tickled our fancy within driving distance of our Airbnb. Finally, we’d convince ourselves to turn around from the Great American West and head home to Ohioland.
We all hoped for an incredible trip seeing places and natural beauties we’d never seen before — to mark states off our respective maps. I hoped for a little more.
As I come to the end of these four years at Miami University, I’m constantly reminded of what I haven’t yet done. The moments I haven’t seized. I’ve been anxious about my future, where I’ll be working or if I’ll even be working right out of school. I’ve toiled over my future and what to make of it, and the graduation panic has set in.
I needed some relief. A break. A chance to step away from all the crap bogging my happiness down. I needed to feel sheer greatness, to take a load off and to stew in a few moments where I wasn’t searching for meaning in my own life.
With all my pre-break work finished, my bags packed and my heart set on a goal across America, we set off.
***
Day One, Oxford to St. Louis: The gateway to the West
We decided to leave at about noon. Meta had to drive to Oxford, some still had to pack. Sean and I each had meetings and tasks for the morning.
We gathered in the parking lot outside of my apartment. We shoved our crap into the back of Sean’s car, filling as much as it could take. After snapping an inaugural photo of us all to signal the great beginning, we piled into the car.
At about 12:15 p.m., we put the car in drive and started cooking westward.
Indiana is boring as hell. That’s a fact. I’m sure there are some redeemable qualities in “The Crossroads of America,” but to me and everyone else cramped into the car, it was the fields of sameness we were used to living in Oxford.
However, our excitement could be gleaned from miles away. Some of us were still worried about the trip. Would it be too cramped? Would there be fights? Would we screw up planning and miss out on great things?
But, by the time we got to a Culver’s near Indianapolis, our fears began to quell and our excitement took the front seat. Good eats and full bellies. A good start.
The next few hours remained uneventful. Save a gas station full of cheesy apparel covered in comic and cartoon characters in Altamont, Illinois, we didn’t make another stop until St. Louis. Luke and I wanted to stop at a café featuring “foot high pies,” but nobody else hopped to the desire and we trudged on, the pie lovers sat with disappointment.
Soon thereafter, we made it within shouting distance of St. Louis. The Gateway City. From miles away, Sean and I in the front seat saw the Arch. A massive, towering thing, we were shocked beyond belief at how large it was from such a distance. It was the first real thing we encountered on our voyage, and we were elated.
After throwing our stuff into Sarah’s condo, we piled back in for quick-serve barbecue food. Sarah’s from Chicago, but spent much of her life in St. Louis. She knew the places to go. Our trays were stacked high with pork, sausage, chicken, turkey and Mac & Cheese to go ’round. Once again, our bellies were full, and the sun was getting low.
Time for the Arch.
After dark, we drove back into the heart of the city to wander the nation’s smallest national park. We all agreed that it should be a national monument. It’s barely a yard, let alone a park. But, we parked across the street and saw, for the first time since we noticed it in the distance from Illinois, the towering steel parabola in the sky.
We didn’t get up close during the day, but I reasoned it was eerier at night. The monument’s true height was unclear. It was both shorter and taller than before. Though slightly less interesting up close, the Arch didn’t fail to strike me with thoughts of America’s past. Of westward expansion and humanity’s innate desire to keep going.
There was a greater power vested here than of my simple being. It wasn’t about me or anyone else. The Arch serves as a testament to America and who we ultimately became, what our national identity became. It was a simple pleasure below a feat of design, but I felt my first peace — no anxieties for the moment about the months to come in my life.
It felt only right to start the trip with a dedicated run westward through the thing.
We were — literally and symbolically — off.
***
Day Two, St. Louis to Colorado: I don’t wanna talk about it
Luke, Sean and I concocted a plan to get us out the door. We’d say we’re leaving by 8 o’clock, hoping we’d be out the door by 8:30 a.m.. We figured it would spur everyone — including us — to get to stepping early.
We got up real early. I couched it. Luke and I made breakfast — sausage and eggs per Sarah’s fridge — while the rest prepped for the 12-plus hour day in the car.
The day started strong. Luke made fun of me for how I made the frozen sausage that required two steps. I was laughing and dishing it back to him by 7:30 a.m. Good stuff to start the morning.
We didn’t start packing the car until after 8. Right on time.
Off we went. Across Missouri, Kansas, and the miserable eastern 60% of Colorado. Too much for one day? Probably. But, we believed — some more than others — that this feat would be accomplished.
Sean was worried about how late we’d make it in and was wary of making too many stops. I didn’t care when we made it to our hotel near Boulder and just wanted to experience as much as we could. Luke was somewhere in the middle. Sarah and Meta just wanted to have fun and go along for the ride.
We found our balance. Halfway across a pretty monotonous Missouri, we stopped in Columbia for gas and a brief leg stretching. I found a Little Free Library and picked up Stephen King’s “Fire-Starter” before getting gas and deciding to check out the University of Missouri. Four of the five of us either had studied or were studying journalism, and Mizzou was arguably the premier j-school in the country.
Miami’s campus may be Robert Frost’s idea of perfection, but Mizzou gives it a run for its money. We pulled into a large quad lined with Georgian halls. Planted in the middle were six pillars symbolizing the school’s core values.
The stop took longer than it should have, but one of the journalism buildings sat to our left. Like a pie scent wafting on a sill, the building drew us in. Second maybe only to the Farmer School of Business, it was more magnificent than nearly any other building at Miami. It certainly put the decrepit Williams Hall to shame.
It had at least three floors, walls lined with awards, photographs and movie posters. There was a photography library. It did a number on our ideas of what a “journalism program” meant. I wondered if I’d ever have the chance to go to graduate school there as we left to get back in the car. It was too brilliant to be reality, and while I don’t regret my time at Miami, it made me wonder what could’ve been.
On the road again. No stops until Kansas City. There wasn’t a damn thing worth remembering before we got there.
