― Jack Kerouac, On the Road
The art of the road trip. Maybe that love started when my parents put us in that 1973 ¾ ton Chevy Pickup, pulling a camper. My sister and I would trade curling up on the bench seat between Dad and Mom, or curling up on the quilt that was folded on the floor. That really was the best place, right beside the manual floor vent, since that green Chevrolet didn’t have a/c.
As a parent, this road trip was planned to evoke some of those memories in me, and cast some in the younger. We had time, food, a dog and roads not traveled. Oh, and playlists. Music sets the tone, and at this point in time, the preferred playlist has a heavy contingent of mountain string band. And maybe a bit of southern rock & roll. Oldest daughter’s playlist includes some newish rock & roll.
I put a little research into Route 66, the Mother Road. I wanted to avoid interstate as much as possible. You see, when traveling the interstate, you’re limited to chain restaurants and chain coffee. And no hand surfing in open windows. It doesn’t have the draw, almost like in the movie Bolt, not even knowing what he was missing until his tongue was flapping in the wind. Which of course happened on our trip as well, The Hound sniffing the wind, picking up scents at 55 miles an hour. And leaving snot drips down the side of the car.
My kind of road trip includes picnics along the side of the road,
and stopping at off-beat locations. Winslow, AZ where the Eagles never stop playing. And the Wigwam Hotel, icons of road trips past.
After a stop at the Santa Fe KOA (I know, not that adventurous, but it was comfy, and it was outside!) The morning brought water boiled over the whisperlite, coffee in a press, and the resumption of our travels.
The desolation of northeast New Mexico is marveled at, and some texts flow from friends at work. Miles go by, while we have the radio off, the windows down, and listen to the steel belts hummin’ on on asphalt, as Steve Earle says.
Afternoon coffee is a fortuitous event in Clayton, NM. Crossroads Coffee catches my eye, but the cue that makes the steering wheel jerk is the little sign that says “We Grind Our Own Beans”. A stop yields a fantastic Americano and a blueberry scone. A few minutes conversation yields a common fondness of scones under-cooked. You know, chewy, not chalky.
Small towns, red bricks and railroads.
We saw many miles. And laughed many laughs. Hutchinson came and reunion with the rest of the family. Good times these. And yes, glad to be alive.
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