Scenic Overlook Ahead (Or Inner-look, if you will; Below).

This is my disclaimer: The opening sentences of this entry (to follow, paragraph 3) may inevitably seem trite. However, (regardless) they are true. It is possible that the experience I aim to further expound upon is one that is, on its exterior, quite cliche, and the details that prevent it thus will be nearly impossible to convey in an accessible and concise way. Perhaps I will contend with the reason I feel the need to preface this entry in this way, instead of trying to justify the uniqueness of the experience. Perhaps it just is more universal than it is esoteric.

This being said, it is for posterity, not cool-points, that I continue. It happened like this:

The four of us were driving out of Mesa Verde National Park as the sun began to make its descent. It is Saturday, none of us have showered since Tuesday, and we're listening to Flamenco as we wind through plateaus on a serpentine canyon road. The windows are down.

My heart feels full. (Genuinely.)

Once this glow has waned some, much like the warmth of the sun, my contentment gives way to hunger. This degeneration ends somewhere like Durango when we stop for food, but I've already begun to dissect the elements of my general fulfillment in association with our venture to the West. The "road trip" and its persistence in the American psyche as a vague, romanticised pilgrimage is a fascinating study. I'm wondering if we need these odd (sometimes trying) experiments in isolation to solidify our usual relations with the ones we purport to love (so easily) on a day to day basis.

People have a myriad amount of things to say regarding travel. Jack Keruoac says this: "Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again, we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life." He may be suggesting that our mobilizations are intuitive, possibly involuntary. We are restless creatures. Movement is necessary. I came across another quote I found telling when combing the internet for various opinions on the subject of wanderlust: " Maps encourage boldness. They're like cryptic love letters. They make anything seem possible". This was stated by Mark Jenkins. (I have no idea who Mark Jenkins is, but I like what the man says of maps. I'm in agreement on this front.) But how does this involuntary boldness brought on by the illustrious notion of "roadtripping" actually effect the relations of its participants?

My speculative theory is this: A roadtrip offers a concentrated slice of our normally broad scope of emotions that is regularly played out in entirety within the vast theatre that is our daily lives. On the petrie dish that is a cross-country journey with friends, the multi-faceted specimen manifests itself in only a fractional microcosm of interaction, in this case, a Ford Focus or a three-person tent, housing four. If all participants are able adjust to the compression of their reactionary desires during the indubitable, unforeseen circumstances that life on the road may present, chances are everyone will still be friends when you get back to Madison. (Drinks at Natspil!)

On this venture, I found my emotions ranging from one extreme to the next in rather short succession. This is true of many trips I've taken, or have had the opportunity to hear about. The distractions are few, the challenges are many. On the day that ended as I've described above, only hours before my seemingly life-affirming drive into the sunset, I found myself seized with laughter while a cut-off clad Ed disappeared into a tunnel while touring an ancient cliff dwelling of the Ancestral Pueblo. He had to nearly get onto his belly to clear the roof of the hole with my back pack on, and for whatever reason (overtiredness? overexertion of emotional restraint thus far?) I found this hilarious. I shouldn't have been laughing, all considered. He was after all, carrying my backpack, and we were treading (crawling headfirst through) an archaeological wonder, but the feelings commanded by the road know not the bounds of propriety. Approximately 25 minutes after I finally get a handle of the incessant giggling (to the dismay of the respectful elderly couple behind me) , I nearly cry when Park Ranger John Bruce asks us to examine our potential as human beings through our reliance on the hands of others. Perhaps by now, if you're not a traveller, you're suggesting I get a grip, if you are however, chances are you've encountered a similar deluge of compelling feelings in as short a time span. It wasn't that these expressions were insincere, they simply were without the proper amount of time and space to project themselves realistically. This is the nomad life.

You may find yourselves eating an apple in a lean-to in the bottom of a canyon, after a 1400 foot descent, singing Total Eclipse of the Heart, practically begging for a sign from above that suggests you turn around for the car (Will a white butterfly suffice?). I couldn't tell if this was desperation, dehydration, or comedy. Abnormal circumstances breed abnormal emotional responses. (And in my case, more often than not, uninvited fits of laughter.) Or, perhaps you and Christine are pressing wet sand into turrets and towers under a sky filled with mountains and dunes. There are no clouds; the boys have set off on a foot-race across the flood plain leaving two of you to your fleeting architectural endeavors. But while you partake in this inconsequential, childish activity, you let conversation give way to some of your deepest insecurities. This is not the stuff of prediction. It is the stuff of the Road Trip. And I suggest you take one. I've seen some really remarkable places in the last week.

However, when creating an ambitious itinerary based on that awe-inspiring map in front of you, consider that with every new vista that opens to you, a new (emotive) can of worms may, as well. Benjamin Disraeli says this: "Like all Great travelers, I have seen more than I remember and remember more than I've seen".

No friends were lost in the production/research of this entry.