By Joanna Kresge
Summer 2014 Kaplan Award Winner
I was driving down a deserted stretch of highway in northern Texas; the panorama roof in my Ford Edge was open. The sound system playing late 90’s hits was drowning out the sound of the road and soft breathing of the woman sleeping in the passenger seat beside me.
It was four days before Christmas 2012 but you wouldn’t know it. It had been a mild winter in the south central US that year. The air that gently tousled my air from the open window was warm and I could tell that my arm on the edge of the window, hot to the touch, would be sunburned by the time we stopped for the night. The sky was a crisp blue; there wasn’t a cloud to be seen on the endless horizon.
When we departed from Shreveport, La. that morning I entered our destination on the GPS. It was 2,289.6 miles to our objective. It would take 34 hours and five minutes of drive time until my brown ‘mom-mobile’ loaded with my family’s pillows, blankets, household cleaning supplies, Christmas decorations, and most importantly Christmas gifts would arrive in Auburn, Wash.
Day One: Dinosaur Valley State Park, Texas
Since I left high school I’ve moved eleven times in 12 years. I’ve lived in Pennsylvania, Kansas, Pennsylvania again, North Carolina, Texas, Maryland, North Carolina again and Louisiana.
Military life takes you to a lot of interesting places and you meet a lot of great people who become life-long friends. I learned this first as a spouse during my husband’s career in the Marine Corps and later when I donned my own uniform as an airman in the Air Force. That chapter of our lives was over now and we were civilians once again.
The bonds you form in the service are rich and fulfilling. You know that no matter the distance, no matter the circumstance your wingman will always be there for you. I’d done more than my share of being there for one friend in particular.
Since she arrived in Shreveport she’d gotten pregnant and lost her child. The loss caused her to go into a deep depression and caused a rift in her marriage, it began as a slow rot from the inside out. To escape her circumstance she took the first set of orders that came her way and left for Afghanistan as soon as she could. While she was there, Senior Airman Amber Ashcraft found herself in more than a few situations where she thought she wouldn’t live to see the next day. When she finally did make it out of the AOR she was more damaged than she was before she left. When she arrived back in Louisiana she hadn’t even unpacked her first bag when she found out that the person who had taken her place in Afghanistan had been killed as she had made her way home. This news pushed her further into the prison of her own mind.
We served together, laughed together, cried together over the loss of her daughter Grace whose name is now tattooed across her heart. That night when the cramps woke her and she realized something was wrong, I was the first person she called. In the months that followed I listened to her recount her marriage counseling sessions in the hallway outside our office. When things between them ended I was there packing boxes and pricing items at her yard sale.
* * *
I was lost in thought as the miles passed by, marveling over the grasslands, small family owned farms and the mountains. I had no idea there were mountains in Texas. Louisiana had been flat, I assumed the same of it’s neighbor to the west. But yet there they were looming in the distance. I glanced down at the fuel gage; the electronic screen next to the gage read ’56 miles until empty’. Perfect timing as I saw a dilapidated country gas station ahead on the left.
It was dirty and untouched by time, the patrons that exited the small station looked similar. Amber stirred as the car came to a stop and looked around, “fried pies. That sounds fucking amazing.”
I followed her gaze and saw the sign she was referring to. I laughed, “Hell yeah, lets do it.”
We bought one coconut cream and one apple, cutting each in half and exchanging them, we ate them huddled in the car because the gruff locals inside were looking at us a little too friendly.
As we savored the last bites of our pies Amber asked, “So how far until the dinosaur thing?”
“About fifteen miles,” I said.
That afternoon I pushed my thoughts of months passed from my mind and we laughed and talked as we toured a tacky dinosaur theme park, delighted by the kitschy atmosphere. We proceeded further down the road and jumped from rock to rock as a lazy Texas river flowed between them; all to stand in fossilized dinosaur footprints in the bed of a nearby pool.
Day Two: International UFO Museum, Roswell, NM
When my husband Jay and I told her over dinner at our favorite restaurant that we were moving to Washington Amber was sad but excited to see our family begin our next adventure. We told her that Jay would be leaving first to start his new job and find a house and the kids and I would follow a few months later after my current semester at Louisiana State University was finished.
“Are you going to drive your car up there with the kids?” she asked incredulously.
“We haven’t worked it all out yet but we were thinking that I could fly down and bring the kids back with me,” said Jay. “That way she can just concentrate on the drive and not have any distractions.”
