Open Roads, License Plates and Skateboarding Where We Shouldn’t
A father and son evade COVID-19’s first wave on a southwestern road trip
It’s early March and the tsunami of COVID-19 is gaining speed, but I’m thinking about outrunning it with my son. We figure it’s early days. Panic shopping is in full force, but true panic, not so much. After all, we rationalize, this is what we do. When the road calls for nature connection, we abide, so why stop now?
From the safety of our couch, my wife reads an email out loud. It’s from her friend’s brother in the military and warns us that a full lockdown is imminent. That we should stock up on food, water, and gas and prepare to hunker down for the foreseeable future. I’m briefly torn. Should we stay home or ignore the news and this hoax-ridden note? The road wins the mental tug of war as we decide to make tracks for the Grand Canyon in the morning. We know this trip has more meaning than a virus.
For Kai, my oldest son, our trips are a chance to feed his growing love of the outdoors and photography. He’s an English Premier League junkie with a contagious energy that says let’s go, and turn up the volume while you’re at it. He jumps at the opportunity to train his lens on a new set of landscapes. For me, it’s less about the photos.
With Kai freshly off to college, I’m acutely aware of how precious our time is together as he morphs into adulthood. The transition has been heavy on me, grief on some level I suppose, at the loss of how things were for eighteen years. Deep down, I know things won’t ever be the same. As much as I encourage his independence, I welcome the chance to be his copilot when he comes calling. In this case, neither of us has been to the Grand Canyon, offering the chance to bag an icon together.
Readying road stocks takes on a different vibe. It’s the first time either of us witness any real effects of COVID-19. Our local REI has the appearance of business as usual, except for the freeze-dried camping food section, which is decimated. Interesting. Whole shelves are empty at the grocery store. Ok, this is getting real. We stop for lunch at our favorite ramen joint and it’s packed as usual. A sign says the bathrooms are closed to save water for staff hand washing. Oh shit, I wonder, is water going to be a problem with this COVID thing? I begin to question the wisdom of our choice to hit the road. Walking out the door with a belly full of broth and noodles sloshing, I dismiss the situation as an outlier.
We feel a bit like fugitives as we load the car and speed away. It’s a potent cocktail of excitement and fear of the unknown. I imagine scenes from the 80’s movie Red Dawn, where Patrick Swayze’s character plays a young teen who has to flee his town for the mountains to escape a Russian invasion. The road unfolds quickly as we leave the news, worries and San Diego in the rear view.
As you do on road trips, we settle into a rhythm of Spotify playlists, deep conversation, and BBQ potato chips. And a rabid game of license plate. Our record, from a recent trip to Yosemite, was 45 plates. Not a bad effort. Staring down the road, I reflect again on the gift of being able to share this time with my son. As miles fall behind us, I savor the realness that comes from getting beyond small talk and into the juicy stuff of life. We chew on the role of ego in relationships and riff with each other on the things, however big or nuanced, we can do to become better humans.
Before long, we’re off the grid traveling through open landscapes. Desert sands peppered with Joshua trees and fingerlike ocotillos emerge. Purple and yellow wildflowers hint at early spring. Tatooine-like landscapes eventually give way to pine trees and crisp air as we gain elevation. The canyon draws near as sunset closes in and we race to capture it.
Along the drive, the coronavirus ceases to exist in our minds, except when it doesn’t. Stopping at middle-of-nowhere gas stations becomes an unavoidable risk. These places aren’t exactly the model of hygiene. Even before COVID-19, I had come to view these outposts as petri dishes brimming with whatever microbial stew travels on all manner of truckers, local lurkers, adventure dirtbags like ourselves, and commuters exchanging one nasty fluid for another.
To our surprise, the convenience stores aren’t looted, as the news would have us believe. We breathe a sigh of relief knowing that we can cover our basic needs for a few days. People’s body language holds an uncertainty that says let’s keep a little extra distance between us. Longer than usual hand washing time is evident. The thought crosses my mind to use gloves while pumping gas, but we don’t have any. We keep the stops brief, partly because of coronavirus, partly to stay on pace for snagging the sunset over the canyon.
