Lincoln Park
San Francisco
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Times Square
New York City
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By the time the federal government established a highway numbering system in 1926 America was already a maze of established highways. The production of motor cars led way to the development of roads to transport them created by support groups and financed by corporations. While Route 66 is the most recognized of America's historic highways it was neither the first nor the longest. Years before the existence of Route 66 roads such as the Victory Highway, the Dixie Highway, the Oregon Trail and many more were already connecting cities and even coastlines.
The first official trans-continental highway, the Lincoln Highway, was established in 1913 in honor of the late president and ran from Times Square in New York City to Lincoln Park in San Francisco. Several plaques along the route referred to the highway as, "The Road of Remembrance." Celebrities such as author Emily Post and Packard Motor Car Company president Henry Joy graced its path and brought it recognition. Despite a valiant fight for its survival the Lincoln Highway met its end in 1926, but only in its official status as an American Highway. Thanks to the efforts of the Lincoln Highway Association the Lincoln Highway, the "Road of Remembrance" lives on in the public eye.
The Remembrance Expedition is my second walk across America and the first for the endeavor of Cross Roads. As with my walk on Route 66 this journey is an undertaking that will cover a several year period taking me literally from "sea to shining sea" along the path of the historic Lincoln Highway. The following will keep you informed of the progress of my journey.
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As I type these words I am snuggled comfortably on my couch in my home in Arizona. The rain tapping on my roof and the cool temperatures outside tell me that fall is here and winter is just around the corner. It seems like only yesterday that the long cold winter that blanketed the ground for several months was finally over. It also seems like only yesterday that I first conceived of the idea to walk across America on the Lincoln Highway. Tired muscles, a collection of photos, and a pile of credit card receipts are telling me that the first leg of my walk on the Lincoln Highway is over.
After two years of planning and preparation I began my walking journey on the Lincoln Highway on September 8, 2008 at Lincoln Park in San Francisco and ended the first leg two weeks later in Sacramento. To say that it was a mix of emotions would be a gross understatement. I would have thought that having walked across America once would have eased all the doubts that come with an undertaking like this, but I was wrong. On the contrary, having done one such walk already made me keenly aware of all the things that happen good and bad. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t trade my time on Route 66 for all the money in the world. It was beyond a doubt the best years of my life, but when it all came down to the moment I found myself asking if I really wanted to spend another seven years putting myself through it all again.
After many sleepless nights and many long restless days I came to the reality of something I knew all along. What I was taking on wasn’t about a physical endeavor or even about getting recognition. What I was doing was about something I believed in and even more than that it was about who and what I am. What I do makes a statement about many things; about life, faith, and hope. It also makes the statement that there is a price to pay for the things that matter in life, a price to pay even for the freedoms we enjoy which I have to wonder is something this nation has sadly forgotten.
As I journal this experience it is my desire to bring you on a journey with me not only through the experiences that I will have on this walk, but through the journey of life, faith, and hope. In the end I hope that it will change your life just as the journey that brought me to this point as well as the one that lies ahead has and will change mine.
“If you're going to San Francisco
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair
If you're going to San Francisco
You're gonna meet some gentle people there
For those who come to San Francisco
Summertime will be a love-in there
In the streets of San Francisco
Gentle people with flowers in their hair
All across the nation such a strange vibration
People in motion
There's a whole generation with a new explanation
People in motion people in motion
For those who come to San Francisco
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair
If you come to San Francisco
Summertime will be a love-in there
If you come to San Francisco
Summertime will be a love-in there”
~ Scott McKenzie
While San Francisco dates back much further than when this song was published this tune is as much an American icon as the Golden Gate Bridge. In the 1960’s a generation answered its call, nestled in its streets, and wore flowers in their hair. Had I been older at the time I would have answered that call too, but answer the call, or perhaps “a call” I ultimately would, just not to wear flowers in my hair, tie-die shirts over my chest, beads around my neck, Birkenstocks on my feet, or to sing along with the strumming of a guitar in the Haight-Ashbury district. As I walked the streets in San Francisco the lyrics of this tune ran through my mind and woven throughout them was the awe and wonder at everything it took to get me there.
