Coast to Coast - New Orelans, LA to Savannah, GA

With the better part of 700 miles separating New Orleans and Savannah, we still had a lot of ground to cover, on this, our last day on the road. We set out early, planning on not making any unnecessary stops along the way so that we might arrive in Savannah before nightfall and with a chance to celebrate our homecoming with a dinner out on the town.

As we sped across I-10, we began to pass through states like they were mile markers. First we came to a huge sign welcoming us to Mississippi, and we were passing through Biloxi before 10am. Then, before we knew it, we were gassing up in Mobile, Alabama. We hit the Florida state line before lunch and at that point settled in for the long haul out to the Atlantic.

We hadn't noticed it much in New Orleans, but having arrived in the Southeast, we had entered into another ecological zone. A temperate, almost tropical, landscape lay before us, with salt grass marshes breaking up dense jungle enclaves of over-grown ferns and moss-covered Cypress and Oak trees. And the land was brimming with life; fresh hatches of bugs splattered against our windshield like a light passing rain shower; flights of birds, armies of billowing frogs, and orchestras of crickets filled the thick humid air for miles and miles of open road.

I-10 is an amazing freeway, stretching, almost in a straight line, from Louisiana to the Northern tip of Florida, and we made amazing time. We were passing though Jacksonville by mid-afternoon and looked to be arriving in Savannah before 5pm. Then, with little more than 15 miles left to go in our 3,200 mile journey, disaster struck.

We were cruising along in the fast lane when I glanced in my rear-view mirror and saw two large men closing in behind us on big hogged-out Harleys. Unlike most people in the South, I pulled out of the lane to let them pass. As they pulled along side me, I got a better look at them, both guys were African-American, both probably 350 to 400 lbs, and both had much smaller females sitting behind them clutched to the backs of their waists. The guys were wearing leather gloves and goggles (and helmets of course), standard issue gear for long-distance rides, but they were also sporting t-shirts and loose fitting pants, both things that can leave you vulnerable if you ever got into an accident on a bike.

This very thought was passing through my mind when, now about 25 yards in front of me, the front bike suddenly bucked on itself and nose-dived into the asphalt going around 85 miles an hour. After that everything else seemed to pass in slow motion. The first bike, and its riders started to skid along the freeway as the second bike crashed straight into them and sent the second set of people skidding along the pavement as well. Sparks and metal flew off the bikes as we quickly came up behind them and I had to quickly swerved to the right, narrowly missing the bikers as we flew past them.

Once passed, I looked back in my side view mirror to see other cars swerving out of the way to avoid hitting them as they continued to skid off the freeway and shoulder toward a grass ditch serving as the median. I shutter to think of what would have happened if there was no median.

I quickly pulled off the freeway, coming to a screeching halt about 100 yards in front of the accident. I told Naomi to stay put with Zoe and I ran back to toward the rising smoke. I came up on the first couple, now laying in a watery ditch next to their bike in the middle of the median. I expected the worst but, miraculously, they were not only still alive and in one piece, but able to pull themselves out of the bog under there own power. “Are you guys OK?” I asked. The man, dazed, gave me a slow nod. “Yeah, we’re good, check on my boy,” he said as he motioned up to the shoulder where the second couple lay, about 25 yards apart, motionless, on the pavement.

At this point, about half a dozen other people had gotten out of their cars and were running up to help. People were already attending to the girl so I ran up to the man to give aide. He was lying on his side and as I approached I could smell burnt flesh in the air. I came closer and could see his pants and shirt were torn in many places, blood oozing from the holes onto the hot concrete. I knelt down by his head and could hear him breathing. Well, wheezing actually, and they were coming in short sporadic heaves. I peered over his big shoulders and looked at his face. His eyes were open, but glazed over and drifting off in two different directions. Blood was dripping down the side of his mouth. This was not good.

