It was 11 years ago yesterday that I arrived in California, effectively making this state my new home. I was born and raised in the western section of Philadelphia, with family and friends scattered throughout that whole region. But the Golden State enticed me (especially after vacationing out here in ’89 and ’93). So, I boxed up a ton of my stuff and shipped it all ahead of me via UPS. The remains of my belongings I jammed into my car. And with my itinerary in hand, off I went on a one-week journey across the country.
I spent the first full day just getting mileage under my tires until I finally arrived at the western edge of Indiana. From that point forward, I followed parts of the old Route 66 for a lot of sightseeing. The first place I felt compelled to visit was the tomb & monument of President Abraham Lincoln in Springfield, IL. From there I drove down Illinois, across the Mississippi River, and under the famous Arch of St. Louis. I then spent some time at the Meramec Caverns in Missouri (the one time hideout of Jesse James and his gang), with its labyrinthine underground passageways filled with massive, intricate stalactites and stalagmites formations.
From there was a serene drive through the Ozarks until I reached the tiniest sliver of a forgotten piece of Route 66 that sliced across the southeastern corner of Kansas. Oklahoma, with it’s endless rolling hills and naturally greenery was a soothing stretch before I finally reached the Texas Panhandle.
As Tom Snyder writes in his handy Route 66 Traveler’s Guide and Roadside Companion, “Without a river or some continental rift, border crossings between states usually pass without notice. But not here. Almost immediately after entering Texas, the land changes. It’s almost as if someone looked carefully at this place and decided, without regard for political interests, that the state line just naturally belonged right here.”
Flatter. Drier. Much less green and a lot more beige and brown. Countless crevices and crags and miniature canyons litter the entire stretch of the upper panhandle of Texas. I can’t fathom how anyone with nothing but rickety covered wagons ever managed to cross this unforgiving landscape. I spent a day near Amarillo, hiking through Palo Duro Canyon and the Lighthouse Trail.
The following day lead me into New Mexico, a pastel portrait of the American southwest. Although it was raining when I finally reached Albuquerque and Santa Fe (incredibly wicked thunderstorms, I might add), this region of the U.S. is so naturally gorgeous. I took time to visit the Acoma Pueblo, the naturally formed Ice Cave and lava flow at the base of Bandera volcano crater, and a post-sunset drive across a ghostly stretch of Route 66 to Canyon Diablo.
I rolled into Arizona like the numerous tumbleweeds that blew across the highways. Spent some time at the infamous Meteor Crater (about a mile in diameter!), drove past an amazing field of marigolds near Winona, and then went up towards Little Colorado (a scenic overlook on the way towards the Grand Canyon). I remember meeting a young boy who was a member of the Navajo Nation. His name was Anthony and he was originally from east L.A. He currently was spending time with family on the reservations, learning his craft with the hope that one day he could move to Denver and become a master silversmith.
A number of Navajo were selling their wares there, and Anthony was a heck of a salesman for a young teen. I bought one of his handmade silver bracelets, with chips of turquoise and blood red coral arranged in the “Steps of Life” design. I wished him well on his own journey. He shook my hand, and with a broad smile said goodbye.
The Grand Canyon! I cannot properly describe it to you. I don’t think it’s possible to do so. The sheer vastness of the region just makes you dumbstruck. It’s God’s playground. With a chisel in one hand and a paint brush in the other, He must’ve had a blast creating this place. I only had the chance to spend the major portion of a day along the south rim, and each turn and vista you come to amazes you, thrills you, beckons you, infuses you, inspires you, calms you, quiets you. It’s one place I would definitely want to return to for an extended stay.
I headed back towards Route 66 and its parallel I-40, and tried to out-race several fierce thunderstorms as they traced their way across the north. Dense clouds of charcoal. Wide funnels of water like streaking quicksilver etching the sky and drenching the parched landscape. Lightning sparking so frequently it was a natural fireworks display traveling east while I continued west towards the California border.
My final day was a long drive through Needles, Barstow, and the Mojave Desert in the heavy summer heat. Through San Bernardino, then across the notoriously perpetual Los Angeles traffic jams. Hopped on the last portion of Sunset Boulevard toward the coast, then up the PCH with the Pacific Ocean glistening in the mid-day sun.
At 3:30 PM I arrived, finally, in my new home town. I asked a stranger to take a photo of me at the beach to mark the occasion. I’m here, I thought. I don’t know what’s ahead, but I’m here. And I’m happy. And those seven days solo across the country was one of the best decisions I ever made in my life.
Eleven years later. Reasons have changed. But I’ve remained. I’ve fully become a Californian, despite it’s sometimes infuriating faults. Yesterday, I had to mark the occasion with, of all things, jury duty (ugh!). I lucked out. I wasn’t picked for a trial, so I’m good for another 12 months before they can pull my name again.
And tomorrow??? Tomorrow I turn… 42 (yikes).
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