We pulled our tiny mileage-laden Toyota Echo into the beach parking lot, standing out like a kid on scholarship at a private school among the Mercedes and BMW’s. That famous California sun shone brightly down on us as a cool breeze blew off the Pacific. Sitting on a railing at the edge of the sand, we kicked off our shoes eager to become part of the idyllic scene spread out before us. Graceful surfers in slick black wetsuits guarding against the cold Pacific waters glided to shore along gentle waves. Playful dogs zoomed past us to complete spectacular mid-air catches of brightly colored Frisbees. Rich women, the kind you can just tell are rich even when wearing a T-shirt and shorts, chatted with each other while watching their brown-skinned toddlers build sand castles that most likely resembled the homes they would retreat to after their morning at the beach.
We eventually steered our faithful car back towards Highway 1 and our reasonably priced campground in Big Sur. Unable to get enough of the ocean, we stopped at every turn out to peer over the cliffs scanning the water for sea otters, fur seals, and humpback whales among the floating towers of kelp until our eyes burned.
The rest of the afternoon was spent relaxing at the campsite sipping on local craft beer and reading (for pleasure!) by the calm shallow waters of the Big Sur River. Looking back now, I remember every minute of that day as being perfect. But if you were to ask me what the best part of it was, I’d answer without hesitation, “It all started on a Monday morning.”
Eight months before that perfect day, Dave and I were sitting in our bathrobes on a cold Saturday morning in Estes Park, Colorado, relishing the beginning of the weekend. For years we had been talking about taking time off from the routine of our 8-5 lives to travel and explore, but for some reason on that particular morning, something was different. On that particular morning, we decided to put up or shut up. Either we would make the decision to do it or promise to never speak of it again. After hours of reviewing our finances, making educated guesses about how much six months on the road would cost and, most important, deciding if we really had the guts to leave our current lives full of steady paychecks and employer sponsored health care, we decided that, yes, with several months of careful planning and saving, we could make this dream a reality.
March 31, 2007, was the day our dream came true. For the six months we traveled across 36 states and parts of Canada having the time of our lives. I squealed as humpback whales swam under our boat off the coast of Monterey. I faced my fear of heights as we hiked along the rim of the Grand Canyon. We fell asleep in our tent to the sounds of waves crashing against the shoreline in Olympic National Park. We gorged ourselves on local foods like crepes in Quebec City, lobster rolls in Maine, and fresh picked strawberries in California. Everywhere we went, people were eager to hear our story and we were eager to tell it.
We learned so many things on our trip but one of the biggest lessons was that traveling is hard work. Each day’s route had to be planned. Split decisions had to be made. Some things we wanted to do couldn’t be done due to money or the weather. I got my whale watching cruise but not my kayaking trip in the low country of South Carolina. After fleeing the worst thunderstorm we had ever experienced in Shenandoah National Park, we spent the day drying out our tent in the parking lot of a Quality Inn. But yet at the end of each small disaster, I felt like we had really accomplished something, and I never forgot that we were in the midst of a grand adventure.
Our travels couldn’t last forever so on October 7, 2007 we settled into life in Missoula, Montana, a town we had carefully chosen while on our journey. The transition wasn’t easy. A month prior, we had spent the day at Disney World seeing how many times we could ride Space Mountain. Now we had to go job hunting. The apartment we moved into was the mirror image of the apartment we had when we were first married and painfully poor. To this day, I often look back and ask myself if we should have taken the trip. Was the risk worth it? Would we do it again even if it meant starting over for a third time at fifty-something? Yet, no matter how many times I ask myself those questions, the answer always comes to me in the form of another question. How soon can we we leave?
