Making a Left at Albuquerque

[Note: this is part two of a series. Part one can be found HERE.]

Road trips can be profound experiences. There’s something about the journey, traveling over the land, observing and feeling the changing landscape, spending time either alone with one’s own thoughts, or sharing the time and experience with companions.

I’ve had some great road trips. In my early 20s I drove across the country with two friends with only the Pacific Ocean as our destination. A year after we married, Dani and I drove around Great Britain, seeing the countryside, castles, and Prince Charles. And as our kids grew up, we spent time each summer in pursuit of seeing each of the lower-48 states (falling short of Washington and Oregon), pulling an RV along the way.

But road trips don’t have to be epic cross-country affairs. While the destination sets the trip into action; it’s the journey and the shared experiences along the way that matter. Steve Martin and John Candy showed us this in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. That wasn’t a story about the hijinks of traveling from New York City to Chicago for Thanksgiving, that was a story about two men getting to know each other and themselves. Their physical journey propelled and encouraged their inward one.

Road trips bring us together by taking us away from the normal and routine. They shake us of our complacency, force us to look at new settings, and put us in new surroundings. That change in our physical setting - even occurring at 65 (or 85) miles per hour - can be just the jolt that we need to take stock of our internal mechanics.

Where are we going in life? Do we have the road map? Have we set our intentions? Are we too focused on getting to the end that we aren’t enjoying the journey?

Having accomplished hiking the Grand Canyon, weary from the challenge, Joe and I discussed our options. We had time (our flight home wasn’t for two more days), we had a car, and we had no reservations (preconceived or otherwise).

Years earlier, when we drove through the American Southwest on a family vacation, we stopped in Albuquerque and Santa Fe, and after we visited the sights and tourist stops, we ate dinner out - which in and of itself wasn’t that impressive. Because we pulled a camper on those family trips, we didn’t always eat out. But on that particular evening, we did.

We found with our family trips that there would be moments of blissful presence - where time slowed down, where the focus came off of the itinerary, the destination, or the hiccups along the way. Instead, the focus would shift to the moment, to the five of us, and to just simply being together in that moment.

Those moments, that sense of being present in the now that Eckhart Tolle writes about, would often be fleeting, ephemeral, and beautiful in their unvarnished simplicity. We would each feel them, as time would slow to a peaceful standstill, and only the moment and the people in it would matter.

On that particular evening (six years prior), in that particular restaurant (El Pinto Restaurante), in that particular town (on the outskirts of Albuquerque) - that occurred.

And so, Joe asked if we could go back.

The Grand Canyon is two hours north of I-40. It is six hours from Albuquerque, four hours from Phoenix, and four-and-a-half from Vegas. We could have driven around the Canyon to Zion or Bryce National Parks (about a four-hour drive a piece). We could have even driven to Los Angeles - 500 miles away.

We chose to drive to Albuquerque, for no reason other than to have a meal together; a meal, which frankly, we could have almost anywhere else. We sensed that this shared choice - to drive six hours in one direction, and then turn around and drive back, was not merely to chase the spirit of that moment years ago, but more importantly to pay homage to that shared experience. This was a pilgrimage - respect for the past, encouragement for the future, and acknowledgment of our shared present.

I took the first leg of driving knowing that I would rise earlier than him. Our bags were packed, my coffee was ready, and he hurriedly stumbled to the car in the 20-degree chill at 4 am, quickly falling back asleep.

The darkness of the early hour began giving way to the emerging light of pre-dawn. Instead of taking the road directly to the interstate, I turned left to bisect the mountains of northern Arizona. There was no one out, no cars heading in either direction, only a few silent ranches scattered here and there among the curves in the road.

The sun’s rays rose from beyond the mountains in front of me. In the seat next to me, Joe continued to sleep, his mouth agape. A herd of elk was eating from the low-hanging branches in the trees to my right.

The time was quiet and reflective. I was driving into the day both literally and figuratively. I could feel the awesome, latent optimism that comes both with a new day and with the open road.

