When I was at university in Idaho, I recall taking a History of the American West course as a senior. The history department was still fairly small at the time, and class sizes averaged about a dozen students…and this class was no exception. BYU-Idaho was still an infant and it was a fair assumption that most of the students enrolled were from the Idaho/Montana area.
During one particular lecture, I found myself called on by the professor to expound upon a paper I had written about the desert. In the paper, I made a reference to the desert being spiritual in nature and several of my classmates were puzzled by my thoughts.
(Since the class was so small, we all proof-read each other’s papers.)
I went on to explain to the class a few experiences I had driving through the desert: at midnight where the non-existent light pollution and lack of other vehicles on the road allowed the Milky Way to shine as bright as the moon; at dawn when the desert floor seemed to glow like fire with the rising sun; during a flash flood when life got a sudden revival and the legions of blue-gray clouds jockeyed for my attention.
I’m sure every single one of my classmates looked at me like I was crazy. Granted, none of them had admittedly been further west than western Idaho, so even my eloquent words would be hard-pressed to make any kind of an impact.
But that’s okay. I don’t require any validation to admit that I am a child of the American West.
Whether it’s been off-roading through Arizona or Idaho, getting lost and almost being abducted by aliens in Nevada, or finding random art in northern Utah, some of my most treasured moments in the USA have been through road trips I’ve taken in the American West.
Have you ever slept out beneath the stars, listening to nothing but the sound of the wind singing you to sleep? Only to wake up with the rising sun and the rustling of nearby shrubbery, fully expecting John Wayne to come saddling by on his noble steed?
I love the desert.
I love the sun.
I am a child of the American West.
The American West represents something deep within me and I’m still trying to pin down specifically what that is.
Is it the association the American West has with regards to manifest destiny? Maybe…just without the whole grand-scale-conquering-self-assurance thing.
Freedom? Yeah, that feels closer to the truth. The American West represented a land of opportunity: the gold rush of 1849; the silver strikes in Nevada, a vast expanse of land to explore.
When I was learning about the US back in elementary school, I remember my teacher had us look at a large map of the country. She asked us what we noticed about the western states that was significantly different than the eastern states.
Their size.
The western states are massive comparatively: California vs. Maryland; Utah vs. Rhode Island; Montana vs. Virginia. You get it.
I love big, open spaces.
I love western history.
I am a child of the American West.
They say salt water cures all ills – whether sweat, tears, or the ocean. I grew up being taken to the Pacific Ocean whenever I was feeling sick or out of sorts. No, we didn’t perform any kind of weird voodoo on the beach, but being able to sit in the sand, walk along the coast and feel the salty breeze seemed to fix everything.
Whenever I find myself within a few hours of the beach, I make it a point to revisit, dip my feet in the cold water, and squish my toes in the coarse sand.
I took myself on a solo trip to San Francisco and wanted to do something a little different than hitting the usual tourist circuit every day. Even though I had visited the Bay Area numerous times over the years, I had yet to play at the beach.
Why? Well, mainly because the beach in San Francisco tends to be a little freezing cold no matter what time of the year it is.
But that didn’t stop me this time around. I was craving the ocean. I needed to drink in the salty air. I needed to feel a connection to the coast again.
So when I had some free time in San Francisco, I decided to discover the beach. I drove down to Half Moon Bay. I found the famous swing at Kirby Cove and realized that I still knew how to swing. I watched the sunset at Baker Beach in the shadow of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Right now the ocean and I have a long-distance relationship and it kills me to be landlocked in Salt Lake City, UT. I used to think that I was born a mermaid in the ocean…and still hold onto that thought from time to time.
I am at home in the Pacific Ocean.
I love the feeling of salty air on my skin.
I am a child of the American West.
I love talking about the fact that I’m a child of the American West. Can you tell?
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