Direction

When I was a kid, I was interested in space, fascinated by spatial relations, and aware that something didn't seem right. I had to look 'up' into the sky, but when I discovered my location on a globe, it occurred to me I was actually standing on the side of the planet, pointing outwards, which meant that 'up', in terms of Earth's orientation, was something else. The earth presumably sits upright to what many years later I would come to learn is called the galactic plane. There is a somewhat disparate incline between the two, but for my purposes here it's more or less true, and means if I face west, 'up' is actually (somewhere) to the north, 'down' to the south.

That alone is kind of mind-numbing. I have no idea how our galaxy as a whole is positioned on the plane of our celestial neighborhood or the entire universe (if we presume the universe isn't actually uni-anything, and might be relative in dimension and position to something else). The ability of most people, myself included, to wrap their head around it quickly gets lost in a Chex mix of mathematical equations and predictions really smart people use to try explaining it. When I was a kid, I limited myself (er, was limited...) to thinking about the arc of the sun through the sky. That was a nice, empirical way to consider it. The earth and the sun are essentially standing face to face on what's called the ecliptic plane, so the sun and the moon and all the other planets are not really up there, they are out there, at least at my latitude in America's upper Midwest. But what bout standing at the north pole? Is 'up' really 'up' then? True up? And what about the south pole? How the heck does that work? When I was little, imagining the south pole as a place to stand and still look 'up' really messed with my head, but it got me thinking, at least. Lots and lots of thinking...sometimes thinking right into a desultory sleep.

The difference between the northern and southern hemispheres of our blue marble grabbed my attention, and imagination, as well - storms rotating in a different direction, the sun arcing through the northern sky rather than the southern sky (think about that a moment, northern dwellers...), even the mere fact that the southern hemisphere is oriented toward the galactic plane more directly, so the nighttime sky in places like Chile, New Zealand and Australia is far more dazzling than in the north, really got me thinking about my place and position on the planet, and our planet's place and position in the cosmos.

Growing up, it was a similar issue with the sun in the sky that helped define that sense of geographical place for me. The further north (or south) in latitude you travel, in the summer at least, the more protracted the twilights and the dawns become, until eventually, above the Arctic or Antarctic circles, the sun doesn't set at all, just skims the horizon. Conversely, the closer you get to the equator, the shorter these times of day become, until there is very little in the way of dusk and dawn. The equatorial sun rises and sets straight up and down, rather than coming in or going out at an angle, and does so quickly.

I was very fortunate to have grown up far enough north where in June, and most of the summer, the last scratch of sunlight in the sky is still visible well after 10:30 p.m. and the first light appears at an astonishingly early hour. I was sixteen when I saw that for the first time. It was mid-June, right around the longest day of the year. I wound up on an island in Lake Superior, sitting bleary-eyed on a beach that a girl and I stumbled upon by accident. It was the tail end of my first 'all-nighter', my first time staying out and up (having handed my parents the archetypal lie of that age group: that I was spending the night at a friend's house), and I remember checking my wristwatch the moment I saw the first glint of daylight seep from the darkness out over Lake Superior to the northeast. The time was 3:19 a.m.. I was moved by this, moved by day's slow, subtle seduction of night, and from then on, 'northern' was how I identified myself.




22 YEARS LATER - It was from this beach on Madeline Island, Lake Superior, sitting amidst a pile of ill-gotten empties right about where the old gent stands now, that I was first treated to an early, early, early northern dawn, which got underway at 3:19 a.m. according to my wristwatch.

Well into adulthood, I still love maps and geography, still prefer knowing where I'm standing - and how I'm standing - on the planet. I'm fascinated by roads as well - the way they connect us and the points we want to get to, and how we work our travels (on the ground, anyway) about and around natural boundaries, and how direction plays into the decisions we make. The points of a compass continue to intrigue me, and have become more than just a way to get somewhere. Over time, each has come to hold its own emotional/psychological significance in my mind:

We head west toward dreams.

We head north toward knowledge.

We head east toward the past.

And when it's time, our destiny lies to the south.

It's fanciful thinking, I know, for which I don't think I could ever provide a simple explanation, but it will surely play into 1/48/50. The idea is to go everywhere, hit all 48 states, but I got it in my mind that certain directions make more sense than others in different parts of the country, and when I really get thinking about it, a kind of geographical feng shui crops up.

I want to start out across the high plains - Minnesota, the Dakotas, Montana - head west until there is no more land to head west on. I then want to head down the west coast. Then east through desert, into the southern states. Up the east coast, and back home through the Great Lakes.

At first glance, it seems fairly straightforward, a nice wide loop through the Lower 48, literally around the country, and I've tried to make the actual route as efficient as possible. But there's more to its design than meets the eye.

I want to hit the high plains heading west because I think I should be chasing the sun when I start out this trip. And I really think the great bodies of water - the Pacific Ocean, the Gulf of Mexico, the Atlantic - should always be to my right as I drive. The Great Lakes, on the other hand, is a whole other story. They definitely need to be hit from the east; Appalachia, from the south. And if I'm in northern Maine, I simply should be heading west, no? Along some numbered two-lane route, through a town with a white steeple church and a general store? And shouldn't the moon be rising behind me when this is happening?

It sounds a lot like the ramblings of a man who spends too much time alone, but to me, these fancies make perfect sense on a psychological level.  The direction from which I approach  - and view - everything permanently colors the experience, and for that matter, in terms of this trip, the reader's experience as well.

In other words, whether I stand at the lighthouse in Ludington and stare out over Lake Michigan to the west, or stand on the Navy Pier in Chicago and stare out over Lake Michigan to the east, makes all the difference in the world as to how I experience - and remember - Lake Michigan.

And I have the feeling there's not going to be a lot of room for error on 1/48/50.

I'm going to want to get this trip just right.