Two Days in Durango. Elevation 6,512.

The day cracked open, blistering cold and damp, and the camp began to unfurl from a restless night of cruel stars and bottomless dreams. The Traveler squinted at the murky day through the fogged up windows of the Rogue, then began unlayering from the sheets, blankets, and sleeping bags that brought little comfort the night before.

Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

The previous day was a bright, overexposed memory, as though it had happened years before, instead of hours. Great Sand Dunes National Park (8,278 elevation) was a destination sure to drive most sane people to hallucinations, but the Traveler had picked up some venomous passenger that was seeping hot tendrils of sickness through her weary core.

View of the mountains from the campsite.

But the park was a delight, and she reveled in the quick memory of the day before, standing at the base and scanning that strange desert scene, dunes soaring 700 feet in the air, shadows cupped in the sharp, undulating crests, frozen stark and unlikely in the Colorado mountains. The Traveler had long obsessed over images of the Sahara, always too small, captured in sparing magazines, television screens, all useless and blanched but still somehow sparking the imagination--those massive slopes, infinite waves of sand. And here in this improbable place it was as though some deity had sectioned off a part of that greater desert and set it unchanged in the middle of a green and fertile land. It was an astonishing thing.

View of the dunes from the campsite.

The Traveler slipped out of the back of the Rogue onto the coarse gravel of the campsite and looked at the beauty all around her. As off kilter as she felt, she could not help but smile at those dunes, now lit from the east, the warm glowing morning light creating an orange hue in the sand. The Traveler had a long drive ahead, so packed up, started the engine, and slowly drove through the still stirring camp.

Early morning view, Medano creek springs to life.

On Colorado Road 5, just outside the park, the Traveler saw something that only further solidified the hallucinatory aspect of the day: a long line of glistening cars approached from the south. And as they began to take shape, it became clear that they were all classic cars, not one made before 1950, all shining and clean and almost new, as though they'd rolled off the factory lot straight onto Colorado 5. Not another car in sight, just the classics gliding by, just as improbable and strange as the dunes they were destined for.

The Rio Grande National Forest (est. 10,300 elevation) was a beautiful, heavily wooded, mountainous route that should have set the Traveler onto a better path, but the swooping, winding roads only deepened her overall sense of disjointedness. There were sights to behold, cherish, and remember, but they blew by barely remarked by her ever more pallid face. Some three hours later, she pulled into Durango, green in the gills but with no real sense of exactly what was wrong. It wasn't a cold, the flu, a stomach bug...it was as though that venomous passenger rode along within, a vapor of ghost, smoky apparition, and had somehow dug in deeper, claws puncturing into the Traveler's back, and turning all the internal dials two notches past black midnight.

 The Traveler decided maybe it was a blood sugar problem and that she should eat something, so she made her way to the Durango Public Library to sit outside in the warm sun and crisp, early autumn air, and try to beat back the darkness with a pre-packed PB&J and Sun Chips.

At first everything seemed better. Once lunch was done, the Traveler took pictures of the exterior of the building and made her way into the main doors. As she explored the stacks, seating areas, computer bays, and study rooms, the cloak of sick began to snake its way around her middle, shoulders, neck. As she settled in to a primo study kiosk to try to write, the venomous passenger sucked the wind out of her, an oily blanket of nightsweats and hot, clanging brass smashing against her ribcage.

The Traveler bore the assault for about and hour before packing up and heading out to the Rogue. She sat in the driver's seat, looking up symptoms, walk in clinics, and altitudes of all the places she was supposed to go to next. The sun was too hot, the air was too cold. She didn't know what to do and felt terrible on top of it. So she cried. She sat in her car, her key to freedom and adventure, her gateway to an open road, open mind, fierce and fearless heart pushing ever forward and...she sobbed. Eventually it abated. With the valve opened and her stress pressure relieved, she made a plan.

View of the Animas River from primo library seating.

