Pressing my bare foot against the gas pedal to give my car enough oomph to climb up and out of Yosemite Valley, the last embers of color from a stunning sunset faded to black as I began a nine-hour drive through the dark of night toward Redwood National Park. Behind me, the most extraordinary waterfalls I’d ever seen were roaring over majestic granite cliff faces and crashing into the calm valley that, just a couple of hours earlier, had been filled with a crawling cavalcade of cars, trucks, SUVs and tour buses that snake along the park’s roads during the day and retreat to some mysterious lair upon the descent of darkness.
A plastic bucket in the trunk of my 2009 Hyundai Elantra held my trail runners and hiking boots that had both become completely soaked during a day that involved trekking under waterfalls and over submerged trails. Yosemite had received twice as much snow as usual during the winter of 2016-17, and on this day in late May the big melt fed incredible cascades that were showering the valley from all sides.
Not willing to waste daylight driving, this was the second time in a week I had decided to cruise through the heart of night on the unfamiliar roads of a state I’d never before visited. The grooved rubber of the gas pedal felt strange against the sole of my tired, bare right foot, but soon I felt more connected to the road than ever as I cruised north along the lonesome interstates and highways in pursuit of the next adventure.
The freedom I sensed swelled with each mile I put between myself and a stagnant life in the Midwest from which I’d untethered. Winding up and down mountains, through forests and past lakes, I couldn’t see much beyond the glow of my headlights. Finally, for the first time in 30 years on this Earth, I glimpsed the foggy Pacific coast as day began to break, then hiked that misty morning among the mighty redwoods of a mystical fern-filled realm.
Rays of sunlight shine in the early morning mist at Redwood National Park in California.
Matt Dahlseid/The New Mexican
There are days and nights you immediately recognize as ones you’ll remember forever. This was one of mine.
The solo road trip is a remedy for a restless spirit. Breaking away from the ruts of daily routines, life pulses through your body as you lay eyes upon new lands, meet new people and maybe even discover something about yourself as you respond to the challenges and opportunities that the road presents.
I try to take a road trip of a week or more at least once a year. The vast expanses of the United States offer endless possibilities for exploration, and I prefer covering the miles on the ground versus soaring in the air so I can get a close look at what’s there.
Avoiding the interstates as much as possible, I travel the lonesome highways of rural America to see the quirks of small towns and the character of the spaces in between.
Briefly locking eyes with oncoming drivers in old pickups or sedans, we’ll raise index fingers from the steering wheel to exchange a farmer’s wave and I’ll feel welcome in this new place many hundreds of miles from where I was raised that recognizes the same small pleasantry.
My car and I are in this together as we pass through sun and rain, mountains and plains. I affectionately call her “Ellie” the Elantra. She’ll shelter me during cold, wet nights when there’s no break in the downpour to set up a camp, and she’ll carry all I’ll need to survive the journey.
I don’t require much — just a tent, sleeping bag and pad, some food, clothes, hiking essentials, a couple thick books and some old CDs. Windows rolled down to let the fresh air in, the anticipation builds as we approach the next dreamy outdoor destination.
Saint Mary Lake viewed from Wild Goose Island Lookout along Going-to-the-Sun Road at Glacier National Park in Montana.
Matt Dahlseid/The New Mexican
Traveling solo affords the freedom of choice and spontaneity. There are no tastes, moods or desires to satisfy but your own. You can turn a detour into a main story, change plans on a whim, and hike at whatever speed and distance suits you.
Going it alone also comes with a heightened awareness. Nobody is there to have your back. Self-reliance, adaptability and resourcefulness is the name of the game. You need to be the one to act with common sense since there isn’t anyone else to shoot down a dumb idea.
Preparation and planning are essential for a big road trip. Get your car inspected before you embark, pack supplies for all possible conditions for the season, and know how far it is between possible fuel stops so you don’t risk getting yourself stranded in a harsh and sparsely populated environment. Also, keep a friend or relative posted on your daily progress and plans so there’s someone who knows your general whereabouts if something happens to go awry.
There will be moments on the road that test your fortitude and nerves. It’s important to keep your wits.
I was dispersed camping on a bare mountainside near Glacier National Park in Montana one night with no one else around and woke in the dark to the sound of a large animal near my tent. It could’ve been a grizzly or an elk or something else. Bear spray ready, I hit the button on my key fob to sound my car’s horn and flash its lights. The creature scurried down the mountain and by the time I popped out of the tent with my headlamp all I could see was my breath and the eerie stillness in the cold, wild north.
On another road trip in Utah, I had found a great dispersed campsite along an outcropping of colorful rock formations near Goblin Valley State Park, which is famous for its abundant hoodoos. I went to bed on a calm evening after watching a stunning sunset and was later jostled from my sleep by a ferocious windstorm that forced the walls of my tent to bow inward as dirt blew under the rainfly and up into the inner tent.
Setting up camp along the colorful rock formations near Goblin Valley State Park in Utah.
Matt Dahlseid/The New Mexican
I feared if I escaped to the safety of my car, the wind would uproot the tent and lift it away. So I spent about 30 minutes positioned like a turtle flipped over on its shell with my arms and legs splayed outward to try to keep the tent from collapsing on me until the howling winds subsided.
When I awoke the next morning, I may have thought it had all been a vivid dream if not for the layer of red dirt that covered everything inside my tent. After a quick breakfast and dusting off of my things, I put the struggle of the night behind me by hiking through a fantastic slot canyon nearby.
Shared meals and deep conversations with total strangers at a campground; making day friends with day hikers on an all-time favorite trail; enjoying a reverent stroll at dawn in the company of a grove of the largest trees on Earth. These are moments I’ll remember as long as I live.
The road offers infinite opportunities to make memories. So far on all of my road trips, the good has always outweighed the bad, and the bad usually just becomes a good story.
