Springer's Journey

I had a romantic idea about traveling the country.

I would wander.

I would go to farmers’ markets. I would camp beneath beautiful trees. I would see birds I’d never seen before, stop beside creeks, meet interesting people, and look at maps spread across big library tables.

I suppose there was a little bit of the gypsy dream in it—the old-fashioned romantic notion of simply going wherever the road led me.

Freedom.

Adventure.

Springer’s Journey.

What I didn’t picture was standing beside a dead Subaru on the freeway.

Cora had been trying to tell me something.

I’ve driven her enough now that I know her. I know how she accelerates. I know what she sounds like. I know how she feels beneath my hands and feet.

And something was wrong.

I didn’t know what.

I just knew.

She was gradually losing power.

So I started getting over.

And my beautiful girl gave me enough time.

Cora made it to the side of the freeway before she died completely.

Arkansas State Trooper David Calvert came. Where I had managed to stop was still dangerous enough that the officer actually used his cruiser to push Cora farther to a safer place.

Then came the tow truck.

Five hundred and forty dollars.

ARE YOU SERIOUS??!!

There are moments when the romantic notion of wandering freely across America takes a rather abrupt commercial break.

This was one of them.

The tow truck driver brought Cora and me to a KOA and put her right in our campsite. He charged her battery enough that she could run again.

The alternator is dead.

She’s sitting under the trees now, beautiful and calm, waiting for Monday morning and the repair shop.

And I’m sitting beside her with considerably less money than I had a few days ago.

This life is hard.

I think that’s something I need to say.

Not occasionally inconvenient.

Hard.

Finding places to sleep. Watching the weather. Paying for gas. Figuring out where you’re allowed to stay and for how long. Moving everything. Setting everything up. Taking everything down. Repairs. Heat. Storms. Unexpected expenses.

And when your vehicle is both transportation and an enormous part of your security, one mechanical failure can change everything in an afternoon.

I had begun wondering whether I was simply terrible at this.

Then tonight I met Miranda.

Miranda is a young woman who actually does this full-time. She has an adorable little RV, and she’s been living this way for a couple of years.

So naturally, I peppered the poor woman with questions.

And she told me something I badly needed to hear.

It’s expensive.

It takes time.

You have to figure out what you’re doing.

Even after a couple of years, this isn’t some effortless existence where you wake up every morning, throw open the RV door, sip coffee while looking majestically across the mountains, and decide which farmers’ market deserves your presence that afternoon.

There is a learning curve.

And suddenly I realized something.

I’ve been doing this for about three months.

Three months.

I’m still a freshman.

I’ve crossed states. I’ve slept in tents and cabins and parking lots. I’ve learned about campgrounds and weather and routes and elevations. I’ve learned when to keep driving and when to stop. I’ve learned that sometimes the smartest travel decision is not traveling at all.

I’ve learned Cora well enough that when she began losing power on the freeway, I knew something was wrong before I knew what was wrong.

And somehow, every time I’ve thought, I don’t know how to do this, I’ve eventually figured out the next thing.

Sometimes with help.

Actually, often with help.

From strangers.

From campground owners.

From tow truck drivers.

From people I’ve met along the road.

From a young woman named Miranda who probably had no idea that simply telling me, Yes, this is difficult, would make me feel so much better.

And, of course, from my rather unusual traveling classroom who are indispensable to me, and keep loneliness at bay:  Professor Headquarters, Ferrari the wolverine, Mayday Murphy the catastrophizing Steller’s Jay, Morris from Aquatic Division, Stick, Cora, and me.

We’re learning as we go.

The romantic version of this journey was easier.

But I’m beginning to think the real version might be better.

The real version has breakdowns.

It has fear.

It has mistakes.

It has $540 tow bills that make you briefly consider lying down in the road.

But it also has people.

Kind people.

People who push your disabled car out of danger.

People who tell you that you can stay at their campground while you figure things out.

People who send you reimbursement forms.

People who sit beside you and say, in one way or another:

“Yeah. This is hard. It took me a while too.”

Maybe freedom isn’t knowing exactly what you’re doing.

Maybe freedom is learning that when the romantic version falls apart, you can still build a life out of whatever remains.

For now, Cora is resting beneath the trees.

Monday will come.

We’ll figure that out when it gets here.

Tonight, I’m going to sit here for a while and appreciate the fact that after three months on the road, I’m apparently not failing at being a traveler.

I’m still learning how to become one.

And somehow, that feels very different.

Polished with help from ChatGPT, who understands Mayday Murphy far better than any reasonable being should.