It seems like only yesterday that I was standing at the Missouri/Kansas border celebrating my last steps on Route 66. I had worked, planned, and paid every conceivable price to get to that day and then, just as quietly as it all began it was over. The sounds of cameras clicking stopped, the sounds of exhilarated voices were suddenly hushed, car doors slammed, engines roared, and people shuffled back off to wherever they came from. In an instant I found myself amidst a scene that was familiar yet at the same time very different. I began my seven-year walking journey on Route 66 at that spot with no one to cheer me on, but while the scenery hadn’t changed in all that time there was no mistaking that I had. As I look back on it all now I realize the truth of the words someone spoke to me that day. “This isn’t an ending. It’s a beginning.”
I didn’t waste any time returning to my home in Arizona and to my job. To be honest I don’t know if it had less to do with my sense of responsibility or more to do with the fact that I didn’t want time to think. Either way I was looking forward to a change, to living a “normal” life, but it wasn’t long before a series of events began once again changing the course of my life.
In the spring of 2006 I received a phone call asking me to assist a man walking Route 66. The man, also named Dennis was walking from Chicago to Santa Monica promoting pain clinics. What made his journey especially unique, at least to me was that he stowed his gear in a wheel barrow that he pulled behind him. We spent an evening at my home looking at pictures and sharing our experiences. As I watched him disappear into the darkness that night I felt a familiar tug at my heart. For nearly a year-and-a-half even the thought of camping gear was distasteful to me, but that night something happened and I knew it.
I traveled to Kingman, Arizona a couple of days later to spend another day with Dennis. I gave him a driving tour of the Mojave Desert and he in turn gave me the tour of his wheelbarrow. While that may not sound like much to the average person I knew that there was more to this “rig” than met the eye. Over the course of a couple of hours I learned about all the things he did to make this thing work and how he dealt with situations on the road that only someone who had walked the highway would know or appreciate. When I left his motel that day I knew that he had a good idea. I also knew I could improve on it.
Not long after spending time with Dennis I remembered an email I received when I was walking Route 66. A member of the Lincoln Highway Association heard about my journey and wrote to ask me to consider walking their highway. I politely passed it off at the time, but all of a sudden that email came to mind as well as a rekindled desire to be back on the road. On Memorial Weekend 2006 I began researching the Lincoln Highway as well as making contacts with their National Association. Needless to say, the idea of another walk across America was well on its way to a reality.
For a couple of months I surfed the internet, flipped through books, and made sketches until the Cross Roads logo emerged. In August I ordered my “rig” from a local bicycle shop. On Labor Day 2006 I threaded coat hangers on to my makeshift harness and took my first walk. There is no other way to express the feeling I had that day than by saying that the only other time I felt that way was when I took my first steps on Route 66. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. I covered app. seven miles that evening, but I was still a lot of miles, time, and effort away from the reality.
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In hindsight I was glad that I wasn’t employed during the summer of 2006. It took every bit of the 18-20 hour days I “worked” to accomplish what I did and had it not been for the opportunity of having that time I would still be in the planning stage. The downside was that the nest egg I had was quickly disappearing as well as the prospects of finding work. By the end of September I knew that it was time to look elsewhere.
I had the impression that jobs were plentiful in San Diego, California and given my work experience I felt that I wouldn’t have any concerns. San Diego also offered a warm winter climate, quite unlike what I had become accustomed to which I figured would allow me to spend more time developing my walking trailer. I watched with mixed emotions as the mountain backdrop to Flagstaff disappeared in my rearview mirror as I headed west. Two days later as I pulled out of the mountains and into the hustle and bustle of San Diego traffic the words on my lips were, “What have I done?”
We all remember those defining moments in our lives and my first day in San Diego qualified as one for me. A big part of my decision to relocate to the San Diego area was so that I could attend the Shadow Mountain Community Church pastored by internationally recognized David Jeremiah. I became acquainted with him via his radio and television broadcasts while living in Flagstaff and knew that it would be the opportunity of a lifetime to be able to attend services there. It also helped my decision process knowing that there was an RV park only two miles from the church campus. I had absolutely no desire to live in a large metro area, but I figured that it would be worth the inconvenience in order to soak up the atmosphere of such a great institution as well as the wisdom of such a well respected man.
