Life is a Highway

At least my life is a highway. I love to drive. Sometimes I actually prefer it over flying. I see and experience so much more on the road than in the air. Of course, fabulous weekend snowboarding trips to Utah aren’t feasible via automobile. Neither are day trips to Tucson.

I’ve driven cross-country without tiring of scenery or boredom. I found it very exciting to drive through the terrain, temperature, and climate changes on my way to California for the first time. I had never been anywhere outside of the southeast or northeast regions of the U.S. until this trip. I was mesmerized as my familiar rolling, green terrain became flatter and browner somewhere in Oklahoma and later began to see striated cliffs and buttes join the brown, flat landscape in New Mexico. Shortly after crossing into the Painted Desert in Arizona, I began to see why the desert came to be known as “painted” as bright red rocks replaced the muted brown colors. I saw a mountain range in the distance and Humphrey’s Peak (Arizona’s highest) and exited the interstate and began to wind up through the mountains and through the city of Flagstaff. I couldn’t understand how quickly the dry desert turned into lush green Ponderosa Pine and Aspen. It smelled like Christmas and looked like the Colorado Rockies. My senses were again shocked as I traveled above these mountains on a flatter plateau and came to the enormous, deep, gash in the earth that we have named Grand Canyon. Standing along the south rim of the Grand Canyon, I realized that my lips, which were used to the moist air I breathe everyday, were terribly cracked and my pores felt tight.

Finally, I crossed the California State Line into Needles. It was between 6 and 7 o’clock Pacific Time. I heard on the radio that it was a blistering 112 degrees still outside at this time. I rolled down the window and stuck my hand out into the Mojave Desert air. It was warm, but it didn’t feel that hot. This when I learned of the dry heat I had heard so much about. I learned even more as the friend I was traveling with and I stepped out the car in Barstow and filled up with gas and the wind burned my skin as I stood under the shaded cover of the gas pump.

The next morning I found myself standing in the green valley of Yosemite and in the snowy high Sierra Nevada Mountain Range.

Three days later I walked in cool fog in San Francisco and finally understood Mark Twain’s statement, “The coldest winter I ever saw was the summer I spent in San Francisco.”

I wouldn’t say that it was the coldest winter I ever saw, but traveling down the winding Pacific Coast Highway, hugging cliffs, spying surfers and sunbathing seals, and seeing banks of fog roll over the lush green hills of Caramel was certainly the coolest summer I ever felt. I am used to my hot, foot-scorching sandy beaches, not rocky beaches that will spray me with chilly sea mist.

After hours of hugging the coast, I was in Los Angeles. The air was warm and smoggy and my lungs hacked miserably until I once again found myself in the unmerciful heat of the Mojave heading towards Las Vegas.

We made our journey from Las Vegas, Nevada back to Atlanta, Georgia non-stop except for the two hour nap we took in a rest stop outside of Oklahoma City.

That was the first long-distance trip I had ever taken. Since then, I’ve driven round trips to Colorado, Utah, and Canada.

I enjoy weekend drives through the mountains or along country roads just as much. It seems that every time I hit the road, I learn or experience something new.

For example, I have discovered that Boston drivers are the most aggressive drivers in possibly all the world. One weekend driving there and I, too, cut people off, honked my horn at red lights, sped around the 6 lane rotary, and yelled, “Hey! You can’t pahk ya cah here!”

Louisiana has the worst, bumpiest roads ever. Most all of the roads are bridges above the soggy ground.

Interstate 70 through Missouri is the most boring stretch in the world. There is nothing from St. Louis to Kansas City. I have dubbed that stretch of the state Misery, instead of Missouri.

Interstate 80 through Wyoming is the windiest, scariest drive. You think you may be blown over on your side. Or worse, the Mack truck in the lane beside you will be blown over on top of you. And the worst is that it actually does happen.

Trail Ridge Road through Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado, is the highest continually paved road in the U.S. It’s beautiful.

Drivers from Gwinnett County, Georgia are the most dangerous in the nation. Trust me, I live among them. I blame it on the folks from Fulton County (Atlanta) moving in the area. Still, be alarmed and alert if you should ever spot a Gwinnician on the road. One time I was driving through Cincinnati, Ohio and a Gwinnician sped up beside me, cut me off, jumped over through 3 lanes of traffic and then slammed on brakes as they, the idiots they are, realized that the lane was closed for construction. And here is an even scarier example for those of you who live far away and think you’re safe: Driving just outside of Salt Lake City, Ut, a maniac driver cuts me off to exit abruptly. Before I can even yell, “Where did you get your driver’s license, Gwinnett County?” I notice an orangish round object in the middle of the tag. Is that a Florida tag? No. It’s not an orange, but a peach. A Georgian! And right under the peach I make out the letters G-W-I…Yep, it’s a Gwinnician. So be careful out there folks. No one is safe.