Tornado sirens are the scariest sounds that I will ever hear in my life. Until recently, tornados were as foreign to the Northeast as tsunamis and I had never heard that particular combination of screeching fear, anger, violence, and despair. I’m not positive that the tornado itself would be as terrifying than the heart stopping unknown of hearing those sirens for the first time.
Walking across the street to get dinner was surreal as no one was reacting to the banshee noises emanating from seemingly everywhere. The bar patrons were sitting calmly laughing about the slim chances of a tornado actually touching down (“Never in my lifetime…except that one time”) getting angry when the bartender told them they were closing early and they had to head home (after buying another round, of course). After a day of weather in Pennsylvania that would seem over the top for a horror flick, the Gods were apparently no happier when I arrived in Ohio.
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| Good time to stop and take a picture |
Heading back to the hotel I saw my first funnel that wasn’t on the Weather Channel. I could’ve sworn that I was standing in the middle of it and I immediately started looking for something that I could tie my $10 belt to like I was Bill Paxton (or Pullman, whichever one was in Twister). In reality it was miles away and I was actually standing in a group of gawkers all with our phones out to record the experience and make sure everyone saw it on Facebook. The sirens stopped 30 minutes later but I sat awake all night in a cold sweat waiting to be carried away to Oz (the Technicolor version, not the HBO version).
I couldn’t leave Youngstown fast enough.
Day 2 was beautiful. Despite warnings to the contrary, Ohio and Indiana were beautiful to drive through. Farmland as far as you could see but with houses, hills, and wooded areas mingled together that made for a serene trip, which was amplified by the welcome sunshine (Illinois on the other hand is boring as hell). Making great time I raced through into Missouri and crossed the Mississippi in St. Louis.
Crossing the Mississippi should be the seminal moment of the trip. It should be a clear marker that you are no longer in the East but now out into the wilds of the western USA. It should give you the feeling that you are Kerouac On the Road taking part in some great adventure. In reality the Mississippi River smelled like sewage and while driving past The Arch was cool I never felt as though I wanted to stop.
Traveling cross country on your own can be an experience akin to Yoga meditation. Alone with your thoughts (and your Ipod) you get to delve into the reasons behind your journey and the destination that you are racing towards and can come to some clarity about who you are and who you want to be. Of course, I experienced it more akin to a war between me and the miles ahead. I was more like Odysseus trying to get to his Penelope as quickly as possible and I was battling against the sheer immensity of the Midwest. In my Calvinist New England mindset it was the struggle I needed to overcome to achieve true happiness at the end. Damn Puritans ruining everyone's fun.
I flew past St. Louis thinking nothing about storms or trouble ahead. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, Oklahoma was being ravaged by a series of powerful thunderstorms that lay straight across my path. I was also headed towards Joplin, Missouri that only a few days earlier was almost completely destroyed by a twister that no special effects could equal. I only became aware of this when I decided to put an end to Day 2.
My second night on the road was no less terrifying and stressful than the first. Stopped an hour north of Springfield, MO I watched the news to see that my road ahead was directly through Mother Nature’s killing fields and was constantly reminded by the very serious weatherman that this was the worst tornado season in years. The stress of knowing that I would have to drive through Oklahoma was quickly set aside when I was woken up at 4:30am by that now familiar screeching wail that sent me scrambling to the bathroom wrapped in blankets and sweat.
The hotel called everyone into the lobby and away from the windows until the sirens stopped. Turns out the tornado landed a few miles away. (“No big deal” according to the hotel employees. I had a different opinion.) The next morning I drove by Joplin and I saw trees sawed in half, guardrails tossed aside and, even from the highway, I witnessed pure evil and thought of what could have been. It was impossible not to shake…
From Oklahoma City to New Mexico each mile looks as ugly as the next and yet, that doesn't make it any less impressive. Staring into the largest sky I've ever seen, at least while my feet were on the ground, I felt as though I could see all the way back home and see Phoenix forward in the distance. The world seemed compacted as though everything was just around the corner but at the same time I finally appreciated the vastness of the country. Like I was reading a Steinbeck novel the world opened up in front of me and everything was a reminder of the Dust Bowl and the Great Depression. I quickly turned the Ipod to “The Ghost of Tom Joad” set the cruise control and tried to imagine what it would be like to live in a region where Amarillo is a big city.
West Texas is dull (no offense to the people living there but it really is a whole lot of nothing) but for the sky. New Mexico added the element of colorful mountains, massive plateaus, and majestic desert scenes to the ever present wind that pushes from Missouri through to the Pacific. Making the final push to Phoenix, hands at 10 and 2 just like Driver’s Ed taught me, I tried to keep the car from being blown off the road and avoid the inevitable Dust Storms I could see in the distance stalking my path.
Driving in the West is a sad experience. I felt isolated and transported back in time. Wind, dust, and brown were the only sensory inputs for over a thousand miles. When I saw a group of cowboys riding the fences it dawned on me how tough and bleak an existence it must be in the middle of nowhere. Of course they all probably went home to their satellite dishes and broadband internet, but seeing them in Marlboro Man pose made them all seem like John Wayne taming a new land. I’ve never been more aware of my city slicker-ness. Albuquerque, Gallup, and Flagstaff might as well have been New York City the way they rose out of the nowhere haze.
Everything about the West is trapped in nostalgia. Every sign tried to pull me off the highway to the history and drama of Route 66. You get the sensation that you are traveling through a memory of a glorious past. The small town oasis eroding in diesel exhaust. An America trudging wearily day after day, pleading to be heard over the air conditioner, desperate for us to roll down our tinted windows and believe that it was once great. Even if, in truth, it never was.
One more road to Phoenix and it was just as overwhelming as all the rest. I-17 is 2 hours of downhill skiing. Long slopes matched by sharp turns that had me on the edge of my seat (an uncomfortable way to drive by the way), all the while dodging trucks and trying not to get pushed off the road by cars pretending they were on the Autobahn. At the end of the road the Valley of the Sun awaited and with a grateful sigh and a long stretch I had made it to the end.
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| My new home (Chase Field top left) |
P.S.- I apologize. I never meant for this post to be this long. If you made it all the way to the end I appreciate your effort and the fact that you didn’t have anything better to do.