I stopped to fill up on the outskirts of Flagstaff, quite literally where the town started and the mountains and ranches retreated. I made a left onto route 66 and eventually merged onto the interstate. Into the now risen sun, I drove.

Joe woke. He looked around to gather his bearings and stretched. He turned on the radio and quickly toggled over to his Apple Music.

It used to be the radio and the changing stations that set that soundtrack for road trips; local DJs providing voiceover. That gave way to tape decks and CD collections, and now to streaming services - whose downside is no different than the radio stations of yore - when you’re out of range of service, you’re out of range of service.

Andy Crouch in his book The Life We’re Looking For states that recorded music is a relatively new endeavor. For all but the last one hundred years, in order to experience and enjoy music we’ve had to be in the presence of someone who practiced and attained that particular skill. It was a communal act - both the preparation for, the playing of, and the listening to music. And in that communion - came the interpretation and the enjoyment. But, technological advances allow us to enjoy music on demand without regard for the shared experience; shared between listeners or shared between listener and music-maker. Music is now an individual endeavor.

It has been this way in our house as well. Each of our kids has his or her own playlists and subscriptions, which we won’t generally hear because they have their AirPods in. Occasionally, they’ll put music on in the shower, and we can predict their mood based on what is playing: Lil’ Uzi (steer clear), Sturgill Simpson (it’s going to be calm), Katy Perry (interesting choice). And while Dani or I will put music on to stream through the house, what plays is curated by an algorithm. Music is less an experience, and more a backdrop.

But with Joe awake now, the silent reverie in which I had been driving went away. He prefers near-constant background noise to help quiet his internal thoughts.

The mountains, greenery, and ranches gave way to barren and monolithic red rocks. Driving on, we passed a refinery, signs for Meteor Crater, and then for the Petrified Forest. To our right was a huge expanse of rocks and hills that on inspection looked uncannily like the setting of Radiator Springs in the Pixar movie Cars.

We stopped at a Navajo roadside stand and switched drivers. There was, with the exception of the lady dusting the knick-knacks inside, no sign of life.

Joe fiddled with his playlist as he drove, skipping from one song to another. The backbeat of outlaw country singing propelled us toward New Mexico. We talked about what we saw and what we hoped to see. I pulled up the map on my phone to project the time and distance, and to forecast what other roads and destinations we might take on our return.

After crossing the state border, we switched drivers again. It was now late morning. We’d been driving for nearly five hours. The sparse but steady traffic of travelers - cars, truckers, and occasional RVs - on the forlorn parts of the interstate, were now being joined by the crowd of wayfarers using the interstate through the suburbs and exurbs of the metropolitan area surrounding Albuquerque and Santa Fe.

We arrived at the restaurant a little past 1 pm. There weren’t many others dining given the late hour of the lunch: just a table of blue-haired old ladies finishing up their monthly bridge meeting, two businessmen working out an agreement, and what could only be described - given the awkwardness that we observed and overheard - as a couple on a wretched first date.

We ordered a lot of food. When you drive six hours for the sole purpose of eating, you order a lot. When you’re about to drive six-plus more hours - in the same direction from whence you just came - you order a lot. Appetizers and entrees and side dishes, we even considered dessert. We tried to explain to the waitress that we had driven six hours just to eat at this particular restaurant. She looked at us like we were idiots, and told us she had never visited the Grand Canyon.

We texted Dani and the girls pictures of ourselves there - and through our family group text we all reconnected with our shared experience years prior.

And that’s when I realized that I wanted the power of this shared experience with each of my kids. Years ago, we had that - together - because they were a captive group dependent on Dani and me for everything. Now, they are young adults. They are their own people, going their own ways, hopefully buoyed by the shared experiences of their childhood.