I arrived at my destination, parked the motorhome, signed the paperwork, and headed straight over to the church to attend the Sunday night service. I arrived late, but just in time to hear David Jeremiah begin his sermon. It turned out that this particular night was also the night of a nationally televised sporting event and he expressed his delight that so many chose to attend services instead. The words he chose to express that gratitude cut straight to my heart.
“Those of you who have children as I do know that they watch
what you do. They know when you have done or given up
something that cost you and they take note of it. I want
you to know tonight that if you have given up something
in order to be here your heavenly father has taken note of it.”
All the doubts I had about where I was suddenly disappeared. At that moment I knew I had made the right decision and I was where I was supposed to be. I also knew that this place had something special in store for me and I would not be disappointed just not in the way I thought.
There were many times that David Jeremiah ended his Sunday night sermons by making a statement something to the effect that the next day we would all be back to living and dealing with “the world” implying that it was a good thing to get away and gather together on Sundays, but that we still have to deal with the realities of life. That “reality” came very quickly for me the next day and for many days and weeks to come.
Unlike the impression I had of San Diego, the reality was that jobs were scarce and thousands of people were unemployed. The days turned into weeks as my own frustration and discouragement mounted. The last Friday in October found me driving southbound on a crowded interstate at the end of the day and at the end of yet another non-productive interview. It was the same old story. I either had too much experience or not enough. People must have thought I was a lunatic (of course on the other hand I was in southern California) because as I was driving I was jumping up and down and screaming, “God what are you doing?”
Surprisingly enough I managed to get a full nights sleep that night unlike most nights when the panic over financial responsibilities overwhelmed me. I even awoke feeling refreshed, but with something on my mind. Just the day before in my daily Bible reading I came across a passage that described the journey of the children of Israel when they left Egypt and headed for the Promised Land. This particular passage summarizes the event by saying that they were led by a cloud by day and a pillar of fire at night. My thoughts turned immediately to my little “episode” the day before on the interstate and also to the visual image of the fog rolling in from the ocean and with that image came the following words.
“You can allow yourself to get lost in the fog of the world
or you can let yourself be led by a cloud of grace.”
What that meant to me was very clear. It is easy, perhaps even natural to see life in light of our circumstances, i.e., the “fog of this world.” On the other hand it is faith that requires us to live our lives dependant upon God to lead us in times and in situations when we can’t see anything positive or good.
I saw God provide over and over again during my walk on Route 66, at times in some pretty spectacular ways. When I left Arkansas to begin that journey I didn’t have a bank roll in my pocket or corporate sponsors at my disposal. I literally had the shirt on my back and trust in my heart. I wish I could say that I wasn’t afraid, but I can’t. What I can say is that I put actions to my beliefs and that trust was always rewarded. I’ll always remember those things, of course, but when life returned to normal I no longer worried about the next meal, etc. and took life for granted. On that crisp October Morning I know that I was reminded once again that it is God provides and takes care of me.
I was seated comfortably in my usual spot inside the sanctuary of the Shadow Mountain Community Church that Sunday morning when Pastor Jeremiah took the pulpit. He took a moment to look out over the congregation, posed his thoughts, and said these words. “Has anyone said these words this week? ‘God, what are you doing?’” I acknowledged my own lack of faith that day and renewed my commitment to trust in him. Three days later I was employed.
I won’t say that the following months were easy. Finances continued to be a struggle, but I always managed to keep up. Pretty soon days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. Before I knew it the year passed, winter ended, and spring arrived along with my first testing of the trailer.
Interestingly enough I lived a couple of hundred feet from one of America’s oldest historic highways: The Old Spanish Trail. What makes this highway so unique is that along with its length and the fact that it was one of the few highways that connected both coasts it also connected two of America’s oldest cities; San Diego, California and St. Augustine, Florida. A special marker for the highway was even located about a quarter of a mile from my rv park. I had been living on America’s historic highways for years and it seemed appropriate that I should continue living on yet another one.