“That makes a lot of sense. Wow, that would be a pretty epic road trip,” she said to herself over my son’s whines for more bread.
“Yeah, you know what, it would,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to take a road trip in the southwest U.S. but I never had the chance.”
“Why don’t we do it? I think we could both use it, what do you think?” she asked.
* * *
Her words echoed in my head as I shook the fog from my brain and refocused on the framed newspaper article that hung in front of me.
“Huh?”
“What do you think about all this stuff? Aliens, Roswell, it’s so fucking awesome,” she said.
“Oh, yeah. Actually I was thinking about the photographers who took these photos. Amber, these photos were posted in the Roswell newspaper but Air Force photographers just like you and I took them. It just blows my mind that one day someone could be staring at our photos in a museum like this. It’s humbling,” I said.
“I know, I was just thinking the same thing,” she said.
As I continued along the columns of newspapers, papers, photographs and displays that made up a chronological account of the Roswell crash I thought about my career. Since I left the military I’ve been concentrating on my education in hopes of landing a great photojournalism job. I knew from a young age that I wanted to go into photography but the military helped me realize that my love was specifically for news and sports photography.
As a photographer there is a certain amount of narcissism that goes with the job, it has to mix perfectly with a thick skin which allows you to know your photos are awesome but ensures you don’t run off crying when you receive criticism from your peers. But now that I’d been out of the career field for over a year I was starting to doubt that I’d ever work in the field again.
Once we were back on the road again after a quick stop for some Grand Slams at Denny’s I shared my concern with Amber.
“What if I was only good because the military said that was the job I had to do? What if I get out into the real world and I can’t hack it?” I asked.
“That’s ridiculous Jo, you’re the best shooter I’ve ever met. Better than me, and I’m pretty awesome,” she said reassuringly.
I laughed. Amber was incredibly talented, I’ve often marveled at her photos from Afghanistan.
“You think?”
“I’m a fan. I’ll start the ‘Jo Kresge fan club’ when you are famous.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “The industry is so competitive right now, the chances of me landing a job are slim. I’ll probably end up processing negatives at Walgreens.”
“Not a chance, you’ll land a Pulitzer in the next 10 years. Probably sooner. I guarantee it. I’ll put money on it right now,” she said.
I smiled. I wanted to believe her.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Just being honest.”
“Still, thanks. Okay, next stop White Sands, lets go sledding on sand that looks like snow.”
Day Three: Pima Air and Space Museum/Saguaro National Park, Tucson AZ
I still remember the hot, muggy Saturday morning in early August 2007 that my phone rang at 5:50 a.m. waking me. I still can’t explain it, but when I saw my stepmother’s number on my caller ID I was filled with dread. My heart raced as my head tried to comprehend why I was feeling so anxious.
I answered the call on the fifth ring, “Barb, what’s going on?”
“Joanna…” she said shaken. “Your dad died.”
Silence.
“He was on a diving trip in Indonesia, I still don’t know all the specifics but they said he had a heart attack and he didn’t… he didn’t make it,” she said.
* * *
Amber knew I had lost my father a few years back but not much more. As we entered the state of Arizona I recounted that morning for her and the weeks and months that followed. I told her about how I always felt like a disappointment to him when compared to my Navy Seal stepbrother and Yale Alumni stepsister, especially after I dropped out of college and married my husband.
The state of Arizona held a great deal of memories for me. As a child we had journeyed to “the copper state” numerous times to visit my grandfather in Phoenix and explore as a family. So many cherished childhood memories lay behind the “Welcome to Arizona” sign that I was overwhelmed. I had been to just about every part of the state with my dad except for Tucson, which is where we were traveling through on our way to the west coast before heading north.
Amber sat silently in the passenger seat as I talked. I must have talked for at least 30 minutes, both of us staring at the road ahead framed on either side by hundreds of cacti and endless desert. When I’d finished she held the silence for a moment longer and then said only three words, “I’m sorry Jo.”
I knew it would be a rough day for me emotionally as we arrived at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base to see the “Boneyard” a collection of all the Air Force’s retired aircraft. My dad loved aviation. In his younger days he was an air traffic controller. There wasn’t a family vacation that passed without a visit to some form of aircraft museum. When I was 12 we pulled into the parking lot of a small airfield and my dad told me what we were going to take flying lessons. I was still shocked 20 minutes later when I was sitting behind the yoke in a cockpit listening to the instructor explain the gages in front of me.