Sitting in that restaurant on the outskirts of Albuquerque, hours away from where we had set out, and still even more hours away from where we would lay our heads down that night, I had the moment of clarity that this trip wasn’t just about sharing the accomplishment of hiking the Grand Canyon with my son. It was about the weird unscheduled, unprepared-for, unplanned moments he and I would continue to share. It was about the spontaneity and ridiculousness of driving six hours one way to a Mexican restaurant on the outskirts of Albuquerque solely for the experience of being present in the shared moment.

And I want that with each of my kids. I want that with each person I love deeply. I want the experience of being present in the shared moments.

Shared moments of truly being present with another person - those blissful, ephemeral, beautifully unvarnished moments - aren’t dictated, directed, or even orchestrated. Those moments of true presence occur when we least expect, when our normal defensiveness is disarmed, when we open ourselves to the other person - our companions on the journey.

We paid the bill and gathered our leftovers. Walking to the parking lot, Joe and I continued to make fun of the couple on the awkward date. We took another look around, got in, and drove off. I again took the first leg, he wanted to nap.

When he woke, we switched - ironically at the same roadside Navajo stand we had stopped at hours earlier. He again pulled up Apple music and pressed play on the same playlist he’d been listening to since we started. Again, Colter Wall played, then Warren Zeiders again. Soon, Joe told me that I could play something.

Regardless of the means of delivery, music plays a particular part with road trips, allowing and encouraging the connections among those on the journey. There is a respect that goes with running the radio (or the streaming music) during a road trip. It’s a job that typically falls, along with navigation, to the co-passenger. And like navigation, while the co-passenger finds the songs (or the roads), it falls to the driver to actually agree with the playlist (and the itinerary).

This mutual respect, this give-and-take, this shared finding of a way is important to a road trip. Everybody in the car is connected in the shared experience. Everybody in the car is responsible to everybody else in the car. It becomes a microcosm for society, and its success - and the success of the road trip - hinges on the key of mutual, shared respect.

I pressed the first song. It was good. I sorted for another - this time searching for Little Big Town’s Boondocks - I thought it would jive well with the theme of Sleepin’ on the Blacktop that Joe had been playing on repeat. Folsom Prison by Chris Stapleton played next, and I asked Joe about the version. I told him that Johnny Cash sang the original. Joe argued no. I searched for Cash, and played Folsom Prison Blues.

Joe said that wasn’t bad, but he liked the other version. I played more Cash, questioning how Joe had never heard of him given his propensity for a particular style of acoustic country. What struck me was the openness that we both had for each other’s interpretation - what we were each bringing to the conversation, learning from each other, and growing in our individual experiences.

We were nearing the exit for Winslow, Arizona - but we had no intention to get off the interstate. I asked if he had heard the Eagles, and we talked about the song Take it Easy. I played it. That was solid he said.

There’s a line that resonated with us both - “We may win, or we may lose, but we will never be here again.”

But we both missed the next line: “Open up, I’m climbing in. Take it easy.”

It’s not about winning or losing, or even being here again. It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey. These moments, these shared experiences of being truly present with one another, occur when we open up and allow others to climb in and be with us, sit with us, ride with us.

We pulled up some Clapton, one U2 song, the timeless Bill Withers’ hit Ain’t No Sunshine, then jumped forward to Uncle Lucius’ Keep the Wolves Away.

Joe and I drove on into the evening, eating the leftovers we’d brought with us. We filled up near where we had started twelve hours earlier outside of the Grand Canyon, and thought about camping for the night, slowing down the time of the early evening hour to sit around a fire. In the end, we carried on, switching drivers, and pushing westward.

The sun set - it seemed so quick - as we drove toward Kingman. Vegas was three hours north, Lake Havasu at least another hour west. After twenty minutes, and past the outskirts of town, we decided to reverse course - stay at a cheap roadside motel for the night, get up and hike in the morning on our way towards Vegas.

For this day, we caught the moment, we rode with the shared experience. We had opened up, climbed in, and taken it easy.

The next day would challenge us to be present, even with challenges. We would be leaving Las Vegas (blog post coming soon).