My parents and I loaded up my mother’s green van (correction: my green van) on Monday night, the 15th of June. We headed out the next day, later than planned—an earlier departure would have been very un-Leyshon of us. We made it from Maryland to Indiana in one day. My father drove through Illinois and through Iowa; I continued sleeping in the back of the van in our makeshift bed. Throughout the trip I was reading William Least Heat Moon’s Blue Highways and continually found connections between his travels thirty years earlier and the journey I was making. While driving through the seemingly nothingness of a midwestern state I read, “the highway, oh, the highway. No place, in theory, is boring of itself. Boredom lies only within the traveler’s limited perception and his failure to explore deeply enough.” Appropriately chagrined, I reopened my eyes and saw the farms that fed me, the roads that advanced the country hundreds of years ago, new technology gracing the ancient countryside, the white arms of the gigantic windmills waving among the alfalfa and corn, creating certainly daunting enemies to the likes of Don Quixote.
I relieved my father from driving and for the next twelve hours I drove through the night, passing by the extremely flat plains of Nebraska, and then through the undeterminable scenery of Wyoming made visible during the dead of the night only because of the frequent, violent, and breathtaking lightning. We reached northern Utah early in the morning; the small rounded mountains (or the extremely large hillocks) were a nice change of landscape. Eventually I passed out in the backseat and my dad drove on through the day, through Idaho and into Oregon.
Oregon is a deceivingly large, diverse state. We drove past snow cover peaks, through a desert, curved around cliffs, and finally followed the westward path of the Columbia River, driving in the steps of Lewis and Clark. Driving the northernmost road in Oregon, we were parallel to both the river and the Washington border. Due to an accident we detoured into Washington, admiring Mt. Hood from the opposite side of the Columbia. Least Heat Moon has to say this about the imposing mountain, “Hood warmed and rose slowly, breaking open the plain, and cooled slowly over the plain it buried. The nature of things is resistance to change, while the nature of process is resistance to stasis.” The giant geological feature and his words reminded me of my attitude before leaving for Eugene or before even deciding to accept a position working for the University and entering their journalism graduate program. I was just so comfortable in Maryland. I had an established group of friends. I had both educational and job opportunities. I had the support and protection of my family. Now I can see those so-called benefits as crutches, hindering process and natural change. Russian author Yevgeny Zamyatin said it this way, “revolution is everywhere, in everything; it is infinite, there is no final revolution, no final number… only eternal dissatisfaction is the guarantee of unending movement forward, of unending creativity.” Oregon to me is a revolution. However un-drastic my decision to come here may seem to other people, it was an uprooting and dislocation of my home, my belongings, and my self.
We crossed back into Oregon via the Bridge of the Gods, a new version of an old Indian creation. The rest of the trip was moderately unexciting, just the mounting excitement of arriving in Eugene within a few hours. We spent the night in Salem, the very unimpressive capital of this state. After a hearty and expensive breakfast at Grandma’s Kitchen or some such name, we arrived in Eugene that morning. My parents moved me in. We explored town for a while and the next morning I dropped them off at their rental car and they left to see my sister and two nephews (their real reason for driving across the country…).
So that brings me to here. Solitude. It is somewhat appreciated after the constant presence of my parents, however much I love them. [Insert another Least Heat Moon comment] “Before I left home, I had told someone that part of my purpose for the trip was to be inconvenienced so I might see what would come from dislocation and disrupted custom. Answer: severe irritability.” I regret the irritability but find comfort that it is not unusual in these circumstances.
I believe that I will quickly grow to regret my constant solitude and have challenged myself to avoid stasis. Instead of adopting the comfortable and oh-so-safe routine of books, movies, and the internet as my constant companions, I am going to be outside (disclaimer: I might be reading or sleeping outside and in that case, it is permitted); I am going to start conversations; I am going to write; I am going to eat healthier; I am going to find summer employment; I am going to attempt riding my bike (however catastrophic that might prove to be); I am going to relish my uncomfortability and dislocation. I give you permission to encourage me in these ventures and to yell at me in the case that you notice me entirely ignoring all previously stated goals.
Tune in next time for my experiences with graveyards, the University, my house, and trips around Eugene. And whatever else unexpected occurs between now and then.