Based on the research the most likely ailment was altitude sickness, exacerbated by previous weakness from allergies and medication changes. The Traveler had tripped into a maelstrom of competing issues, and each was vying for the top spot of supervillainy, sitting on her neck and twisting her stomach and heart into a hard rod of deadwood. All medical websites advised to ride it out and take it easy--acute cases should go to lower altitudes. A quick scan of the map proved that there really were no lower altitudes, not unless the Traveler wanted to go back through the mountains to get to them. The Traveler, in her road rough and world weariness, made all the more stringent by her illness, decided emphatically to Fuck That, and made a reservation at the Best Western.

Animas River.

According to web medical experts, altitude sickness is very similar to a hangover. Headache and nausea compete for which symptom will make the patient hurl or implode first. The Traveler was no stranger to hangovers, but had not experienced anything like one in over three years. Almost exactly three years and two weeks, the date of her last hangover, when she checked into rehab after spending one last night smoking too many Marlborough's and drinking a magnum of cabernet sauvignon. The similarity of the ailments set the Traveler's mood from distressed to pitch black as she settled in at the motel, brittle, furious, and deeply, immovably sad. It was too much.

"Guardians," Chamberlain of Letters, Minister
of Words, Book Warden, Melissa Zink,
Bronze, 2008.

She was certain a good night's rest and a Complimentary Breakfast of Hearty Foodstuffs would make all the difference in the world. Upon waking the next day, the Traveler felt a bit balloon-headed but attributed this to the early hour and last strains of ugly sickness. She decided pants would be required to attend breakfast, so in her jammy shorts she went out into the 40 degree early morning air to retrieve them from the Rogue. And locked herself out of the hotel room. The Traveler looked to the overcast heavens for deliverance but heard only echoing laughter. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a classic car parked next to the pool. They were following her. It was a sign.

She retrieved the jeans and unceremoniously dressed half in and half out of the Rogue, caring not one, tiny whit whether some other traveler saw the display. She had it up to Here, and could feel the dizziness, fatigue, and thick weight already starting to pull her down into the abyss. The web had said it could take one to three days to acclimate to the higher altitudes. She was not going to be one of the lucky ones, it seemed.

The Traveler made her way to the front desk of the Best Western and introduced herself to the kind faced man on duty, "Hello, I am an idiot. Good Morning." He appeared to have heard this speech before, and after some diligent checks to ensure the Traveler was not also A Liar, he set about creating a permanent memory of himself in her mind. His name, while Brian, is also and forever, Hero. The valiant kind, the legendary kind. He wielded not a blade but a Best Western pen. He was, in short, The Very Best of the Best Western.

The Traveler asked to stay another night, and was shocked to discover only three rooms were left, two of which were smoking rooms, a sign of times gone by, an ancient relic of bad will and dirty odors. She knew it well, after all. The only room useful to her was bigger, and more expensive, and she would have to move from the room she was already occupying, but she could not bear the thought of traveling (and had already canceled her AirBNB for that night in Cedar City, elevation 5,876). The Hero booked the expensive room but said he would watch for changes and keep her in mind. The Traveler did not believe him.

She went to the breakfast room and found she was hungry despite the fact that she felt like hot, flyblown garbage, and imagined this was what Hell was going to feel like except no one ever eats except maybe terrible, unspeakable things for which they were both grateful and hateful. The Best Western breakfast was far better than that, with eggs, sausage, cereals, and the ever present waffle bar, where guests were trusted to make their own waffles and not burn the whole works down in the process. A magical place.

The Traveler made a waffle and ate some eggs. The waffle was light and airy, so much so that it started to dissolve to a sugarmush under the weight of the syrup. The coffee was not too fancy, but strong, hot, and good. After breakfast, the Traveler set about getting two cups of coffee to take back to her room. The Hero approached, his sweet, angel face alight with good news. There was a cancellation, she could keep her room. And. The rate would be lower than the night before, even. The Traveler suppressed the galvanic desire to jump into the Hero's arms and plant one directly on his lips. The Traveler was briefly in love with the Hero. The Hero pretended not to be alarmed by the squeaky noises and fluttering hands. He was a consummate customer service professional.

