Somewhere in Wyoming or Idaho or Utah.. en route to Oregon.
Somewhere between Boulder, Colorado, and Portland, Oregon, I began to understand why I love road trips, or, at this place in my life, why I need road trips. When I’m on the road, the space I’m in feels comforting to me; no longer the place where I came from, and not yet the place where I’m going. I’m nowhere. I’m in the liminal space of having left but not yet arrived. This threshold of uncertainty dawned on me somewhere in Idaho. Or was it Utah? I’m sure it wasn’t Wyoming because there were trees, and from my spot on I-80, Wyoming doesn’t look like it has any trees. I had just passed the exit for the town of Emery. Somewhere in Idaho, or maybe even Utah, there is a town named Emery. Several miles after passing the exit, I thought about turning around and going to Emery, but then I realized it was just another small town, and even though it held her name, I wouldn’t find her there.
This was my third time making the trip from Boulder to Portland, my 6th if you count my leaving and return trip as two. 1,200 miles each way, which amounts to two audiobooks, one night in Twin Falls, Idaho, each way, one small cooler, and a bag of snacks, plus unlimited stops for bathroom breaks, photos, and to purchase snacks because the ones I packed had lost their appeal. By the end of the year, I will have made 16th road trips, traveling to Kansas City, Los Angeles, and Portland from Boulder. I recently went to Massachusetts to see my sister, Susan, and my first thought was to drive. My service tech at my Toyota dealership asked me the last time I was in if I was now in the trucking business, given the miles I was putting on my car. I acted surprised and said, “Oh, really? Is it more than average?” “Yes. By a lot. I just hope you’re going to good places!”
I am because any place where my family is has become a good place (I’m lucky that they all happen to live in places I’d consider good, regardless of circumstances, though). I am escaping. I know that. By the end of the year, I will have been gone 227 days, away from Boulder to places that feel safer and gentler on my heart.
On the first day of my recent two-day drive to Portland, my route took me past the land several miles north of Fort Collins, where Emery and Miles built a small house on several acres. It was their piece of heaven, and it was beautiful, but 20 minutes from town, it became a thing after they had a baby, and after a few years, they moved to Boulder. The last two times I drove this route, I came to the road to their old house, slowed down, but kept going, and that was the right decision at the time. This time, however, I turned onto the aptly named Gratitude Lane and followed it to the top of the hill, where their small house came into view. Aware of privacy issues and the possibility of no-trespassing signs that I may not have seen, I chose not to venture any further, yet still had a full view of the house, the goat pen, and the beautiful land surrounding it. My mind traveled back to my many visits, where I’d stay in a small bedroom on the garage level. When Arlo was several months old, we’d both wake up early, and I’d get him out of his crib and hold him while we watched herds of deer cross the land. I’d tell Arlo stories and share plans I had with him for hikes we’d do together and places we could go. I remember one of those mornings, turning around to see Emery behind us, watching and smiling. The photo she took that morning remains one of my favorites.
I sat in my car, enveloped in the memories, and sobbed. Then, I did what I always do, and tucked the memory back into my heart where I had retrieved it, wiped my eyes, turned my car around, and left. I knew I’d pass the property again on my return trip, because that’s how you get from Boulder to Wyoming, then onto Idaho, Utah, and Oregon. I know that every time I pass the street sign for Gratitude Lane, my heart will feel heavy, and tears will fall, but the feeling of love will overpower the sadness. I’ve read that grief is love with nowhere to go. I think it’s more complex than that, but I love that the two always seem to be working in tandem.
I decided to treat myself to a nice dinner, or at least one that was not served in a bag, once I got to Twin Falls, Idaho, for the night. It was chilly out, but when I saw a fire pit on the patio of a promising-looking restaurant, I asked to be seated there. The hostess seemed surprised and told me there were tables available inside, but I insisted. I sat outside, alone, with a view of the Snake River, and was reminded of my journey to Sedona in June, when I stayed in Santa Fe and wrote a post about my dinner alone at the bar. That night felt like a lifetime ago. When the waitress came out with my wine, I asked her where I was. She told me Twin Falls, Idaho. I should have been more specific. I asked about the river that offered such a beautiful backdrop to my dining, my table for one, my patio for one. She told me it was the Snake River. I realized that in the comfortable womb of my car, I had passed such beautiful scenery, and often didn’t even know what state I was in. The next time I’m in Twin Falls, I’ll look for the Snake River and will have dinner at Elevations. The familiar will be a comfort.
No matter where I’m escaping to, I take myself and my grief with me, so it’s not really an escape at all, but for now, it feels right, and I feel safe, and safe feels good.
Life scares me right now, because I know how fast things can change. I feel nervous, on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop when I’m already barefoot. I read that how you spend the first day of the new year is an indicator of how the year will go. On the day of 2025, in the afternoon, I sat on my couch, pen in hand, ready to fill my journal pages with expectations, dreams, hopes, and travel plans. And then I got a phone call from Miles. 911 had been called.
I am forever changed. My family is forever changed. We’ve found the glimmers of beauty— the micro joys amongst the macro grief, and that alone has been a tremendous gift. We have slowed down, become more discerning in our life choices, and found gratitude where it seemed impossible to exist. And I’ve found Emery. Her presence has been felt in the many signs she’s given me during my travels. A surprise rainbow when there was no rain, a small flock of birds that flew alongside me for several miles, a favorite song of hers that I heard while fueling my car, or a random photo of her showing up on my phone screen without a prompt.
I’ll be back in my car in a few days for the nine-hour drive to Kansas City, which, after a two-day drive to Portland, feels short. I will settle into the safe cocoon of my car, with a coffee in the cup holder and an hour or so of silence, because that’s how I like to begin. I’ll have a chat with Emery, shed some tears, sit in the quiet and feel her presence, then, when I feel ready, I’ll start a new audiobook or listen to a podcast. No longer in Boulder and not yet in Kansas City, I’ll sink into the liminal spot of having left but not yet arrived. The spot where I feel safe. The spot where I feel hope.