Counting The Cars

Play It Loud

When driving on the open road, my soundtrack carries me over each hill and along the lengthy straightaways (sees “The Soundtrack” from December 2012) as my constant companion and closest emotional guidepost.  And on the ideal occasions, when the tepid temperature cannot be kept from me by a single pane of glass, and the sporadic cars cannot be considered traffic, and the music seemingly leads the car forward, I roll down the windows, turn up the volume and sing terribly relishing in these most perfect moments of life.  When a song touches me this way and the world around me urges me to envelope myself in its melody and lyrics, I know not to resist.  Traveling solo happily lends to such behavior.

And as I entered New Jersey, number forty-eight in the quest of Project Fifty, through its northernmost tip, my intentions never included seeing the bulk of the state.  I would just graze the mountainous regions along the Pennsylvania/New York tri-state border, skipping the cities, the seashores, and the famed Garden State Parkway.  And one line from one song echoed in my head, and within moments, blasted from the windows of my rented car, “Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike, they’ve all gone to look for America.”

More Than A Number

With only a few Jersey miles behind me, an obelisk in the rolling hills distracts me, darting in and out from behind the trees.  As the road twists and turns, I crane to see the structure and attempt to devise a route closer to its base despite the intentions of the pavement.  A monument here seems odd and out of place, but even more unusual that I failed to notice it on my atlas.  Even with my short slice through the state, how did I miss the focal point of High Point State Park on my map?  I continue to approach, and it appears to grow in stature as I wind my way to its ground floor.

 

The monument to New Jersey’s veterans reaches more than two hundred feet into the brilliantly azure autumn sky, and I decide to conquer its two hundred ninety-one steps.  With a number of stops along the climb, I ascend to its peak and observe the distant mountains, the neighboring states, and the brushes of autumn painting brilliant colors on the forest of trees beneath me.  When I finally decide to return from my perch, I stop and strike a triumphant pose, and resume the blaring levels of Simon and Garfunkel.  But rather than count the cars, or the steps, or the states, I bask in my random discovery tucked in the corner of New Jersey.  And then off I go.

I Owe Oregon

Just a Number

When I first conceived Project 50 (see “Forty-Nine,” August 2012), my zest to reach the finish line occasionally superseded my desire to see the beauty associated with each number.  So was the case with Oregon.  I knew I did not have enough time to explore thoroughly the middle state on the Pacific shore, so I planned instead for a short jaunt into the northeast corner, just a swift drive from Washington State to add to my final tally.  And according to my beloved atlas, Flora, Oregon lay just across the state line and it would give me a quick terminus at which I would turn around, retrace my tread, and continue on my way through the Bitterroot Mountains before sunset.

Pulling into Flora could be equated to pulling into a driveway.  Only a handful of structures, mostly agricultural, made up the tiny community.  Quite possibly, two families may have resided in the town, to use the term liberally, but such a guess would have been only a hypothesis.  Nothing outwardly confirmed any residents at all, nor did the rural village reflect any apparent dilapidation.  No postcards would be obtained, no credit card purchases, no validation that I had even visited the state besides the simple sign upon leaving Washington not as a welcome to but to distinguish where each state’s work crews ought to end their respective basic services.  So I pulled into a dirt path, put the rental car in reverse and looked in my rear view mirror before proceeding, and framed in the reflective glass I saw the first glimpse of snow-capped mountains on this voyage, beckoning me to keep moving southward.  And so I detoured from my planned course, just barely a dozen hours into my current expedition.  “The mountains are calling and I must go.”

Pulling Me Inward, Onward, Upward

A scenic landscape sucks me in like nature’s vacuum (see “From A Distance,” February 2013) and the peaks ahead of me set my spirit on autopilot and I irresistibly press onward.  At each new vista, around each new bend in the road, at the base of every meadow, the mountains frame themselves and I keep pressing onward.  I justify the delay without realizing that this additional mileage should be added on an equal par with the planned routes and destinations.  Adding a new location more than fills a box on a list, it ought to leave its mark on me.  Yet I thoughtlessly commit fully to the lofty vision that guides me deeper into the Beaver State.  I finally stop in Enterprise to pause and regroup.  This drive pays off in spades, all for the good fortune of looking in my rear-view mirror.

I regret neglecting Oregon.  I knew it would be beautiful.  Of course it would be beautiful.  A century and a half ago tens of thousands of people journeyed across the rugged mountain to its east for the sole purpose of reaching the coast.  A trail named for this end of a spectacular journey pulled these early settlers westward, and now it pulls me into the state’s beauty, even with just the smallest glimpse.  I owe Oregon another visit. I owe this scenery a moment all its own.  I should return and crisscross its width and breadth and value it for the spectacular morning it offers me.  And just two years later, I would return to see even more of the sights that blew me away the first time.  It’s just a shame that my second visit happened to be on a whim, a lark, and spontaneous impulse.  Really, Oregon, I will do it right.  I will.  I promise.  You are too damn tempting to resist.

Forty-Nine

The Countdown

When I decided to initiate Project 50, I found myself ten states shy of seeing all fifty and I planned to visit the last twenty percent before I reached the half-century mark.  At first I thought I would knock out a couple each year, by regions, and eventually make my way to the newest of them all floating out there in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.  But pretty soon the travel bug bit me and for the Independence Day weekend I took off to Omaha and suddenly found myself knocking off the other Dakota (see “North Dakota On A Napkin” from November 2011).  By the end of the month, I ticked off the entire American Northwest and cut my list down to four.

While headed to Washington State, the nice airline folks offered me a lovely voucher to afford me a few extra steps towards my goal.  Suddenly Labor Day arrived and I found myself in West Virginia and within three months I have passed through nineteen states, including the last remaining newbies.  Suddenly I close in on the final few.  What I expected to be a decade-long experience suddenly landed me in the driver’s seat putting a lot more miles on a myriad of new rental cars.  My beloved atlas took a beating that summer (see “Traveling With Boys, November 2011).

Almost There

The final leg begins with a flight into Connecticut, a drive through the Catskills of New York and a rise to the highest point in New Jersey – state number forty-eight.  As I drive through High Point State Park, I listen to Simon and Garfunkel sing about the way to pass time is by counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike, but the breathtaking view at High Point State Park seems like a pretty spectacular way to experience the Garden State.  From atop the Veteran’s Monument, 291 butt-kicking steps upward, I glance to the west at Pennsylvania and to the east at New York, both of which I first visited in 1992, and now nearly two decades later, I finally visit the slice of mountainous beauty in between the two.  And then I hit the road the reach the last contiguous state.

Project Fifty is nearly complete, and from end to end, I have visited the United States, from my first state out west to this, my forty-ninth, and all the dozens in between.  My travels may be circuitous, sometimes years in between each state, sometimes coming all at once, like the past three months.  Sometimes, within a matter of minutes, I cross a sliver, or a corner, or sometimes an entire state.  And so here at number forty-nine I stop to tally my geographical and mathematical feat at the state line between Connecticut and Rhode Island.  At the entrance to the Ocean State, I pose with my camera’s self-timer and congratulate on myself on my self-navigation, my self-sufficiency and my self-determination.  Next stop: Hawaii.