Over the course of the month of March in 2007 I made my way during weekends across the San Diego metro area beginning with the western terminus marker located at Horton Plaza in downtown San Diego to the eastern city limits of El Cajon. Even though the “rig” was only in its beginning stage it was an immediate hit. Heads turned as cars drove by, people asked questions, and some who were crossing intersections turned around to walk with me. It was no doubt a sign of things to come. Of course there were some who found a negative interest in my handy work much to my surprise. While I was waiting for some friends at Horton Plaza I leaned my rig against a concrete ledge and sat down. It wasn’t long before a policeman informed me that the area wasn’t used for homeless people and I needed to move along. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but I just couldn’t help expressing my irritation. I mean this thing wasn’t a shopping cart and I was dressed up in expensive athletic clothing color matched to my trailer. My response of, “Do I look homeless to you?” was met with a, “well, just don’t hang out here for a long time.”
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I was thrilled at the success of the first maiden voyage. My favorite comment along the way was this. “I had no idea they made something like this. I could use it the next time I am homeless.” The strings of my heart and soul were tugging and I struggled with the idea of just hitting the road and making my way across America on the road I was on, but as I made my way through the San Diego Zoo I heard a familiar voice giving me advice. “Take time to prepare.” Only in hindsight did I realize just how wise that was and how thankful I was that I heeded those words.
For reasons that I am not sure I could explain I knew that San Diego was not where I was supposed to be living the rest of my life so I said no to a better job offer that spring and headed back to Arizona. I didn’t know how things were going to work out, but there was a sense of peace that things would and they did. I was back to work within two weeks and back to work at my old job in three months which came with a guarantee of two leaves a year to allow me to walk. Everything was finally beginning to look up and for the first time I actually saw things coming together.
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For the past ten years I have lived either on or near one of America's historic highways. For the last year-and-a-half I have called a dead-end stretch of old Route 66 in Northern Arizona home. Unlike a lot of old Route 66 today it has avoided so called "road improvements." It hasn't been widened or black topped and the ground that shoulders it hasn't been developed or landscaped. It bears the signs of old age that would probably not attract your average tourist, but it might as well be paved with gold as far as I'm concerned. I never in my wildest dreams imagined when I walked through here years ago that I would call this area home. Needless to say, it holds a special place in my heart not only for the memories it brings, but also because of the role it plays in my life once again.
By the time I reached the eastern edge of the Mojave Desert late in the spring of 2001 on my walking journey of Route 66 the temperatures were already climbing into the triple digits. Circumstances over the winter put me a couple of months behind schedule and although I figured I could have made my way across it, I simply didn't want to deal with the challenging heat. I also didn't want to sit still at the moment either, but deep inside I knew it was the right thing to do. On the other hand, if you have to be stuck somewhere during the summer months Flagstaff, Arizona is one of the best places to be. Because of its climate Flagstaff is rated as one of the ten best summer climates in America and because of its geography it offers plenty of camping facilities. Unfortunately I quickly found out that these "facilities" presented a problem for me; campers are restricted to short time limits. It was beginning to look discouraging when I remembered a campground I saw from an overlook west of Flagstaff on old Route 66. I ran it down in a campground atlas and made a call. At first I didn't believe my ears so I called back. The man on the other end of the line sounded a little irritated at having to repeat himself, but his words brought great relief to me. There was no time limit for campers and their park offered full amenities.
I can't explain it, but I knew I found a home that day. For the next three years (excluding walking time) I was able to call the Ponderosa Forest RV Park & Campgrounds my home and the owners and their family mine as well. It was a sad day when I got the news that they had sold the park. As we all huddled in the office that last day I learned an amazing truth about how all of our lives had come to be intertwined.
It seems that the infamous musician Glenn Miller had owned the property years ago before the completion of Interstate 40 and named it, of all things, "King of the Road RV Park." And while I don't know the details I would suspect that like most places and towns that got bypassed by the interstate highway system his business died as well. The park closed in 1984 and remained dormant for many years. For reasons I also do no know the property was purchased by the Stinson Family of Flagstaff, Arizona in 1998, the very year I began my walking journey of Route 66. With tongue-in-cheek and a tear in her eye Jane Stinson looked at me on that last day and remarked, "We decided that since you were through walking we were through camping."