We stopped at Panera Bread and the Lego Store downtown. It didn’t seem like there was much else to do there. We wasted too much time and I was disappointed. I finally got hooked on just getting to the mountains. Kansas City was just some city on the way to greatness.
Why waste time with the insignificant? I was getting all high and mighty.
The Kansas stretch began. Other than a fascinating navy blue dome on the state’s capitol building, it was a simple, mind-numbing emptiness. Kansas doesn’t just meet expectations, it exceeds them. There isn’t anything there. Emptiness for miles and miles. Trees grew at an angle following the perpetual northerly winds, and there were more windmill farms than I could count.
The grand nothingness of Kansas’ farms didn’t conjure an easy go about comprehending the area. Ohio has its corn and soy fields, but Kansas was another beast entirely. “Flatter than a pancake” is a nickel-and-dime approach to characterizing the state. It’s empty and it hurt my soul to experience the odd museum and church with hundreds of miles of blank sky between them.
After a few hours my head was about to explode from boredom, so I offered a stop in what looked like a cute town with local art. Salina, Kansas. It was too far off the highway and we parked too far from the coffee shop.
It seemed a haven for those living outside the norm in Kansas. Local art lined the public streets. An old movie theater. Fliers for the Democratic Socialists of Salina hung on the board in the coffee shop. If it weren’t a forced stop on a drive that was too long for one day to begin with, it would’ve been a damn cool place to check out. I’m sure of that.
It was just stalled time, pushing our arrival to be later than it needed to be, and it was my fault. I tried to make something fun happen out of thin air in a matter of minutes. I usually had a knack for planning such things and this was a solid botch and a half. I did see a sculpture of a catfish riding a bike, so that was something. Not really. Back in the goddamn car.
It was already 6 p.m. and we had six more hours to go.
For the rest of the drive, we stopped twice for gas and saw an incredible sunset. Maybe the only redeeming quality from that bitch of a drive across hundreds of miles of nothing.
With the hour gained entering Mountain time, we got to an In-n-Out Burger at about 10 p.m. I ate about as much as I could carry. Before ordering my Double-Double, animal-style fries and a milkshake, we stumbled into a father whose daughter was going to Miami. Who would’ve thought?
We crushed our food and gunned it to the hotel.
The sun had been down since Kansas, so without even a brief sighting of the mountains that night, we were all a little disappointed. We were mentally and physically tired and just wanted to see something worth seeing. It had been two days of driving through middle America and nobody cared about that stretch of the trip.
We let ourselves collapse on the hotel beds. A well-deserved slumber.
***
Day Three, Boulder, Colorado: Hanging in the Rockies
We were all zonked. We had breakfast plans at 9 a.m. with our friend Reece Hollowell. He’s another student at Miami and a great friend of ours. His spring break trip: a whole week in Boulder to see family and enjoy the Rockies.
My sister Danielle, a student at the University of Colorado Boulder, gave me just one suggestion for our breakfast: Foolish Craig’s Café. I’d been the previous August when I helped move her into her first off-campus apartment. As a Guy Fieri-approved restaurant, Foolish Craig’s was sure to be a hit.
After getting up, I ushered Sean over to the window. Every inch farther west we got was the farthest west Sean had ever been, and we could see the mountains — finally — from our hotel window.
We both realized: Oh. They’re right there. We left for the famed city outside of Denver.
We got to the café — late, as expected — and sat down with Reece and his father Randy, a Miami employee. Our table soon filled quickly with coffees and Western-style breakfasts. Chorizo burritos and the “Foolish huevos” on a tortilla for myself. It had been a long while since I’d indulged in a breakfast that large.
Pork Green Chili and chorizo reminded me how different it can feel to be out west. Even a simple meal made better in the West can imbue an ambiance I wasn’t yet fully feeling. Randy paid for the whole meal, which made us all smile as we had already started spending more than we wanted to.
The day’s agenda: shopping and getting into the fabled mountains we’d only glimpsed so far.
We went into a kitschy but fun candy store. A puzzle store with extraordinarily shaped pieces, one of which we could take for free. Boulder Book Store, where nearly all of us left with more than one book. Reece, Luke and I each got a copy of “Antkind” by Charlie Kaufman. These two “film bros” didn’t even know the movie man had written a book.
Kaufman wrote one of my favorite movies — “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.” I had to pick it up too.
Finally, we went into Paradise Found. I’d been to the large record store once before (same August I went to Foolish Craig’s) and so had Reece, but it was time to sick the vinyl newbies on the wide selection.
Between each store, we found plaques of odd faces in the ground, got our eardrums busted by a church bell and took three wrong turns courtesy of Reece’s mapping abilities. We finally arrived at the record shop.
Folks were thrilled, Luke in particular. The shop had so many options. It even had the soundtrack for Wes Anderson’s “Asteroid City,” which we’d end up watching days later and provided me with a better perspective on the trip and my outlook on graduation.
Luke and I each got mystery boxes, 10 records apiece. The car was going to be very, very full, but we didn’t care. In Oxford, a city that feels smaller with every passing day I live here, it’s harder to come by media that tickles my fancy. There’s not so much window shopping in Oxford as there is Amazon shopping, and that does not a damn thing for the soul the way local stores can in beautiful towns.
I was glad Boulder was filled with genuinely interesting shops and restaurants. In most places I’m accustomed to, that doesn’t happen much.
It seemed each of us yearned for a little more than seeing nature in its most impossible element. We wanted to experience a different life. One that might be ripe for our futures. Boulder had great stores, a beautiful movie theater, more restaurants than could be counted and you’d have to work hard to stay out of sight of the Rocky Mountains. It’s a blissful, fairytale land.
We bid farewell to Reece.
Time to see the mountains.
Driving over to Chautauqua Park at the base of the Flatirons, our grins widened. Imagine mountains with teeth jutting straight up into the sky. We were standing right in front of them.
