Drives with Dad
- Aubrey Johnson
- Apr 23, 2023
- 10 min read
No one can choose their parents, but I think I was gifted some great ones. And in honor of my dad’s birthday (April 17), I wanted to dedicate this entry to him. My dad has passed on a love of travel and the outdoors, wildlife - including saving turtles and other wild animals (some of which Mom and I wouldn't normally save), and classic/ fantasy literature. I may not be able to self-diagnose any of the many car problems I’ve had through the years, but Dad did teach me to check the oil/ tire pressure and change a tire. I also learned the difference between Narnia and Neverland, Tom Bombadil and Tom Riddle, and World's End and the Grey Havens. In addition to passing things on to me through the years, he’s also spent many hours in the car with me.
Both of my parents have supported my once-nomadic lifestyle by helping me drive across the country. The farthest I’ve driven on my own was 9 hours from Charleston to Orlando for a girls’ trip, but all of my cross-country moves I’ve made with one other person. My dad helped me move back from CO to OK in December 2016. He drove with me moving to CT from OK in July 2018, and he helped me move back to OK from MT in May 2022. (It was fortunate that my dad worked for an airline, so the drive was only one way, and my co-pilot driver would take a flight on the other leg of the trip.) Those three trips alone were over 3,500 miles or 52 hours of driving. So, there were lots of conversations, podcasts, and rounds of “name that song” as we flipped stations.
The trip to Connecticut in the summer of 2018 was probably the most interesting. While I had visited Boston for my 30th birthday the year before, and my friend and I rented a car, it was my first time driving past Ohio into the northeast. Once we got out of the cornfields of Indiana (where I lost my phone because I set it on top of the car when loading up again at the hotel our second morning), the scenery was more stimulating as we covered new terrain. After getting through a downpour summer rainstorm in Ohio where Dad bought me a late birthday gift of a new smartphone (something I was reluctant to get earlier, but then it became a necessity), we made it to Pennsylvania. After so many hours in the car, we were both struggling to think of something to talk about, so I shared the Pink Frog story. This is something I hadn’t shared with my parents before, and they didn’t know me as one for pranks or late-night spontaneity, so I could tell my dad was a little surprised/ amused. He also shared a road trip story about him and his friend driving his Jeep on a road trip through the southwest. He was gracious enough to write his story down for me. So open a window to let a breeze through, find an oldies station (or stream The Eagles Greatest Hits), and enjoy!
Summer of '77. My good friend Chris had just graduated high school (I had been out a year). We decided to take a road trip and thought the Grand Canyon sounded like an interesting destination (all the destinations on this trip were concepts of our minds, not having been to most of them before).
We loaded up my 1970 soft-top Jeep and headed south, first down El Camino, then picked up Highway 101 to LA that evening, getting a hotel off of I-10. The next morning, after looking at our map (no GPS in those days) we figured we would aim for Phoenix. The places we had heard of, but had no real idea of where they were, started to appear and disappear out the window. Chino, Riverside, Palm Springs, Indio, then out into the southern desert.
So we were cruising along, not too much traffic, when one of us, I don't remember who, saw a guy standing on the side of the opposite road, looking straight at us and waving. Being young and not very cautious (it was a different time), I hung a U-turn across the center divide and pulled up next to him. He thanked us for stopping and asked if we could help him get his van unstuck. We said “Lead on” and followed him into the desert down a thin trail. There was high brush all around, and after about a quarter mile we came upon another guy digging at a van's wheels which were buried up to the axles. Chris and I hopped out and the four of us dug ramps in the dirt then hooked up a cable they had with them and easily pulled them to solid ground. They were very grateful and we talked for a while. They were out of LA riding their dirt bikes in the desert and got stuck when they tried to leave. The guy who waved us down had been on the highway for about an hour but no one else stopped. They told us they didn't have much money to pay us, but they had some beer and a few 8 track tapes (Ask your parents). We could have either if we wanted. Still a ways to drive, I passed on the beer, but I grabbed The Eagles Greatest Hits, which we listened to incessantly the rest of the trip. Said our goodbyes and kept heading down the road where we stopped for the night in Blythe at a campsite right next to the Colorado River.
Another early wakeup (that tends to happen when you are camping), a look at the map and, since I-10 went straight to Phoenix, Phoenix it was.
I learned something real fast driving in Arizona, the Big-rig trucks are huge, usually a box-truck with two trailers. They would really blow us around, but I found out that if I got up close to one (tailgated) I would be sucked along with little effort and got pretty good mileage. So it was, off and on all the way to Phoenix with not much to look at but arid landscape. Didn't know anything about Phoenix, only that we wanted to get there where we got another hotel for the night.
The next day we knew we needed to start heading north. I don't remember if it was me or Chris that was looking at the map, but one of us noticed Winslow. We remembered the [Eagles] song so, yes, it was necessary to go to Winslow. North we went.
Northwest out of Phoenix takes travelers through a protected area of quintessential desert habitat that is really quite beautiful. Huge Saguaro cactuses surrounded by lower scrub, rock, sand, and, surprisingly to me, a lot of color in the form of wildflowers and other vegetation, with occasional glimpses of a variety of birds with a coyote or two thrown in made this one of the most enjoyable segments of our trip.
A couple hours later we cruised downtown Winslow, two fool eighteen-year-olds craning their necks looking for that elusive “flatbed Ford.” No luck.