As we chase the tail of a storm through the edges of the Kaibab National Forest, wet clouds and waning sun paint the adjacent hillside with a glowing rainbow. We are so close that it feels like being in a real-life Photoshop layer. This is a good sign. We hoot at the top of our lungs, crank the volume of Dan Auerbach’s “King of a One Horse Town,” and press on for the South Rim.
Momentarily, we fall prey to the photographer’s magic hour dilemma. The good light is fading fast, you have three options for a location, and a split second to make the right call. Or the wrong call. Everything leading to this point stacks up like an overstuffed Sherpa’s pack on the shoulders of the decision. The planning, packing, grocery shopping, gas, mileage, and the virus risk all come down to this moment where even a five-minute detour can ruin everything. We make a scatterbrained map scan and decide to beeline for Yavapai point.
Within minutes we steal our first glimpses of the majestic canyon from the car as we park. First-time excitement swells and mixes with memories of movies and old photos. We’ve never been here before, yet it feels familiar. We snag two more out-of-state plates pulling into the parking lot, bringing our tally to 32. National park lots are the low-hanging fruit of the license plate game and we gorge on the ripeness. The sun dips fast as we scramble to add warm layers and assemble gear.
Running at full pace through the parking lot, packs jostling, we head straight for the Rim Trail, Kai scanning for more plates with his eagle eyes. The short path connecting the lot to the Rim Trail opens up to the vastness of the canyon. Time stops.
Low evening light blasts the North Rim’s red and orange layers with a warm and moody glow unlike anything we’ve seen before. We made it. The Grand Canyon. Finally. We draw deep breaths and soak in the iconic scenery. It took me 48 years to get here and only 19 for Kai. I chalk it up as a meaningful generational improvement.
Adrenaline spritzes, nudging us out of momentary awe to find a place to land our tripods. After all, we have serious photo business to attend. Navigating the canyon trails, the few people we encounter keep their distance. There appears to be a subtle, yet understood, COVID code of conduct. Make eye contact, say hello, and keep moving. We follow suit.
Scouring the canyon rim like worker ants we seek out a composition. Soon enough we’re perched, fiddling with exposures and framing beautiful scenes as magic hour evaporates.
After the rush of our sunset shoot, we downshift into a couple chair-shaped crags and settle in for one last view. Meditating side-by-side, father and son, we absorb the energy of the place content with logging another classic in the books.
Checking into our hotel jars us back into the coronavirus reality. More people. More germs. However, the scene is calm and casual. A rustic lodge with a less-than-full capacity vibe. After a long day and mediocre dinner, we surrender to excessively firm hotel mattresses.
Sauntering into a touristy little coffee and trinkets shop the next morning changes the trajectory of our mission. The shopkeeper, a middle-aged woman wearing a ranger-like outfit is warm and brimming with local knowledge. Revived with caffeine and chocolate, she has us headed for Monument Valley, our heads filled with visions of towering red buttes.
Monument Valley in southern Utah is on our radar for one reason. We want to skateboard on the road where Forrest Gump decided to stop running. The famed highway bisects the northern fringes of the Navajo Nation landscape and appears to dead end into a set of iconic buttes. The view conjures up the scene of a lone horse and rider perched on a cliff’s edge from classic western movies and Marlborough ads. It’s also where in the movie Forrest Gump, Forrest stopped running and declared, “I’m pretty tired. Think I’ll go home now.” It’s the opposite for us. We have plenty of juice in the tank and are dead set on skating.
We arrive in the valley with plenty of time to shoot the sunset, but a mangy little fox steals our attention. He darts around an area the size of a football field, interspersed with sagebrush, and small mounds of red dirt. Moving from spot to spot, he holds long poses as our camera sensors devour his modeling skills. The sun dips below the horizon turning the sky a deep purple.
Checking into a cheap motel leaves us feeling exposed to the virus. We take a peek into the restaurant, which quickly reveals COVID sloppiness and a menu that seems stuck in another era. And not in a good way. An unseen wave of virus fear washes over us. We opt for camping food in our room and drift off to sleep excited for the morning.