Sarah was exhausted from the car ride yesterday and from getting up early. She was content just to see the natural monuments from the car. The rest of us saw the winding dirt path in the field leading up to the formations as an invitation to make it as close and far up as we could.
With a wooden fence along our right-hand side, we began hiking up the steeper-than-it-seemed path. Within minutes we were in a forest on the side of a mountain.
How the hell could any of this be real?
I’d been to the park before and I was still reeling. I thought that we were on the set of a horror movie as we avoided mud to look at the sky-high, deep green trees. I embodied my childhood self for a few minutes up there. There were few people and the sky cleared up a bit. Hundreds of trees blocked our view in any direction but up — where the jutting canine teeth for rocks shot out at the stars.
Luke and I constantly joked with one another. I’d come to think of the two of us as partners in off-the-cuff comedy. Sean and Meta were thrilled to be out here for the first time. We took silly photos and I started my series of selfies in hopes of making the most ridiculous possible faces. Nothing mattered. Boulder was pure fun. Anything else on my mind trickled away with each step on the Rockies.
For my next trick, I’d take the wheel of Sean’s RAV4 and take the closest road with an incline as far as everyone was comfortable going.
With one left turn out of the parking lot, we were headed up a road I’d driven once before, and it took mere seconds to hit elevations we weren’t expecting. The tight road was curvier than a kid’s first ski path and there was an astounding drop-off only a few feet off the non-existent shoulder.
We made several stops. Each one just urged us to pull over, step out and admire our surroundings. There wasn’t much discussion about it. We either had to pull off because nature was beckoning us to do so, or it didn’t have the magic.
Each one was better than the last. The farther away from civilization we got, the farther removed we got from what was pushing us down.
At one stop, we goofed off on the reddening rocks. Luke, a burgeoning cinematographer, filmed my interpretive, spontaneous dance to “I.L.B.T.’s” by Joe Walsh. Walsh, a former Boulder resident, has written great songs like “Rocky Mountain Way.” Look up “I.L.B.T.’s.” You’ll see why I chose it, as a fan of nonsense.
When we made it high enough, there were still snow patches. We threw them at each other. We ate some. Except for when operating a motor vehicle, we were children again like down at the base, but this time, we had made the climb.
Final stop up the mountain. We were walking at over 6,000 feet in elevation. After finding a nice rock to lean against while imbibing the view, it dawned on us that people lived up there. Driving up there, we saw huge houses and the beginnings of ranches. Mailboxes began to seep into the picture. Folks had lives, jobs and families up there.
I live in an apartment in a rural Ohio town. Ohio isn’t known for its natural beauty. It felt like a joke to see real people up there. I felt a little gypped. My sister lives in an apartment in view of these mountains, right next to a gorgeous campus and a city full of wonderful people and things to do.
“Are you jealous of your sister?” Luke asked me after I ranted about this for a minute.
“Yes,” I replied. “Well, sort of. Yes.”
We got back in the car and drove deeper with no intention of stopping. We headed down the mountain to a brewery built out of a former single-family home in Louisville. I knew an Orange Kolsch there I believed Luke would like, as he’s an admirer of all things orange. We needed a rest too, from all that walking, climbing, driving and lack of sleep.
After our break, it began to sprinkle rain so we stopped back at the hotel to play Conduct TOGETHER! It’s a party game that Meta, Luke and I played while Sarah and Sean rested up.
At 5:30, we left to go back to Boulder. My sister and I made dinner plans at The Sink — another Guy Fieri-approved restaurant, two in one day. We hadn’t seen each other in a couple of months, and it would be the first time seeing just each other — no parents — outside of living together for two decades.
At breakfast, Randy had warned us about the possible eight inches of snow to come overnight. It worried us a bit for our 12-hour driving day the following morning, but it wasn’t yet on our minds. Yet it had begun to come down as we pulled up to the restaurant famous among CU Boulder students.
President Barack Obama even went there once.
I got us a table and my sister and her boyfriend came in a few minutes late. She was at his place and he only lives a block away. I was jealous again.
We almost all got the buffalo mac ’n’ cheese not-so-cleverly called “Buff Mac.” It was delicious and the perfect college student food. I talked to my sister about her life and what she’s been doing. I made fun of her boyfriend, Ethan, and we all laughed and had quite a nice time.
When Ethan left the table for a minute, I egged the whole table on to make fun of him and my sister thinking he seemed like a nerd.
Ethan was by no means a “frat guy” stereotype but he’s definitely a “cool guy.” She loved hearing what we all thought of him behind his back. It felt like what siblings were always meant to do, and I finally got a run at it. I liked Ethan. I was happy for her, and I never knew we’d be so happy to see one another.
She and Ethan ordered some more Buff Mac for their friend Drew who was still on the clock. I paid (why yes, I really am quite something, aren’t I?), and we headed for the door.
A nice hug. A “great to see you.” Some best wishes for the journey back to our hotel.
It reminded me of the years of childhood when we couldn’t interact without it erupting into a screaming match.
It was one of the simplest experiences I’d ever had with my sister. It was just dinner where she lived. But, if I had been alone, I’m sure I would have cried in the car. I realized I missed my sister. I wondered what it could’ve been like if we got along all those years instead of fighting.
My eyes were welled up with tears nearly the whole way to the hotel, while Luke drove through a near-blizzard that piled a half-inch of snow on all the roads.
***
Day Four, Colorado to Flagstaff, Arizona: The most beautiful drive that ever there was
We got up pretty damn early. We were already in the snow-covered mountains by 7:30. It had snowed as much as eight inches between our hotel in Longmont, Colorado, and the great plateaus in the east of the state.
Sean took the first couple of legs of driving. He wanted a run at mountain driving, but he was worried, too, about letting anyone else take the wheel on the slick highways.
