This story was written in 1977, shortly after Kath and I arrived in Kill Devil Hills, NC. Since then we have both made numerous more trips, together and separately, by plane and by car. But this particular journey was the biggest one of all—the one that changed everything.
This trip took place in February 1977. Married
just two months and unable to find work in Long Beach we had packed all our
belonging—a sofa, a table, a desk and a lot of other stuff, and headed east.
In 1804, President Jefferson commissioned
Lewis and Clark to explore and create a trail to the West Coast through the
newly purchased Louisiana Territory. In
1806, some 28 months after they had left civilization behind, they completed
their journey.
Settlers traveling in wagon trains later
used the trail they created. They made
the same journey—under favorable conditions—in a matter of just months. Later, the railroads would cut the time even
more. But even as the length of time was
shortened, one factor remained the same.
The country still had to be crossed.
It had to be seen, felt, endured, and finally conquered.
Such is not always the case today. Such was not the case in 1972 when I took my
last cross-country jet flight. Under the
auspices of the United States Army, I was flying at half fare. Everything in the military is either
half-rate, half-mast, or double time, but that is another story. The point is that with the Army paying and
American Airlines flying, I was afforded the opportunity to cross the country
in nearly five hours. Lewis and Clark
spent more time feeding their horses—the first day.
That is how it is today. Businessmen joke about leaving a Holiday Inn
in New York and flying to Los Angeles where they stay in another Holiday Inn. They don’t miss a meal and they don’t lose
any sleep. And never once do they see a
road sign, stoplight, or detour. It’s
like going to the opening day baseball game and then six months later reading
in the paper the final standings and missing all that happened in between.
It was for this reason that my wife and I
looked upon our upcoming journey with particular excitement. We were moving from Long Beach, California to
Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina.
Possibly no one else in the history of mankind had done such a
thing. But more important than the
destination or the fact that it was a cross-country trip, was that we were doing
it cross-country.
Like a Depression era documentary being
shown in reverse, we were loading our treasures into a trailer and crossing the
country to what we hoped would be a better future.