Having been an instructor at a sports camp for kids throughout high school and college, I had extensive trained in first aid and CPR. But at this exact moment, I might as well have had never taken a class, I was drawing a blank as to what I should do. I tried to remember the first steps when you come to the scene of an accident. What was it.... Ah yes! ABC (airway, breathing, circulation), that is what you're supposed to check first! Then I reminded myself that he was already breathing and I didn't need to do that. I froze up again. See if he can respond, I remembered more from common sense then from training. "Sir, are you OK?" Nothing. "Sir, can you hear me?" He just continued to lay there with a vacant stare, bleeding and breathing laboriously. His neck! You've got secure his neck, Scott. I reached down to hold his helmet and as I did, he gowned and fell on his back. Shit! I thought. I just snapped his spinal cord.

Then I looked up and saw a crowd of people standing over me and I stopped thinking about what I should do and just starting doing it. I barking out orders: "someone tell me how the girl is doing?" "She's breathing, and can move her legs but I don't think she can hear us" someone yelled over to me. "Did someone call 911?" I inquired. "I'm on the line with them right now," someone else responded. "Good, tell them we got two down and unconscious, non-responsive, and with possible head trauma and bleeding."

Just then the big man moved his arms. Oh my god, I thought, I didn’t break his neck after all. That’s good. But then he started to mumble, "get it off... get... it off" and he reached up for his helmet. This was not good, if he did have any injuries to his head or spine taking off this helmet could make things a lot worse. "Some one grab his hands!" I yelled. Two guys jumped in and took hold of his hands. Just then, the other guy from the first bike staggered up. "Tim, Tim are you okay?" he asked. "Get it off!" he garbled again. The first guy just stood there staring, no doubt in shock in seeing his friend in this condition. I jumped in. "Hey man, you said his name is Tim?" "Uh, yeah" he uttered. "Okay, I need you to talk to your buddy Tim, and let him know that help is on the way and that we can't take the helmet off until they get here." He bent over and started speaking into Tim's ear. Whispering really, that everything was going to be alright. Meanwhile I waited for the sirens, and help to arrive.

At this point a women came bursting onto the scene carrying a first aide badge shoving it into peoples face. “Excuse me,” she said, in thick southern accent, “coming through, I’m trained in first aid, please let me by.” She came up to us and pushed the Xeroxed credentials in my face. “I’m First Aid Certified!” she announced. “That’s great” I said, wondering what the hell she wanted me to do about. “Let me talk to this man,” she said an leaned down. “Miss,” I started “he’s not really responding, but he’s got motion in both his–.” “Sir,” she said leaning over the big guy uninterested in what I had to say, “Sir, can you hear me.” “Miss,” I offered again, “we’ve already trie–” “Sir,” she said cutting me off again “Sir can you tell me your name.” She reached over and tried to turn his head. At that point, I leaned over and got between them. “Miss, as you are also first aid certified, you’ll remember that you never want to move someone, especially there head, unless they are not breathing” (it was starting to come back to me at this point). “Well,” she said, obviously embarrassed to be called out in front of everyone, “I am just trying to help.” And, with that she got up, dusted herself off and walked off in a huff.

The minutes passed and my arms were starting to ache. I felt like I had been holding his head forever and Tim, while not responsive to us, was beginning to move around and become more adamant about getting his helmet off. He had full use of both arms now and one of his legs, and even though he was very much crippled by the accident, he was still the better part of 400 lbs and it took all my strength to hold his head in place while the other guys tried to gently secure his arms.

Suddenly a guy pulled up in a truck and came running up. "I'm an EMT, let me though." 'Thank God' I thought, now he can take over I thought. "You," he said, pointing to me. "You stay right where you are and keep a hold of his head." As good as it felt to know I had been doing the right thing, it was the last thing I wanted to hear. He then grabbed a pair of scissors and started cutting away the Tim's clothes. Soon after, the fire trucks and ambulance arrived, and I thought for sure that I could relinquish my post, not so much because I was tired anymore, but to be honest I was scared. I was scared I would mess up, break his neck, see him die. I was just plain scared. But, when the fireman got on the scene and the first thing he said was "you," pointing to me, "stay right there."