We took Highway 6 for the first 45 minutes until we could make the interstate. We skipped the first 50 miles of I-70 hoping to avoid traffic. It was the best decision we could’ve made.
The peaks of these impossibly tall mountains were stunning. It was like staring at a painting for hours straight. Every curve ushered a “wow,” or a “holy shit…” from someone. Well, most verbal reactions came from me. I didn’t know how to keep my mouth shut in awe of that much spectacularity.
We coasted 10 mph below the speed limit through short tunnels, random patches of densely packed evergreens and ski towns full of folks trying to make the best of one of their last outings of the season.
I couldn’t get enough of it. I’d always been in love with Colorado, Boulder and anywhere the sun set behind anything other than the horizon, but this smacked me across the face. It wasn’t a photograph or a nice view. I was in it. We were up in the Rocky Mountains, and going deeper every second.
When massive formations blocked the snow from covering them, we saw sheer rocks and trees in their unweathered environment, framed by skyscraping peaks. We found our way to I-70, and it didn’t let up. Passing through those same ski towns and tighter curves than should be on an interstate, it just got better and better the whole time.
Our first gas stop of the day was in one of those little ski towns, a Conoco station in Frisco. I got myself a coffee, a bag of Boulder-branded salt and vinegar chips to share and an interaction with one of the happier gas station attendants I’ve met.
I walked up to the counter and received an uppity “How ya doing?” from the older gentleman behind a pane of spit-resistant plastic. I tried to match his enthusiasm for the simple pleasure of talking to someone on the road, but I fell a little behind. My total: $9 even.
“Is there no sales tax on these things in Colorado?” I asked. Usually, I’d expect a ‘How should I know?’ from an attendant in his position.
“Well, let me get your receipt for ya and you can see!” the cashier said, intrigued by the question.
Cool beans.
We continued on our merry way, trudging through slushy highways. I finally made it up to the front seat. Sarah and Meta took turns napping, but I would’ve had to pry my eyes off the car windows to do anything but stare at nature in its most exquisite form.
Luke pulled out his Nintendo Switch.
“Wanna play Mario Kart?” I asked.
“Yes.”
That did the trick.
After a stint of losing to the master of Mario Kart, we were finally beginning to hit the big plateaus. After a few hours west on 70 in Colorado, you’ll hit massive, wide-open spaces outlined by the Rockies. We’d see train tracks following the path of the road, and towns and cities all too big to reside somewhere that oozed “fairytale land” vibes. It’s unbelievable until you’re there (and even then, it didn’t quite make sense) to see 75,000-person cities that high up, nestled in the bosom of the mountains.
Real people lived there. With real lives. Real jobs. Real yesterdays, todays and tomorrows.
It was here that I realized we weren’t just window shopping for cool views. We were experiencing the West in its element.
We pushed through, stopping only one more time in Grand Junction — where the snow had let up and gave way for the beginnings of red rocks and cliffs, a color that never seems to look anything but magical when found in nature.
We fueled up at a Love’s Travel Stop and it was my turn to drive. I got behind the wheel for the final 30 miles of Colorado before we hit Utah, and my agonizing over where I’d end up after graduation began to fade. I spent my time unencumbered by thoughts, while others took turns reading their books or resting up. Sean put headphones in for a stint sitting in the back.
Luke was in the front with me, so I knew it would be non-stop joking around and pure, joyful banter until we made it to Arches National Park: the destination for my leg of driving. When Luke and I were in front, nobody got to sleep. We put on a show.
Utah is a massive expanse of nothingness in a way Kansas wants to be. The dessert out there is breathtaking, forcing you to feel small in comparison to the world around you. But, it doesn’t hurt so much to feel insignificant out there. Rather, it reminds you of the raw tonnage of beauty and joy that exists if you just choose to seek it out.
I drove steadily on with my partner-in-stupid to my right for quite a while before it was time to hook a left and head south for the first time on the trip. Arches and Moab, here we come.
The distant mountains and oddly rainy deserts shrunk in the rearview mirror as the road started sloping down alongside a humongous red cliff on the right.
The entrance to Arches was underwhelming. It was a small entrance next to a steep, curvy road leading into the park. We were curious about the stop, but wary of how many hours of daylight we had left.
No matter. We had to see what was going on up there.
We made it up the steep entranceway road and barely made it a quarter mile before we had to stop. Red rock formations were erected in impossible ways. The steep road wasn’t just cool from the bottom, it led to some of the greatest views I never knew existed. The state highway was far, far below but it had only been five minutes of driving. How could things have changed so quickly?
We admired our stop for a moment and pushed further into the park. We stopped a few more times along the way to admire flat-walled monuments that could only have been designed by an architect from the heavens. Finally, we found — by accident — what I was most looking forward to at Arches National Park.
It is important to note that I value the ridiculous and silly above most other things. Where the ridiculous can be infused into the beautiful, I find my greatest experiences.
The Phallus.
I apologize for being crass, but it was a giant penis pointing to the sun. I have no idea — we all had no idea, through our laughter — how it could have formed. There wasn’t much within 200 yards of the formation. It genuinely seemed that the park was erect in front of our very eyes. Check that one off the list, I guess.
We turned around and headed for lunch in Moab, as The Band’s “The Weight” came on exiting the park.
Take a load off, Fanny
Take a load for free
The abundance of Americana was overwhelming. It’s moments like these that let all my troubles and fears melt completely, utterly away. For those few minutes, I took a load off while trekking America. For those few minutes, not a damn thing could ruin it.
Mere moments down the road, it was ruined. A Marriott hotel next to a Coca-Cola-branded gift shop was a punch in the gut for all of us. My glowing expression dropped. So did Luke’s. My abundance of Americana was shot in the leg by hyper-capitalism hoping to make a quick buck out of folks trying to enjoy untouched nature only a few miles away.
The thoughts of my future, the future of this country and where I’d end up trying to make a living rushed back in like Niagara Falls. Moment: over.
