We had done it several times before. Our lives crammed into little and big cardboard boxes, or stuffed into duffel bags or suitcases over months prior to the move, all of it packed into tight little rows and crammed into the back of the U-Haul truck. This was not our first rodeo, watching for hours as the varied landscapes rolled by, smelling the fumes of many gas stations, feeling the disorienting blur of noise and new climate as you step out of the car for the first time in hours; these were not novel to us. We have always been a family characterized by our nomadic tendencies, dreams too big to stay in one spot for long. Until now.
This time was different. This time we hit the long road imbued with deeper intention: As those lands rolled by, scorched our eyes with the sun on vast flat plains, sore bodies from sitting upright, or slumped over pillows and stuffed toys, with legs propped up on bags of chips or stacks of books, rummaging through scraps of paper and crushed cereal for a pen to play another round of travel bingo; this time the feeling was different. We were no longer winged creatures, flitting to another flower in our travels; our path was no longer so organic. This time the goal was to take root; flight was merely the doorway in this journey.
I drove the Uhaul truck for most of the journey. Isaiah, now 7, sat in the passenger seat, by turns absorbed in his new tablet or peering out the window at exit signs, wildlife or cloud activity. He was remarkably quiet as we drove further and further away from the only home he had ever known and I wondered what was taking place behind his wall of silence. It was clear that this was particularly difficult for him as his school, friends and memories were left in an increasingly distant yesterday while little more than mystery lay ahead. While his mother and I could grasp the excitement of a new future and his sisters knew only the joy of each day, a small blue flame flickered visibly in his eyes even as he tried to smile with the rest of us. In these moments I was able to appreciate the profound depth that had revealed itself in this young boy while I had been away at grad school. Even more wrenching than seeing sadness in your child is seeing your child trying to withhold sadness for the sake of others.
As we drew closer to our destination and the foothills became the mountains, I felt my lips go dry and crackly in the desert air. I cleared my parched throat and felt the rhythm of the arid sun as it beat down on my forearms. The corpses of armadillos dotted the Texan roadside, and I tried to point them out to Isaiah as they flashed by the windows. Now and again we would pull over to another truck stop, and our limbs would feel heavier, and I would tell my wife I thought it was the elevation, and she would ask me where one of our children was, and i would run around a corner to find her pulling an enormous stuffed horse from a shelf in the truck-stop toy aisle, and falling on it in a tiny explosion of laughter. Annoyance and delight would bicker momentarily in my heart, before both gave up. I might catch myself staring into the slushie machine or struggling to tune-out the muzac when suddenly we would be back on the road again, the rush of cool air and headlight pouring through the windshield at night, the only random radio station in an endless stretch of American highway piping out horrific bubblegum pop, the only thing better than silence after 10 hours in a truck cab, when the back of your throat feels like jerky, your eyes bleed red and your palms have sweat to the point of slipping from the wheel.
And finally, miraculously, we cross into New Mexico, and 50 percent of the radio stations are in Spanish. One painstakingly discusses the health benefits of beneficial gut bacteria and I listen in rapt attention. "Do you seriously think this is interesting?" Isaiah asks. Suddenly things take on a special glow, the mountains suddenly begin to tower. These are real mountains, I tell Isaiah. We pull off at an exit and park the truck at a 90 degree angle. We pull random bits of trash from the floor and ask ourselves whether we can make it the rest of the way without a major stop. Its afternoon and the kids have only eaten a hotel breakfast that day. We resolve to buy gas station jelly and subsist on PBJs and roadtrip snacks until we make our destination. These are the final hours, we agree, and the time for weakness has passed.
We bake ourselves in the solar ovens of our vehicles one last time as the mountains suddenly rise in every direction, and the lush desert vegetation emerges in a stunning spectrum of purples, yellows, rusty green and sandstone. We fly through an old ghost town and marvel at the emptiness of abandoned and crumbling wooden structures, a dilapidated church made of stone speaks of services past, faithful gathered in blistering desert heat, with green chile picnics to follow. A tumbleweed blows over the road, a cowskull decorates the gate of a ranch, and things become very southwestern. Isaiah begins meticulously counting the minutes until we arrive. On the phone with my wife I can hear my daughters howling. We are beginning to fray as we hit the final highway, which is long and not-to-hurried, much like the temperament of New Mexico.
Suddenly the distant mountains grow very close, and we are cutting through them gaping at their multicolored striations as the car zips around narrow turns on steep passes, and we emerge to see a sprawling, vibrant community of homes laid out across a valley surrounded by mountain ranges on four sides. This is Eldorado; city of gold, this is our new home! we tell our kids giddily. We roll softly over the last part of that last highway, take a few turns and suddenly we are standing at the doorstop of our long imagined home in the sun. It is not small, but not large, it is in the goldilocks zone of homes. The children shriek and pour out of the cars, and they approach the adobe structure like timid coyotes. Light pours in through all the windows. The light of the desert is clear and blue and generous. The children smile and open doors and windows in every space. We fall on the bare floors and the comfort is indescribable. We are home.
