When I left Colorado the Fall had just finished giving the last of its offerings to the cold Winter. Red and gold leaves mixed with snow and ice and the mountain peaks had that joyful, freshly polished look that somehow only happens when they're partly veiled under a thin covering of white. Nature was resting for the first time in eight months (more or less; Colorado decides when nature gets to rest and when she gets to wake). The sheer thickness of the coldest season even made the crows stop the chatter that was so tireless in the Fall. The plants and animals respect this season. They bow their heads and retreat to their burrows so the deadly soft caress of the chilly maiden can pass over the land and lovingly give them the long gift of delayed hydration; so harsh but so necessary to survival. Only the people and the pines dare to make their way out into the world (the pines in dutiful solidarity and the people in revel or resignation).
I had planned to leave a couple days earlier, but I'm no stranger to Winter and I can tell when she's trying to delay my travel. When I finally made my way across the plane of highway that leads to the eastern plains (that flee from the shadow of the mountains but never escape the snow) I found I had been right to wait. Cars slept in various positions on the soft shoulder to either side, as if my lady Winter had chosen to join in the joyful games of the skiers and snowshoers before the night had taken all to the bar and the gaiety had turned more lecherous in the dim lights and fogged minds. In this environment (so often a catalyst for unusual decisions) the frosty mistress had suggested they all go back to her house and have a little fun. In the morning, the somber, tired bodies that hours before had been sliding themselves across her reflective skin all lay strewn about on their backs, sides, noses, or still sitting upright but worse for the tumble. A word to the wise: Winter is a wonderful lover, but never spend the night at her place.
She was probably disappointed that I had seen through her wiles and so the next day was sunny and the roads were as safe as could be expected. I had a rented moving truck loaded down with my belongings, and some odds and ends that had been left behind by my parents when those snowbirds decided to fly the coop for good. There are a lot of ways to get to the southeast from Colorado, but I was shooting for the most direct (which is also, in my opinion, the most boring). This route requires one to travel along the Rocky Mountains south until their towering 14,000 foot peaks begin to give way. Once you ride the mountains into submission, the land gives way to shit. That's not meant to be a slight on Texas (a State I am not wholly fond of, I admit), this land is quite honestly full of cattle and their leavings. The diligent reader who is familiar with travel or geography will surely note that I have left New Mexico out of this. That's only because New Mexico is merely a detour on the way to Texas from Colorado and you don't really get to know her on your way through (much like West Virginia on your way to Maryland via I-81) .
Anyone who has traveled through Texas knows that while their claim that "everything is bigger" there may not be wholly true, the boundaries and egos most certainly are. My estimated travel time was 21 hours, but the distance from my origin to Texline, TX was a mere 3.5, and the distance from the Sabine to the Perdido rivers is about 5.5, if that tells you anything. Because of this, a competitive soul like myself has no choice but to try to get through it as fast as possible. Giant heads topped with matching hats and vast land topped with matching cow pies roared by at the maximum speed allowed by the governor on my rented truck's engine; a speed which I will not mention as it violated a number of ordinances, just as I will not mention the insignificant amount of Colorado contraband that somehow found its way into my laundry (really officer, I have no idea). After long I was in Dallas/Ft. Worth. Now, I always try to plan my journeys through Texas so that I will avoid rush hour in this urban hell but I always somehow end up smack dab in the middle of it. Or maybe it's always rush hour on Satan's favorite stretch of pavement. Still, even in my trance-like state, I managed to navigate my way around trinkets fallen from trucks and the mass of metal filled with people that had abandoned all hope or desire for a long life.
By the time my steed and I stumbled into Louisiana I had lost my appetite for the long anticipated Creole cooking. I do remember eventually stopping for some garbage drive-through fare that served to shorten my lifespan further than the stress (also bigger in Texas, now that I think about it) and sleep deprivation had already done, but I couldn't tell you what it was. Swamps, bayous, and cypress trees slowly gave way to more swamps, bayous, and cypress trees (welcome to the low, dirty south) but the torrential downpour I had come to expect from this place was somehow lacking. This was good, because I've long considered the pitter-patter, or patter-patter, or even patter-kapow of various grades of rainfall to be a loving lullaby from the clouds above. The last thing I needed behind the wheel of a mid-sized moving truck hauling a trailer under a heavy car was a nap.