What happened next was kind of a blur. I think they thought I was an EMT because they started saying thing to me that I didn't understand and they apparently thought I did. "Okay, were going to get under the cap and secure him in a grave-hold, then you gotta C-roll him on your count... got it?" I didn't but nodded anyway. They brought in a neck brace and had me hold the helmet and the brace as the tried to tape it to his head. Then they brought in a stretcher in and set it next to him. Tim did not like being moved and started to shout and squirm and it was becoming increasingly difficult to contain him. We had to move quickly, "OK, on your count, " the fireman said, and all the EMTs (there were four of them now) all looked up at me. I stuttered, 1-2-2-uh-3 and the rolled him on his side, slid the stretcher underneath him and then rolled him back, all the while I tried to hold his head straight. Then he gave another set of coded instructions which apparently meant it was time to lift him and put him on the gurney, then, finally into the ambulance.

No sooner had they closed the doors than I slipped passed the fire crews, police units and caution tape and walked back to my car in the now dark evening sky. Naomi was waiting for me and I gave her a big hug and we got in a drove off. I felt bad for leaving, no doubt they could have used a whiteness to recount what happened, but I needed to get out of there. Away from the blood, burnt flesh, and gas soaked haze. I was shocked by what I had seen. We were half way home before I realized that I was covered in blood and had some how scrapped up my arm pretty bad.

We made it the rest of the way without incident. We made it to our pretty little apartment set on a lake off right off the highway and a two-minute car ride from downtown. We did have our celebratory dinner that night, at a great little pizza spot downtown and it was truly nice to be home at last. But I had a hard time taking it all in, I was still shell-shocked from the incident on the highway. But in the coming days, the shock would fade and the excitement of a new life in a new place would take hold, and maybe even with a bit more a poignancy then it might have been before because I learned two things that day: 1) Never ride a motorcycle on the highway in a t-shirt and 2) life is short and you better enjoy the ride (which is preferably not on a motorcycle on the highway in your t-shirt).

I never found out whether Tim or his girl made it or not, but I like to think that he did. That he and his other riding buddy are out there right now having a beer at a biker bar someplace and laughing about the time they almost kicked the can. Then, they would get into their dual-airbag, traction-controlled Volvos and driving home in complete safely.

Coast to Coast – New Orleans, LA

I knew, from the outset, that any cross-country road trip would have to include a stop in New Orleans. Not so much because it’s one of the most historied cities in America, nor for the amazing food, music, and parties it has. Not even so much for the support I wanted to give a city still being rebuilt 5 years after Katrina. No, my desire to was for one reason only: cocktails!

As a professional bartender, New Orleans is my Mecca. The birthplace of Peychuad Bitters and the world’s first cocktail: the Sazerac. But more poignant to me then the drinks, were the places where they were first served. Not the tourist trap haunts of Bourbon St. with its sugar-laced Hurricanes served in neon-colored yard glasses, but the REAL New Orleans bar scene. Places like The Napoleon House, Tonique, and The Old Absinthe House. Places where a well-balanced drink was a hand-crafted art revered by both barmen and patron alike, and the walls were as old as the country they inhabited. Yeah, that's why I was here.

Arriving in the late morning, we parked few blocks off Decatur St. in the French Quarter and walked down to the Mississippi river. With narrow stone-lined avenues backed by French townhouses and flowering 2nd story terraces, we could see and feel the cities unique and charming Creole character. As we walked, we could smell fresh bread coming from corner bakeries and and hear the buzz of a big city still stirring to life.

Following the advise of my father, we grabbed a table at Café Du Monte and welcomed ourselves to the Big Easy with an order of their famous beignet and fresh-roast coffee. As mid-day rolled around and the thermostat began to bob around 100 degrees we opted for a lazy stroll through the garden district and an afternoon in the shady recesses of Annunciation Park. After lunching at The Bulldog beer garden we took the rest of the afternoon off and napped back at the hotel.

Come evening, after the temperature had returned to early levels, we ventured back down to the French Quarter and I searched out my hollowed watering holes. We found them; The Carousel Bar, Antoine's, and The Sazerac Bar, with tuxedo wearing barmen, no cocktail menus, and perfectly measured libations. It is where every aspiring bartender should go to get their education.

After a few samplings, I was beginning to wonder if a bar-to-bar-to-bar evening was such a great idea seeing as though we had a 12 hour drive ahead of us the following morning, but, thankfully, I got side-tracked by one of our friends who lived in town.

