Miles and Miles of American Soil

I’ve always felt that with a car and gas, you can go anywhere, do anything, be something. The highways wind across the states, connecting people and subcultures and possibilities. I made a mental map with lines that crossed from coast to coast, representing my many family members, finally pooling together in Colorado.

For our family reunion this year, we met in Estes Park, right in the Rocky Mountains. Which meant we had zero phone service but an unbelievably beautiful view. The mountains surrounded us, making me feel protected by coolness, enveloped by the sublime; yet, simultaneously, the rigorous hikes it would take to scale the mountains, the awesomeness of their surfaces made me feel like their reaches were utterly beyond me.

The altitude made all of us a bit short of breath. I braved some easier hikes, and we typically branched out for various activities during the day, like touring the haunted Stanley Hotel (inspiration for The Shining), before meeting up to make s’mores and play games and eat snacks well into the night.

The unanimous favorite activity of the week was whitewater rafting down the Poudre River. We sat on the rim of the raft, planting ourselves with our feet braced against the sides, wielding our paddles like vicious weapons against the current. Whitewater rafting is something I’ve always dreamt of doing and yet couldn’t picture myself doing. In all the photos from the rafting, I have this huge grin on my face; it made me euphoric. The shock of the cold water, the thrill of the dips and waves, the sense of woman vs. nature, the sound of the powerful current and our guide's voice all fused together into an invigorating, heady experience. We collectively groaned as we headed back into the bus all too soon, and I thought of how addicted to whitewater rafting I’d be if I lived somewhere that had easy access to it.

Following our family reunion in Estes Park, about half of us headed to Mount Rushmore. The drive was stunning, through Wyoming and into South Dakota. Seeing Mt. Rushmore itself was wonderful; the four presidents seemed to represent the diversity of liberty, the rich history of this country of mine. After Mt. Rushmore, we began the long journey home.

The scenery seemed to melt the more and more we progressed, the miles wiling away the sharp peaks of the Rockies, the craggy hills of the Badlands, the gentle slopes of South Dakota and Nebraska, before finally smoothing into the golden, parched flatness of the Kansas plains. The temperatures rose, too, as the miles mounted, back to the record highs that have plagued Kansas this summer: a sweltering 105 F the evening of our return.

I felt such pride in my country, as I drove across miles and miles of her surfaces, as I had traversed so many in Britain. My homesickness for England has been a dull ache lately, still faint from the numbness. A box of Magnum ice cream bars in Walmart in Colorado; a random red telephone booth in South Dakota; a 1905 nickel imprinted with Lady Liberty (that reminded me of the Queen’s face on British currency) in Nebraska—the small tokens of a far-off land that once felt as though it belonged to me.

But I really do feel like God has blessed me with a strong American summer, as though He is allowing me the pleasure of being wooed by my neglected love, the good ‘ole U.S. of A. Between revisiting Georgetown, quality family time, a wonderful trip across several states, relaxation, and big decisions that are stressing me out, it feels like I’m caught in a whirlwind of numbness, distraction, and happiness that both hide and abate that hurt.

That pain is still there; and if I could afford to do so, if I could recreate that beautiful Oxford world of mine (complete with friends), I’d rush back tonight. But I’m beginning to feel more and more expectant of this year to come. Me, a senior in college—how did that happen? And how much more will I be blessed with this year? Faith and trust bring me peace; and that peace eases in joy.