The Traveler spent the rest of the day watching Law and Order and relaxing. She even got to see the Julia Roberts episode, once so elusive on the rerun circuit. She wandered out once more for a burger and salad at Wendy's (whose salads are, without reservation or purpose evasion, the Epic Salad BOMB) and was struck by Durango's strange geographic placement, just inside soaring, winged, peaks, lovely and frightening all at once. She was sad she could not appreciate Durango more, and hoped memory would wash away the poisoned coat of despair to a clean, unburdened image of what Durango really was, a glittering jewel of a town nestled in the crook of a stunning, mountainous setting.

The next morning, the Traveler awoke, still tired, but feeling good enough to set out once again. She packed the car, double checked the room, and brought the key cards back to the main desk, where the Hero still stood, steadfast, on duty, all smiles. She surrendered the cards and thanked him once again, saddled up, and headed northwesterly...toward the Arches, toward Salt Lake, not one dark harbinger of a classic car in sight.

Outtakes, Leg 1

Lovely, lovely Houston

Houston, Texas
Where I learned about the most mean spirited toll roads ever, offering no options but to exit into the unknown...and you might just get a ticket in the mail (which I did not, thank goodness). This is also the last place toll roads were included in my map searches. Turns out you can travel 9,000 miles without hitting a toll road at all.

Rootin Tootin Dallas Ft. Worth

Houston, Texas AirBNB
My most gruesome injury of the trip, a Florida shaped bruise up my leg, from splatting on the floor, trying to find the Host to let me out so I could visit my libraries. There are few things I can do as well as I did as a young teen, but it seems I can still fall like a massive, wet, green frog, much like I did at our first dress rehearsal of Alice in Wonderland when I tried to sprint across the stage in flippers. I was 14, a Frog Footman, and furiously humiliated. It seems the muscle memory is the same, as I blushed madly all these decades later even though there was no one there to witness my clumsy shame.

Chic and shiny Austin

Big Bend

Pretty, pretty Roswell

Bottomless Lakes Campground
When I drove up to the campsite host trailers, no one was at the On Duty station, so I rolled to the second, where an older man was sunning right by his Off Duty sign. He looked at me and mouthed something awfully not nice, but was willing to help after he realized the other host was MIA. It's funny that anyone would think the average person couldn't lipread MOTHERFUCKER. But I can.

Magical New Mexico

Magdalena, New Mexico (AirBNB)
When I shopped for supplies at the Albuquerque Wal-Mart, I was so overexcited by the idea of having a kitchen and endless, luxurious time, that I bought a week's worth of food when I really only needed a few days. Like, what did I think I was going to do with an entire box of Frosted Flakes?

Canyons de Chelly, Forests so petrified, doggy butts

Grand Canyon, Meteor Crater, Flagstaffian Library Lodge

Grand Canyon Campsite
I blame the children, always. But in this case, it is definitely their fault since they distracted me. The family that came in the night before I had to leave were up bright and early and the kids were climbing the trees around their campsite (and mine) as I busied myself with breaking down the tent and packing up. We started talking about climbing trees, visiting the canyon, and where they were from and planned to visit on the way back, and I totally forgot I put my flashlight, pill case, and ax on top of my car...until I took the first hard turn and all but the ax (sturdy, heavy thing) went flying off the roof and smashed to the pavement. The flashlight survived. The pill case did not. I spent the rest of the trip taking medicine from individual pill bottles like an animal.
Flagstaff, Arizona
Home of Assholes on Bikes Who Do Not Look Where They are Going and Giant Falcons or Perhaps Pterodactyls Who Crap on Your Car in the Night. Not really an "outtake" as much as a state of existence. A pretty but perilous place.

