After a fabulous week in Florida, it was time to head west. If it has not come up before, I love driving. There is something about being on the open road, watching the landscape go by that clears my mind in a way few things can. I am amazed by the diversity of these Untied States, both the landscape and the people, and long drives are an excellent opportunity to explore. During most road trips there comes a time when I think I should just get my CDL so I can have someone pay me to do this, and this was no exception. And on this leg I was starting from the Florida panhandle (instead of along the east coast as I did during grad school) and would be able to see landscapes during daylight that I had previously passed through after dark.
The first day turned out to be the most recent day I’ve seen precip – driving into a cold front I encountered bands of fierce rain every hundred miles or so. The first was along the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge (18 continuous miles over bayou), just before I encountered near stop and go traffic. After several miles (and twenty minutes) a tow truck passed on the eastbound lanes, ferrying a semi cab that was nearly folded top to bottom. The doors had not been cut open, a good sign that (along with the fact it was being towed) suggested the driver was OK. Once traffic got moving again it was green fields peppered with horse and cattle until the oil refineries along the border with Texas. The last rain was just after Beaumont.
It is amazing what a few hundred feet of elevation will do. Once in Texas, the land opened up in to low rolling hills, mostly dry, and the towns became further apart. As the sun began to set I was in cattle country west of Houston, and stopped at a lone gas station along the highway. I shared the lot and pumps with ranch trucks of varying vintages, and the south Asian woman behind the counter slipped easily between English and Spanish. As the sun drifted below the horizon, a warm, dry breeze kicked up dust from the gravel and earth parking lot.
One of the most touching things I’ve encountered during this journey is the deep love Kevin’s friends still have for him. This night’s stay was in San Antonio, with a friend Kevin was stationed with at Maelstrom AFB (before he cross-trained to Flight Engineer). Barstow* and Kevin had both been truck enthusiasts, the sort that lowered and tricked out theirs with custom paint, interiors, and rims, and drove hours (and in at least one case days) to display them at shows. Despite intermittent contact over the years, there would be no hotel for me this night, I was staying at his place, no arguments, I was family. And it was nice – Barstow has done well for himself and his family, his oldest in college and he and his youngest living in a large well-appointed home in the ‘booshe’ (short for bourgeois?) part of town. And his vehicle did not disappoint, an Infiniti SUV with immaculate paint and interior, at normal height but with ’street’ rims and thinner tires. It was great to catch up and also provide moral support while he and his son changed the water heater.
The next morning (late morning) I was on the road again, through the white hills, steep arroyos, and open scrub of west Texas. Here I encountered one of my favorite road signs: Speed Limit 80. (Woo Hoo!) If you have never driven in this area, despite the quicker passing of the miles it can be a bit lonely. The towns are seventy or so miles apart, and you consistently see blue placards at the bottom of exit signs advising the distance to next services. For most of the drive up and down hills to Fort Stockton it was a few semis, an SUV from Ontario, the occasional local, and me. Beginning about thirty miles south of El Paso, the highway parallels the border, and in many cases you can see across the Rio Grande (or over the wall) to foreign soil. Here the only reported traffic congestion was at the bridges.
I left Las Cruces early, before the sun rose. After a few miles, I encountered a Border Inspection point. My SUV was filled to window height with books, yarn and clothes, all covered with blankets, but a quick show of my military ID had me waved through without any questions. (As one of my friends later put it when I expressed my surprise, I could have had fifty Oaxacans back there.) This section is one of my favorite highway drives, wide open desert (the Sonora), big skies, 
distant ranges, ground cover, low cactus, and Russian Sage (future tumbleweeds), all a deep green from the winter rains. A rail line parallels the highway, with
long trains at fifteen-minute intervals,
the yellow red and black engines and blue, orange, kelly green and white container cars adding color to the landscape. Each rest area seems to showcase an aspect of the region, one in the middle of a long valley (poppies and cactus blooming orange and magenta), one near a pass cut through sedimentary rock, another in an area of large round red rocks similar to those on the Flintstones, each with a sign reminding you to watch for rattlesnakes. (With water and food scarce in the desert, small animals are drawn to picnic areas and their predators with them.) I turned north at Quartzite to follow a road that wound along the brick, rust and black hills that frame the Colorado and Lake Havasu, the clear blue an odd sight in the arid desert. After ten miles on I-40 I crossed the river in to California and the Pacific Time Zone. Home.
*Names changed because, well, my friends have real lives and are entitled to their privacy.
Thanks for sharing your adventures with me! I miss you, buddy!!