Driving Across the Country During COVID-19
The Long Drive Home
On March 2, the company I work for asked us to work from home for the foreseeable future. This was a very wise decision as the Seattle area was experiencing an outbreak of COVID-19; in the days before the remote work decision the first death had occurred in King County. Most our employees commute on public transit, which could have put us at risk for catching the coronavirus. Remember everything was so uncertain those first few days? Advice from state leadership went from wash your hands to stay away from others to stay home. Like many I began consuming the news at a fevered pace. In the backdrop of this pandemic was my own situation.
I live in South Alabama — own a beautiful home, have great friends. In October, my mom, dogs, and I drove out to Seattle as I was going to work on a few projects after my main project in South Alabama was cancelled. My brother allowed me to stay with him while I was in Seattle and trying to figure out if I wanted to move back. For 33 years I’ve lived in either Alabama or Seattle. After a few months I knew my heart was in Alabama. I would stay through mid-April as there was an event I was planning for March 31. Once that closed out, I’d return home to Alabama and work part-time/as needed. I enjoy my work and my company and was beyond grateful for the years of support they’d given me.
At first, I was excited about the remote work — no more three-hour commuting, more time with my pair of schnauzers (who I call “the boys”)! Then the weeks began to pass. The work-at-home guidance extended. I fell into a comfortable routine of taking the boys to the park where they’d run and play enough to sleep all day allowing me to work. I’d clean the kitchen at noon, prepare dinner about 5:30, go on walks, and obsess over the news. Governor Cuomo soothed my fears, but New York wasn’t in my life plan. My life circulates in both Seattle and South Alabama. While they’re two different very places; I love them both. And while I loved my time working at the Seattle office and being with my brother, I itched to be in my own home.
Throughout March the news told stories of states about to shut down, death tolls, and unsafe conditions. Our client postponed my big event. The remote work order was extended through May. I feared the longer I waited the harder the trip would be. How would I find hotel accommodations? Would I be pulled over and put in quarantine in a rural jail? Would getting food even be an option? Yes, better to go than to wait.
It is about 2,600 miles from Seattle to Daphne, Ala. A bit shorter from Portland, which is where I departed from.
On a Monday afternoon I left my brother’s house in Federal Way and drove to the Portland suburb of Camas, Wash., where my mom lives. She was 10 days into her quarantine having just returned from a work trip to the Central African Republic. I was torn — I didn’t want her to go with me because of her age and the “how will you get home?” issue. She didn’t want to go either. But she didn’t want me to go alone. I knew her going would put her at risk but also meant she’d be quarantining at my house (where there’s nothing for her to do) for a few weeks until she could safely fly home — if that would even be a possibility. We discussed it and on Wednesday she woke me at 5:30 a.m. It was time to go.
Day 1: Camas, Wash. to Layton, Utah.
The car was already packed. The day before we went grocery shopping (together, I know — don’t shame us) and bought road food, PB&J sammie fixins, and water. As for the drive, we agreed we’d stop to get gas and walk the dogs and nothing else — hence the need for road food.
It was dark as we set out along the Columbia River. The sun rose just before we started our climb into the mountains of the Umatilla National Forest. Snow greeted us and followed us for a few hours. We popped off I-84 in La Grande, Ore. for gas. The small town broke my heart. What appeared to be a once bustling downtown with local shops was nearly vacant. Every store had a sign — we didn’t stop to read them, but I’m sure they relayed the store’s closure and appreciation for previous support. This scene would play over again throughout the drive. Each time it broke my heart. Thoughts of the unemployed filled my head — where would they get food, money to pay their bills. I have a job, but my hours were reduced, which was expected and planned long before the virus changed the world around us. I am fortunate to have a savings account that will carry me through the next few months. But what about these workers? Where will they go? The seriousness of this pandemic began to set in.
