A Purposeful Road Trip
I underestimated the effects of the coronavirus, or maybe I just made a wrong decision to go on a road trip in the first place. After all, as an African American, I may be only one police stop away from losing my life. But I received a sign; early one morning, I was packing my truck with some of the things we were going to take with us on our road trip. As I shut the door on my truck, a lump of bird shit landed on my shoulder. I know some would think that was a bad sign. We are the ones who superimpose meaning to events based on our beliefs’. So since I had that power, I say that the bird shitting on my shoulder was a sign of good luck.
I decided to take a loop road trip. The idea was to have a total experience without repeating any scenic mile. At this point, I worked from home for approximately fifteen weeks.
There’s pressure associated with isolation. Things, visible things (as opposed to abstract events), can affect and change your whole life. Solitude can grow weeds or tulips. So after a long time in isolation, I thought it would be good for me to step back, take a deep breath, and prepare to return to a work environment recovering from coronavirus the following week.
The coronavirus is not the main story. The main story now, and the story that is big enough to knock a worldwide pandemic out of the headlines, is the murder of George Floyd. When I first saw the video of the cop that murdered George Floyd slowly, in broad daylight, in front of several cameras and witnesses, I felt both sadness and anger. The image of the cop: his left hand casually in his pocket, as he applied weight on Floyd’s neck and controlled the life airflow of the dark human under his knee. This saddens me every time I see it. Rioting is going on while I am writing this. This country is a fucking mess. The Orange One is pulling this country down the toilet. Lack of leadership during crisis situations only builds more chaos.
If you are African American, you are not having a great Spring, and the summer looks worse. The pandemic is killing a higher percentage of blacks more than any other group. There’s an imbecilic racist, man-child sitting in the White House, millions cannot work due to the pandemic, businesses are shutting down and will never open again, unemployment is at an all-time high, racism is rampant, people are fighting in the streets. Then there is the police brutality against blacks being streamed on a 24-hour news cycle. This is not a great time race for relations.
So in the middle of all of this, I get the idea to take my wife along with our 8-year old granddaughter on a road trip to southwest Colorado. Apparently, I am not very smart, right? However, I carry with me an idea that most people are not racist. I feel that I have the right to travel wherever I want to. And not for one minute did I feel I was putting my wife and granddaughter in danger, which I would never do. That does not mean that I trust blindly, that does not mean that I do not take precautions. This is not South Africa under apartheid. My people paid the ultimate price for citizenship, and I will not huddle in a corner, afraid to venture out. It was a peaceful trip, but things are not back to normal yet.
Even though businesses are opening up, I found out that Colorado was not quite ready. Museums were closed as well as most of the National Parks. The national parks that were open to the public did not have employees or the facilities in the parks were closed. What started out as a trip to simply get away from all the noise, had disintegrated into me desperately looking to find some kind of entertainment for an eight-year-old. I told her to just enjoy the scenery and the ride itself. We rented a room deep in the forest adjacent to the Uncompahgre National Forrest, located on the western slope of the Colorado, Rockies. We walked the trails and found a lake, watched the birds and other wildlife. At night we were able to see the milky way in all of its wonders, because of the pitch-black darkness that blankets undeveloped areas.
The dynamic message signs on the highway tell us that we should not travel more than 10 miles from home for recreational purposes along the highway. We were already a few hundred miles from home by the time I saw those signs. I did not regret leaving. I was not afraid of meeting Trump’s friends, the motorcyclist, and gun owners. I only wanted to get fresh air, change the scenery, step away from the horrible news, and forget family and work stresses.
I wanted nothing but peace and quiet and to be still. I wanted a little bit of solitude to enjoy. To think. To breath. To be free and uninterrupted. My phone was turned off.
This trip was eerie in a lot of ways. Something just didn’t look right or feel right. Americans were really trying hard to act normal during a surreal reality. The convenience store workers sometimes smiled forcibly as they performed their duties. The Subway sandwich makers, wearing masks, and struggling to hear me in my mask, rang me up, and wished me to experience a bright day. I knew they were not really ok. I bet they knew I was also not ok. Being not precisely ok was the common ground we stood on. We both played our parts during the pandemic and racial strife. We were cordial and friendly with each other because that is how we think things were in the first place.
In Cortez, we stayed the night in a hotel, and early in the morning, after some black coffee and McDonald’s breakfast shit, we visited the Pueblo Ruins. It was great. In the sheltered alcoves of a canyon wall lived a community of extraordinarily smart and resourceful people. Because of the pandemic, no tours were being offered. It was a rare chance to take a good look at the ruins without any human tourist to ruin a photograph. I do not find it sad that this civilization had to come to an end. Things eventually coming to an end is the law of the universe. Entropy places a shelf life on everything. Everything changes at different rates, a long line of events that always leads to oblivion. When I look around me, I am reminded that everything eventually comes to an end. We may be seeing the beginning of the American decline. We had a good run for a few hundred years, but things seem to be coming apart at the seams presently.
From Cortez, we snaked along mountain roads on our way through Durango, Purgatory, Silverton, Ouray, Montrose, Gunnison, and Monarch. Some of those roads, especially 550 North, were outright treacherous between Silverton and Ouray. This is a beautiful highway in the San Juan Mountains. There are ghost towns like red Mountain City and Ironton. Then there are the Victorian-age mining towns. Each of these places is a magnificent glorification of the resourcefulness and engineering feats of a hardy assemblage of people. Most of our present pampered lot would not last long in such a hostile environment.
It felt good to be out. That is what a road trip is for. Even if it was just a little time. It is not an escape from reality, it’s a way to better understand reality. After our return, we knew that we left an important message to our granddaughter. She will remember this little trip made during the worst time in the lives of every American currently living. During a pandemic time, riots, racial wars, death, and divisiveness, a little bit of humanity was carved out just for us to enjoy on our three-day journey. We reminded ourselves that it is possible to still enjoy, to smile, to love in the worst of times.
I watched the news again. I turned away from my granddaughter during the portion of the video showing the knee on the neck of George Floyd. I did not want her to see me cry.
