The wilderness, conceptually and physically, takes many forms. There’s the actual space and time wilderness—all bosque-verdant, damp, dark, and menacing—the kind of Sleepy Hollow-like scene that we envision when we think of a place where we’d be afraid to get lost. And then there’s the far more frightening wilderness of the personal, interior variety. A space where we need to go and want to explore, but are afraid of what lurks in the hidden corners. A place where the tangled threads of our psyche, stored memory, and other little scary bits reside. And that’s just the kind of place for me.
My recent journey into the wilderness played out in both the inner and outer realms. As many of my regular readers and friends know, I recently took a solo road trip to Texas to meet a group of people I know through Twitter, a social media network platform. Inspired by the connections I made with people all over the world, I decided to embark on Twitter Tour 2009—a plan to visit several places and meet these people face-to-face. For whatever reason, Texas was first on the list.
Living in California, almost as far west as one can go and still be in the lower 48 states, I rarely think of my home state as The West. The West is that iconic, larger-than-life, Marlboro Country place, not the place of date palms, beaches, and traffic jams. The idea of driving east to find the true west was compelling enough in itself, aside from my quest to meet the simpatico Twitter folks in the tiny town known as Alpine.
Like a perfect jigsaw puzzle, I packed the smart car with clothes, cooler, various electronic devices and the required chargers, cords, etc. I was prepared. As a fairly intrepid and pragmatic traveler, I was sure I had anticipated most of the things I might face. High winds, truckers, and food I couldn’t eat, along with lots of stares and questions about the funny little car I drive.
From the time I first started planning this trip I knew that it represented more than just an opportunity to overcome any fears I had of driving alone, in a tiny car, through the inhospitable Sonoran and Chihuahuan Deserts but I had no way to anticipate what was in store. I was unprepared.
I was unprepared that my quest for the west would include getting lost in the wilderness of my suspended thoughts and dreams.
I was unprepared that my quest for the west would include getting lost in the wilderness of my suspended thoughts and dreams. Unprepared for hours of solitary asphalt time where tears alternating with laughter would be my desert soundtrack. Unprepared that I would get so emotional about driving east as I searched for the west, but emotional I was. I was driving into my wilderness.
Stunned that I felt such an upwelling of emotion that spanned the gamut from sorrow to joy to anxiety and back again, I just allowed myself to be in that space. To feel it, to let the tears stream—even in the presence of a stranger. The drive and the desertscape provided the perfect physical environment for my interior wilderness to come alive. So within the time span of a week, where driving was interspersed with meeting new people and seeing new places, I was able to get much closer to understanding what the road trip really meant for me. I was that much closer to crossing my wilderness.
Weeks later, I am still sorting out the details of the journey and making meaning from the emotions and experiences I had. Once again, I have verified that I can go anywhere and do anything, alone and without fear. And through this experience, where the space-time continuum would distort on long lonely stretches of road, I was able to gain more clarity about my path and my way of being. You see, I’m not afraid of going against society’s grain and I am not afraid to slaughter a few sacred cows. And I am definitely not afraid to return to the wilderness—even if it means driving east to find the west.
Shanna Trenholm is a writer, animal lover, eater of dark chocolate, and teller of truths. She finds inspiration in the ordinary; magic in the mundane. She likes to take baths and naps (in that order). Send her some bubble bath here: www.shannatrenholm.com
The process of a long drive, especially when the journey is solo, has always been one of awakening for me. As portray it so: “where the space-time continuum would distort on long lonely stretches of road” and I doubt a better description exists for what happens during many hours spent behind the wheel.
There is something about those ribbons of asphalt, whether winding through mountain passes or pulling you toward a vague point on the horizon. Without the burden of big-city navigation and related distractions, the mind naturally is suddenly free to wonder into the nooks and crannies of the psyche.
It’s what you wanted…the reason you embarked upon the sojourn in the first place, but like exploring a mineshaft with a flashlight, one never knows what truths will ultimately be revealed. In the end you realize you’re a better person for having made the arduous trek, yet the mental and emotional processing extends far beyond the point at which your car is once again parked safely at home.
Similar to how a kaleidoscope of colors is revealed by the subtle movement of a prism before a light source, the experience of such a drive contains many dimensions, and as your mind alters the perspective of each memory, a spectrum of understanding emerges.
Shanna, I loved this piece! I’ve made the drive alone across these same stretches several times. I’ve always relished the self-reflection and excitement of relying 100% on myself. Would love to hear about your Twitter connections – sounds like an awesome project!
Thank you Shanna, I love your column (the style and the humor)! But it is too short, I would like to read more about your trip.
Your text made me think about a trip I made in the South of Arizona by myself years ago – I so much enjoyed it!