Cali 1

Arizona/California Border
I cannot explain why, when asked if I had fruit in the car, I felt compelled to tell the truth (yes), but then lied (saying I had one apple when I had two) and then lied even further (when he said, oh from a Flagstaff hotel probably and I said yes even though it was from an Albuquerque Wal-Mart). As though I'd been caught with live parrots tucked in my bra?

Cali 2

Post Flagstaff
The Cooler of Shame and Failure. I tried keeping up with the ice, but it wasn't enough of a priority and also makes that one jar of grape jelly go from a somewhat reasonable price to the most deluxe, gold flaked tumbler of Smuckers to ever be acquired at auction. It works best if you are camping a lot and know you are going to go through your goods in a matter of days, but it is not a long term option. I ended up trashing more than I'd care to remember and, as you can imagine, any kind of waste during these post-employment months is irritating and regrettable. I do admit that 90% of the problem is me!

Toothy Utah

All States, Including Mental
Car Sleeping--it can be done! And quite peacefully and effectively. But it took me awhile to build up the nerve to do it at all and I did opt out a few times when I planned to sleep in the car and either chickened out or thought it would be too cold. Considering the savings, I would obviously far prefer car sleeping over everything else. I am sure there are other sub-outtakes in this category, all likely involving nearly falling into toilets at 3 a.m., sleep blurry and freezing, or trying to guesstimate how many people saw me with my mouth agape and nose pressed against the back window, but we'll have to leave that to our imagination.

Rocky Mountain HIIIIIIIGH, Colorado. I really did think I'd see people smoking pot out in public but no dice, man.

Flagstaff, Arizona to Black Rock Campground (Joshua Tree National Park, California) - 354 mi. +

I wasn't really bummed about not getting to sleep in the tent one last time for this first leg of my mega trip. I can now put up the tent in 10-15 minutes and the novelty has worn off. As much as car sleeping has its disadvantages when the wind and temp are not in my favor, it is actually very cozy and comfortable and I can sleep really well most of the time. This is good news since my trip concludes with a trek back through all the states between me and Luna, who I already love (and fams, ya), and only one of those stops is at an AirBNB (Colorado Springs). The rest are car sleeps.

It was far too dark to put up a tent once I arrived at Joshua Tree National Park, so I rolled into my campsite, took the flashlight and toiletries, and headed toward the bathroom to ready myself for a nice, long car sleep. The facility was fine, though more beat up that previous camps, and I ran into several groups of youths who looked like they took a wrong turn from Coachella. I was only at Black Rock that night and left at 6:30 the next morning, but I didn't see anyone older than me while I was there. Oh, and that whole "quiet hours" thing? Not really a thing at Joshua Tree...at least not the one, single, very small sampling so no judgments should be made, night that I was there. There was lots of screaming and cackling and probably fire dancing but I had my barriers up so hell if I know.

Funny enough, the noise fit with the trees in the backdrop and all their creepy tentacleyness--add the stars and the flickering light from all the campfires and it all seemed about right with the cackles and shrieks. Plus it was a long drive and I was tired--it took very little time to fall asleep.

Why was it a long drive? Remember the aforementioned crapfest of Arizona highways leading to the Grand Canyon? I had to take that route again to get to California. I was thinking of stopping by some more sights down near Sedona, but I knew it would take me too long and I would definitely not make camp by nightfall if I tried. So, back on the "rough road" I went, though I guess at least this time I knew what to expect.

The drive is still pretty--lots of mountain forest trees and serene valleys in between all those peaks--but something went awry along the way. Google Map Woman, ever the trickster, told me to get off 40W (a real highway) and take County Route 66, which I did, though I always feel less comfortable on those tiny highways...if you pop a tire on 40W, AAA will find you. If you pop a tire on County Rt. 66, a werewolf will find you.

