Standing under the sign that signals the beginning (or the end) of Route 66 on Santa Monica Pier, I feel the excitement and anticipation that a great road trip always brings. We are in Los Angeles to help my our daughter and son in law make a cross country move to Chicago. So for the next five days, we will be transporting a household of possessions, two dogs, four adults, a small car and a moving van along the “mother road”. We can’t afford to be purists on this trip. Time will not permit the wandering of each curve of the original Route 66. Since I will be driving and riding in the moving van, I am not sure my body could take the punishment. Instead, we will follow the highways that sometimes overlay the original route and sometimes parallel. We will take detours to roadside rests and tiny towns that wear the Route 66 emblem like a badge of honor.

But today, standing here on the pier watching children play in the ocean, carnival rides turning in the sun…it is hard to summon the image of the road. Looking to the ocean, all is serene. Malibu shines in the distance. We are far from the open road.

If I turn my attention eastward, the city has swallowed the highway. Skyscrapers, lights and smog cloud the landscape. The homeless are everywhere. A woman screams obscenities at us as we try to exit the train. A man pleasures himself on a park bench. A group of men light up a crack pipe on the train platform. The mother road has not been kind to her children. For these unlucky souls, the city of angels truly seems to be the end of the road.

So with extreme gratitude for our life circumstances (there but by the grace of God), we head back to the apartment to assist our children with a new beginning. The grand-dogs were confused with the emptying of their household contents. But after multiple trips to the moving van and an aborted walk around the block (they were afraid to leave sight of their humans), they were strapped into their travel seats. Even dogs need luxury accommodations to tackle the mother road. They have better seats for this ride than I do.

There is no time for California dreaming. The traffic is intense as we leave downtown Los Angeles and head toward the desert. Endless waves of cars create snarls of traffic each time roads intersect. We crawl along on roads that cannot accommodate the volume of vehicles. I know we are winding among and across hills and valleys, but the smog is thick and I can’t quite make out the horizon. I wonder what it was like when the road was new and only the lucky, brave few traveled this highway. It must have been so beautiful.

There is not much time to ponder days gone by, however. It is late afternoon and we haven’t had lunch. Maneuvering a large moving van in heavily trafficked commercial zones is not the easiest endeavor. We manage to park in the lower lot of a big box store where we can buy sandwiches and snacks for the road. I walk the dogs and watch the homeless men walk in and out of the tents they have set up in the shrubbery. They watch me, nervous that we are parked near their makeshift camp. We acknowledge each other. Strangers, just traveling through.

The afternoon turns to evening. At a rest stop in the desert, we are reminded to watch for rattlesnakes. We cross the Colorado River into a glorious desert sunset. Towns become fewer and further between. The desert stretches out before us and I see my first Joshua trees. They are fuzzy sentinels of both welcome and warning. The light fades into darkness, but neon Route 66 signs beckon us to a roadside motel, a refuge that has welcomed an untold number of travelers. It looks a little worse for wear, but it is clean and the mattress feels fabulous.

Arizona stretches before us. I ask to stop in Seligman and drive on an original section of Route 66. Vintage gas stations, drive in restaurants, and tacky souvenir shops line the road. The town is cashing in on the cache of the nostalgic avenue. There isn’t much else here. Dirt, sun, and an endless highway.

The Arizona road is in terrible condition. Each bump in the road sends a tingle up my spine until I am numb. The moving truck is also not forgiving. Each jolt sends a shock wave. But we simply chugs along between the thousands of tractor trailers moving goods along the highway. There aren’t many cars along this stretch of road. Empty desert spaces, semi trucks, and trains are all that I can see for miles.

We enter tribal lands. RVs and run down trailers dot the landscape. There must be roads between them. But the areas are vast and dirt roads in a sea of dirt are hard to visualize. We find occasional respite in rest stops with even more signs warning of snakes. It is colder in the desert. I am surprised. The air is crisp and clean. By the time we hit New Mexico, I am more than ready for bed. Just another weary traveler in a roadside motel.

New Mexico is surprisingly captivating. It is easy to see why they are the “Enchanted state”. Mesas, seemingly endless, stand tall off the desert floor. The high desert is colorful. Each vista is different. The clouds make moving shadows on the hard packed earth. The traffic is light so I can take it all in, even from the driver’s seat.

The Petrified Forest National Park is dissected by Route 66. Both dogs and their humans need a break. So for an hour, we ditch the moving van and pack ourselves into the car. We drive through the canyons of the painted desert until we find a place to walk the dogs. We all need the exercise and the mental boost that nature always provides. Even the dogs are impressed. Winston tries to jump over the guard rail to get a better look, while Piper assumes the commanding attitude of a princess come into her kingdom. I didn’t want to leave, but with miles left before bedtime, we really couldn’t linger.