Amber and I found ourselves here because we were proud airmen and we were fascinated with our shared history. It was only when we arrived that I realized this was a place my dad would have taken me. As the small trolley wheeled us around the graveyard filled with the hollowed out shells of wars past I thought to myself, ‘My dad would have loved this.’
We rounded a corner; there sat an aircraft I knew intimately: the B-52H Stratofortress. I’d photographed just about every inch of that aircraft. I’d taken portraits of aviators in front of it. I knew it by it’s nickname “The Buff”. The tour guide’s voice came over the trolley’s speakers again and announced the stats and accomplishments of the aircraft and said that it hailed from “the 2nd Bomb Wing, Barksdale Air Force Base, Louisiana.” Amber and I let out a simultaneous cheer at the mention of our unit that was received with smiles from the others in our tour.
My own smile started to fade as my mind slipped back to my dad. I imagined taking this tour with him, imagined what he’d say or do when my unit’s name came across the crackling speakers. Tears filled my eyes. That would never happen.
As we finished the tour and made our way to the car Amber was oblivious to my sadness. For once she was the happy one, living in the moment and displaying a rare toothy smile.
“Hey, can I ask you a favor? Do you mind if we make an unscheduled stop?” she asked.
“I don’t see why not, isn’t that what this trip is all about?” I replied, pushing my grief back into the recesses of my mind where I always keep it.
“I really want to see some cactuses up close. Do you mind if we go to the national park to see some?”
“Cacti,” I corrected. “I think I can get on board with that but I think I need to make an unscheduled stop too. When we get to San Diego and stop for the night, I want to go see my dad.”
“Your dad? He’s in San Diego?”
“Yeah, my stepmom interred him with my Grandfather there.”
“Okay, lets do it.”
* * *
We didn’t make it to San Diego until long after dark. We stopped at the building at the entrance to the graveyard and attempted to get some help finding my father’s marker. Places like this typically have someone available to accept late night deliveries of remains and to man the furnaces. I rang the bell, confident that there would be someone to answer twenty-four seven. I rang the bell numerous times over five minutes before I realized it was two days before Christmas. Maybe they were home with their families. I consulted the map posted next to the bell and found a general location based on the number my stepmom had given me.
“No luck,” I said returning to the car and steering us in a general direction.
We searched, walking up and down the rows of markers, using the light from our phone screens to read the chiseled names until our phone batteries died and we were left standing in the darkness.
I had so many emotions bubbling up inside of me, frustration, anger, sadness, hopelessness. It was as if he’d died all over again.
Amber stood hands on hips looking out over the valley and ocean below us. “I bet this place is fucking beautiful during the day.”
I smiled, “you know, that’s pretty much what my dad said.”
According to my stepmother, when they had come to lay my grandfather’s ashes to rest, my dad looked around and said that he thought this wouldn’t be a bad place to spend forever. Which was unusual because he always scoffed at graveyards, saying he never wanted that, it was such a waste of space.
I heard the rustle of palm leaves in the trees overhead as a warm breeze washed over us. I looked out over the valley breathed in the sea air. It really was beautiful here.
“Okay, lets go,” I said.
“You’re giving up?”
“No… I’m disappointed but think I got what I came for.” I sniffed, gave a smile I only half meant, then I tossed the keys at her, “you drive.”
Day Four: Santa Monica Pier
Saying goodbye to my first purchased house was difficult. We brought both of our children home to that house after their births. The two-bedroom home in the middle of Finley Drive was the only home our children had ever known.
Saying goodbye to Landon, 3, and Paige, 11 months, for five days to take our road trip was even harder. I’d never been away from Paige longer than the 9 hours she spent in daycare daily. The two nights following Paige’s birth were the only nights I’d neglected to kiss my son goodnight.
I stood strong and stoic as I watched my husband struggle on the opposite side of the security area of the tiny Shreveport airport with our two young children and all the items it would take to sustain them for the five days we’d be apart. Paige was already crying for me as the three of them disappeared around the corner, but still I didn’t falter. Not only would this be the longest period of time without seeing their faces, but I’d miss Christmas with them.
As I pulled out of the airport I dialed Amber who answered almost immediately, “Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m heading back to the house, can you come over and help me pack up the car?” I asked in response.
“Jo…”
“They’re gone.”
“I know.”
“I miss them.”
“I know.”
