Fear and Loathing in Grand Junction by Tyler Cabot We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive…." "Man, this is the way to travel," said my attorney. He leaned over to turn the volume up on the radio, humming along with the rhythm section and kind of moaning the words: "One toke over the line, Sweet Jesus…One toke over the line…" -Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas I was on the Great American Road Trip with my father and shockingly the only parts of Thompson's scenario too far-fetched to be possible were the drugs. Then again, we had pretzels, licorice, doughnuts and caffeine-anything was possible. We had set off from San Diego three days earlier on a mission: make it to Middletown with a night to spare before move-in day. Mom cooked an early breakfast and sent us on our way. Three thousand four hundred miles to go- it was bonding time. I still remember my father calling me at school, and propositioning me in the tone of a frosh asking a girl on a first date. Perhaps, just maybe, if I had some interest, I would think about driving with him cross-country. "Just an idea though, no pressure; only if you want to," he added, wondering how I would react. Would I be busy that week washing my hair, vacationing in Europe, or could he pick me up at seven-thirty? I was shocked. As any son knows, the thought of spending a week alone with one's father is startling to say the least. Visions of Chinese water torture may come to mind. Then, I thought about it for a bit. Why not embark on the Great American Road Trip with my father? When would I have another opportunity like this? Screw fears of uncomfortable silence. I was going driving with my Dad and I was going to have a wonderful time. Ahoy Pa, we shall hit the road like Kerouac. Don't wait up mom-Connecticut or bust! So here I was cruising through Grand Junction (it does exist, and actually is quite beautiful) on route eighty with my father at my side. We had begun in the deserts of the Southwest and made our way up Utah and the Rockies. With each mile we grew more comfortable; awkwardness vanished. Our days began to develop a sequence. We would rise early in the morning and eat breakfast on the road. A few gas stops later we would pick-up a quick lunch, then back on the highway again. We became journeymen, with no other responsibilities or commitments than driving and exploring. Days were long, averaging fourteen hours. Our mentalities transformed from those of tourists to those of truck drivers, always on the move, with thousands of miles to cover. Wake up in a new state, a new world every morning. Be a transient for a living, or at least for a week. Rise, drive, sleep. Rise, drive, sleep. Talk with the waitress at the local Perkins. Discuss the stock market with a gas station owner in rural Utah. Yet more, discuss these things with the man next to you, your father. We've got to make it to Cleveland tonight, just a few more hours. Arrive at the Holiday Inn in Toledo (screw it, we'll hit Cleveland tomorrow). A quick pizza, a run-in with one of my father's old high school friends. Stories which I wasn't supposed to hear, then off to bed. Motel after motel, cheap restaurant after cheap restaurant, conversation began to flow; thoughts exchanged. In Iowa I learned the genealogy I never knew, or at least had never taken the time to fully understand and appreciate. In Nebraska we tackled our ideas regarding religion and faith. We were explorers driving through the valleys and plains of the vast expanse called America. We were explorers driving through the valleys and plains of our relationship. I pushed and he prodded. The forum was open-anything flew. It was the attorney who married straight out of college and has been working hard since, opposite his idealist son, who cringes at the thought of fluorescent lights and swears against the prospect of wearing a tie to work. "No dad, I don't think I need to define how long I want to 'wander.' Why should I? Why limit myself?" Then it was his turn: "Isn't there any point where you say to yourself, 'if I want to settle down, if I want to raise a family, I need to do it now?" A discussion ensued as we shared our points of view. Eventually, states and places were no longer names on a road atlas. Their titles had become irrelevant. Pennsylvania was no longer the "Keystone State," but the state where I related to my dad ideas about what I want to do, where we discussed our value systems. It became the "Value State." Utah became the "Cow State," after we dodged numerous heads of cattle that wandered freely on the state highway. We arrived in Middletown on schedule, five days after we had set off from the Pacific Ocean. I took the gamble; I jumped at an opportunity which as I grow older and more independent becomes less likely to occur. Our drive across the country to Wesleyan was merely a cheap excuse for my father and I to spend time together, less as Father and son, and much more as two friends hitting the road.