We gassed up, got Starbucks at the Safeway, sanitized our hands, and set off for the second half of the day. Traffic was thin until we hit Salt Lake City. Electronic signs encouraged us to stay safe, stay home. “I’m trying, I promise,” I thought as I passed under each one. The guilt only deepened.
The day before we departed, I made reservations at three hotels — each spaced about 10 hours apart. With dogs and two women of a certain age that meant driving about 12 hours a day. Our first night was in Layton, just south of Salt Lake City. I prefer to stay at La Quinta as they accept dogs. Upon arriving at the hotel, the desk clerk greeted me warmly and we talked about our pets as she checked me in. She made jokes about polygamy and I retorted with one about kissin’ cousins. God bless stereotypes. The lobby was roped off, breakfast wouldn’t be served, and don’t even think about working out. No problem. Mom and I unloaded the car — our suitcases, food, dogs, and pillows. We sprayed the room with disinfectant and climbed on the beds as we ate our PB&J sammies. I took the boys out for a few walks but didn’t encounter anyone. It was cold, windy, and dark. The weather precluded us from a long evening, socially distant stroll. I was fine with that — I was exhausted.
Day 2: Layton, Utah to Albuquerque
Up and on the road before the sun rose for the second day. We entertained ourselves with Mo Rocca’s Mobituaries podcast and book. Just a pure delight, that Mo! I highly recommend both. We left the snow, but not the mountains or cold weather. At one point the car’s thermometer signaled it was 22 degrees outside. No. Thank. You. A lovely police officer pulled me over and gave me a ticket in Carbon County. Here’s the thing. My car. It’s all my car’s fault. It’s so smooth that you can’t tell the difference between 40 and 80 mph — especially on the back roads of Carbon County, Utah. Utah is stunning — just stunning. I’m happy to donate my $123 (speeding ticket fine) to keep it stunning. The rock formations and undeveloped land rolls for miles. My eyes couldn’t get enough. This day took us through Moab and by the entrance to Canyonlands National Park. Hotel lots were empty. Sightseeing vehicles filled attraction parking lots. It was the mountain version of Jimmy Buffet’s When the Coast is Clear. I know the loneliness of that song — how a tourist town feels when everyone has gone home. I felt it on the Gulf Shores beaches in January. It’s quiet and peaceful. But a slight desperation and a need for connection float in the air.
By mid-day we were hungry. Our route had us on State Highway 191 until we cut east at Monticello into Colorado, a state on serious lock down. But our bellies were wide open. We stopped at a Burger King and drove to a dog park. We ate in the car — partially out of convenience and to see if we’d get in trouble for being at the park. Once we determined it was safe, I let the dogs run in the park for about five minutes. Listen. I’m not the best rule follower, but I’d already gotten a ticket that day and didn’t know if my bad luck would continue. As we were leaving another car pulled in and let their dogs play in the park. They had Colorado car tags and must not carry the fear of getting in trouble like I do.
The roads of New Mexico were rough (my years of working in transportation communications became evident when I rambled on about the lack of road funding). I hit one pothole so hard that I was sure my car was broken. Cars lined up at a church passing out white plastic bags (we determined it was a make-shift food bank). The pandemic had no intention of being kind to anyone — especially those already suffering.
At gas stations we encountered our fellow travelers and nodded. While people were kind, they kept their distance. We respected this situation and didn’t encourage the virus. The entire journey felt like Sunday morning in the South — and we were the non-churchgoers: you nod at each other because you know you’re going against the tradition meanwhile the roads are yours. The clerks and cashiers were beyond friendly and grateful for the business. Attendants tended to the restrooms — spraying, wiping, repeating. Gas was incredibly cheap — it went below $2 in New Mexico and we haven’t seen it higher since. Several gas stations and truck stops had dog areas — which the boys enjoyed. Ben, my 22-month-old puppy ran, peed, and yelped in delight. Poncho, my 12-year-old senior, was over it and unimpressed. Come to think of it, he’s been that way most his life.
