Up until a decade or so ago, my experience of the US – like that of many other Europeans – had essentially been limited to the East and West coasts; more specifically New York City and San Francisco-Highway 1-Los Angeles. In 2005 however, my wife Carole and I decided to expand our horizons, both metaphorically and literally, by embarking on a month-long American roadtrip.
We knew we wanted to follow in the footsteps of the American nation and follow the sun west, so initially considered but ultimately rejected as ‘too obvious’ the Route 66 option. What we wanted to experience was the the country at its grandest, its endless rolling plains and jagged, snow-capped mountains, its primaeval forests and majestic rivers, its light, its skies, its majesty. We wanted to experience America at a local level too, its two lane highways, its local bars and diners, and what we were to learn to call its ‘mom & pop’ motels.
So, after poring over maps and taking advice from the forum at the RoadTrip America website, we booked outward flights to Chicago, return flights from Seattle, hotel reservations for two nights at either end of the trip, and set out on an adventure that would change our lives.
Over the course of those four weeks in July 2005, we followed a 4500 mile route that delivered everything we’d hoped for and more: the staggering beauty of Yellowstone; the awe-inspiring scenery of Glacier National Park; the Giant Redwoods of California; the rugged coast of Oregon and Mount St. Helens in Washington. South Dakota in particular delivered on our other goal: we were captivated by its people as well as its places. But nothing quite surpassed the sense of excitement, wonder and nervous anticipation felt on day one, standing at the west-facing window of Chicago’s John Hancock Tower, looking out over the city and far beyond, and imagining what those weeks and miles might hold in store.
So powerful was this sensation and so wonderful the reality that it has drawn us back to the USA every year since, even, on occasion, when budgets permit, twice a year. It is hardly an exaggeration to describe it as an obsession.
Since then we’ve driven much of Route 66, large parts of the Lincoln Highway, the whole of the Blue Ridge Parkway, parts of the Great River Road, and most of the Natchez Trace. We’ve followed the westward route forged by Lewis & Clark, traced the wagon ruts of the Oregon Trail, and marvelled at the wonders of the Beartooth Highway, the Hogback, and the Pacific Coast Highway.
My passion today is to record these experiences, primarily through the medium of photography but also in the written word.