The Drive Home, Part I: The Itch

Like so many seedlings of idle thought that mushroom into a web of dangerous ideas, it’s spawned from cliché: in this case, a few trite stanzas about how the concept of The West is as much a part of the DNA of the United States of America as apple pie and baseball.

The Union's predecessors arrived here from Europe, having voyaged across the western sea that was once believed to be the literal end of the earth. A massive continent, unknown and mysterious, sprawled out before them to the west, ripe for devastating incursion. Long after the geographic extent of this domain was shorn of its mystery by the quest for the Northwest Passage, Lewis and Clark's intrepid expedition, and the rapacious forces of Manifest Destiny, the allure of The West remained a siren's call for many.

At first it was the enticement of material wealth and prosperity in the form of animal pelts or mineral extraction. In the isolation concocted by its difficult terrain and unforgiving environment was the answer for those seeking freedom to practice unorthodox religions, or perhaps those craving the illusion of evading the snare of the government. It was also, it would be remiss to forget, an involuntary destination for entire cultures, violently removed from their ancestral homes and marched west, where they were left to forge a new existence in the face of white supremacy's continuous efforts to thwart them.

The laying of the transcontinental rail lines, followed by the rise of the automobile, made The West accessible in ways that were once inconceivable. Anyone who wanted a new life could simply uproot themselves and strike out for The West. It was clung to as a promise of salvation from the smoky, claustrophobic hell of the industrial metropoles and from the inhospitable, barren hell of the Dust Bowl. Even today, it beckons as the wide-open land of the big sky, a haven for rugged individuality . . . or as the land of left-coast social tolerance and unapologetic entrepreneurialism and innovation.

I myself am not immune to the seductive qualities of The West. They permeate through the spirit of the specific road that facilitates my egress from the Beltway region. This is Interstate 70, a 2,151-mile superhighway that births in Baltimore and ends up in Utah, serving as a crucial connection between The West and the entire Midwest and Northeast. If you hop on I-70 at its starting point and get going westbound, almost immediately you’ll come across a green guide sign listing a few prominent cities along the highway’s track, plus their distance away in miles. At the bottom is an entry for COVE FORT, the unincorporated spot that acts as I-70’s western terminus, where it runs into I-15 to continue on in the direction of Vegas and L.A. The sign informs those who blur past it that Cove Fort is separated from them by 2,200 westerly miles. Seeing that number never fails to remind me that this country is still somehow an unwritten tale, no matter how times you crisscross it or how many counties you chalk off.

For much of its path, I-70 is intertwined with U.S. Route 40, which itself was one of the original coast-to-coast routes laid out in the groundbreaking 1926 U.S. Highway System Plan. Going back further, this particular portion of the I-70/U.S. 40 corridor closely traces the echo of a series of late-18th-century turnpikes that stretched from the teeming ports of the Upper Chesapeake to Cumberland, Maryland. There, travelers could embark upon what was known as the National Road.

The National Road was one of the country’s first efforts, propelled by federal funding and oversight, to create a cohesive, long-distance transportation trail. Its objective was to ensure a standard of relatively easy mobility between the industrial and economic centers of the Mid-Atlantic and the croplands of the Midwest, traversing the tricky Appalachian Mountains in the process. Running from Cumberland to Vandalia, Illinois, it was the first road of such length to be completely surfaced using the newfangled Macadam technique, which would in short order come to be regarded as the state-of-the-art standard for road construction. Thus it can be said that these easternmost miles of I-70 essentially represent the very cradle of our attempts as a nation to provide simple, comfortable access to The West.

The battle against the Appalachian topography is still being waged in the name of increasing efficiency. One comparatively recent example is the Sideling Hill road cut, blasted away in the 1980s to make room for the Interstate 68 footprint. I-68 diverges from I-70's Pennsylvania Turnpike-bound course at Hancock, Maryland, but most westbound travelers pay it scant thought, unthinkingly guided as they are by automated navigation devices and apps.

I, on the other hand, have learned to heed the signs advertising I-68 as an "Alternate Route West." Maryland's Highway Administration has erected the signs as a ploy to keep people south of the Mason-Dixon Line for as long as possible and in doing so, hopefully trickling a few additional dollar bills into the coffers of the businesses and communities of the state's westernmost counties. To me, though, the signs serve as another reminder—as if I need one—that the ultimate purpose of this road's existence is to get people from here, in the East, to way over there, in The West, through those amber waves of grain and across those purple mountain majesties.

In any case, I had long taken to incorporating I-68 into my often thrice-monthly 202-to-412 commute. As far as controlled-access hypno-roads go, 68 is a rather enjoyable drive, thanks in large part to lower traffic volumes, lovely ridge-and-valley scenery, and an absence of tolls. Exits are more plentiful and offer the ability to jump on and off the highway whenever I want, enabling me to explore local towns and attractions at will and patronize commercial ventures that weren’t hatched out of a prefabricated big box.

At least, this pretense of true liberty is the fragile bargain I’ve struck with myself in exchange for ignoring the temptation of The West and instead surrendering to the imperious pull of my predetermined destination: home. It is all so nearly undone by the fact that I frequently find myself rumbling along I-68 as the day is waning. The sun reclines into the western sky, casting its pastel hues over the humps and hollows of the Maryland Panhandle, and I am drawn into its canvas, beckoned to follow it over the horizon. I want to succumb, riding into the sunset until I can’t anymore . . . or maybe just until I come across a cheap motel for the night, where I can recharge before leaping into whatever sagas the next day will sow.

To be clear, for me, it is not merely some escapist fantasy, not born of any explicit yearning to seek out a geographic cure by picking up and living in The West. No, it is the same compulsion that impassioned George Mallory to vanquish the planet's most daunting natural wonder. It is to just go. Because it's there. And every time, I swear there's a good five-Mississippi count during which I actually consider doing it.

But then irresponsibility is bludgeoned and the impulse is wrested from me, leaving only an odd burning sensation in my gut (not wholly unlike the feeling you get after narrowly averting an accident of some kind). As I brood over yet another capitulation, autopilot kicks in and forces me to take the appropriate exit into Cumberland. I’m not going West, not today. I’m still going home. Maybe one day I'll get used to that fact.