In Shamrock, Texas I finally feel that we are having an authentic Route 66 experience. On this small stretch of the mother road, the past comes to life. Vintage buildings line the street. Donkeys frolic in the yard across from our motel. We sit on the porch and watch the chase. Sheep wander by.

We are directed to a local restaurant where for an hour I enjoyed Texas cuisine amid local society. A family teasing a small boy about his Texas sized appetite. Old men solving the problems of the world. Cowboy hats bobbing in greeting. Cool eyes surveying the newcomers and then deciding we weren’t worth the noticing. Old women complaining about the daughter in laws and bragging on their grandchildren. Sun is setting over farm country and all is well in the world.

The 24 hours from Texas to Missouri are unforgiving. I suffer serious burns on my hand and stomach before we ever hit the road when a coffee cup gives way unexpectedly. The kids are caught at a toll booth whose credit card reader is broken. Despite the poor start, my heart softens as we race across Oklahoma. It is a beautiful state, full of memories of childhood adventures with parents and grandparents. We stop for lunch near Vinita at the McDonalds built over the turnpike to regroup.

We feel rested, but the mother road has more unpleasant surprises. The motel in Springfield is uninhabitable. The bedding is filthy. Unidentified liquids run down walls. The bath mat is stained with blood. We scramble to find a new hotel.

As we relocate across town, the car breaks down. It will not go another mile. The mother road has been too much. We pick up the dogs, while the kids search out a repair shop. While we are waiting at the hotel and corralling the dogs, my chair flips backwards leaving me in a heap on the floor.

I am not hurt, but the car has a mortal wound. It can not be fixed (at least not in a way that makes financial sense). It is sold for parts. That leaves four people and two dogs in a moving van that can comfortably seat two. It is time for some fast thinking and overnight planning.

It is now almost 9:30 pm. The restaurant has unfortunately mishandled our dinner order and food had to be redone. So we wait. By the time everyone reassembles, it is 10 pm. Springfield, Missouri has been a disaster. We separate to eat our long overdue meal, lick our wounds (physical and metaphorical), and to regroup. The terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day has come to an end. But we are safe and we are together. That is blessing enough.

We are in the home stretch. Today’s journey is across roads we know well. Missouri is home. Muscle memory kicks in. We pick up a rental car at the Springfield/Branson airport. The kids are pleasantly surprised to receive a free luxury car upgrade. The grand dogs travel in style. I however am still traveling in a box truck. This does not improve my mood as I drive the stretch of highway to our home that is so familiar.

We pit stop at the house to eat a quick lunch. I change the clothes in my backpack. It is cold in Chicago and we anticipate freezing temperatures just in time for our arrival. California clothes are discarded for sweaters. My daughter collects tubs of winter clothes that have been stored in our basement. She hasn’t needed them living in Florida and California. She says it is like Christmas to open long lost favorite boots and sweaters. I smile at her excitement. Simple pleasures in what has been a very stressful time for her. Nothing beats the feeling of making our girl smile.

The dogs appreciate the break. Winston runs endless circles around the house. He has never been in a large house and he is overwhelmed with the possibilities that space affords him. Piper has been to grandma and grandpa’s house. She calmly follows me as I regroup. She is a princess and won’t let me forget it. She wants some time in the lawn, as she loves grass.

It is good to be home, but we are Chicago bound. Route 66 resumes just past our driveway. We head North.

It is cold and rainy as we cross Illinois. The interstate is flat and boring. Endless corn fields dot the horizon as far as the eye can see, broken only by exits to tiny towns with gas and fast food. We stop overnight about two hours from Chicago so that we can easily make our check in appointment at the apartment loading dock the next morning.

Closer to the city, windmills and oil refineries loom larger than life. Traffic picks up as the road winds through suburbs. At the intersection of the interstate and downtown, a homeless encampment is visible under the overpass. A homeless man waves us through the intersection with a wave. Apparently Chicago is also the end of the road for many. There but by the grace of God.

After a few attempts and misses, we find the road to the loading dock. Our son-in-law’s family are already there to help, thankfully. Dozens of trips up the elevator and we are finished. The mother road has delivered my children to their new home.

The iconic road-trip has come to an end. It was completed in five days. Four people and two dogs journeyed 2,448 miles. There was injury, exhaustion, boredom, and even the loss of a vehicle. But there was also laughter, beauty, bonding, and accomplishment. As long as we are able, I hope we always take the long road. Life is about the journey. The mother road has brought us home.