Traveling Alone

I’ve traveled by myself, in the literal sense, since I moved away to go to school when I was 18. Usually, my two-and-a-half hour drive home from UC Davis (for holidays, for summer break - for laundry!) was a solo affair. After graduation - and after marrying Sami and embarking on a career in 1990 - I often traveled alone for work (sometimes driving, sometimes flying - occasionally taking the train). But the common denominator in these trips was the return home - someone (a roommate, my friends - Sami) was always there to greet me. In many ways, the return trip was what I most enjoyed about travel - coming home to a warm house. And a warm embrace.

As I’ve traveled since Sami’s death, I’ve realized that there’s a figurative definition of traveling alone, too. The physical act of going from one place to another (for work, or more enjoyably, to see my daughters) is still solitary. The act of living - and of grieving, it seems - is also solitary. I find myself thinking, “Sami would get a kick out of this - I should call her.” I find myself envious of those who return home to partners. I find myself feeling sorry for myself, if I’m honest.

I‘ve just returned home from a combination work and personal trip. Last Wednesday, I drove to Lakeport to give a talk about protecting livestock from predators. After my talk, I continued on to Yreka, where I had dinner with one of my favorite colleagues. The next morning, I left around 7am and drove north - with no particular destination. I stopped several times - once to walk through the Collier Logging Museum north of Klamath Falls, OR, and once to check out the amazing bridges over the Crooked River north of Bend, OR. I found a hotel room in Kennewick, WA, and had birrea de borrego at a little Mexican restaurant for dinner. Alone. And I found myself thinking that I’d have called Sami to tell her I found some great lamb for dinner! I also realized that I would never have traveled this aimlessly with Sami - she was even more of a planner than I typically am!

On Friday, I left early, headed for Spokane (where Lara would arrive by plane later that morning). I killed some time (and some money) stopping in at the White’s Boots store. After I picked up Lara, we stocked up on snacks (and Lara’s favorite tea) at Trader Joe’s, and then made our way south towards Moscow, ID. We stopped for a great lunch (and a brief shopping trip) in the little town of Palouse, WA. And we stopped for fuel at a funky gas station in Garfield, WA (just before I ran out of gas!). Once we got to Moscow, we joined Emma at the University of Idaho Logging Sports Arena, where she was helping prepare for that weekend’s competition.

We had a wonderful visit. I was struck (again) by how much of their mom I see in both of our daughters. I found myself doing a double take when Emma or Lara would say something that Sami would have said, or when they laughed at one of our family’s inside jokes.

I also kept up with my journaling during the trip:

”In some ways, I feel like the fact that I “adulted” on my own (mostly) in the year-plus since Sami died, is an accomplishment. I made the bed every day. I fed myself (mostly healthily). I kept up with the laundry. I showed up for work (physically, and usually mentally). I paid the bills.

”Sometimes, the solitude has been difficult. I miss companionship. I miss Sami’s touch. I seem to go through stretches when the only memories I can summon of Sami are from the end of her illness.”

Seeing both girls together was wonderful. Seeing them laugh together - sometimes about their dorky father - was amazing. Seeing them support one another was incredible. Seeing them together helped me refocus my memories of their mom.

On my trip, I listened to several episodes of a podcast about grief (Anderson Cooper’s “All There Is”) - and heard (again) the lyrics of Paul Simon’s “Graceland.”

”Losing love is like a window in your heart.

”Everybody sees you’re blown apart.

”Everybody sees the wind blow.”

A break-up, obviously, is nothing like losing your life partner, but the words resonated. I do feel like everyone - even complete strangers - can tell I’m not quite right. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking. Maybe I wish complete strangers could tell that I’m not the same person I was two years ago.

On Sunday, Sami would have turned 57. She would have complained about getting older - which always kind of annoyed me. On Sunday, I wished she’d had that opportunity. That evening, I wrote:

”I’m really glad I drove this time. I’m glad to be returning home gradually.”

The next day, though, was rough. Leaving the girls has always been hard (even before Sami’s passing); leaving them both, with the prospect of returning to an empty house, and without Sami in the passenger seat, was incredibly difficult. I realized that driving north (towards our visit) was far easier. Driving south alone was daunting - I only made it about 5 hours that first day (to Ontario, OR). I remembered that I’d be coming home to an empty house. I started doubting my decision to move - I had no real friends to return to in Mountain Ranch. I worried about clinging to the connections I did have - to my sister and her husband; to my work colleagues.

That said, I also began to appreciate the beauty of the western Idaho landscape. The colors of the trees. The weather. The sky.

On the way north, I found the memories of previous trips Sami and I had taken - of the places we’d stopped and the conversations we’d had - to be enjoyable. On the first day headed home, these memories made me sad. I remembered - in graphic detail - the places we’d stopped on our way home from sharing Thanksgiving with Emma in November 2022. They reminded me that Sami won’t get to experience new memories - that she won’t see Emma graduate in May. Or see Lara start her ceramics business (Red Mule Pottery).

But Tuesday was a new day. I left Ontario before sunrise, and made it to Jordan Valley, OR as the sun was rising over the basin and range country. Something about driving through the sagebrush sea from Jordan Valley to Winnemucca, NV, calmed my soul. The sky was amazing, and the snow that had fallen on the higher peaks the day before made these little mountain ranges look like islands. I stopped for lunch at a great little deli in Carson City (Villa Basque Cafe), and picked up sheep’s milk cheese and Basque chorizo for future meals. I drove over Carson Pass (which, even with the snow, was far more enjoyable than crossing the Sierra over Interstate 80). I got home with daylight left. The house was empty, but I felt better than I had the evening before.

Over the course of my travels, I also realized that this was my first solo road (driving) trip since Sami’s passing. I realized the physical limitations of taking such a long trip - nobody could spell me in the driver’s seat when I got tired. In many ways, this felt like an important step - I proved to myself that I could travel alone. Maybe that’s part of “adulting” too.

Tonight, I’m thinking about the nature of being human - and of grieving. Grieving is, perhaps, the most universal of human emotions. We will ALL lose someone or something, for which we will grieve. Grieving, then, gives us community - or maybe communion, with the rest of humanity. But grieving is also intensely personal. My journey through grief (at the loss of my wife) is inherently different than my daughters’ journey (at the loss of their mother). Grief, I think, requires us to travel alone. But sharing our grief enables our community to join us. Maybe that’s what I learned on this trip.