The Other Right Way

If I have learned one thing in this life that is mine, it is that there is more than one way to do it right. You make your plans and then you see where the road takes you.

Smudge the Cat and I left our familiar a week ago today to make a new home in Washington state. Me in the red CuRVy crate, she in her crate within my crate. We are two drifters off to see the world. And what a lot of world to see. As a traveling companion, I was pretty sure I was good company, but she was untested. My fears were unfounded. She doesn't read a map well, but she doesn't complain. Not once has she asked if we are almost there or how much farther or chastised me for missing the turn and ending up switch-backing up a mountain.

The first detour is known. After our first three-day stop in Asheville to see my old grandson and the brand new one, son Nicholas tells me my chosen route on the byway rather than the interstate, will take me to a dead-end at the French Broad River. Phoebe will most likely take me way beyond my route on the official detour, but to ignore her and the signs telling me the road is closed miles ahead and just keep going until I get to the bridgeless crossing. There will be a tiny road to the left for the locals, squeezed between the river and the railroad track, that eventually will take me to another bridge where I can pick up the route. Both the route and the detour are meandering  and beautiful.

I spend the night with my niece in Dickson, TN. Leaving before she gets up, I lock the door behind me, and then realize I have left my atlas inside. I find another under the seat in the car. It is small and 16 years old. It will have to do for now.

Somewhere in Tennessee, I first discover the shortcomings of the less-than-detailed atlas. I miss a turn that would have kept me on my Hwy 25/70 route. I am reminded once again that even the known path does not run in a straight line. It is easy to lose

the way. I switchback up a mountain, catching glimpses of the valley below. I long to stop, really drink it in, take a picture to freeze the beauty. But there are no scenic overlooks on this road. It is merely a route for the locals to get from point A to point B. I see a single sign informing me that this is the historic route of the Trail of Tears. At the top of the mountain, I pull Curvy off under a tree in the parking lot of the Good Shepherd United Methodist Church to eat my lunch.

As I finish my homemade bread and jam with peanut butter, I see an elderly man approaching in my rearview mirror. Should I not be here? I sigh, thinking a time detour is about to happen; I want to be on my way. He wonders if I am okay. Am I having car trouble? Then opines that it is a beautiful spot for  lunch. I am about to cut this conversation short, but then a voice in my head says, "Isn't this why you are not on I-40? To see the land? The places where people live, not just where they travel at 70 mph with windows rolled up and the radio bleating? To see and maybe even listen to the stories?" He is the caretaker for the church; the church that was built in 1896 to replace the log one that burned. And did I know it is the highest point between Nashville and Chattanooga? I tell him where I am headed, and why. He is impressed. He starts to tell me he has a war buddy who lives in Washington. He was in the Navy. That's it; time to press on.

The road switch backs into the valley and across. Or not across. I'm not sure. And then it switch backs up again, and down. And then again. Is it the same mountain, or a series? Now I need a topo map. I can't get my bearings. But what does it matter, really. I'm on the road, I'm traveling more or less west. What else do I need to know?

I cross into Arkansas, not exactly where I had hoped to. I miss the road that crosses to another road that will cross the Mississippi River well north of Memphis. I don't like the cities. Apparently, though, I am about to experience this one. I manage it by reading the BIG green road signs more carefully than I had been reading the small, unobtrusive ones. The ones that don't really need to be there at all, because if you are on that road you should know where you are going.

I make it across Arkansas with just one small setback. Okay, a big setback. I go into a small grocery store in tiny Augusta to use the bathroom. I wish I had crossed the road to the Subway, gotten back in the car and continued on my way. But that wasn't to be my story. Coming out I slip on the curb cut and fall hard. I get up and into my car where it is clear I won't be driving soon. First I have to not feel like I will pass out. I lean onto the steering wheel, then over onto the other seat. There is no room in my packed car to slide the seat back. The three employees out for a smoke break who observe me come to see if I am okay. I don't know, I say. They ask if they can get me anything. Ice, I say. One gets ice, the other tells the first to hit it on the pavement and break it up. The third gets a plastic bag.

As I sit there willing myself not to pass out, hoping nothing is broken and that I didn't really just jam my shoulder into something that will require surgery which will require my getting that $1160 COBRA, they talk about how many people have fallen there, including a pregnant woman just recently, and the management won't do anything about it. And how they never get pay raises or vacation and make $7.30/hour. Clearly they are hoping I will sue the crap out of the store. A kind woman comes out and says I need to come in and file a report. Can I do that? I make it out of the car and sit down on the nearby bench. No, I can't make it inside. But now I can get my head between my knees. They bring water. I lie down. The kind woman brings a towel for my head and cool cloth for my forehead. She talks to me and gets me to talk to her. She says she is not a very good nurse. I say she is wonderful. The manager arrives and is also kind; and no doubt worried that I will sue. (He calls the next day to check on me and says he will check in again next week.)

Finally I am back on the road with a loaf of bread in an insulated lunch bag supporting my elbow (replaced by a pillow after my next stop) and ice on my shoulder. I arrive in Fort Smith for the night at rush hour. There is a brush fire along the road. I wish I had taken an earlier exit. Sitting in smoke on the beltline equivalent, aching. Traveling alone can be hard. Smudge is silent. The first two hotels are full. A convention in town. Who in God's name would have a convention at the end of June in Fort Smith, Arkansas? The third one had a cancellation. I'm in. I get food, take a shower, put on my pajamas, take more ibuprofen and get more ice.

The road on Thursday took me to the kindness of strangers in a town in a state I could not imagine living in. There are friendly people everywhere; even in places that in my provincial mind are godforsaken. I am sorry I was injured, but I am not distraught. It does not threaten the trip. Whatever is to happen is part of the journey.

I want to write so much more about this adventure. I'm not sure this is the place to do it. Perhaps I should have started a travel blog. I had not yet made a decision to do that when water spilled into my computer. I thought I would be traveling without it, but a couple days later discover that I can sort of make it work if I click the cancel button when it tries over and over to shut down and reboot. Maybe the sentences that have formed in my head as I drive, and scribble on a pad, will come out in later posts.

For now I will stick to one learning at a time. There is more than one way to get across the country. And to live a life. And there are gardens everywhere. In the river cane trail and rhododendrons of the Smoky mountains, of course, but also in the gap-toothed smiles of truck stop employees; in the majesty of the high-tech windmills; in the faces of my family; in the humor and sometimes irony of road signs; in the sorrow of abandoned farms and memorials to lives lost through unspeakable tragedy; even in the barrenness of America's interior, broken up by the Jesus Christ is Lord Travel Center we whiz by--tractor trailers proclaiming that "Jesus Christ is Lord, Not a Swear Word." I am keeping my eyes open wide.