I drove for maybe 20 miles when I came to the end of the road: Closed for repairs. Take the detour, it says. Remember those freaky stories they made us read in high school, especially the ones where Puritans run amok and do bad things, especially in forests where evil always dwells (cover of night, yadda yadda, see "Young Goodman Brown," Hawthorne)? That was this godforsaken "detour." Of course.

It was as though the desert leeched every last drop of moisture out of the asphalt and it had started to crumble apart, perhaps to eventually crackle back to gravel and then dust. If I managed to pop a tire out here? Forget the werewolf. This was wendigo country. This was Satan with a whip wonderland.

The funniest part of all? It led me back to 40E/W...so, a loop. HA HA HA. Ha. I determined I should just figure out a new way, so pulled over at the next rest stop. After a little research, I decided to go further west to Barstow, then hook south on 247. It would be a longer journey, but I would still manage to make it to the campground before dark, though just barely.

Sooo, Barstow. Ever been? Don't. It was 95 degrees when I stopped in Barstow to get gas, and every surface looked sun blasted and bleached of all life. Remember my Sim City 2000 seminar? Barstow is a town that appears to be 80% industry...chain link fences, long warehouses, and debris, debris, debris. It instantly reminded me of the way Stephen King and Peter Straub described Oatley, New York, the fictional town our young hero, Jack, gets waylaid in on his journey across the states in The Talisman.

It is as though some places are out of tune with the rest of the world and the minute you arrive your hackles go up and you can't help but be on high alert. Just like there are "Feel Bad" movies (Eraserhead, Dead Ringers), there are "Feel Bad" towns. I am sure King and Straub were thinking of specific places when they made up "Oatley." Very considerate, not naming names.

Barstow: Avoid. Not sorry at all.

By the time I got to Joshua Tree there was just enough light to check the main board at the Black Rock ranger station to figure out where my camp was...after I finished up in the bathroom, and nodded goodnights to the firedancing hooligans, I settled in for the night and vowed to find a Starbucks the next morning, touchstones and talismans in our little worlds.

The Grand Canyon (Whoomp There It Is) - 175 mi. from Meteor Crater*

*I went from my hotel in Flagstaff to the Meteor Crater then backtracked to the Grand Canyon, hence the added miles!

U-G-L-Y AND YOU AIN'T GOT NO ALIBI YOU UGLY WHAT WHAT YOU UGLY. - Wildcats

This greatest cheer in the history of all cheerleading applies directly to the drive I took to get to the Grand Canyon. I have a lot of U-G-L-Y things to say about that drive, and the maintenance of Arizona highways near the Grand Canyon in general, but first let me say "Rough Road" isn't enough signage to warn drivers of the hideousness in which they are about to partake. Try: Garbage Pothole Express, or You Didn't Need Your Suspension Anyway Highway, or We Spend 0 Dollars on Infrastructure Annually Alley. I don't know the story here and I don't care. From a tourist's perspective, the area rolls in cash money from all the idjits like me traveling in for the many local natural wonders...where the money goes, who can say. Judging from the age of some parts of the highway and massive amounts of shoddy patchwork they've done over the years, it isn't much. Perhaps the logic is that the people will put up with it because they have no choice.

An indigenous neoptera

Well, you do have a choice...the longer route! Instead of taking 40W to 64N, take 89N to 64W. You get much better roads and the views are far more spectacular (mini canyons!). The other way is faster, but it is also more squalid and your car will hate you. Also, you have to play chicken with all the trucks that want to hang out in the passing lane because it is less warbly, pitfilled, and bangful.

One of the things I think I forgot to mention was my incredible planning skills when it came to this part of the trip...completely accidental skills, but I will take all the credit regardless. I just happened to visit the Petrified Forest and Grand Canyon on the weekend of National Parks Week. The entrance fees to the parks were waived--that's $50 of savings total, and all by happenstance. When I planned my trip, I had no idea the stars were aligning to catch me a break. It makes me feel better about all the Starbucks I've been buying and did not exactly budget for.