It was because of the selling of the park that I discovered the park that I now live on. I had long since departed my tenting lifestyle when I purchased a 30 ft. class A motorhome in the fall of 2004 so naturally my search was for RV parks. When I came to check the place out I remembered the day I walked through the area and also remembered wondering what this property was all about. Located on the edge of a pine forest it had cabins dotting the landscape, a couple of motorhomes, and an abandoned filling station. For reasons I also can't explain I knew this place had a story to tell and I was not wrong.
During the glory days of Route 66 a tourist court operated on the property complete with a service station. Like all of those places on Route 66 and all of America's historic highways for that matter there were lots of stories to be told if the walls could talk, but in the case of this place the walls didn't need to. Hollywood did the talking for it. As much as Route 66 became the icon for America's historic highways, the movie "Easy Rider" became the icon for the free spirit. Its theme song, "Born to be Wild" came to be nothing short of a cult classic. If you aren't familiar with the movie this flick centers around two "bikers" traveling across America on a chopper. The journey begins in Los Angeles and crosses western Arizona on Route 66. If you are a trivia buff and want to take the time to watch the movie pay close attention to the place where the two bikers cross the Colorado River. The bridge they are riding on was opened just prior to the filming of the movie and is now the bridge that carries traffic along Interstate 40. If you look closely you will notice that there are two other bridges there. Both of these carried Route 66 traffic at one point. The original Route 66 bridge is the one with the huge arch, now resigned to the task of hosting a natural gas pipeline. The bridge that appears next to them was the second bridge to carry Route 66 traffic which was taken down shortly after the movie was filmed. The uniqueness of this scene is that this is one of the rare images where all three Route 66 bridges appear.
After cruising across western Arizona the biker duo decides to pull over for the night at a tourist court shortly after sunset. There is a neon "Vacancy" sign glowing above the doorway where the night clerk talks to them. A few moments later the neon sign turns into a "No Vacancy" sign and the two drive away. As is typical the property remained dormant for many years, but was eventually rescued, the cabins restored, and provisions made to host a handful of motorhomes. Needless to say, it was the perfect place for me to be considering my connection to Route 66. I drive past the spot everyday where they filmed that infamous scene.
Most of the cabins are now used for storage, but one of the cabins was renovated to be used as a restroom/shower facility. The cabin is partitioned in the center providing for men's and women's areas and there are separate entrances. When I inquired about staying here I was told that the park was only for full hook up RV's and the restrooms were not open for use. After much pleading I convinced the owner to open them up for the two of us who came together with our RV's. In the end I got one side of the cabin and my friend got the other along with a warning to keep them clean.
If you've ever had the opportunity to shower in a motorhome you would appreciate having an access to a real shower. Don't get me wrong, I love my home and wouldn't trade it for anything, but it is nice not having to jump in and out of the shower every time you want to get a different part of your body wet. Needless to say, it was a very easy transition and it has been a long time since I've experienced the aerobic workout of my own shower.
It also didn't take me long to realize another benefit of my new restroom. After working on my walking trailer a few times in the living room of my motorhome it occurred to me that I had a better place to work. When it came time to paint all the components of my trailer the cabin was an array of bits and pieces sitting atop blocks of wood. Weekend usually found me there measuring, cutting, drilling, and generally brainstorming.
I was always amazed at how time flew by when I was working in the cabin. It wasn't unusual for me to walk in the building some time at night and then to walk out in time to see the sun rise. I will never forget one weekend when I stepped out to go to bed at five in the morning. It was still dark, the moon was full, and the sky was an amazing cluster of stars. I crawled into bed figuring that I would sleep the day away only to be awakened a short time later. I looked outside my window and discovered a wintry wonderland and the traffic on the interstate next to me at a standstill. After waking up on several occasions and seeing that the traffic was still at a standstill and that the same vehicles were in the same spots I knew something was wrong. I soon discovered that soon after I went to bed a freak snow storm hit causing a white out. And as usual some driver panicked. Before it was all said and done 300 cars piled up creating one of the biggest accidents this state has ever seen.