Being a two-lane road in the middle of nowhere, cars move blindingly fast along US-163. Standing roadside upon arrival, massive trucks hurl by us. The ground grumbles as their fierce drafts shove our bodies like invisible hands. Long skid marks conjure images of things gone horribly wrong. We nervously contemplate our reality. If we aren’t careful, we could go from skateboarding bliss to roadkill in a matter of seconds. For a moment, I think we’ve come all this way for nothing. It’s not possible. I take a breath and realize we need a system to keep us on the bliss side of the ledger.
As one of us skates, the other plays spotter. If a car approaches, the spotter yells “Car!” at the top of their lungs and the skater dashes off the road. Easy enough, we think. For the skater, hearing the spotter’s warning cry sends adrenaline firing. Breath goes shallow and the heart pounds. All that matters is getting safely to the shoulder in a fraction of a second. Sacrifice the board if needed. For the spotter, it’s a cringeworthy moment until the skater is safe.
After a couple laps, we have it dialed. We fall into a flowy rhythm of surfing the asphalt, taking photos, hiking back up the road and car spotting. The road is pitched perfect, allowing for cruisy, wide arcing turns from one edge of the road to the other. It feels like snowboarding through buttery corduroy on the slopes, except with heavy chunks of metal trying to kill you. Fellow tourists look at us puzzled as they pose for their Gump selfies in the middle of the road. Oddly, it seems as if we are the ones playing it safe, since we have to yell, “Car!” more than a few times for them.
Ending the session, we enjoy a roadside chat with an Australian couple who have been traipsing national parks with their two little kids. They share how impressed they are with the natural beauty in America. Kai and I agree, and throw them a “Good on ya,” inspired by their coverage of more ground in a few weeks than many experience in a lifetime.
Our conversation inevitably veers toward COVID-19 as they express sadness for having to end their trip early due to the fast-moving pandemic. We part ways with the Aussies, share a boot high five, apparently the COVID replacement for a handshake, and wish them safe travels. Like Forrest, we’re ready to start heading home.
Driving away, Kai and I talk about how cool it is to meet strangers while traveling. Conversations struck up tableside in cafes, tidbits of useful info shared along roadsides, hand gestures and facial expressions that dissolve language barriers. It’s as if the heart and mind conspire to open us up to new interactions that get walled off during the busyness of life at home.
Caked with smashed bugs from the road, we point our dusty Subaru Outback toward Sedona for one last sunrise. Cage the Elephant’s “Social Cues” blasts as we speed through the pines along the bottom edge of Humphreys Peak. Rising up, seemingly out of nowhere to over 12,000 feet, the dormant volcano stands guard over nearby Flagstaff, Arizona. Thoughts drift between the realities of COVID-19 and home as Kai scouts sunrise locations in Sedona on his phone. We skirt the magic hour dilemma this time as one place stands out among the rest.
Our headlamps cut through the darkness, lighting the narrow dirt path beneath our feet. We fall into a quick pace along a short trail that deposits us onto a ridge of red-orange slick-rock. Looking to our left, we take in a majestic view of two towering peaks that hold promise. The morning light is ethereal with clouds reflecting off of rainwater pooling in depressions of smooth rock.
Two photographers share the area with us, and they couldn’t be more different from one another. One, a husky guy in his mid-forties with a southern accent, is clearly a workhorse. Before we even have our bearings, he’s planted two cameras and tripods, staking claim to the best compositions. I regret not waking up ten minutes earlier. The other man, a graying and weathered local, offers a kind smile and moves slowly. He seems more interested in experiencing the natural beauty than the image making. Though we make energetic greetings with them, we opt to not shake hands. Our hesitation catches the young guy off guard, causing him to chuckle and shake his head, muttering something under his breath. Apparently, he’s not on board with the whole pandemic thing. I negotiate space with the COVID-questioning workhorse while Kai strikes up a conversation with the old man.
Kai has a knack for getting conversations going with anybody. I love watching him ask intriguing questions, the kind that get people thinking in ways they wouldn’t normally. His curiosity is genuine. People sense that and open up with him. I see him making mental notes about how their wisdom might apply to his own life. I log these moments as mile markers of my boy becoming a good man. Pride swells as I work the Martian landscape for a shot.