I wish I could give you a more thorough description of my travels through the boot, or the adjacent States standing back to back, but at this point in my journey I was in the human equivalent of standby. Those who have attempted long, foolish journeys may know what I'm talking about. Your brain is running on reserve power and only sending sluggish signals to the hands and feet until a deer in the headlights or a sudden narrowing and realignment of lanes snaps everything back to attention with an adrenaline spike that leaves you more exhausted than before. All I can remember is that after one such prolonged period of lucidity over a rough and vaguely demarcated piece of deconstruction zone covered in rain (of the patter-kapow variety), I was forced to pull over and refuel. At this juncture my pack-mule didn't need gas in any desperate way but its captain sure needed something akin to the effects of nitrous oxide in a combustion engine.
A few minutes later the substance(s) was(were) taking hold, but when you've already pushed yourself past the point of reason they have a different effect. My desire for sleep was now urgent, rather than passive. My mind was circling the landscape like a cat gathering the necessary information to find the most comfortable manner in which to lie down. My sharpened senses made my body into a wolf, with slumber its prey. My heart was racing as if it were trying to drive me to the point of forced exhaustion. The body and will are not always friends, and sometimes the body can talk the brain into forcing their user's hand.
Yet my will was strong, and the light had begun to peer over the horizon (directly in my eyes, as you might expect from the direction of my travel). Before I knew it (literally, not metaphorically - remember my near catatonic state) I was in Florida. On the upturned brim of Florida's jaunty reversed/inverted golfing visor the drivers are different. I like to think of speed limits as mere suggestions, or occasionally challenges (except in small towns; you always slow down to at least 5 above in small towns), but the people of Lower Alabama have made of this mindset an art form. The speed limit is not just unwelcome advice, it's insinuation. Is it 65 here? they say to themselves, I suppose 40 will do. Also, that right lane looks a little intimidating. I think I'll stay here in the left where I can look that shoulder in the eye. Or, perhaps, 65 is such an odd number. I think I'll round it up to 90. That seems right. Look at all of these 40 mph obstacles to avoid! Oh what fun it is to swerve on a congested highway!
Needless to say, this particular eccentricity was most welcome. For the first time in hundreds of miles my mind and body were of one accord. Or at least, they were of complementary chords. I can't say with any conviction that my mind and body are ever of identical motives, excepting those delightfully licentious moments. You may think me somewhat crass to hint at this act twice in a single recollection, but I would be remiss not to draw to your mind the parallels between driving your automobile through the shapely body of our buxom land - with her two heavy mountain ranges; one a bit smaller, as is correct, but both as beautiful as the twin fawns of the gazelle (go back now and read the second sentence of the first paragraph and it will make you blush) - and driving your personal Mustang (or Metro, or Fleetwood 75) through the gates of heaven. The great poet e e cummings had it right: from low through second-in-to-high like greasedlightning just as we turned the corner of Divinity.
At any rate, this new train of thought and the chaos around me served to divert my attention from sleep as it has for countless beings for countless centuries. I put the pedal to the metal, and the meddle to the petal as vibrant nature bowed at my passing. Before long my exit jumped into view and I jumped into the slow lane, nimbly avoiding the cars lolling and/or speeding past. In one smooth movement I shifted lanes and exited the mad motorway like a dog expels the grass it ate onto your new rug without so much courtesy as a dry-heave. Somehow, the last few miles are always torture. Up to now I had forced myself not to think on what I had left behind, for fear of exhausting any energy on emotional exercises, but I was all but at my destination and the thoughts began to crawl around the edges of my awareness, their eight spindly legs testing the web of tattered consciousness that remained. I brushed them aside. Time enough for that later.
My wheels settled on the driveway moments before my feet. My feet settled on soft, man-made fiber moments before my body. My body settled into stupor moments before my mind. My mind settled into dreams moments before the memories. Of course they had beat me here.
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