waypoints 5

I was lucky enough to hit the road recently with my son Nick—3461 miles of it, including some of the most jaw dropping two lane stretches in America: US 550 from Durango, CO up to Ouray; US 50 into Lake Tahoe; CA 120 across the divide into Yosemite; CA 180 through sheer verticles into King’s Canyon; CA 198 from the majestic sequoias to the hot lands; and CA 1 through fingers of fog along the coast of Big Sur up to San Francisco.

Nick’s feat of driving was astounding.  Whenever we had the road to ourselves he would get us into a beautiful rhythm, hitting the curves at the perfect velocity, feeling every undulation, so that it seemed to me like we were dancing with the landscapes themselves as we passed through layer upon layer of unfolding grandeur.

This was the trip, day after day, Nick driving and driven, always pushing us further, always taking in more, a lush composition of sensations that became a symphony:  snow on the ragged peaks beyond our reach, ancient pulse of sap in the old giants of the forest, dashing tumbling rivers carving their cathedrals of stone on their way to the sea, condors soaring over waves breaking over rocks like teeth in the sun, rubber eating up asphalt hungry for the next bend in the road, the unshakeable strength of this nation rooted in the immensity of the land itself, the road its own destination.

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