On to I-40 West and not too far along we came across a giant, round tourist trap, but a must-see for a space cadet such as myself. The Arizona Meteorite Crater is on private land so the owners can charge what they want. There's a shop with some informative stuff and a lot of tacky nick-nacks. Still, check it out if you're in the area, it is a rather unique sight. After the crater, it was on to Flagstaff, a small (back then) mountain town and one of the stepping stone towns to the Grand Canyon. Another hotel.
We continued on I-40 West, then a right turn at Williams took us to the Canyon in about 3-4 hours through forested countryside. We entered the park and started to make our way to our campsite, catching tantalizing views of the canyon through the trees till we decided to go find an overlook.
The canyon opened up before us. It's hard to describe the first sight. It presents itself as it is; a vast, deep chasm, but its magic is in trying to take it all in. We were viewing a kaleidoscope of all the colors of the southwest, from subtle yellows, through sunset oranges to brick reds all constantly changing depending on whether the light of the sun or cloud shadows were falling on the endless layers of rock. Trying to trace the canyon itself was a challenge because it tended to disappear into haze in the depths or meander out of sight around a cliff. The vast canvas was mesmerizing; we could have sat for hours admiring the view, but we pulled ourselves away to go set up our camp.
It is interesting to me how easy it is to find kindred spirits when you are on a road trip. In this case, a guy a couple years older than Chris and I was in the campsite right next to ours. He came over to say hello while we were pitching our tent and talked for a while. He was driving a brand-new Datsun 280Z, and I commented on how nice I thought it was. He said thanks and said he lost his father a month or so ago and bought the car with part of his inheritance and was going to see the country for a while to clear his head. We wished him safe travels.
Later that evening while we were having dinner with him a retired couple from an adjoining campsite came over and joined us. We all shared stories about a variety of things. It was a fun night.
When we entered the national park we reserved one night in the campground at the bottom of the canyon, so the next morning we packed up our gear, sorted our backpacks, and headed over to a designated parking spot where I could safely leave the Jeep overnight while we hiked to the canyon bottom.
The Bright Angel Trail starts from Grand Canyon Village at a height of 7000 feet and descends to about 2200 feet at the Colorado River and Phantom Ranch campground over a distance of right around 10 miles and millions of years of geological history. The hike itself was relatively uneventful but offered a completely different perspective of the canyon, close-up and personal. As with the topside campsite, we made friends with several people who were making the journey with us. It took about 4-5 hours to get to the bottom and the most notable fact I can remember is that it was about 110℉ at the bottom, and it stayed close to that temperature for almost the whole time we were down there.
After a mostly sleepless night due to the high heat [and a sting from who knows what kind of critter], we arose before dawn and started the hike out, taking advantage of a slight dip in temperature. We teamed up with a couple of people we had met the day before and gave each other encouragement on the long climb out. After about 7 hours we finally made it to the top. Thinking about the hike afterward I came to the conclusion that I had experienced a time warp as I was sure we hiked 10 miles down and 20 miles out.
Another night camping on the rim then it was time to start heading for home.
Down south to Williams, then a right turn onto I-40 took us on a stretch of road closely mirroring the old Route 66 track. Ash Fork, Seligman, and on to Kingman where we went right toward Las Vegas. I remember this road. The sun was setting, and I saw a faint light ahead. We drove and the light remained where it was; we continued on with the light still ahead and finally, after 20-30 minutes, a car passed us going in the opposite direction. I did the math. We were going about 60 mph. If the other car was doing the same that road was straight as an arrow for at least 50 miles, maybe longer.
By now it was dark, and we saw a bright glow in the sky. Cresting a hill we could see Las Vegas spread out before us. We entered on Fremont Street, the glow emanating from the several casinos that were here at this time prior to the huge hotels that now exist on Las Vegas Blvd. Not much for two 18-year-olds to do there. Oh well, now we could say we'd been there. South on I-15, then a right on Highway 160 took us in the general direction we wanted to go.
One last sight to see before home. It was late and dark but we figured seeing Death Valley in July might be better in the cool of night than the heat of the day, so after a gas and coffee fill-up in Death Valley Junction, it was on into the valley. It was about 1 a.m. but still over 100℉. There was a bright moon, a haze in the air, and what appeared to be snow on the floor of the valley. I parked in a turn-out, left Chris napping in the passenger seat, and, with my tin backpacker cup, walked out to the "snow." As you may have guessed, it turned out to be salt. I scooped up a little for evidence to show Chris later, got back to the car, and continued driving.
After another hour or so we had climbed out on the west side. The heat was not quite so stifling and I was spent, so I pulled over in a wide turn-out, unrolled my sleeping bag on the ground, and crashed for a few hours, ‘til sun-up, Chris still asleep in the passenger seat.
The last leg of our journey took us up through the Sierras. I must confess after having experienced driving through the Rockies and Appalachian Mountains later in life, the Sierra forests hold a special place in my heart. The quiet green cathedral denseness of the trees and the fresh earthy smell feels like home.
Making our way across the San Joaquin Valley, we stopped at my grandmother's house in Stockton for a quick visit and meal then headed for SF and home. A great trip (see the route here) with a lot of good memories!
Dad eats and enjoys anything and everything I make. He has a few favorites, but he’s also not picky. When I came home Easter weekend and asked what I could bake for him for his birthday the following week, he picked Ken’s Rosemary Lemon Shortbread Cookies. Both of my parents loved them, and Dad thought they were “perfectly cooked, professional quality taste!” Good for a road trip or birthdays.
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