The long and winding road

What experiences in life helped you grow the most?

“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door,” Bilbo warned his nephew. “You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”

I first read the Lord of the Rings in college, and several times after that. My favorite of the trilogy is the first, The Fellowship of the Ring. It chronicles the characters’ journey from their home in the Shire through mythical Middle Earth to the realm of the Elves. It kindled in me a profound itch to explore, to see what’s around the next bend.

I’ve always scratched this itch with road trips. Driving with nothing in particular in mind, taking the back roads, stopping to check things out…I’ve always ended with a new appreciation for life. I’ve posted about a few of the more memorable trips, but there’s always one that’s especially meaningful: The Farewell to Pop Road Trip of 2013.

Pop, Doug and I were The Big Three. Mom was hopelessly outnumbered and we knew if we got Pop on our side, it was a done deal, from getting mail carts to smoothing things over after a busted china vase.

We were blessed. Pop was a parent when he had to be, and his wrath was not taken lightly. The discipline he had learned in the WWII Army Air Corps was transferred to us and our backsides: Sparingly, but when needed; a little mid-course correction to two spacecraft headed for distant destinations.

But most of the time he was a kind, intelligent and reasonable guy. From Pop, Doug and I learned the principles that have guided our lives.

After he passed…after the funeral, after the last guests had signed the guest book and left… Doug and I were sat with our ties loosened and looked at each other. The Oracle…our go-to guy…was gone. Mom had passed three years earlier. We were on our own.

I had a thought and looked him. “Hey,” I said. “You wanna—“

“—take a road trip?” he finished. We grinned and fist bumped.

Two months later, Doug, his son Darek, me, and my daughter Kristen, threw our stuff into the trunk of our rental jeep at San Francisco International airport. Our plan was to head south and then east along the famous Route 66.

But first stop: “a side trip” to Lake Tahoe. Not exactly on our route, but explorers need to be flexible. The drive up into the snowy Sierras was beautiful.

After Lake Tahoe…and a few bucks lighter after the casinos in nearby Nevada…it was back to San Fran to check out things: Alcatraz, Coit Tower, Fisherman’s Wharf. We took the touristy bus over the Golden Gate Bridge.

Then we headed over to my friend and fellow blogger Beyond Sirius Sea’s neck of the woods, Santa Cruz. Beautiful place, a lot of people out surfing.

Ninety minutes south along the Pacific Coast Highway got us to Big Sur and the redwoods. They were magnificent. They towered over us, hundreds of feet tall, a dense spongy forest floor of needles. My footsteps were hushed; I felt like I was in a cathedral. I walked in wonder among these trees that were here when the Vikings were exploring Newfoundland 1,000 years ago. They’d be here long after we were gone.

As the miles rolled along…Doug and I up front, the kids in the back…we talked about Pop. About our experiences as a family, the times he had counseled, comforted, encouraged us. Sometimes we laughed so hard, it was hard to drive through the tears. The time we had busted the expensive TV at the Holiday Inn. Puking in his plane from air sickness. Spilling clorox in his beloved VW.

And as we conversed, the hurt began to lessen, like a tightly knotted rope unwinding. The loss began to be replaced with memories that somehow kept him with us.

Our next stop was a place Doug and I had visited after I graduated from UF in the 1980s…Pismo Beach. If you’re ever in CA, I can’t recommend this place enough. A mellow beach town with surfing, a boardwalk, incredible views and sunsets, mom-and-pop restaurants. It’s a throwback to the 1960s. We rented dune buggies and visited the eucalyptus grove where monarch butterflies stop on their annual migration to Mexico.

Of course, all siblings have some issues, some sand in the bed that needs to be resolved. Some, sadly, are not, and festering resentments linger for years until it’s too late. Doug and I had our differences and they unexpectedly came out during our trip…no doubt triggered by the loss of Pop. But it was as though Pop’s calming presence somehow was with us and somewhere between Pismo Beach and Santa Monica we had cleared the air. The clouds were replaced with blue skies.

In Santa Monica, we picked up Route 66 east. Once we cleared Los Angeles and the surrounding cities, I was struck by the beauty of the desert. Incredibly clear skies, chilly December air, miles and miles of nobody and nothing. Perfect place to release sorrow, let it be absorbed by the wilderness.

I’d never seen the Grand Canyon…in fact, I think only Doug had….so this was a “must stop” destination. Just outside the park, we snagged a really cool log cabin-esque hotel where we caught up on our journals and SM. After a few Coronas, we tried to sing “Nowhere Man” by the Beatles. The intro is a difficult three-part harmony that we tried to record. The results are truly cringe-worthy and I will spare you from the pitiful mp4 results 😂

In my journal, I wrote something like the Grand Canyon, ehh…a huge ditch that the Colorado River had worn down through time. Got it. I’ll probably get a Clark Griswold-type view and we’ll be off.

The next morning, we approached the overlook spot. I turned the corner and stopped in my tracks. I was not prepared for the utter scale of it all, the north rim miles away, the colors, the cliffs. the river…a tiny ribbon thousands of feet below. I was speechless.

There were a few peaks outside the Canyon that we noted; I checked our mileage. Later, I checked again; we’d gone 100 miles. I looked behind us and in the clear, cold December air, the clarity was startling. It was as though we had driven a mile or two.

Next up was the famous meteor crater. Perched on the rim was a restaurant, a gift shop, and a nature center. We looked all around, grabbed a bite, bought a few souvenirs. A park ranger appeared and herded us into a group; he was going to lead us on a trip around the rim of the crater.

He asked if anybody had any questions. The guy ahead of us raised his hand and the ranger nodded. Not a question, but a profound observation: “Boy, it sure was lucky that the meteor landed where it did. A few more yards and it would have hit the gift shop.”

The ranger gave him an unforgettable look as people snickered. We walked the rim as the the ranger pointed out things of interest. The comment guy had been sharply whispered to by his wife and did not offer any more input.

Our next-to-last stop was a place made famous in a song started by Jackson Browne and finished by the Eagles: Winslow, Arizona. Of course we had to stop for the obligatory pic and a bite to eat.

We stopped to check out the petrified forest in Arizona before heading on to our final stop, Albuquerque, NM.

It was here that we parted company; Doug and Darek back to Florida, and Kristen and I bound for North Carolina.

Fifteen hundred miles and almost two weeks had been therapeutic; sandpaper moving from rough 40-grit to fine 220-grit. While we still keenly felt the loss of Pop, it had been smoothed down from a open wound to a gentle recollection. The Bible says that we are “surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses” (Heb 12:1) and we both felt like Pop was watching over us as we hugged and went our separate ways in the airport.

At Pop’s eulogy, I had likened the death of our loved ones to a departure in an airport; tears and hugs goodbye, last glimpses as they walk through security and are lost to sight in the gangway.

But ultimately…to those who believe in Christ… a homecoming at the airport on the other side.

See ya, Pop. 😎

Photos by author

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