Moab was no different. Even the diner we went to, which seemed to be steeped in decades of history, was spoiled by over-branding and a wide state highway running through the kitschy, shop-laden town. Sure, the food was good and, sure, I got to take my picture next to the Gonzo Motel sign (stylized as an homage to my favorite writer, Hunter S. Thompson). But, at what cost?
How can the wonders of this world be spoiled so easily by those looking for profit? I’m not a fool. At least, I didn’t think I was. I was displeased.
We got back in the car from the diner in Moab, having deleted our Four Corners stop. We failed to see that it would be closed by the time we got there. Hey, at least we saved an hour.
Down to my next ironic pleasure: Mexican Hat.
I tried to shove off the painful anxieties that came out after Arches. I wasn’t successful, but the tacky, touristy haven quickly gave way to huge expanses again, and I could start to rest a little more easily from behind the wheel.
Mexican Hat is a rock formation that looks, well, like an upside-down Sombrero atop the peak of a short red rock mountain. It’s balanced in such a way that surely can’t be possible, but it is.
After another couple hours of driving, we pulled into a huge camping lot in the middle of nowhere Utah and parked in an RV camping spot in a sandy field with otherwise not a speck of manmade. Another beautiful, goofy rock formation in the sky with nothing behind it but the bluest sky I’ve ever seen.
It was stupid. It was gorgeous. It didn’t feel real seeing it up there, and this was just some camping stop in rural Utah. As we continued with our 12-hour driving day, it further dawned on me: It’s going to keep getting better.
Final stretch to Flagstaff. We were all tired and the sun was getting low. In our last moments of light, we stumbled upon the famous road in “Forrest Gump” where Forrest just felt like running. My parents got a kick out of that.
The last experience in the daylight was that of the skinny, impossibly tall formations that struck me. Erosion built a city and my mind wandered to the millions of years that came before me, reminding me not to worry so much. Time, such as life, happens to everything. Make the most of it while you can.
The rest of the night was uneventful. More backseat naps. A stop at a gas station with old school, hand-painted “Tire Repair” signs. A stint through much of the Navajo Nation.
We got our fast food right before pulling into the Airbnb and, promptly, passing out one by one.
***
Day Five, in Arizona: Sedona and capitalism run amok
The prize was so close, I could begin to feel it. The Grand Canyon was only 90 minutes away, but after 12 hours of driving the day before, we needed an easier day. Plus, we didn’t know if Sedona would fare up, and wanted the climax of the trip to be as special as possible.
The Lone Spur Cafe. A cowboy-themed establishment, the breakfast and lunch restaurant sported western license plates, hats, animals and other memorabilia on the walls.
We sat by a window where we could still see views, despite the ugly strip malls in the way. A few steps away sat a table of four cops getting their own fixings before their day started. As we ate our western-style breakfast — Luke and I got huevos rancheros to savor the moment — we cracked a few jokes about our proximity to the officers of the law.
Luke and I each took turns offering to fight one another to see if we could get arrested.
The food was fantastic, and I’d finally had my share of caffeine to get me through the day. We headed back to grab Sarah and head down to the fabled town among the red mountains.
It was only about an hour’s drive from our Airbnb in Flagstaff to get to Sedona. We drove through a forest for a while once we got out of Flagstaff, and Luke hyped up the day. He told us Sedona was wonderful. My mom told me the same before we embarked on our trip.
Out of nowhere, we took a curve and the incredible happened. The Earth must’ve heard our calls for something spectacular and bent reality in the form of steep hills, tightly curved roads and forest-covered mountains.
What started as a relatively flat drive turned into a challenge. Jagged rocks jutted from the side of the road so close that I surely could have reached out to touch them if I’d stuck my hand out from the window. Each turn brought new scenery. Right curve: steep downhill slope in view of snow-covered mountains. Left curve: red, rocky mountains. What the hell was happening? I still don’t know.
The drive from Boulder to Flagstaff was a mesmerizing trek, but the short drive to Sedona kicked our asses because we didn’t expect it. It almost felt like Washington or New England with how many trees covered everything around us. I clung to my window.
Once we made it down the road enough to level out, Luke saw a hut at the entrance to a small park.
“Should we stop?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said nearly before he finished asking.
Twelve dollars later, we parked the car and basked in the random beauty we stumbled upon. Walking down one path, we found a creek with pinecones and rocks to try and skip. We crossed the creek. It opened up to a path through a skinny field at the base of a red-layered hill. It was nearly 90 degrees and vertical. Above and beyond was a taller mountain of white rock. Like someone chose different colors to paint each one.
After walking along the cliff of a hill for a minute, the ruins of a building came into view. Two park employees were fixing an informational sign that, well, had no information.
“What is this?” Luke asked them. Their faces lit up, and after they told us, they talked about how cool it was that people were still interested in the details of places like these.
It used to be an inn. A place to stay. Movie stars like Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart once stayed at what now is a pile of a few dozen rocks and a perfectly intact circular window. We were all shocked to hear it was anything more than an old house. Luke and I, having watched “How the West Was Won” the day before the trip, which costars Jimmy Stewart, couldn’t believe our ears.
If Luke hadn’t looked up at the right time while driving, if I hadn’t egged on his impulse to stop, if we hadn’t chosen the path we did, we wouldn’t have gotten to see this place.
It was a remarkable coincidence. Or fate. I’m not sure. All I know is that I was filled with wonder as I checked out the several building ruins in the small complex. I snapped some photos and wondered where Jimmy Stewart may have stood. I wondered who he talked to or if he stayed with anyone else I knew of.
Sean, Luke and I climbed into a room literally carved into the side of the cliff with a telescopically shaped peep hole pointed to the sky. No signs. No indicators. Just a hole in the mountain big enough to fit the three of us and then some.