We hit the road again on the hunt for remaining out-of-state plates, but not before loading fresh bread with olive oil at a local bakery.
Ironically, reaching the upper level of the license plate game sucks. Hundreds of miles can pass between sightings. Frustration sets in, catalyzed by a repetitive pattern of Indiana plates on semi-trucks. Our total is now 47, a new record. Given we already have Hawaii and Alaska in the can, hitting 50 seems within grasp.
We briefly consider veering off course for a couple hours to see the famed saguaro cactuses and a few more plates. Instead, we’ve reached the turning point that all road trips eventually hit. Openness and exploration turn to get-me-home-now efficiency. We make the call to lock in for some serious mileage.
Massive sand dunes begin erupting from the road’s edges after a few hours of podcasts, catnaps and comfortable silence. It looks like a giant broom swept through the dunes ahead of us, revealing the road. Afternoon light casts shadows across ripples and ridges in the dunes, begging us to stop and play one last time.
“Let’s take off our shoes,” says Kai as we grab our camera bags. After hours of sitting, the warm sand massages our feet, loosening our road-hardened fascia and shifting our mental states.
Photographing dunes can feel like being trapped in a piece of M.C. Escher art. Every time you crest one dune, you see another off in the distance that looks even better. You arrive at the one off in the distance, only to look back and think that the original one looks better. We move through nature’s house of mirrors, chasing fleeting shapes and shadows like this for an hour, refreshed for the final leg home.
Stopping off at a gas station in El Centro, it becomes clear that the collective posture has shifted. In the few days since we left, California went into full quarantine mode. People’s personal space bubbles have widened palpably as they flit about, averting their eyes. It’s the first time I truly feel the icy sting of the oncoming isolation cold front. After spending so many hours away from people over the last few days, being back in the populace snaps a new reality into sharp focus. Things are going to be different, but we don’t know how.
Filling the tank, I notice a homeless man pushing a shopping cart and wonder if he even knows about COVID-19. I ponder what this situation will be like for the homeless population at large and my heart grows heavy. I ask Kai to round up our leftover Clif bars and hand them to the man. He cracks a smile, grateful for the food. We don’t mention anything about the coronavirus and neither does he.
Pulling into our hometown, my mind runs a double-speed replay video of the last few days. The new landscapes, experiences and people knock on the door of my cortex begging for permanent residence. I cherish the space we created for stillness in nature. More importantly, I feel a deeper bond with my son. I’ve often said that it’s important to treasure each stage of parenting, but I have to admit, this one with Kai feels more special than the rest.
He’s entering that sweet spot of youth where time seems to dilate. Adulthood is beginning, but not really. It’s all the fun without all the responsibility. He’s emerged from the fabled teenage rebellion stage and opened his mind to the idea that maybe dad isn’t such a kook after all (at least not all the time). As a result, we get to share this unfettered space where our interests and passions collide. I get a taste of his world through our conversations and he gets a taste of mine. Surely, he would describe it differently, but the bond is unmistakable. I savor it not knowing what the next chapter holds, for any of us.
I also muse on COVID, second guessing our trip. Were we selfish and irresponsible? Maybe, I think, but it’s hard to know for sure. We erred on the side of caution, isolating ourselves as best we could under the circumstances. I tell myself that twenty years from now, I’ll remember the trip with Kai more than I’ll remember the coronavirus. I hope it’s true, but I know that only time will tell.
We arrive home safely and settle into several weeks of Groundhog Day-like isolation. We’re stoked to have squeezed in a trip in ahead of the coronavirus wave, but watching it grow has been unsettling.
One morning, feeling a bit cagey, we head out for a family walk along highway 101 up the coast. Now we’re all sporting face masks, per the public health guidance du jour. Within minutes of hopping out of the car, Kai spots three rare license plates, South Carolina, West Virginia and Rhode Island. We finished our southwestern road trip license plate game at 47, and these were the remaining three. Though elated by the discovery, we knew they didn’t count. That adventure was complete. Game over. Kai and I share a quick laugh and come to the same conclusion. Looks like we’ll have to take another trip.
