Article 3 - "Through the Hills" NOVEMBER 2006 edition of First Church of The Streets

    The landscape of Pennsylvania blended with the urban and suburban, a kind of patchwork that blurred its way past me on the highway before, as far as I was concerned, disappeared forever. I've found it easy to sometimes get insular in my role as traveler, where I am so absorbed in my experience that it takes some distance to digest all that is happening around me. Back and forth, all things seemed to alternate, but in reality, there were separate enclaves with their own identities, distinct and more in focus than the fast-shutter action that appeared to rush past me. Don't stare too hard, because it's easy to get caught up in the illusion.

    Part of it was that I was concentrating on the road, driving at the helm for at least for the next few hours, so I couldn't afford to be too contemplative as I watched the road. But part of it was the enthrallment of being on the road just for being on it, and the satiation I felt after having visited our first official destination on our month long trip. And knowing that it was just the first of many, as my husband and I made our way west on I-80 until we joined up with I-81. We'd be staying on this highway until its terminus in Tennessee, where we'd head west on I-40 until we reached our next major goal, the Smokey Mountain National Park.

    But we were a long way from there, about seven hundred miles away, and at least twelve hours away, if everything went as smoothly as our maps and calculations decided it was. So even though the day had already been full, coming from our home in suburban New York here to eastern Pennsylvania, and it was mid-afternoon, the day ahead was as long as the road that we would attempt to confront.

    So now here we were, trying to eat up as many miles we could before we were too tired to drive and we became as much a hazard as any unknown we might encounter. The road itself was smooth, empty enough that I didn't really have to acknowledge the other passengers around me. Cruise control territory, except for a bump through Wilkes-Barre, which was soon quickly forgotten. No problems or worries except for what was in front of me. Sometimes I wondered if I liked to travel simply for the focus it afforded me, not the feeling of covering six different things at the same time while I was at home. There was only one thing to think about, the road. And here I was.

    The way we were heading took us through the states of West Virginia and Maryland. Even though it may sound pedestrian, seeing that all I was doing was blowing through one of the small panhandles while on the interstate, I was excited to go through West Virginia, a state that I had never been to in my life. I probably wouldn't see anything that would be considered extraordinary. That is, if the point of travel was to seek exotic sights, and if you saw the everyday bustle as evidence of mass homogenization and the destruction of small town America. But to me, it was exciting. It was part of seeing what was Out There and Not Here.

    I had been to Maryland before, but more on the eastern side, where I'd taken family drives to the nation's capital and blew from New York to Florida on I-95. As a kid, I'd been to Annapolis. But I'd never been this far west in the state. My anticipation for both states was in the back of my mind as I savored the endless mountains of Pennsylvania, watched them end, and begin again. At least, that is how it seemed to me, one scene switching with another, providing a kaleidoscope of scenery that acted as a shapeshifter to remind me not to get too complacent in what I saw as my own personal picture show. A subtle reminder that the life out there was distinct from my own impressions.

    The conversation between my husband and me was quiet, blending in with what we saw surrounding us, laughing at the goofy drivers surrounding us. Most of them sped past us, and some, despite the wide berth accorded to the open spaces, proceeded to cut off slower drivers; many of those "slower" drivers already breaking the speed limit themselves. Not being used to empty highways, coming from Long Island where the only empty highway was on someone's wish list, it was amusing to see how people violated the already high speed limit, and yet still competed to go faster. So much for the misconception that outside of the metropolitan centers, one relished life in the slow lane.

    That's where we were, literally and figuratively, gradually chugging away closer to our nighttime home, wherever that was going to be for the night. The hills rolled by, and so did we. The states of Maryland and West Virginia approached as the evening fell, and though it was possible that it was only rolling hills, they seemed like small mountains compared to the nearly flat area in which I lived. All in the perspective of things.

    When we reached West Virginia, we stopped at a rest area to stretch our legs, to run the dog, and raid the snacks and food we had in the portable refrigerator. The food was cold, which was good, which meant that the plug was working fine. And my legs felt so stiff it was as though they had forgotten that they had been exercised only hours earlier. There were our fellow travelers, which at this point, constituted of mostly truck drivers. Otherwise, we were mostly alone, ourselves in the van.

    I inhaled the breath of early May in West Virginia, and it felt hot, with the taste of summer along its edges. Here, it was still spring to them, but coming from my northern vantage point, it was like I was submerged one season ahead. The rolling hills beckoned, as did the road. We left the rest area, one of many we would meet along the way, and bid farewell to the bit of West Virginia that we had so briefly traveled with.