I spent those few minutes further thinking about the past and the great people who had been there. I thought about my being there, about my place in the world relative to theirs. I thought about how much can change in one person’s lifetime, and I started to realize that what happens to me after graduation is just one step. Inns that once housed Jimmy Stewart then fell apart and became parks for folks to visit. People’s lives really aren’t all that different, if you think about it.
We marched on. Another creek and a different cliff pulled up right in front of our noses. It curved over our heads on one side. I skipped some rocks, and we took some silly group photos to commemorate that random, wonderful experience.
Turning around, Sarah and I lagged behind the other three. Sarah started to lag even farther behind. I kept my pace as I started to hear the sounds around me. I didn’t want to catch up or wait for anyone. I wanted to listen in. Streaming water. Birds singing. The wind making tree branches and needles rustle. It began to drizzle, and the patter on the sidewalk and surrounding nature filled me with something indescribable.
I soaked it all in for the few minutes I walked back to the car.
When we finally got into Sedona, the town itself took a backseat to the scenery. Sedona must’ve been handpicked by someone brilliant. The same scenery we drove into just moments before now created a border around the town filled with shops and restaurants galore.
We parked and headed into a few, taking in the impossible-to-miss views the whole way.
In the first shop, we all looked at some jewelry and listened to the shopkeep talk to one of her customers. The guy was on his own big hiking trip, hoping to meet cool and local people. He was successful so far, he said.
We went to lunch at 89Agave, a Mexican cantina. I ordered shrimp tacos and a Pacifico. I got my food and my beer. It was authentic Mexican food and I hadn’t had anything like that in a couple years. We don’t have that in Oxford.
After a few minutes, a second waiter came over with another beer in hand.
“Pacifico?” He asked.
“I’ve already got mine,” I replied.
He looked down at my beer. He looked up at the one in his hand. He looked down again. He looked at me.
“Merry Christmas,” he said before planting the second pint on the table and walking away. We all laughed and went on to enjoy one of our better meals of the trip.
Trying a few more stores after lunch, I realized Sedona wasn’t all it was cut out to be. The shops that at first glance seem quirky and local really propped up the worst talons of capitalism. There were a few gems, but most shops sold overpriced garbage and cheap branded T-shirts to make a quick buck off tourists trying to enjoy a vacation in a beautiful area.
The shops capitalized off greed. I wanted some of the things I saw, in all honesty. And I did ultimately leave with a new jacket and a bracelet. I felt conned. The views were stunning but I couldn’t resist the feeling of being a cheap consumerist.
I found myself returning to a shop that gets 2.5 stars from reviews. I tend to give places like this a chance, as sometimes they bring the best around. I grabbed the jacket I wanted off the rack and headed to the counter.
“How’re you liking your time in Sedona?” The shopkeep asked me. The middle-aged, large and balding man had a gruff look about him. But, he seemed genuinely interested in his customers. Or maybe me.
“Does it get better than this?” I replied, referring exclusively to the scenery.
“Yes,” he forcefully retorted with a chuckle. He proceeded to run on a nearly 10-minute tangent about how the town decades ago was a celebrity party hub. Maybe Jimmy Stewart used to frequent cool bars in Sedona back when Disney practically owned the town.
The shopkeep posited that Disney owned everything there. He said it was a big spot for filming movies, which was way cool but let me down a little. I loved hearing about Sedona’s past and was thrilled it used to be a movie town, but couldn’t get over the feeling that everything turns into Las Vegas when it becomes profitable enough.
There was a rock formation in the distance that passingly resembled Snoopy laying down on his doghouse. Half the shops had stickers and t-shirts featuring the rock. All of them forced the image just to make a “cool,” $35 shirt. It sucked the fun out of my heart.
For every beautiful, new experience one can have in this country, it has to be paired with 15 gift shops devoted to wringing you off every last time. It’s fucking abysmal. I was pissed.
It’s no wonder the last thing we saw before heading out was the only McDonald’s in the world with blue arches instead of gold. Underwhelming. Waste of time. A trap.
We headed back to Flagstaff for a break and a relaxing time on the eve of the big day. I enjoyed the views on the way back, but couldn’t rid my mind of the fear and loathing that comes from trying to suck in oxygen while drowning in material abundance.
I have no problem with “stuff” when it serves at least some minor purpose, and even sometimes when it doesn’t. But raking in every penny from people trying to enjoy nature just churns my insides in all the wrong ways.
When we got back, Luke, Sean and I went to a media store we saw next to the Lone Spur for a while to check out the movies, books and records. We struck out, but it was cool to see some art we hadn’t been able to find back near Oxford.
After we pulled out of that parking lot, it was time for dinner. We waited too long to eat and were real hungry.
We all went to Taco Bell for some less authentic Mexican cuisine, but I waited. I asked to make another stop at my second 2.5 star spot of the day. Riliberto’s Fresh Mexican Food. It was fast food Mexican in a town of many similarly named spots. There was a Ralberto’s (we’d go tomorrow) and a Diliberto’s. We weren’t sure why.
I entered the restaurant and only one table was full of food and Modelo. I ordered a burrito and an apple soda, and the warm and sweet cashier smiled while taking my order. I told her about my peanut allergy. She shared that she just learned her son had one, too.
We waited for a little while before she handed me my food. She stopped me for a second.
“I don’t know if you know. I talked to my son’s doctor and he said Chick-fil-A uses peanut oil.”
I was taken aback. I was used to restaurant employees being respectful, but for someone to proactively tell me one specific chain used peanut oil was … new. It was so thoughtful, and she smiled as she told me. I just so happened to already know about Chick-fil-A, but she cared about a random stranger and that was enough to fix my day up a little.
We went back to the Airbnb and Luke put on “Asteroid City.” I love that movie. I’d seen it twice already. Once in the theater and once when I made my parents watch it. It’s a film that tackles grief and shows that trying to understand life ultimately gets in the way of living it.