On the first day I busied myself with setting up camp--it turns out this was the last time I would put up the tent since I arrived too late at my final camping destination to set up camp (Joshua Tree). The area was incredibly beautiful--lots of wooded areas abound, which is true of the rest of the park, too, if you haven't been. Aspen, spruce, fir...it's a wonder that more explorers didn't go ass over ankles straight into the canyon as they discovered it (or came upon it, in the old timey, wheel & wagon days). The place is thick with trees and then suddenly, DROP.

It looks warm. 

Oh, the lessons that I never learn, or learn hard whilst beating my 100% bone head against the ground. It seems, despite all my declarations otherwise, that I can get cold. Really, really cold. That last, freezing sleep in the car wasn't just a fluke...it was a lesson. I threw all the blankets and sheets I had with me into the tent that first day at the Grand Canyon campsite, and added in the winter cap and mittens & hoodie for good measure. I was still a shivering mess that night. The next night, I wore jeans, too, and that seemed to make the last bit of difference. Never underestimate the cold, friendos. Even for human heat lamps like me, the wind and mild night dampness will cut through right to the bone.

I spent the next day driving around the Grand Canyon village and viewing the canyon itself. It wasn't as bad as it can be since it is still early in the season, but there were plenty of people out and about, either driving personal vehicles or taking the shuttle buses. I tried to stay away from the most crowded areas, but sometimes it could not be helped. Every time I witnessed Typical Tourist Behaviors, I had to smile, remembering that elder park ranger that had helped me out way back at Big Bend. The contempt in his voice, the faraway look in his eyes...he called the place "a zoo" and I could tell he could spend the rest of his life happy to never go there again.

Ravens, ravens everywhere!

Typical Tourist Behaviors Witnessed:
1. People tromping through other's camp sites. FYI, this is a no no. Also FYI, a simple Google Search prior to camping will teach camping etiquette in 5 minutes. Try, "How Not to Be an Asshole While Camping."
2. People swarming wildlife even though there are signs everywhere screaming LEAVE THEM ALONE THEY WILL KICK YOUR ASS. You can't help getting near wildlife since it seems to have no issue with getting right up near you, but you're not supposed to close the gap and encroach. I witnessed two Elk Incidents that made my blood run cold. First of all, here are some pictures of elk that I saw right at the visitor's center, easily the most populated part of GC Village.

They are not bothered by all the humans and stroll up to the area to drink the water pooling around various faucets. I saw them all over the park, drinking from various water spots or grazing--you couldn't miss them because they are huge and they have big pompoms on their butts. Pretty freaking cute, right? Wrong. One family wasn't happy with just a picture of the animals--they wanted a selfie with the animals right behind them. The mother kept pulling at her son (5-6 years old) to get in the selfie with her but he was clearly scared of the Very Large Animal. When he screamed, the elk responded as you would expect, lurching toward the family and the people starting to crowd around the scene. Everyone whooped and reeled back because, you know, Very Large Animal, and the elk decided that was enough. Yet the woman continued to pull her son toward the elk and yelled at him, indicating that this was somehow his fault (pointing at the elk, then him and shaking her index finger at him--she was speaking another language, but the message was clear).

The other Elk Incident took place as I was driving 45 mph (the posted speed limit) on the very winding road back from Desert View. A huge van of people had pulled over and were running back and forth across the road to take pictures of a group of elk grazing in a stand of dead trees. Mind you, this is coming around a bend, so cars had to hit the brakes to keep from running these people down. Some were clearly not phased by this, taking their sweet ass time to cross the road.
3. I also saw people going past the safety barriers to "get a better shot" or sit on the edges of the cliffs. They advise you not to do this, but I don't think it is a rule, per se. Just, ugh. Some people were clearly accustomed to the area and were surefooted enough, but others were not.
4. There was trash everywhere including all over my campsite when I arrived.

