by Elvis Ebinyi Owoche
PureTravel Writing Competition 2024
The open road ah, what a seduction it holds! A vast expanse stretching into the unknown, where each mile offers a tantalizing glimpse of adventure, mystery, and, perhaps, transformation. My greatest journey? It wasn’t just a physical trek across countless miles of asphalt and undulating landscapes; it was an inner pilgrimage, a dive into the depths of my soul, one that twisted and turned in ways I could never have foreseen.
It all began on a crisp autumn morning, the air tinged with the scent of fallen leaves and the promise of something new. I made a bold decision: a solo road trip across the country, from my quaint little Appalachian town to the sprawling, chaotic beauty of Los Angeles. The plan was deceptively simple no fixed itinerary, no hotel reservations, just a car packed with the bare essentials, a map (more for nostalgia than necessity), and a heart brimming with anticipation. But plans, as they often do, have a way of unraveling.
The first leg of the trip? Smooth. Too smooth. The roads were as clear as my mind, the weather an unbroken string of perfect days, and the miles melted away effortlessly beneath my tires. But then, Kansas. Ah, Kansas the endless flatlands, the sky stretching out in every direction like a taut canvas. And then, the sputter. The cough. The slow, agonizing death of my engine, leaving me stranded on the side of an utterly desolate highway. No cell signal. No sign of life. Panic, that familiar fiend, began its insidious creep, followed closely by despair. I was alone, utterly alone, miles from civilization, with nothing but the wind for company.
Just as the cold fingers of night began to close in, a battered old pickup truck materialized on the horizon, like something out of a dusty Western. The driver, Hank, an elderly man with lines etched deep into his weathered face, offered to tow me to the nearest town. Hank was a retired mechanic, living a quiet life nearby. Not only did he bring my car back to life, but he also extended an invitation come, stay the night with my family. And so, I did.
That night, around Hank’s dinner table, sharing stories, laughter, and the kind of home-cooked meal that soothes the soul, I felt a shift. This journey wasn’t about the destination; it was about moments like these unexpected, unscripted, and profoundly human. Hank and his family, with their kindness and generosity, reminded me that the world is still full of good people, even in its most remote corners.
As I continued westward, the encounters multiplied, each one a serendipitous gem. In a tiny diner in Colorado, I met a fellow wanderer, a writer, lost in his own search for meaning. Our conversation meandered through dreams and fears, and by the time we parted, it was as if I had known him for a lifetime. The connection was fleeting yet deeply impactful.
The Arizona desert brought me to a group of artists nomads who roamed from place to place, creating, living, thriving in their own unique way. They welcomed me into their world, a place where art was life, and life was art. For a few days, I became one of them, losing myself in the creative process and the stark, unforgiving beauty of the desert.
Each encounter, each twist in the road, left an indelible mark on me. They were lessons, not found in guidebooks, but written in the hearts of the people I met. By the time I rolled into Los Angeles, I was no longer the same person who had left the Appalachian Mountains behind. The breakdowns, the doubts, the moments of fear they were all part of the journey. And the people Hank, the writer, the artists—they were the true highlights.
Reflecting on it all, I understand now that my greatest journey wasn’t measured in miles. It was etched in experiences, in connections forged in the most unexpected places. It was a journey of the heart, a reminder that when things go wrong, they might just be going exactly right.
Photo by Diego Jimenez on Unsplash
