You know that scene in the first “Lord of the Rings” when Sam stops to reflect that one more step will be the farthest he’s ever been? I’ve had that experience over and over again since October of 2016. Packing my things and moving to Chicago from Northern California was not well planned. My lease was up, I was unemployed, and recently I began performing comedy with some success. With a little money saved up and no more patience for home, I started driving half-way across the country at 4 am.
“Cool. Fine,” I think. It doesn’t really hit me at first. Traveling familiar highways until the surroundings becomes unrecognizable. But everything’s fine at first. The friendly farmlands and tawny hills pass full of dull, grazing cows. The coastal air becomes hotter, the surrounding countryside harsher, and the coffee I began with disappears. I stop in my college town about three hours away to refuel and refill. “Now the journey is underway,” I think, “I’ve gone too far to turn back.” The open flatland turns into a dense city which the highway cuts through before ascending into a thick forest. Still, not the farthest I’ve been. The mountains make an impression on me, their steep, long declines from high altitudes amidst even higher ridges spattered with snowy rocks and trees. A river runs in the canyon thousands of feet below.
Hours pass through the imposing and somehow comforting heights. Up and down I go beside fellow travelers, united in the spirit of adventure. Finally the road bottoms out into Nevada. “Fine,” I think. The terrain is desolate and the sunny weather feels overcast in the dust. With Reno behind me, existentialism seeps in. The previous crowded roads give way to constant desert mirages and abandoned highway. I feel insignificant, surrounded by a sweeping, dry landscape with massive plateaus. The water in my body, the ceaseless breath of my lungs, and the light in my eyes seem secondary to the whims of nature. My phone loses reception and I’m paranoid of breaking down. Alone and helpless, surrounded by nothing but sweltering heat, crumbling rocks, and desiccated bones, I drive on.
The adventure I craved earlier that day in the misty, Pacific morning seems like like a cruel joke. I imagine frontiersmen using livestock to haul their belongings across salt flats with nothing but the brim of a hat to shield the sun. Here I am going the opposite way in an air conditioned car. I’m in awe of the blank, forlorn desert beneath a lethargic, blue sky, and compelled to escape it.
On the threshold of Utah, I stop for the night with two states behind me. “Pretty good progress,” I think checking the remaining distance on my GPS. I rent a motel and get some beer in the desert town, surrounded by the whitish hue of flat ground stretching into the distance. It feels good to rest with four walls keeping the outdoors at bay. I decide to play poker, buzzed and drinking throughout a tournament. On the final table, I’m unable to fold pocket queens and lose to pocket aces. I go to sleep, drunk and frustrated, restarting my journey the next morning in darkness. The brightening twilight reflects off large bodies of water as I sip McDonald’s coffee, getting all the way to Salt Lake City before the sun comes up. It feels like an accomplishment to leave the desert behind. Then I cross state lines and the terrain takes a change for the worse.
My first thought after entering Wyoming is to get out of Wyoming. It is just plain, long, and boring. Nevada may have been frightening with foreboding mesas and horrid desert, but at least it didn’t look lazy. The rugged terrain passes for hours on a straight road chasing the horizon. “How did people do this in wagons?” I think, tethered to the sound of a sportscaster’s voice. I stop early, tired and thirsty. In the motel, after sending out job applications and requests to view apartments, it somehow becomes apparent that I am farther from home than I’ve ever been. I’ve been focused on the journey, but I realize I’m beyond my comfort zone in unknown territory. I struggled to define myself and what I left behind, swallowed in the unfamiliar. All of the regrets, screwed up relationships, and squandered chances took an undeniable shape as I drifted to sleep.
It was more of the same traveling through Nebraska the next day, except I felt a difference in my introspection. I was resigned to the role of a traveler. This was day 3. I wasn’t a rookie at this. I had already driven thousands of miles to my destination. Rolling hills passed until rocky terrain became farms. Nebraska became Iowa as the car fought the wind. After one more night, I was in Illinois, the farthest I’ve ever been from home. Throughout life we direct ourselves through moments of reflection, but also moments of forging ahead. As Bilbo says, “It’s a dangerous business going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.” A part of me misses home, but I know that I have to “keep my feet” on the journey. Reflection is natural, but when you are timid or irresolute, “there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
I still get asked, “Why did you move to Chicago?” And I still don’t have a great answer. I want to say, “Because I decided to,” or some platitude about following a dream. Instead, I just look the person right in the eyes, and respond that, “I ran out of bridges to burn.”