The Open Road | Travelogue
Day 71 of the road trip—and supposedly the last. The official plan of the trip ends here. I never got beyond this day in my planning. I knew I had to end this trip sometime around this point. But I also wanted to keep things open. You never know what may arise, so it’s always nice to keep spare time in your pocket. Spare change, you know.
Yesterday I thought about where I could possibly go, considering the money I had left. I figured I could just spend a week camping in Yosemite, before I head home. So I did some research on Yosemite, did my laundry, and packed my things—my temporary home—for one last time.
I left Zion around noon and headed west.
—The engine revs up as the gear shifts down; it’s a long road uphill. I reach the crest of the road and let the car coast down, round a turn. Emptiness. Open land spread in every direction. I let the car coast down until the road straightened and leveled out. A vast and stark scene now fills my vision: dirt and asphalt below, the cloud-streaked sky above, and a hazy blue sliver of distant mountains in the horizon.
Looking out in front of me, I see the road stretch, taper, then vanish as it followed the arc of the earth. I look at my rear view mirror and not a car was in sight. I look at the fuel gauge: less than half a tank. A feeling crept up, and something sank in my gut. I couldn’t tell whether it was fear of the unknown or the thrill of infinite possibilities.
There was no sign of civilization in sight and the open road stretched and stretched. It slipped off my mind that today’s drive was across Nevada. And now I’m in the middle of the desert with less than half a tank of gas; but I’ve got time.
I was prepared to sleep in my car for the night if I ran out of gas. I’ve got some food; I’ll survive. It frightened, but it also thrilled me, like a part of me was secretly wishing to get stuck there. To seek adventure in the night, under countless stars careening, dancing, in the vast nothingness of space to the pulsings and beatings of time.
I pulled my car over and stopped by the side of the road, in the middle of the desert. I stretched my legs, took pictures, and wandered around; the spare desert landscape amused me. An hour or more passed before I got back on the road. I drove and continued west.
I could go anywhere.
That was my thought as I was packing my things in the car; as I drove west; as I wandered off the side of the road in the middle of the desert. In paper where I had my itinerary, it was the end of the trip. But in reality it was a junction of forking paths, of infinite possibilities. A start of something else.
Yes, money was in fact limited by this point, but I could figure it out; time was more important. I couldn’t multiply the money I had but I can stretch the time I still have by being deliberate on how and where I use my money—I could spend 4 days in Europe, or 10 days in SE Asia. Or just drive north and spend 3 weeks simply just camping.
One of the things I made sure to account for when I planned this trip was spare time. To make sure I could cover necessary expenses back home for a few extra weeks. Because I really didn’t know where I would end up after this. And now it’s paying off.
Suddenly, time was not a constraint but a platform. I felt as though I stood on open field where the air is light and I can just run. I can just run full speed to where I please. Or I can walk; I’m in no rush.
This is as good as it gets, as close to true freedom I can imagine. But here is the catch, the trade-off—there always is. No matter the number of possibilities, I know my happiness lies in choosing and sticking to just one. But it’s a price I’m willing, and will happily pay, for that moment where something opens, freedom and possibility pour, and you are exalted.
I recall a passage from Thoreau’s journal:
“The really efficient laborer will be found not to crowd his day with work, but will saunter to his task surrounded by a wide halo of ease and leisure. There will be a wide margin for relaxation to his day. He is only earnest to secure the kernels of time, and does not exaggerate the value of the husk. . . Those who work much do not work hard.”
I live by this truth. In this busy life, we focus more on the external apparatus—the money earned, the busyness of schedules. But those things are the husk, which more often than not restrains rather than frees, obscures rather than clarifies. The illusions of perspective go hand in hand with the opaque filters of society. Loosen up a little. Shift your perspective; the kernels will show.
Time is the essence of the living. The infinite canvass where anything and everything is played and painted. Time is a medium; you are the artist. Choose your palette of colors wisely. Or time is the elusive spirit that pulses and beats. Seek it if you dare. Put yourself in the path of its passing, and dance.
I made it through the desert. I am now in Lee Vining, a small town perched on the eastern edge of the Sierra Nevada. Tomorrow I’ll be in Yosemite, where I hope to center down and seek simplicity.
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