Intersections: Where Growth & the Open Road Meet

Taking to the road has an undeniable allure, a romantic pull that echoes through the pages of classic travelogues like Jack Kerouac's “On the Road,” Che Guevara's “The Motorcycle Diaries,” and William Least Heat-Moon's “Blue Highways.” These stories ignite a yearning for renewal and exploration, not necessarily seeking something better but something new and unexplored. This notion often lingers, yet few grasp its transformative potential. Following high school graduation, I felt lost, spiraling downward. Hitting the road became my escape, a desperate bid to break free from stagnation and propel myself forward.

          During that tumultuous period, unresolved conversations and unmade amends weighed heavily on my mind. While some argue it's never too late to revisit past regrets, I've realized that our remorse often stems from self-perception rather than the actual dynamics of those relationships. Overwhelmed and young, I lacked the emotional clarity to recognize the gap between my current state and the maturity I aspired to. I distinguish maturity from mere adulting, having met individuals who claimed adulthood without genuine growth. Within a week, I packed my green '99 Honda Civic, seeking reinvention and a fresh start.

There was a point on the road when I realized there was more space between me and home— well, me and my family—than ever before. The sensation is unparalleled yet reminiscent of soaring off into the vastness of space and watching Earth getting smaller in the rearview. It's as if you're simultaneously discovering and resetting your internal compass, witnessing your reliance on loved ones fading with each passing mile. I mindlessly cruised along I-10 for hours, lulled by its familiarity. I merged onto HWY 285 in Fort Stockton, Texas, where I began drifting north through eastern Texas's tranquil deserts. While West Texas beckoned, with Marfa and Alpine piquing my curiosity, I was eager to get as far away as possible and as quickly as possible. I was fearful and excited, the urge to escape balanced by the thrill of discovery.

          Crossing into New Mexico, I drove through Carlsbad without stopping, already familiar with Carlsbad Caverns National Park, and stopped in Roswell. Some of y’all may have heard that in the late ‘40s, there was an incident at a farm north of Roswell. This was only a minor incident with little influence on our culture, and in fact, most if not all of my understanding—I’m sure this is true of everyone else as well—of the incident came from the witnessed accounts of Sheri Appleby, Jason Behr, and the WB. Exploring Roswell, New Mexico that late afternoon it was immediately clear to me that Roswell was still milking “tf” out of the downed weather balloon. Roswell's commercialization overshadows its historical significance. The town's plastic alien figurines and kitschy attractions drown out genuine intrigue. I confess I wanted Roswell to be more than it was. Do extraterrestrials exist? Probably. But it’s unlikely they are drastically different from us. And also unlikely for them to have crashed near Roswell.

After a night in Roswell, I fueled up at an alien-themed diner and continued north on HWY 285. Unfamiliar with northern New Mexico's hidden gems—Santa Fe, Taos, and Abiquiu—I merged onto I-40 at Clines Corners, heading west. The interstate led me to Albuquerque, where fate or misdirection unknowingly guided me onto I-25 north. When I realized my mistake, I'd chalked it up to karma. And now that I think about it, I recall Bugs Bunny making the same navigational error a time or two also in Albuquerque and so you know, it’s famously common. Outside of Albuquerque, I pulled off the interstate for gas and continued instead on HWY 550, calling it a night a few hours later in Durango, Colorado.

          Durango, Colorado, is an amazing little town—one of my favorite places in Colorado, though I wouldn’t know that for several years. I left Texas on December 22, naive about winter's fury. Growing up in Texas means two seasons and neither is winter. So, discovering Colorado snow, I was taken aback; "Oh, right...shit!" I wouldn’t explore Durango today; the snow startled me, and I hoped to outpace it. Highway 160 beckoned but so did my fuel gauge. I pulled into the first gas station I saw, and it quickly became my icy nemesis. Pulling into the station my '99 Honda Civic slid into a snow-filled ditch, armed with only my Texas ingenuity and trial-and-error antics to escape. Two hours later, gas in hand, I continued, still disoriented. Almost immediately the road unexpectedly dead-ended, forcing a cautious U-turn. Discovering HWY 160's Cortez impasse, I headed north on HWY 461, perhaps a little wiser but certainly warier.

“Where does this road lead?” I chuckled, moments before my tires lost traction. My brakes locked, and I narrowly avoided kissing a concrete column beneath the overpass. I sat there unsettled and undeterred by irritated passersby while I gathered myself, my car at rest and diagonal, partially off the road. Continuing north, I plunged into the heart of winter. Suddenly, Utah appeared. Another impasse awaited. In Monticello, Utah, I faced choices: south toward Arizona's warmth or north into Utah's snowy abyss. I opted for HWY 191, my inaugural invitation with this route. Hours passed as I marveled at eastern Utah's breathtaking desert landscape, immense and beautiful. Finally, reality hit—I was driving into the unknown.

          “What am I doing?” I wondered, consumed by self-doubt. Who in their right mind leaves everything behind at 19 for the unknown? It seemed insane. As my breakdown progressed, a mix of emotions flooded me, overpowering longing for family, friends, and familiarity sweeping in. Tears streamed down my face as I drove solo through Utah's desert landscape on HWY 191. Yet, amidst the turmoil, turning back never crossed my mind. I continued north, and soon, Moab, Utah, appeared before me. Unfamiliar with Moab, I discovered a beautiful mountainside town emerging beside the Colorado River. Moab took hold of me.