I know, not the worst, but it was a shock from the previous places I'd visited. Not to be a shit about it, but the clientele skewed a whole lot younger, too. Lots of lodge dwellers and tent campers, very few RV folks. All the previous camping I've done has been in the midst of a majority of RV/camper individuals, all of whom were around retirement age. I never worried about my safety in that crowd.

This made me very happy.

I hate to say it, but it definitely felt different at the Grand Canyon. Not in any obvious way, but certainly in the "I Don't Trust People to Begin With So I am Watching You" way. There were little things that happened here and there that kept me mildly paranoid. I will not relate them here, but will just leave it at that: It was just different. Compare it to visiting a non-tourist city vs. a tourist city (anywhere in the world). You don't expect to get hustled in Omaha, but you're fool if you think it won't happen in the middle of Times Square. Those knock off furries are NOT NICE and will punch you in the face if you don't pay them after you take their picture. The Grand Canyon Village area is like the Times Square of National Parks.

I am sure this is a shock to exactly no one, but I think it is easy to forget when all you ever see are the best pictures people bring back from their adventure.

As for the "camping" part of the experience, the Grand Canyon Village (Mather Campground) is the polar opposite of camping at a place like Big Bend (or even Bottomless Lakes). There are stores and restaurants all around you--and when I say stores, I mean stores that have everything. Food, clothing, supplies. The campers to the south of me had a dead car battery and asked if I had jumper cables. I didn't, but advised them to try the store. And they had them. They have everything.

Tree...or baby dragon?

It gives you peace of mind to know that civilization is right around the corner from your "wooded lot" but aside from the proximity to the Grand Canyon itself, it wouldn't be my highest recommendation to "get away from it all." Although if you want to get away from internet access, this is a great place to do it. They claim several places have access to wifi, but the only place that seemed to have working wifi was the aforementioned store. Not that we should be seeking out wifi on our camping trips! Unless we are feeling a bit weirded out and need to connect to our tribe to feel a bit more insulated and safe, as much as such a tenuous construct will allow us, anyway.

The Library. I did not go inside. I do NOT wanna talk
about it. Except to say: THHPPTT!

One thing I did not expect: The food was AMAZING, especially at the Desert View Snack Bar. They had this Chipotle Chicken Salad that was far yummier than it had any right to be, especially for the price.

But what is the point of any of this if not to see the grandest thing on the planet? It is a perspective altering experience and holds 100% of your attention when you finally get to see it. I tried to see it from as many vantages as I could on my own. I know this makes me the Odious Tourist Who Drives Solo and Expels CO Emissions All Over Our Park, but I took the HellTrain to work for 15 years, so everyone can suck it.

Desert view watchtower

I was excited to see the Grand Canyon, but will admit that it did not resonate as I thought it might. Perhaps it is because I've seen it before, perhaps it is because I am one month into this road trip and starting to feel the wear and tear of constant travel. I enjoy the driving part of the journey--even though I've learned that trucking has changed substantially since I was last regularly on the road (more on that later) and even though the view can sometimes be monotonous or grim--but I have no idea how anyone could travel for a living. It wears you out.

And while I am homesick, it is a weird variety of homesick--I am looking forward to getting back to Wichita to hang out with my mom, watch TV, sleep in a bed, and meet her new little cat, Luna. But that wasn't my home for so many years, was it? What about Brooklyn? Bay Ridge? The old 9115 Ridge Blvd, Apartment 6H?

When I got back to Flagstaff the day before yesterday and checked into the Baymont Inn for some downtime (no sights to see; laundry, relaxation, and that is it), I finally had a twinge of feeling about my old life. I remembered my nice couch and big screen and the whole lot of nothing I would do in my downtime...except for drawing. And I realized I didn't miss that couch, that apartment, those things--none of it--and certainly not that feeling of purposelessness.

I miss drawing, though. But I can take that with me anywhere.