I ate my delicious 2.5 star food and reminded myself not to get in my own way and to enjoy the good moments, even if they’re trickled sparsely in a nation full of ephemeral garbage.
***
Day Six, the Grand Canyon: My Final Frontier
We were off about 8 a.m. It was the climax of the whole trip. Five days led up to this moment.
Sean drove the 90 minutes north. Exiting Flagstaff, the landscape quickly became barren. We weren’t on interstates so much as it was smaller highways. One lane each way, with few cars. It was a true Arizona desert, with miles and miles around of just dirt, sand and weeds.
There were few towns even as we inched closer, bounding down the road. We passed through Grand Canyon Junction — which is little more than just a junction. There was an airstrip and a couple of places for visitors to stay. We passed a few stores advertising “Native American Gifts.”
In the distance, the desert had started to give way to a little scenery. What later was clearly Red Butte, a stark contrast to the otherwise flat desert, came into view on the right side of the road. I saw something else on the left.
It looked like a rift in the ground, but it was miles and miles away. I thought for a moment I could see the Grand Canyon. Sean said it couldn’t be. It was too far. I later learned I was right.
Passing Red Butte, any glimpse of what I’d thought was the Grand Canyon passed. We got closer and started to drive through a town called Tusayan. It was the last town before the national park, and I hoped it would have some interesting places to eat. Maybe a museum. Things like that.
Instead, it had an IMAX theater, several tour businesses and more hotels and motels than should rightfully fit on the half-mile stretch of road. The small-town-turned-profit factory shot my excitement for a minute.
I wanted to feel that I was getting into the Grand Canyon. I wanted that sense of awe. It was a letdown, and we hadn’t even gotten to the entrance yet.
Pushing through, I tried to ignore the miserable canyon appetizer of Tusayan. We saw the South Entrance Station. Sean shook his head at my offer to pay the entrance fee. They let us in without more than a five-minute wait. It wasn’t even 9:30, so we beat the rush. That felt good.
We got in and drove through a forest riddled with camping stops and turn-offs. Surprisingly, we quickly found a place to park after getting to the lot. I realized within moments there were hundreds of people already there.
The canyon itself was still shrouded by restaurants, gift shops, tourist attractions and trees. I could nearly smell how close we were. My heart salivated like a dog does before dinner.
We started to walk away from Grand Canyon Village. Some of us were still tired, but I was brimming with every flavor of excitement I’d ever felt. We passed a compass pointing toward different native nations in the area. The trees started clearing up, and we began to see emptiness, but no canyon.
Just a few more trees. Just a few more minutes. A few more steps.
It emerged.
Sheer, raw, natural greatness. It went on forever. It could’ve been several miles deep. It could’ve been 300 miles across. Words can’t describe the Grand Canyon because the mind doesn’t even understand it when you see it.
It’s infinite and it’s impossible. A simple river carved a whole world into the ground right before my very eyes. I tried to see across it. Every time I panned my eyes, thinking I saw the horizon, I noticed it went even farther away from my microscopic self.
I went through my entire range of emotions in but a few seconds. All I could muster was a laugh. I tried speaking. Saying what I felt and what I didn’t understand. I just kept laughing.
I remembered seeing huge mountains in Switzerland. I remembered volcanoes in Hawaii. Moon-like expanses in Iceland.
All that’s a crapshoot compared to this.
I felt as powerful as a god and like a piece of dust at the same time.
We started to walk east along the rim, stopping every time we could see. There was a sign pointing out the distances of different visual landmarks. None of it made sense. Everything was too far. I thought I could jump to the peak that ended up being three miles away.
It just went down and down and down.
After a few minutes, and walking past the small amphitheater facing one of the wonders of the world, the fencing became sparse. There were large openings and paths forged by the footsteps of the brave and daring (or, perhaps, the stupid) out to ledges teetering above miles of death and nothing else.
I urged us all to go out. As a daring idiot, myself, I felt a calling to that place. Each one, in fact. Now, I could look straight down. My legs shook, and I laughed again. I sat with my legs dangling off the ledge, while I remembered doing so in Yosemite National Park. A walk in the park compared to teasing the reaper on this ledge.
Sarah let me use her fancy camera — which she has dubbed “Devin’s camera” despite my inability to even use auto-focus. I found a McDonald’s cup standing perfectly up on one of those ledges, in front of the sea of air and with nobody around to claim it. If that isn’t a metaphor for … you get it.
We turned back westward to head along that part of the rim. Luke looked for a rock he sat on years ago when he first came to the Grand Canyon. We ended up finding the spot but, somehow, the rock was gone.
I found a new ledge even more stupid than the first few. I was far too tempted. With her other camera in hand, Sarah told me not to go out there. I was already halfway there, and I knew she’d want to take a few pictures of me being stupid.
I plopped down, a little less carefully than on my first ledge.
Among my various selfies angled to most efficiently scare the hell out of my mom, I started to form coherent thoughts. Though, they weren’t quite within the bounds of reality.
My legs stopped shaking while I sat on the ledge, and I looked out while sitting there by myself.
I got lost in it. I got lost in its expansive emptiness. In its power. The sight burned into my retinas about as fast as I realized what I was looking at. By God, I thought for a brief moment that I could hop right off and fly.
I’d transcended to a higher plane. You’ve got to go see it for yourself. Trust that.
Sean and I tried to guess how far a hut along a path was. We never figured it out. It was only big enough to barely be registered by our unassisted eyes. It was at the bottom. Or the middle? We’d have needed to go all the way down there to find out. Perspective is non-existent when looking out over the thing.
Two hours of just staring and laughing passed. I hungered for the chance to make it at the bottom of the canyon, to explore the greatness. But, I too hungered for lunch.
We put our name in at one of the over-priced restaurants next to the rim. Wandering one of the gift shops while we waited for our table to be called, Luke and I joked about some of the terrible gifts and weird stuff in the store.