The emptiness of the roads was haunting. Just as my eyes couldn’t get enough of our nation’s beauty, my heart couldn’t get enough of the emptiness. It presented itself as a byproduct of the pandemic but gripped me. “Is this our new normal? Empty roads, parking lots, and shuttered businesses?” I reconciled it’s a temporary normal.
The lingering feelings of guilt, stupidity, and recklessness wrapped themselves around me and grew tighter with every mile. How could I put my mom, my dogs, and myself in such a predicament? To drive across the country in a pandemic? To leave the cleanliness of my brother’s home for the uncertainty of America’s back roads? I wanted to be home. I wanted home with a passion that clouded every decision I made. And I wasn’t going to let this pandemic stop me. I willingly let it change my behaviors; it amplified my planning, hand washing, and sanitizing. “It will be okay,” I repeated to myself.
Our second evening was in Albuquerque. I will someday learn how to spell it. The desk clerk sanitized my license and debit card before handing it back to me. She also gave me two sanitizing wipes to use on the luggage cart — so very thoughtful! The hotel had a fenced-in patio. The desk clerk allowed us to run the boys in it. The weather was in the mid-70s, which was welcomed after two days and six months of cold, wind, rain, and snow.
A friend texted that the Texas/Louisiana border would be patrolled — did we have that on our route? We did originally, but once things got bad in Texas, we changed our drive accordingly. Rather than cutting south, we’d go due east from Albuquerque (I spelled it right that time) on I-40. We’d gas up before getting into Texas, drive the speed limit, and not stop.
That night we treated ourselves to take-out from Red Robin and wine from Walgreens, made sammies for the next day’s journey, and sunk into bed before 9:30 p.m.
Day 3: Albuquerque to Fort Smith… I mean Russellville, Ark.
Day three is always the worst day on a four-day road trip. It’s the Wednesday of road trips. The excitement is worn off, the dogs stink, origin and destination are far away, the podcasts are all irrelevant, and sitting for 12 hours impacts your digestive tract in a way you never realized. Even though you can’t believe you decided to do this, you’re too far in to turn back now. Plus, I got the impression the Texas law enforcement was taking the stay at home order serious. I had visions of me, the dogs, mom, our three suitcases, one cooler, three food bags, half a bottle of Pinot Grigio, and four pillows being locked in a rural jail cell for 14 days.
Our plans for 12-hour-driving days changed on the morning of day three. Mom and I discussed that if we could just push it to 14 hours, day four would be shorter. This was key because Alabama’s Governor issued a stay at home order that was set to begin Saturday (the day we’d get home) at 4 p.m. (just about the time we’d get there). We’d have to get to Publix (regional grocery store) to stock up the house if we didn’t want to eat canned tomatoes, Jell-O, and rice for the duration of our quarantine. We didn’t.
Again, La Quinta to the rescue. They graciously helped us change our reservations from Fort Smith to Russellville — no fees, no fuss. (Not an #ad.)
Looking back, I don’t recall much of day three — law enforcement was out in New Mexico. Alternating rest stops were closed. UPS, Amazon, and Wal-Mart trucks filled the interstate carrying the essentials to those in need, those in lockdown. We treated ourselves to hot chocolate after the dogs enjoyed a chilly, windy run at a truck stop dog park outside Oklahoma City. We realized someone (not naming names) shut the Ziploc of sandwiches in the passenger door. Same someone fed the 22-month old a bit of that squished sandwich. This led to the 22-month old having a case of urgent diarrhea. He howled and squirmed and tried to jump out the closed window. We pulled off the interstate into an empty parking lot. While this behavior was scary, I was proud of how well trained he was to hold it until it he was outside. Once back in the car he quickly went to sleep.
The check-in at Russellville was the quickest of all three. It was well after 8 p.m. when I got the room keys. The clerk maintained his distance — looking at my license and debit card from afar — as he placed the room keys on the counter before stepping back. He advised breakfast would be available — a to-go option only at 6 a.m. if we’d like.