In hindsight I have realized much to my amazement how once again as with my stay at the Ponderosa Forest RV Park things were prepared over the course of time to provide for me to have what I needed to continue my journey along America's historic highways.
As things progressed with the development of my trailer I found myself in a very unique position geographically for other things as well. Besides all the basic structural work that needed to be done I needed someone to customize the fabric of the trailer. I don't think I even need to tell you how difficult it is to find someone with the expertise to do that kind of work to say nothing of the cost involved for someone who did. I spent a great deal of time researching places on the internet and submitting pricing requests literally nationwide. In the process I came across an internet dealer who specialized in bicycle cargo trailers. Curious, more than anything to get his feedback on what I was working on I called his toll free number. At the end of our conversation I asked for his mailing address. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that he was only a few miles from where I worked. We met a couple of days later at his shop and in the course of the conversation I learned about a custom seamstress in the area who fabricates outdoor gear and clothing. When it was all said and done I not only found someone qualified but willing to work at a reasonable cost. And probably just as important I had someone with a close enough physical proximity for me to be able to work closely with.
My proving ground naturally was old Route 66. I took my walks with the trailer at all hours of the day and night, but I preferred the night. I always get a kick out of the flashing LED lights as do others. One night as I was walking I saw someone pull off the interstate and head my way. I just assumed that they were heading somewhere in particular, but as they got close to me they slowed down, stared, and then turned around and headed back. Even in the daylight people drove by, stopped, and asked questions. It was no doubt a sign of things to come.
I am constantly saying that people have no idea what it takes to put together an undertaking like this. My guess is that too many people have watched the movie, "Forrest Gump" and assume that you just go walking. I only wish that it was that easy. Besides building the trailer I design all the artwork, create the signs hanging on it, design the flyers and all the printed materials, create and maintain this website, and do all my PR work. I wish I had a penny for every minute I spend researching gear. With a task like this you not only have to use gear that can withstand continuous use and all kinds of conditions, but you have to factor in weight as well. Because I travel alone I have to be concerned about communications as well as putting into place contingency plans for emergency situations. There is extensive mapping of course and last, but not least physical training. Are you beginning to get the idea?
When I looked at the packed back area of my PT Cruiser on the morning of September 05, 2008 it was hard to believe that all I had to show for 28 months of work were two duffle bags and my harness assembly. On the other hand the fact that I had reduced everything needed to just a small amount was the evidence that I had done my job. As you can imagine my head was filled with all sorts of questions. "Did I remember this? Did I remember that? Was I even sure that this thing was even going to hold together?" In the midst of all my doubts and questions at the moment though one thing was for sure. The time for preparation was complete and the real work was now at hand.
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While the focus of what I do is about walking what I do is also about driving. The Road Trip is nearly as much a part of true Americana as the American Flag even if our “beloved” new president chooses not to recognize it. I have spent enough countless hours shuttling myself back and forth to walking destinations to say that this part of my journey has a life of its own.
During the year 2000 I actually spent more time driving than I did walking. Working in the Oklahoma City area put me at a greater distance from my walking destinations than I ever intended to be which meant that road time consisted of leaving town on Friday evenings and returning late on Sunday evenings.
Needless to say my poor car saw more than its share of mechanics that year and they in turn saw way too much of the inside of my billfold. On the flipside though that much road time left me with a lot of memorable experiences, the opportunity to meet a lot of people, and last but not least a few valuable lessons. One August night was filled with all three.
Common sense told me that spending twelve hours in the Texas heat would catch up with me. Temporary insanity probably caused by the twelve hours spent in the heat led me to believe that it would catch up with me too, but with the illusion that it wouldn’t catch up with me until I got home. Regardless of what I believed or didn’t believe one thing was for sure. A couple of hours into my drive back home I knew it was going to be a long night.
When I pulled off the interstate about an hour from Oklahoma City I was breathing a sigh of relief. It had been a long torturous drive, but with the help of a cup-a-jo and some fresh air I knew I could make it home. What I didn’t know was that someone was following me who wasn’t feeling anything but relief. As a matter of fact, he was in search of some. At my expense!
