Field Notes: The Media School Travel Blog

I was somewhere around Sidney, Nebraska, when I noticed there were more horses and cows than people. I still had 250 miles to go and knew they’d be the toughest of my trip so far. I hadn’t slept much the night before. A car alarm from a Dodge Grand Caravan woke me up at 2 a.m., and I never fell back asleep. I had breakfast at 7, left the hotel at 8, grabbed a banana and a muffin for the road and was off to my next stop: Rawlins, Wyoming.

It was also around Sidney that I noticed I needed gas, but that was not as easy as it sounded. The $100 my grandmother had given me for fuel had almost all been used on snacks, and I hadn’t seen a gas station in 30 miles.

I stopped at a shady-looking gas station — the type where there’s only two pumps, and one of them is broken. The type where there’s a guy who offers to help you pump your gas. Does he ask everyone that, or do I look inept? I remember the man asking me, “You’re from Indiana, huh?”

This caught me off-guard. How did he know that? Was that some sort of insult on how I pump gas? It wasn’t until I got to Rawlins that I realized he had just seen my license plate and was trying to make friendly conversation.

After checking into the hotel, I decided to uncover what the great city of Rawlins had to offer: gas stations, fast food an appropriately sized Walmart.

But I needed to know what made this city special. It only took me a few minutes to find what I was looking for: the Wyoming Frontier Prison Museum. Perfection. I parked in the abandoned lot, but when I went to the front door, I saw the sign that read “Sunday: Closed.”

Defeated, I went to get food. For some reason I was compelled to find out what Mexican food in Wyoming tasted like. I found the nearest (and possibly only) option and drove to the mostly empty restaurant. A man took my order and soon brought out three soft-shelled tacos. They were cheap and worthy of the price point.

The next day, in the hotel parking lot, my hat flew off my head and into the windshield of a car containing a family of four. The driver glared as I quickly grabbed the hat. I went to my car hoping I could avoid all eye contact with them.

There is no contrast in feelings quite like the one I felt as I crossed the border from Wyoming into Utah. The scenery in Wyoming was amazing, but Utah’s was breathtaking. The mountains and forests I saw were some of the most beautiful I’ve seen in my life.

I started to think of Utah as divided into three very different areas. The first is the north part, where Salt Lake City is located. There are so many people in such a small space. So much traffic you’ll wish you were back in Wyoming.

The central part of Utah is beautiful. The roads are dangerous, especially for a nervous driver like me. How is a 16-wheeler going 70 mph into a curve?

The southern part of Utah is desert. It was 100 degrees in La Verkin, my final stop before getting to Los Angeles. I needed food, so I walked to the store about a half-mile from the hotel. Big mistake. Half an hour later I was back in the hotel and covered in sweat.

After changing clothes, I went back out to take a good look at Zion, the closest I had been to a national park so far. Despite feeling the onset of a full-body sunburn, I took in the amazing view.

Finally, three hours behind, I fully embraced the time change by going to bed at 9 p.m. and waking up at 5 a.m. Feeling completely drained, I went to grab my final free breakfast with the intention of making the most of it. I’m not sure what the hotel workers thought of the man who had two apples, three waffles, a yogurt and a bowl of cereal for breakfast, but I’m hoping they didn’t recognize it was the same person who took two oranges, a few bagels, more yogurt and a bowl of oatmeal as he left the hotel.

The last stretch was uneventful, at least as uneventful as a drive through Las Vegas could be. I tried to keep my eyes on the road but failed spectacularly. I almost got into a wreck while staring at Caesar’s Palace. Of all the ways to die in Las Vegas, getting into a wreck while looking at a place where people can get away with wearing togas would definitely be the worst.

A few hours later, I had finally made it to California. After four days, seven states, 25+ hours of driving and uncountable bags of pistachios eaten, I had made it. I was finally where I needed to be.

Well, I still had about three hours until I got to Los Angeles, but for all I cared, I was basically there.