By Megan M. Moore

As I lifted my head from the back of the tub, I saw my toes peeking over the opposite end, looking fresh with pink polish. I wiggled them, smiling at the serenity of the moment. Just beyond the tub, where I soaked in water from the local hot springs, a star-filled sky seemed to float above the Rio Grande. Steam rose around me, December’s reminder that just outside the tub, the air temperature could freeze water. As if on cue, snowflakes began to fall, fat and slow, adding magic to the moment. I sighed, feeling ready to return to San Diego, find a place to live, and restart the law school application process. Closing my eyes and leaning my head against the hard stone of the tub, I traveled four months back in time to the moment that would eventually lead me from San Diego to the Riverbend Youth Hostel in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, where I soaked in this tub and looked out at the stars.

*          *          *

It was August 2003. I sat in my therapist’s office in a chair, large and almost comfortable but just firm enough so that I couldn’t totally relax. I was processing the last year and my current career situation at an educational tech company. My father had passed away the summer before, and his death propelled me to take a look at my life. I ultimately decided that I would leave my education career and apply to law school. My colleagues and bosses knew about and supported my new endeavor. I told everyone I was applying and would go to school in August. Yet, here I was, sitting in my therapist’s office, sharing my woes. Namely, I hadn’t been accepted to law school and felt trapped in my job.

“I can’t believe I didn’t get in,” I lamented, feeling embarrassed and frustrated. “Now I’m stuck and have to stay there with no mentor and no path forward. It sucks.”

“Why can’t you quit  your job anyway?” My therapist asked. It came across so neutrally, like she truly wondered what I believed. A lightbulb exploded in my mind.

“Oh my, God,” I began, “I could still quit.”

With that one question, I saw options and realized I could choose. So I did. I quit my job without having anything else lined up and decided to take a road trip. Based on my savings account, I could afford to make my way across the United States for a few months, visiting family and friends with the occasional hotel stay along the way. Well-meaning friends expressed fears about traveling alone and concerns about when I would find a job. I nodded and smiled, but largely disregarded their concerns.

On September 13, 2004, I left San Diego, my Mini Cooper loaded with an extra-large suitcase, snacks, a CD travel case with my entire music collection, two atlases, and my USAA insurance information. Someone had given me a bobblehead chihuahua as a going-away present. I stuck her on the far left of the dashboard to keep me company in the car, which she did, nodding along to music or anything I said aloud.

I had a general idea of where I would go and a flexible itinerary. I drove up the West Coast first, then over the Rocky Mountains, through the Midwest, to upstate New York, then all the way down to Florida, and finally across Interstate 10 to return to California.

I loved visiting friends and family, but my favorite moments happened when I was alone. I felt free. Looking out the windshield to the open road exhilarated me, even when there were long stretches of flat and straight highways. I loved that I could see for miles and sometimes would guess how far away a certain landmark might be. Seeing the United States this way reminded me of family vacations when I was a kid who found joy in simple things, like prairie dogs living under our cabin at Yellowstone or the fellow who played a toilet-seat banjo in a wagon train near Mount Rushmore. I found joy on the road.

*          *          *

“How about that snow?” A man’s voice brought me back to the present. I looked over to see Gary, one of the guests I’d met earlier that day.

“It’s pretty amazing. I’m toasty here, but I can see the snow falling just there. It’s magical, don’t you think?”

Gary eased himself into one of the other outdoor tubs and sighed. “Magical,” he agreed.

I met Gary and other youth hostel guests when a group of us gathered near some outdoor tables around lunchtime. I noticed that everyone seemed older. I learned that Gary had never driven a car; he traveled by bus across the United States. Sue had sold her home and bought an RV when she retired. Now she spent half the year at places like Riverbend Youth Hostel and half the year living with her various children. As we shared our stories, I learned that I was in fact the youngest person at the youth hostel that day, having just turned thirty-one. It seemed ironic that the first time in my life I stayed at a youth hostel, none of the guests, including myself, would qualify as “youths.” 

Soaking in the tub as the snow fell, I felt complete. This was my last stop before heading home, and the Riverbend Youth Hostel was the perfect capstone to my adventure: On my own, in a strange place, with strangers who led strange and different lives.

I turn my head toward Gary. “I’m heading home tomorrow,” I tell him. “I feel ready.”

Turning his head toward me from his tub, Gary smiled and replied, “Sounds about right.”

“You know what, Gary? It is.”

Megan M. Moore is a lifelong risk taker, storyteller, adventurer, and educator. She is the founder and CEO of Megan Moore, Inc., through which she has the joy of coaching attorneys and other professionals to create their ideal professional and personal lives. You can email her at Megan@MeganMooreInc.com or visit www.meganmmooreinc.com.