Embrace Meandering (Life Lesson #6)

The roads, mountain passes, and rural towns call to me from the walls of my Vermont house. I search carefully before adding two more pins to the maps of Sweden and England hanging there. The “pins” are tiny Post-it notes with destinations scribbled in pencil and color-coded: pink is a “must visit” (because I do love that color), yellow is a maybe, and green represents hikes, forests, and other nature adventures.

This chilly morning, with a cup of tea warming my hands, I step away from these paper plans. I shift my focus from the newest additions to the larger geographic picture and sigh. In some areas, small notes pile atop one another, forming precarious little mountains on the paper. Elsewhere, yellow slips are evenly scattered across wide swaths of European countryside—a collage of possibilities. And that’s not even counting my journals, where countless ideas for adventure have yet to make their way to these walls. I see a mess before me.

I ship the Blue Car out from Port Newark, New York in less than three months, and my trip starts soon thereafter. And here I am, in my pajamas, sipping Earl Grey, still battling it out with myself.

I have spent much of my life chasing clear goals, following traditional pathways, and using society’s measures as my guideposts—always asking questions like, How do I get from point A to B in the most efficient way possible? That part of me, the one I know so well, is itching to plan every last kilometer of this road trip. That version of Susan is competing for attention with a newer version—the Susan I’ve been for the past few years. This new (and improved?) Susan threw out her trusted game plan. She lost sight, in the most wonderful way, of the next point on the prescribed path of her life. Point B? What Point B?

So, it’s no surprise that, as I stand before these maps, my “let’s plan everything” side is sparring with my “just pick up the car in Le Havre, France, and drive” side. Neither Susan is winning at the moment—but I’m not worried (that cup of tea always calms me down). My gut, and the Blue Car, are telling me I want a gentle melding of my two selves.

I want a meander.

The word meander is derived from the longest river in western Turkey, the Büyük Menderes (Meander, in English). In antiquity, the Meander River was known for its many twists and turns, its waters flowing back and forth across the floodplain. To meander came to mean following a winding course with no goal in mind, no urgent destination. In my meandering road trip, I’ll avoid the fast and efficient highways. I’ll aim leisurely for a few choice destinations while leaving the encounters along the way to chance. I’ll drive the sinuous curves of backcountry roads the Blue Car and I love. The roads the Blue Car was made for.

When I first began to travel, meander wasn’t part of my vocabulary. There were no sinuous curves on backcountry roads. After childhood summers spent playing baseball in the street and making mud pies in the backyard, and teenage vacations working full-time to save for college, when I finally got a chance to see the larger world, I made sure I was ready. I pulled out Fodor’s and Lonely Planet guides, made my lists, and then made more lists. My travels were a rush from place to place, checking off the sites in exhausted but proud satisfaction.

I slowed down over the years, but I always had a grand plan and a list of “must-sees.” Then, a few months before my U.S. road trip, something shifted.

“What cities are you visiting?” my friends asked.

"I’m not sure.”

“Don’t you have your route mapped out?” my kids wondered.

“Not really—just a general sense.”

“Have you booked hotels ahead?” my worried neighbor inquired.

“Only the National Park lodges.”

Those vague answers were the best I could do. Maybe the trip seemed too fantastical to grasp. Or perhaps I was overwhelmed by the work it would take to truly and thoroughly plan 105 days on the road. Most likely, I was simply tired of planning all those routes from Point A to B. Whatever the reason, I felt no stress as I spoke. I had no Point B in mind other than the West Coast—and I felt liberated. I could change my mind, be inspired by the moment, and embrace serendipitous encounters.

One early Sunday morning while passing through West Virginia, I awoke to a front tire perilously close to flat. A closer inspection revealed a broken air valve. With nothing to do but change the tire, I emptied the bags from under the front hood, partially jacked up the car, and tried to loosen the lug nuts. They wouldn’t budge. I pushed with my legs. No luck. I jumped on the wrench. Nothing. Then I did the most sensible next thing: I flagged down a guy in a pickup truck. He slowed. I told him my troubles. He said he didn’t have time to stop and help. I persisted.

“I don’t need you to change the tire. I just need some muscle to loosen the lug nuts. Two minutes. That’s all I need. Please?”

Turns out, when you ask a guy in a pickup truck to use his muscles and say please, he can’t resist.

As he helped me, we got to talking, and it turned out he was a whitewater guide who knew the area intimately. He sang the praises of New River Gorge National Park & Preserve, the newest park in the system, and was horrified that I was driving through without exploring it. He stuck around to help with the tire change and then gave me detailed suggestions. By the time we said goodbye, I knew where to rent a paddleboard, the best place to see the gorge, and which nearby town had great public art murals. So, I stayed. I paddled the lake, drove down to the bottom of the gorge, and visited Fayetteville to take in the art. All because of a flat tire and the freedom to go anywhere or nowhere on that particular day.

My West Virginia adventure was one of the many gifts of meandering on that trip. While I was leaving Joshua Tree, a hotel receptionist urged me to stop in Las Vegas to take advantage of the ridiculously low hotel prices (tourists were avoiding the city because of the Formula 1 race). Ten miles south of town, I pulled over to book a room (she was right) and when I arrived, I bought a ticket for the practice runs. After all, how often do you get to see Formula 1 up close?

In Napa, I heard about the long-running and iconic EASY Cars and Coffee in Emeryville, California, and spent an unexpectedly fabulous Saturday morning there with dozens of Porsches and their warm, welcoming owners.

On my way from Arches National Park to the Grand Canyon, I snagged a miraculous last-minute reservation for a tour of Antelope Canyon in Page, Arizona—something that usually books up months in advance. On the tour, I met a couple visiting from Stuttgart who invited me to stay with them “if you ever come over with the Blue Car.” (Yes, I’ve emailed them.)

I can sing the praises of meandering all day. But I take issue with Britannica’s definition (and others) that describes this lovely wandering as “analogous to moving aimlessly and idly without any fixed direction or purpose… judged to be devoid of authentic meaning.”

It’s not aimless to focus on the journey instead of Point B somewhere down the road. I’m not lost or lacking in purpose because I choose sinuous backcountry roads and embrace the surprises I find there. And I can’t think of anything more authentic than being intentional about how I travel through life—even if it means avoiding the determined and efficient strides I once took pride in.

If you looked at a map tracing my U.S. road trip, the switchbacks and loops might look like the path of a woman hopelessly lost. But you’d be mistaken. I was anything but. Those meanders across the country and back represent my heart lines—not of what I planned months in advance, but of what I truly wanted in the moment. What could be more opposite of “lost?” I don’t think you can ever be lost when you meander. You will always be exactly where you want to be.

The mess on my walls right now represents a wonderful collage of possibilities. If I can stay in this gentle melding of my two selves, those pins on the maps will sort themselves out once I’m on the road. Some will remain—anchors along the way—and the rest will fade into memory, ready to reappear if, and when, the time is right. Of one thing I’m sure: there is nothing better than meandering in the Blue Car. If you ever sit beside me on a winding backcountry road, you’ll understand.

I promise.