I was 22 years old, leaving home – really leaving home on a 3,000 mile trip from Houston, Texas to Seattle, Washington with a friend from college who was as eager for adventure and a change of scenery as I was. The year was 1968, and my brand new two-door blue Buick Skylark with the white coupe top had never been farther west than Austin. Time to break that baby in.
My friend and I had picked Seattle on a map sitting in a bar in Houston – we were looking for the farthest distance in the continental USA from where we sat. Bangor, Maine lost out to the Pacific Northwest. For me, it was the right choice and changed my life forever.
I keep this picture in a little box on my desk and take it out occasionally to remind me of that trip and the young woman smiling with such assurance as she stood near a rock in Arizona. She makes me smile when I see her.