Moab welcomed me and here I was able to collect myself. I settled in, exploring cafés like the Jailhouse Café, savoring local flavors at various restaurants, and strolling along the Colorado River via Potash Road. Village Market's shelves introduced me to the town's character. Center Street and Main Street's unique boutiques and artistic shops revealed Moab's nature. With coffee in hand, people-watching outside Moab Coffee Roaster became my ritual. In this unfamiliar setting, self-discovery unfolded. At 19, and on some contemporary vision quest, I sat on a bench, feeling excitement and nerves. I realized that only infinite moments like this one awaited, and this was just the beginning. Moab became my gateway to adulthood, a transition elusive back ‘home.’ Though Moab captivated me, I knew I was still passing through. One morning, fueled by Jailhouse Café coffee, I continued north

          Beyond Price, Utah lies a breathtaking mountain stretch. The winding road parallels the Price River and Uinta Basin Railway, stirring my childlike poetic romanticism. I skated the icy roads In awe of snow-kissed mountains, though I was unfamiliar with mountain driving and snow. Fortunately, the plowed highway allowed cautious progress. With my hands firmly on the wheel, I adjusted to the mountain's rhythm. Relaxed, I savored the scenic drive. Leaving HWY 191, I explored Price's mining and manufacturing town, but its industrial vibe didn't captivate me. Returning to HWY 191, I approached a junction, where northeast-bound HWY 191 entered Wyoming. Intuition guided me otherwise; I veered north-northwest onto HWY 6.

Forty-five minutes of breathtaking mountain driving yielded to a valley, and the sprawling Provo-Salt Lake City metroplex tried desperately to chew me up and swallow me. Eager to escape the urban chaos, I pressed on, even running low on gas. Ogden's outskirts offered refuge. Downtown Ogden, Utah astonished me, and I settled for the night. The next morning and afternoon, I strolled historic 25th Street, exploring Wall Avenue to Washington Boulevard and venturing south to 28th Street. Ogden's Union Station, with its Spanish Colonial Art Deco design, intrigued me. This historic building helped to spark my passion for architecture. Once, this was a vital transfer point between Union Pacific and Central Pacific Railroads, Union Station flooded Ogden with diverse travelers.

          I met another crossroads at Spanish Fork, Utah; HWY 6 had thawed and vanished, and with a single visible frozen breath a glacial Northbound I-15 lay before me. I pressed on, perplexed by the "Welcome to Idaho" sign, which had to be a mistake—Idaho’s not real. Like my mom would later say, “Where’s Idaho?” Idaho's south-central landscape unfolded with underwhelming hills and scattered bald mountaintops. I-15 climbed steadily, like a moldy, incomplete on-ramp to Canada with occasional exits toward the Pacific Northwest. Had I intended to veer north? Doubts lingered. Just before Inkom, Idaho, I-15 unexpectedly curved west. The valley narrowed, revealing breathtaking mountains. Beauty reigned. I exited I-15 in Pocatello, Idaho.

The next morning, I explored Pocatello's historic downtown. After breakfast, I strolled through the picturesque residential areas east of downtown, where fresh powder snow blanketed the ground, weightless and like a glaze spread over the Earth. Pocatello's unexpected beauty piqued my intrigue. Once dubbed the "Gate City," Pocatello welcomed gold miners, pioneers, and settlers traversing the Oregon Trail in the mid-to-late 1800s. I spent another night, wandering the unfamiliar streets. The next day, I discovered a trailhead near an adjacent mountain peak. The panoramic view showcased Pocatello's splendor, with snow-covered landscapes stretching out. Though I didn't complete the trail, the breathtaking vista was rewarding enough. Following my hike, I returned to the hotel for a solid sleep. Each day, I extended my stay, discovering new attractions or grappling with the idea of living elsewhere, beyond the comfort of my familiar home.

On my fourth day, I spent the morning writing in the hotel. As afternoon fell, snowflakes began to drift outside. I strolled downtown to a coffee shop, ordered a drink, and settled beside a window. Mesmerized, I watched heavy flurries drift lazily, defying gravity. As I sat there, lost in the snow's serenity, I caught someone's attention. Molly, from nearby Inkom, struck up a conversation. She grew up on a mountain horse ranch, balancing artistic passions with a desire to continue her family's equestrian legacy. We talked a lot about how she hosted an evening radio show produced by nearby Idaho State University, “B-Sides” was the name of her show. Five evenings a week, she shared curated playlists with the community. Her love for music was apparent and attractive, making "B-Sides" exceptional.

          On my fifth morning in Pocatello, Idaho, I stumbled upon the Brentwood Manor Apartments and signed a lease for a cozy third-floor corner studio. As I settled in, surrounded by Idaho's stunning winter landscape, I realized my journey wasn't about escaping familiarity but uncovering self-discovery. The open roads and chance encounters served as a mirror, revealing my untapped potential. At that moment, I knew I'd found my true destination where self-discovery intersects the open road. Brentwood Manor was designed to give the appearance of a ritzy 1950s hotel, complete with marooned carpeting and wallpaper embellished with golden ornate stencils, gold radiators, dark oak wood trim, and doors, and even with a milk door that opened into the kitchen beneath the counter. I went to sleep my first night at the apartments terrified and new.