As soon as I parked my car in front of the window of the store at the truck stop I leaned over the passenger seat to grab the coffee mug I had under it, but for some reason I couldn’t find it. I fumbled around for several minutes until it occurred to me that it would just be a lot easier to pay the extra few cents for a Styrofoam cup. I sat up to open the door, but was overcome by the desire to look just one more time so I leaned back down over the passenger seat and began reaching around again. As soon as I began my search though I was startled by a loud voice. When I sat up I came face to face with an angry man pounding on my window.
I cracked my window just enough to be able to make out what he was saying, but not enough for him to reach inside. I may have been mesmerized by hours and hours of gazing at a dotted line, but I was coherent enough to realize a serious threat when I saw it. In the midst of his outrageous anger I was able to determine that he was accusing me of tailing him on the interstate and also clearly making out his threats of bodily harm. Probably due to my state of exhaustion he wasn’t able to accelerate the situation. I calmly and repeatedly assured him, behind a locked door mind you, that I was innocent of whatever he was accusing me of. He eventually realized that his aggression was going nowhere and he left.
It wasn’t until several months later when I happened across an article about road rage that I discovered the four steps to take when confronted by an aggressive driver; avoid eye contact, stay cool, don’t join in the confrontation, and go to a public place. Apparently I passed the test because I made it in and out of the truck stop with my coffee, even though I didn’t even need it by that time, made it back on the road, and eventually home a little shaken, but unscathed.
Years later now as I face a lot of traveling again I can’t help but wonder at what experiences lie ahead. What I do know is that crossing the Mojave Desert is something to take seriously and I didn’t want to begin the first leg of my second walking journey across America on a bad note. Time has yet to soften nor has mankind been able to tame one of the most dreaded elements of nature. Contrary to popular belief the reason for the name for the border town in California isn’t because of the jagged mountain peaks just outside its city limits. The real reason for the name Needles is because of the prickling effects of the heat which can reach well into the 120’s. I’ve never had the “privilege” of experiencing that sensation nor do I ever intend to.
Thankfully we can isolate ourselves from the elements in the comfort of our vehicles. Unfortunately they still have to deal with them and even though my PT Cruiser was still nearly brand new I didn’t want to push the limits. Anticipating the heat crossing the stretch across the Mojave Desert between Needles and Barstow I left home in the early morning hours.
While crossing this area of the country today isn’t the daunting task it once was there is no denying either its ruggedness or its dangers. It’s easy to lull your consciousness into a state of ease from the comfort of an automobile traveling at 60 mph, but when you are up close and personal with this environment the reality of it all is sobering. I remember gazing into the western horizon from the sleepy little town of Oatman, Arizona and feeling my heart skipping a few beats and asking myself just what had I gotten into.
Much to my surprise my intimidation for the area grew less and less in the time I spent there. And instead of my time in the desert being the most dreaded part of my time on Route 66 in the end it came to be my favorite thanks to modern technology. Unlike the infamous Joad family from the Grapes of Wrath my encounter with the desert was filled with the sounds of orchestra music as opposed to the piping sounds of an over heated radiator. The sounds of strings, wind instruments, and drums courtesy of my Walkman CD Player transformed the scenery around me into a musical experience. Instead of seeing a harsh and barren landscape my eyes saw a concert hall. With each crescendo I felt the power and the majesty of the rugged peaks and with each low and softness of the music I felt the deserts vast isolation. Needless to say, I will never look at the desert in the same way again.
After completing my journey on Route 66 I even chose to celebrate by spending a winter not too far from Needles nestled in the sand in the comfort of my motorhome. I still miss the howling of the coyotes at night and the beauty of the sunsets. And even though I left long before summer I still managed to experience temperatures high enough to make me “appreciate” what it must be like to be around in August. If you can even imagine it one couple at the RV park there told me that they spent a summer there. The temperatures during August that year climbed to around 125 degrees which would have been one thing, but for a couple of days they had a power outage and not only did they have no electricity to run their air conditioner they had no water either.
Thankfully my trip from Flagstaff to San Francisco was uneventful. Even though it was September the temperatures crossing the desert only reached into the high nineties. Oddly enough the temperatures west of there were higher and thankfully they too subsided before it was time for me to walk.
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