For everything unabashedly beautiful, for anything spectacular, natural and intriguing, there’s got to be a dipshit running a gift shop. Greatness is always coupled with sales, it seems.
Finally, getting our table, I ordered a bison burger and a locally brewed prickly pear beer. Neither of which was great. Together, it wasn’t worth the $43 I spent on that meal. The waiter was a nice guy who gave us ideas for things to see, though, so it wasn’t a moment totally catering to Mr. Monopoly.
We left. I was disappointed. Mediocre food next to a gift shop and it all costs more than the entrance fee to the park itself. I’m happy to spend $35 to get into a national park. Not so much when it’s for overpriced crap. I still couldn’t figure out why everything had to be a tourist trap.
We left and started on one of the paths that led down into the canyon. The path was only wide enough for a few people, and the drop was petrifying. We kept on. Through an arch carved into the walls of the canyon, allowing us to walk not just into, but through the Grand Canyon.
I took another chance to walk out on one of the ledges that should’ve borne a sign reading “For morons, only.” Then, we kept heading down. Until the path was blocked off. Construction.
The concept art looked cool, but it took a little out of us to realize that after the 20 minutes we’d spent to get down, we had to turn right around. It was the deepest I’d get in the canyon, and I couldn’t shake the desire to just keep going.
It’s such an attractive sight. The depths. One that makes you want to throw everything away and focus solely on exploration. It finally felt like my run westward through the St. Louis Arch culminated in something. My need for exploration finally felt real. It finally felt like I made a dent.
We started our walk back up. We all started to realize how steep and taxing the slope truly was. The hike forced us to take a couple of stops along the way, despite the short length.
We made it to the top. The day passed us like a bullet train. It was mid-afternoon, and we still had to drive back to our Airbnb Flagstaff and find dinner somewhere. The culmination of 1,500 miles of driving, five days, a half dozen states, two timezones and a cramped car was about to end. We were heading down the slope at the end of the peak.
It was only about 2:30, and the rollercoaster ride was over.
I’d seen the Grand Canyon. I didn’t want to stop. As we piled back into the car and I into the driver’s seat, I remembered a moment in my favorite show, “The West Wing,” when Toby (Richard Schiff) mentions the Grand Canyon.
“You know when you go out West how they say, ‘don't miss the Grand Canyon. It's one of the few things in life that, when you see it, it doesn't disappoint?’”
Damn straight.
***
The drive back to Flagstaff: An epilogue, of sorts
We headed out of the parking lot, through the village, passing a local school for folks who live in and near the park, and out through the entrance. I felt angry.
All that raced through my mind was an intense desire to turn around and see every nook and cranny the Grand Canyon has to offer. We spent five hours exploring the area, and I needed at least a week of constant exploring to feel like I really did it.
I’ve been places to which I want to return, but I never got pissed at that guttural urge. I had to go back. I was silent for the first 45 minutes of the drive.
During that time, we got out of the park and we were routed a different way than we took to get there.
We found and drove through a forest, or maybe a farm, with spaced-out, tall trees. After a few curves on U.S. Highway 180, we pulled onto a long straightaway. Up above and miles and miles away was Humphrey’s Peak: a snow-coated peak resting peacefully at 12,637 feet. It’s the highest natural point in Arizona.
As I drove in my silence, everybody else chatted a little but mostly kept to myself. In my anger, I turned to the mountain ahead of me for some relief, for an answer to my frustration.
I was proud that we’d made it. We’d done so much, and, truthfully, we didn’t skimp out by spending a day at the canyon. The peace and quiet while staring at Humphrey’s Peak helped.
I kept thinking about the commercial aspect of that which surrounded the area. I was filled with rage thinking about how every good moment on this trip was coupled with an “opportunity” to spend more cash on something I didn’t need.
I felt like scum for enjoying those moments while knowing what always sits around the corner, waiting for me and my wallet.
After 20 minutes or so of driving on a straight line toward the peak, I relaxed. It’s not the Grand Canyon’s fault that there are gift shops and expensive restaurants feeding off my desire for exploration, for seeing new things. Nor is it Boulder’s, or Moab’s, or Arches’.
I found myself learning that the fear and loathing I feel toward the temporary pleasures of commercial cash grabs is inevitable. Every truly great moment deserves to be cherished.
On this Great American Road Trip, I got to spend time with my friends and see this country for what has always made it great: the land itself. There will always be something to push us down. An election. A war. Even a strip mall.
While this was a spring break road trip with my best friends, it turned into far more than just a simple week with my pals. If anything, the week with them felt like the most normal part. I was used to spending a ton of time with Luke and Sean and Sarah and Meta. I found myself so proud of myself for having found a group of people where this just felt normal.
This trip found me in a vulnerable spot. I’ve been scared of the future. I’ve been searching for meaning in my life. I don’t know what comes next.
Bounding west down stretches of highways hundreds of miles long and seeing the greatest sights America has to offer changed me in a way I didn’t expect.
There are just a few things in this world that can’t be ruined. Even centuries of nation-building in a way that has allowed nationwide brands to taint the towns nearby to our country’s greatest national park can’t take away the impossible power of the Grand Canyon.
It has staying power. It’s taken the punches around it. Maybe that’s the trick to fighting the anxiety that comes from ever thinking about the future. Knowing there’s more to come and not letting the hard parts stop you from enjoying life as it’s happening.
Maybe the garbage piling up around us doesn’t go away knowing there are bigger things, grander things out there, but having some refuge helps.
For that one week in March, during the last semester of my senior year of college, my refuge was in the Grand Canyon. It was hundreds of miles away and a major hit to my bank account, but it worked.
We pulled back up to the Airbnb, my soul full of something I still hadn’t been able to pin down.
I went over to sit on the couch and tried to read “Antkind” for a little while. I couldn’t. I was thinking about the long road east we’d face the next morning.
