As I sit at my dining room table, pondering, my mind wanders away from me. Glancing out the window, a thin sliver of moon gracing the early morning sky slowly changing colors from black to deep blue, to a pale turquoise; I begin to envision a drive along our nation's first transcontinental roadway. That roadway, the Lincoln Highway, turns a hundred years old this year and I first heard about it today as I read an article in the Travel section of the New York Times. This would be the perfect morning to head out on a cross country road trip. Humid with heavy oppressive air, sitting in a car with the windows down and the sun climbing its way into a cloudless sky would be the perfect remedy. While I would need to travel a bit to the start of the roadway near Times Square in New York, that drive alone could be made traveling Route 1, the Post Road, another transcontinental roadway going north to south instead of east to west. But I digress. The original transcontinental roadway, the Lincoln Highway, was originally a gravel roadway that traversed our country from San Francisco to New York City, over 3,000 miles. Today, the drive can be done in 1-2 weeks, a far cry from the gravel roadway that I am sure took at least a month to travel. That roadway I am sure, began our nation's passion for the open road, the drive into the horizon with no clue of where we are heading or where we will end up. Its a fascination that has gripped me since I was little and I used to travel with my parents by car everywhere. While I have never made a transcontinental road trip either with my parents or by myself, it is on my bucket list of things to do in my life. (Speaking of bucket lists, perhaps it is time to begin one for myself). I could always hop on one of the Interstate highways and make it across country in under a week, but I would miss the foundation of the United States, the small towns, the winding roads through hills of the east and mountains in the west, and of course, the straight as an arrow roads that cross our mighty plains. For myself, small towns are the backbone of our country, no two the same, and every population containing its own micro-culture. Perhaps that is part of the allure of traveling through those small towns, the not knowing what you will find. For the most part, unless you are entering a tourist town, most small towns welcome you with open arms and an inquisitive glance. And lets not forget the ghost towns that dot our landscape, testaments to a bygone era.
Even greater than the allure of the small towns are the ghost towns, not always on the main road, but sometimes down a dirt side road that used to be the center or hub of mining and industry in an area. With the land drained and opportunity dried up, people left and those towns remained, slowly rotting, yet still holding those memories of people who once walked their streets. If ever there was a way to step back in time, it is to walk the streets of a ghost town, close your eyes, and imagine the sound of horse's hooves pounding the packed dirt roads people mingling outside the general store and saloon. Not that I would ever wish that type of life upon myself, but it tickles one's imagination to think of what it must have been like. In our hustle and bustle these days to get everywhere as quick as possible, we never take the time anymore to simply take the back roads, drive a little bit slower, and see the landscape that holds the true beauty in our country. We can fly by some of it on the highways, but we never get to appreciate it the way we could from the back roads where at a moments notice we could pull over and linger for a bit. I too get caught up in the hustle and bustle of modern day life, but there are still times even in my short trips from work to home, where I will take the back roads, just to enjoy the drive, get away from the insane people flying on the roads, and enjoy the gentle breeze blowing through the window. I remember a few trips that I took when I was younger where the only roads I took for hours were back roads. One such trip was from the Canadian border with Vermont all the way home by back roads. The trip took over 7 hours, but it was damn well worth it. On that trip alone, we passed through many small towns that I never would have known existed if I had taken the highway. Passing by sprawling farms in the valleys of Vermont, traversing small mountain passes, searching for those elusive signs that tell you where the road takes a sharp left turn; I would have missed it all from the highway and the wall of trees that blocks the view of almost everything except for distant mountains. Its trips like those that I will remember for a lifetime, perhaps in great detail, but I can remember that trip taken 10 years ago better than all the trips I have taken up to Vermont on I-91 over the past few years.
There was another trip I made around the same time that was similar in nature albeit this one was made solo. I was traveling up to New Hampshire to visit a few friends at college and instead of taking the highway, I decided to map my route taking only back roads. Once again, I don't regret a second of it. Both there and back, the back roads were my mode of transportation. Going there, I used a map to find my way, but the way back was a little different. I decided to wing it, just start driving and see if I could find my way from New Hampshire home to Connecticut. Its not like I was going that far overall and I knew that once I got back to Connecticut that I would be able to figure out how to get home, but driving without directions, without a map, without a GPS, is something that I love doing. There are no specific turns to make, no correct route home, only roads and directional markers telling you approximately where you are headed. For all I knew at the time, I could have ended up in Rhode Island, still not that far away, but a minor deviation none the less. However, I didn't end up in Rhode Island, but I did manage to find some really cool roads along the way. To this day I still remember one section of the trip back through Connecticut. I was traveling route 66 in northern Connecticut and it was foggy as hell. As I came up a larger hill, the trees parted, a farm enveloped the roadway on both sides, and the fog hung daintily in the few trees that lingered by the roadway. I passed a large red barn and all I could think of was that I was lucky to be there. The fog held me and my car, I slowed a little to drink in the sight with my eyes, and held that there as long as I could. I can still draw up that picture in my mind and bring myself back there at will. I can never do that when I have been driving on a highway unless I see something truly spectacular. Yet a farm with a barn and some trees is relatively unspectacular; unless your meant to see it at a certain point in time, which I obviously was ten years ago. So one day, I hope to drive that first transcontinental roadway across our mighty nation, drink in the sights and sounds of a mostly rural life forgotten, and bring myself back to the beginning of our love affair with cars and open road. Regardless of how high the price of gas climbs, my love affair with the open road will never diminish, never.
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