* * *
Scrolling through something on her phone, Amber broke the silence, “Dude, our Instagram feeds are epic. Aliens, deserts, tumbleweeds, cactuses…”
“Cacti,” I corrected again.
“…Cacti and beaches, even I’m jealous of us,” she said.
As professional photographers, Amber and I are very active on the photo sharing smart phone application, Instagram. I primarily use Instagram to post photos of my children for my family and the friends that are interested in seeing countless photos of my little ones per day. Amber is five years my junior and enjoys posting selfies, photos of skulls, and photos of her babies, a fleet of pit bulls.
She’ll be the first to tell you that the majority of photos she takes and posts of herself are not genuine. Between the loss of her daughter and the PTSD she forgets how to smile most days. Since our journey began, there is not a single smile in her Instagram feed that isn’t one hundred percent authentic. Big toothy grins that actually make it all the way up to her eyes, a look I haven’t seen on her face since before the miscarriage.
“Yeah, all those happy photos of yourself you posted, I’d actually think you meant it,” I said.
“I think I do,” she replied.
Throughout central California, long after we watched the Christmas Eve sun sink over the horizon along the Pacific Coast Highway, Amber told me of her childhood. She told me of parents that were never there for her, and about her Nana who was all the parent she’d ever need. I’d met “Nana” when she came to visit after Amber lost the baby, and I knew instantly that she cared for Amber more than anyone else alive. I learned more about my friend in that winding, cliff-side drive towards San Francisco than I had known about her the entire year and a half that I’d known her. I always thought that her perpetual anxiety and depression stemmed from the events that had transpired in the short time since we had met. I now knew that a lifetime of bad experiences had come before that.
* * *
Amber and I were eager to see San Francisco even though night had long-since fallen. My high school photography teacher who just happened to be visiting her daughter in Los Angeles had met us at the Santa Monica pier earlier that day and had sung San Francisco’s praises. I will admit that we both also longed for a break from the car after Amber’s emotionally exhausting stories which seemed to reverberate through the car, weighing us down like wearing wet clothing.
As we drove through the city streets we started to get giddy again as we had countless other times on our journey. We passed trolley cars, trendy bars and kitschy diners. The streets were lined with citizens toting shopping bags most likely filled with last minute Christmas gifts. Maybe it was because of the holiday, or maybe because it was a city at nighttime, but everything seemed to twinkle as we looked on in wonder.
As we stopped at a light I noticed that the street in front of us seemed to drop out of view. I gasped. The famous San Francisco hills I thought, envious that Amber got to drive them instead of me. I’m not sure if she noticed the hill as the light turned green. But then she started forward and my little brown crossover seemed to be suspended like a roller coaster car after it crests the first hill and just before it rushes back down to the earth. I smiled. Then I looked at Amber, her knuckles on the steering wheel were white. The expression on her face was both fear and absolute nothingness at the same time.
“Oh my God. Pull Over, let me drive,” I said without hesitation.
“No. I can do it. Just don’t talk to me. It’s going to take me a long time. Just bear with me. Don’t talk,” she replied. She talked so fast I almost didn’t understand her. I answered with silence.
It took almost ten minutes to descend the mammoth hill while honking motorists passed us. I said nothing.
She kept driving, following signs to get back on the interstate. Silence.
She drove across the iconic Golden Gate Bridge and I snapped a photo with my phone for Instagram. Silence.
It wasn’t until we had crossed the bridge that she spoke, “When I was deployed,” she said breaking the silence, “there were certain protocols you followed. You know how it is. We had a hill just outside our base, it was pretty steep and there was a large puddle at the bottom, but it was more like a pond. You had to approach it at a very specific speed and direction in order to get down and across the water. The protocol was there for a reason.”
She paused and I waited for her to continue.
“We had a young Army guy driving us that day, he said he didn’t think we needed to go that slow, he wanted to prove that the rule was stupid and unnecessary. But he flipped it. He flipped the truck going down that fucking hill.”
I watched her, I’d seen that empty look on her face before, and it was like she was an empty shell. Her eyes were focused on the road but there was no life to them, no spark. She continued to recount the events that transpired following the incident in Afghanistan in that same monotone voice and vacant expression that I’d seen since we crested the hill.
Still I said nothing.
“I’m sorry Jo, I know you wanted to spend some time in San Fran, but I can’t. I had to keep driving. I can’t stay there. I just can’t,” she added.