For dinner we consumed popcorn, wine, and CNN.
Day Four — Russellville, Ark. to Daphne, Ala.
Home sat on the horizon — 546 miles away, but closer than it had been since October. Mom and I discussed which route to take — do we stay on I-40 and go through Memphis or wind through the back roads of Arkansas and Mississippi? I was driving. I won — back roads it was.
We loaded the car — which felt emptier, but not sure why — and hit I-40 before sunrise.
I’ve ridden/driven across the country nine times in my 46 years. Each time I’m reminded how beautiful and empty it is. Its endless rolling hills grow into snow covered mountains which make way for the great plains and a pace slower than that of the hurried lives we create in the city, in our minds.
Each journey reminds me that people charge forward the best way they can — we are struggling and thriving simultaneously. Small businesses rely on each purchase of hot chocolate or gas small businesses to keep afloat. As the car cut through the country, I was curious about the frontier people and how the majestic beauty of this land presented itself to them centuries ago. I ache for the native populations whose lives and livelihoods were transformed when those same frontier people decided to head west. Our nation is always a beautiful, tragic, complicated place. But when we are most broken is when we find our greatest strength. We rise. We will rise.
We stopped for breakfast at a McDonald's in Arkansas and crossed into Mississippi as we crossed the mighty river. Mississippi’s state highways took us through Jackson and Hattiesburg. The roads were empty, eerie, reminiscent of a scene from the early seasons of The Walking Dead. Homes looked unoccupied but up-kept. Porches and driveways were empty. The mid-morning mist and grey skies amplified the eeriness. It was as if everyone had either left for the season or locked themselves inside.
We entered Alabama on Highway 98, joined I-65, headed south, took exit 0 to I-10 east. Crossing Mobile Bay loosened the fret that had dominated the previous few days. Once we were two miles from the house the puppy knew. He began to prance and yip. Same, Ben. Same. We turned into the neighborhood with its oversized brick homes and lush green lawns. I cracked the driver’s side rear window enough for him to soak in the smells. He sprinted back and forth across the backseat, jumping over his brother. “Yes, Ben. We are home,” I declared as I pressed the garage door opener and pulled into the driveway. The white garage door rolled up. The boys got out of the car and pranced around the front yard, stretching and sniffing.
It was just after 2 p.m. We unloaded the car (turns out we left two pillows in Arkansas) and rushed to Publix. Once there we ricocheted around the store getting our weekly supplies. Fortunately, I’d left plenty of cleaning supplies and toilet paper in the house back in October. Around 4 p.m. I locked us in and let the quarantining begin.
Being home
It is both magical and surreal to be in my own house, to sleep in my own bed. Those first few hours felt like I was floating in disbelief. We made it. The boys took back to using the doggy door quickly. I started running (well, run/walking) in the early mornings. I work a few hours each day. We don’t turn on the television until after dinner, which I cook. Mom passes her days reading on the back porch which is flooded with sunlight until noon and consumed in warmth the whole day. We talk about the uncertainty of the future. We wonder if and how the nation will recover. We reflect on the small businesses that were shuttered along our 2,600-mile journey. I am thankful she is with me during this time.
As I write this, we’ve been home for nine days. We haven’t felt ill or feverish. Yes, it was completely selfish to make that journey. We did it with great precaution and know we are incredibly lucky to be safe.
Long before I came home, I had a vision of what my life would be. I’d work part time for my company and spend the rest of my days coaching, training, and writing. If need be, I’d get a retail job to supplement my income. This pandemic washed away that vision. So here I sit, reflecting on the journey behind while maintaining hope for the journey ahead. I’m not going to lie, worry is present. That’s okay. It’s okay. I will use this to shape the future, to help those in need, and to keep me steady as we move through our next journey.
We can get through this. We will get through this. Together we will rise.
