The moment we open the door, a vacuum of wind sucks out the loose maps strewn across the car floor and scatters them across the gravel overlook. Frantic, Lilly and I dart at the drifting papers, crinkled birds, an act that proves to be a mostly futile rescue attempt. Gone is the map that pinpoints the tide pools across the Oregon Coast; gone is the map that recommends campsites across this final leg of the journey.
Before the next stretch of scenic highway, we stop for gas. I get out of the car and take part in the same ritual I’ve practiced who knows how many times since the start of the journey. Lilly’s gone inside for some kind of chocolate. I’ve just placed nozzle into tank.
In the middle of these trees, twice as wide as my outstretched arms, there is absolute silence. Nothing moves.
“What do you think you’re doing?” a woman’s voice screeches toward me.
Confused, I simply continue to fill up.
“Are you deaf?” shrieks the voice, closer now.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You’re breaking the law, kid.” I look around and notice I’ve attracted the attention of fellow travelers. Men in bucket hats glare at me. Women cradle their small children and avert their eyes.
“Get away from that,” she spits. The woman, curly red hair tied back, slaps my hand away from the trigger. (From some reason, there seems to be a higher concentration of red heads the farther west you travel.) “You’re not from here, are you?”
“Passing through. What’s wrong?”
“Can’t pump your own gas in Oregon. New Jersey, too. It’s illegal.”
“What’s he done now?” Lilly’s retuned.
“I can’t pump my own gas here,” I intercept.
“You said it, kid. Not here or anywhere else in the Beaver state. Or New Jersey.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I won’t let him do it again,” stern-lipped Lilly assures.
The red head seems satisfied with this, snorts her approval.
Then we rush to the second scenic highway of the day, as lush as the first was dry. Wide trees, heavy with green leaves shade the road. A handful of waterfalls serve as the only breathes in between stretches of the towering old sequoia, ash and elm. We get out to put our feet in the cold waters, feel the mist of the falls sprinkle our faces.
The next day, it’s fog from the Pacific that rolls across us and jets of ocean spray puffed out by breaching whales. We’ve pulled over guessing that this stop might provide an array of tide pools. It’s an abandoned stone beach that’s hard to walk; black rocks skid underfoot and clamor against each other. That in addition to the crash of waves against shore and the occasional sea lion bark compose the natural soundtrack. Lilly and I kneel over pocks in the craggy beach and watch the ocean water push in and then depart, disturbing anemone tentacles and strands of plankton. Orange and pink starfish plastered to every surface remain fixed.
I find myself mystified by Lilly combing the beach in a blue dress, her blonde hair in a loose braid. She leans over pools of water and peers in through gold sunglasses, even though fog blocks out the sun. Binoculars dangle from her neck. Besides what’s beneath the saltwater surface, she is the only color in an otherwise gray landscape. All this color will be away from me in only a pocketful of days. I wish we had lost all of our maps.
We jet down the Oregon coast and cross into California, stopped only by inspectors at the border asking if we’re traveling with any fruit and, later, by giant redwoods at Prairie Creek State Park. In the middle of these trees, twice as wide as my outstretched arms, there is absolute silence. Nothing moves. A lightning strike has gutted some of the trunks, their split guts black.
We settle at my Uncle’s house in Eureka, California, the last stop before Mountain View. That evening a collection of his musician friends play Irish traditional tunes in his living room. Lilly and I sit together on the couch and listen.
I fight heavy eyelids. In this music-fueled half sleep, I dream of open doors and closed doors. A landscape composed of rivers and desserts and forest and cornfields paints itself. I’m driving a car without holding the steering wheel on an open road without lines. Lilly looks out the half-cracked window, wind catches her hair.
If only endings didn’t press on so damn fast.