Day Five: Avenue of the Giants/Redwood National Forest, Northern California
My husband never really celebrated birthdays or holidays as a child; he was emancipated as a teenager and never saw his neglectful, abusive parents again. I had a relatively happy childhood despite my parents’ divorce which continued until my high school years when mental illness changed my mother. Unlike my husband’s family, my family’s celebrations were flamboyant, so I find it especially important to make sure our children have the best holidays possible to continue my traditions and to give our kids a better experience than Jay’s parents provided.
Landon’s first Christmas will probably be one of my happiest memories for the rest of my life. Though only a three-month-old infant we showered that child with a mountain of gifts. The unimpressed, or possibly gassy look on his tiny face in every photo in our photo album of that day still makes me giggle.
* * *
As we left our hotel Christmas morning I was missing my family so much it hurt. I handed the keys over to Amber and asked her to start us off, mumbling something about not being ‘awake yet’ while trying not to let my mood show. The weather in Northern California was very different than the weather we’d see in Texas days earlier. Here it was cold, drizzling, and the fog hung heavily around us, mirroring what I felt inside.
I had already called before our departure to wish Jay a ‘Merry Christmas’, which he seemed to shrug off. When I had asked to talk to Landon he informed me that our oldest was still asleep. I kept telling myself they were too young to know the date, to understand what day it was but I couldn’t stop the turmoil inside, knowing that I was missing this day with them. Knowing that they had no presents, no tree, and most importantly, no mother to celebrate with.
As we drove along the wet, nearly abandoned roads I mindlessly scrolled through social media. Post after post filled with the smiling faces of red and green pajama clad children. Some proudly displaying their freshly unwrapped toys, others wearing mustaches that only come from sipping hot chocolate on cold winter days. I scrolled until every photo seemed a carbon copy of the one before it and finally tossed my phone into the cup holder.
I’m pretty sure Amber saw right through my faked nonchalance, “BIG trees!” she exclaimed glancing over at me with a huge smile.
I laughed. “Big trees, lets do this!”
When we began the Avenue of Giants, a large collection of redwood trees in Northern California, we pulled off the road. Since it was Christmas day there were no other cars to be found on the road. The steady, gentle ticking of my hazard lights were the only sound we heard as we stepped from the car.
We walked side-by-side into the forest and stopped at the same moment looking up into the vast canopy above us. We were standing at the foot of some of the tallest, oldest trees in the country. We just stood there, arms at our sides; heads back, soaking in the majesty of those trees. My melancholy gone, I looked over at Amber and smiled, and she smiled back. We scurried around, taking photos, hugging the monstrous trees while giggling like little girls.
Day Six: Auburn, Wash.
It was more than 15 hours later when I looked down at the dashboard and saw the numbers glowing green, it was after midnight; Christmas Day was over. We were approaching Portland and we were considering stopping for the night. First we passed over San Fran, then we missed the ‘Drive-Thru Tree’ in Northern California because we happened to get there the one day out of the year they were closed, and now we were considering passing yet another city and driving through.
I missed my family horribly but I was ready to retire to the comfort of a hotel bed and I longed to continue exploring more of the countryside before I returned to my motherly duties at our new home.
Ultimately my need to see my family and Amber’s determination to push through the last leg of the trip so as to not have to be in the car anymore won out.
Four and a half hours later we pulled into the garage of my new home and sought out our respective air mattresses for possibly the best four hours of sleep known to mankind.
The rest of the day passed in a blur; breakfast at a favored restaurant, drive into Seattle, exploring Pike Place, sticking gum on a wall, walking in the rain and being completely unprepared for it, and having coffee at the first Starbucks. Before I knew it, it was time for Amber’s flight back to Louisiana.
We cried, we hugged, and we swore we’d keep in touch.
In a week I’d seen so much of our beautiful country, I’d watched the landscape change in an instant, and then change again. I’d walked where the dinosaurs walked, seen “aliens”, learned about my Air Force history, touched a cactus, searched a graveyard, felt the cool December waves of the Pacific, drove on the fringe of the country, hugged one of the largest trees in the world, and made my pilgrimage to the Starbucks’ Mecca. But most importantly I became so much closer to a wonderful woman who I thought I knew, turns out we had to drive thousands of miles away to truly know each other.
This woman that I was saying goodbye to, she wasn’t just a wingman, she wasn’t just a friend, through this experience she had become more. People talk about road trips like they are some kind of mystic experience that contain at least one, or more, epiphanies and memories that endure lifetime. I always thought that was bull.