Rachel's Road Trip: The Road Home

Yellowstone was the only place where I worried about the cold. I was warm at night in my fleecy layers, with my hooded sleeping bag synched tightly around my face, but the steady rain made it a constant battle to stay dry. When the thunder woke me, I’d check where water was entering the tent, soak up what I could, and reposition my thin foam mat between drips and puddles. I knew if my sleeping bag got wet it would be hard to stay warm in the 40 degree temperatures. When the rains finally stopped on my third night, I fell into a deep, relieved sleep. And then I heard the first wolf.

When I think back to Yellowstone, it’s the dream-like landscapes and feeling of trespassing in the animal world that I’ll remember most vividly. I saw hot springs in colors I didn’t know existed in nature, ran for the Subaru when a herd of Bison changed direction, looked out across fields with geysers popping up like whack-a-moles, and heard a pack of wolves make a kill, pulse-quickeningly close to my campsite.

I was listening to Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything during my drive, and was startled when, two hours after leaving Yellowstone, the park became a focus. I knew there was magma under Yellowstone that fueled its geysers, but didn’t know it was an active volcano overdue to erupt. When the narrator asked me to imagine a pile of TNT 8-miles high and “about the size of Rhode Island” to get “some idea of what visitors to Yellowstone are shuffling around on top of” I almost choked on my coffee.

I spent August 7 crossing Wyoming, pitched my tent on the shore of a reservoir near its eastern border, and fell asleep to the sound of jumping fish. The next morning I set off for Devil’s Tower National Park, following my GPS down a dirt road through open range livestock, which clarified why the highway on-ramps had cattle guards.

I’d never heard of Sturgis, South Dakota, until my Kansas friends told me my itinerary put me in the heart of its annual motorcycle rally. Over dinner in Seattle, other friends warned me of gas shortages and debauchery. Each year nearly half-a-million bikers descend on Sturgis; this year a Subaru joined them. I eased my way through the sea of motorcycles, trying to blend, parked at the Presbyterian Church, and enthusiastically ventured out to find lunch. Two hours later, and one skull shirt richer, I set off for Mount Rushmore, and then on to Badlands National Park.

My first visit to South Dakota’s Badlands, with its dusty prairies and rocky spires, was with my family when I was five. I remember a sand storm so powerful we would have lost our pop-top camper if strangers hadn’t come running to help my parents put it down. I have a photo from that trip, and shared it with a ranger who made suggestions about where it might have been taken. I balanced my open laptop on my arm as I searched, recruiting fellow hikers to help me line up shots as I zeroed in on the ridge line. By the time I found it, it felt like half the park was cheering me on.

A hiker I’d met in Montana told me about a historic “Minuteman Missile” site, just outside the Badlands. Growing Cold War tension, and the Soviet Union’s successful Sputnik launch in 1957, prompted the US Government to construct an extensive nuclear network across the Great Plains. Missileers staffed the underground launch centers for decades, going on high alert during the Cuban Missile Crisis, Kennedy Assassination, and Yom Kipper War, but thankfully never firing. Though many of the sites have since been closed, the National Park Service preserved a launch center and missile silo in South Dakota to illustrate the history and significance of the arms race. I toured them on August 10, before traveling on to Fort Collins, Colorado.

I spent the next several days weaving across the heartland, catching up with friends from various chapters of my life. From August 10-12, I visited Peace Corps friends in Fort Collins who just celebrated their 70th birthdays. They took me on a 30-mile bike ride, then out for margaritas, as we reminisced about adventures across Turkmenistan. On August 12, I had dinner with college friends in Papillion, Nebraska, whom I’d last seen at their wedding in 1998, then visited a childhood friend who’d also settled in Papillion. We’d roller skated to Bon Jovi together in the 5th grade, and gone to their concert in our 20s. On August 13, I traveled to Mason City, Iowa, to meet a friend for lunch and visit a hotel designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.

I spent that night in Stillwater, Minnesota, in the “Chiang-Mai” room of a Southeast Asia-inspired bed and breakfast. After so many weeks of camping, I was awed by the golden Buddhas, and a little wary of walking on the carpets, but quickly settled in. The cheese plate helped. I felt like I’d stepped back in time as I explored the downtown, with its vintage cars and old fashioned storefronts. I stopped for coffee at the Daily Grind, and learned HBO is considering a new drama series about an NYPD cop who relocates to Stillwater. I was curious whether local residents thought that sounded like a good storyline, but figured it was impolite to raise doubts. The next morning I got to know my fellow B&B guests over breakfast, and was touched when my glazed pear dessert arrived with a birthday sparkler.

I’d planned to go back to camping on August 14, but staying in a B&B had been so lovely I found another near Devil’s Lake State Park in Wisconsin and reserved their last room. I dropped off my bags and got directions to the nearby Native American effigy mounds from the B&B owner, who mentioned her family had a bench in the park. The moment I saw the bench, it eclipsed the mounds. When I got back to the house, I sat down at the kitchen table and had a cup of coffee as my host folded towels. I asked her about the girl the bench memorialized, and she told me about her 17-year-old daughter.

I left Wisconsin on August 15, stopping in Le Claire, Iowa, to browse Antique Archeology, a store made famous by the History Channel. From there I headed on to Rossville, Indiana, the one-stoplight town where my family lived until I was 10. I had dinner at the local pizza place, walked down the alley where I learned to ride a bike, and marveled how summer nights smelled the same as I remembered. As I walked past our old house, I saw a realty sign in the yard and the door ajar, so waited for someone to come out. I introduced myself, explaining that I grew up in the house, and my dad had been the minister at the Presbyterian Church next door. I’d no sooner gotten the words out than he exclaimed “Tom Thomas! I was your dad’s EMT instructor!” Five minutes later I was texting my brother a picture of the hall banister.

On August 16, I traveled south to visit my uncle and 3 cousins in Louisville, Kentucky. My uncle said I could pitch my tent in the backyard if I needed to ease back into life indoors. I looked at my cousin, who shook his head and carried my suitcase upstairs. Over the next two days we made early morning donut runs, brunched in the restaurant where my middle cousin cooks, listened to dulcimer music, and contra danced to a 10-man band. And then there was Thomas game night. I grin each time I remember it, but we vowed never to speak of it again, so I’ll just leave it there.

I got up on August 19, had one last coffee with my cousin, and set off on the final leg of my journey -- driving across Kentucky, into West Virginia, through Maryland, to my parents’ home in Pennsylvania. I’m so grateful to all of the people who have been part of this trip, from showing interest and offering encouragement, to making recommendations and welcoming me into their communities. I’m especially grateful to my parents for teaching me to love adventures, and giving me the tools, confidence and Subaru to set off on them.

After 9 weeks on the road, I pulled into the driveway, turned off the engine, and took off the spare car key I’d been wearing on a chain around my neck since June. It’s good to be home. Final mile count: 11,826.