She insisted on taking us out for a real Cajun meal, just what a man on the brink of sobriety needed, and after a country-size portion of gumbo and jambalaya, I had my second wind and we ventured back out into the lively night. As a volunteer in the recovery effort, our friend was well-informed of all the political and social issues, both past and present, and made for an excellent guide. As we crossed through Washington Square she shot us down an alley and we arrived at the front door of a non-descript music club where one of the most prolific jazz musicians in New Orleans, Kermit Ruffins, was putting on an unpublicized show. We literary walked right in and were standing in the front row. It was a great show.

We could not have asked for a better evening in the Big Easy and since it was our only one, we felt very lucky and considered it a perfect way to end our vacation. We would be on the road again in the morning and come nightfall we would be in Savannah, and at the end of our journey. But we wanted to savor tonight, and we walked a little slower on our way back to our hotel, taking in the sites, the air, the feeling of being a visitor in a new place one more time. Where everything is still fresh, still new, and you want to take it all it because you don’t know when, or if, you’ll ever be back. But like I said before, this is my Mecca, and I think I can make another pilgrimage or two before everything is said and done.

Coast to Coast – Austin, TX

We had heard, from more than a few sources, that Austin, Texas was a must see on anyone’s southern-bound road trip. People spoke of a vibrant metropolis, replete with young progressive minds, a hopping party scene, and quite possibly the best music scene in the United States. And, as is the case with most movies, restaurants, and blind dates that receive similar hype, it didn't quite live up to expectations.

The city itself was nice enough. Even as the state capital, Austin still managed to avoid most of the pitfalls that come with that title. It was a descent size city, but there were plenty of open space. It was stretched out over a large area but had a navigational freeway system. The downtown had its skyscrapers and state buildings, but it was also set on the banks of a huge river (called the 'town lake'), which ebbed its way through the heart of the city. It also was home to the University of Texas, a school with 50,000 undergrads and its own zip code, so there was plenty of action to be had out on the town both during the day and at night.

And yet, despite all of these attributes, we never really seemed to fall in step with the town. Upon our arrival, we were starving and stopped in at a local Mexican spot that came HIGHLY recommended by one of our friends. After waiting outside in the blistering 103 degree afternoon heat because they wouldn’t allow dogs on there patio, we got our to-go order and found it to be some of the worst food we’ve ever been asked to pay for. After the meal and after our gag reflexes subsisted, we searched for a dog friendly park nearby and found one, Butler Park, right downtown along the river. But, after walking a mile or so to get to the off-leash area were dogs could swim, another Texas Monsoon hit the city and we had to sprint back to our car to avoid the deluge of rain and flooding that ensued*.

In the evening, after the storm broke, we headed back downtown to see the famous mass exodus of bats, apparently in the hundreds of thousands, that flows from under the downtown (bat) bridge at dusk. We were told to get there early to ensure a good seat. We arrived about 25 minutes before sundown to find almost no one there at all, and proceeded to wait until well past dark for the bats that had apparently taken the night off. After and underwhelming dinner, we headed down to East 6th Street, where all the bars, nightclubs, and live music venues are concentrated. But, being a Wednesday night in the middle of summer vacation, there wasn’t a whole lot of shaking going on. Just C-list cover bands and a half dozen people in each of the 300 bars that seemed to stretch on forever. Defeated, we called it an early night, knowing that we would be leaving tomorrow and this would be our only memories of Austin.

The next morning we got out early, but, before leaving, we gave Austin one last chance. Grabbing some iced coffees, as it was already 89 degrees at 8:45am, we headed back to the dog park on the river. We got walked back to the off-leash area and found a huge pack of dogs and owners hanging out by the waters edge. We could barely unhook Zoe’s collar before she was bounding around in the water, chasing stick and balls with the rest of the pack. A light breeze blew in off the water and, for the first time since we’d gotten here, I looked up at the cityscape before me and though to myself ‘hey, it’s kinda nice here.’ And I wondered if I shouldn’t give everything else another go (except the Mexican food), and some of the other things I wanted to see(Like Barton Springs Pool, or The Salt Lick BBQ house). But that would have to wait for another day, cause we had to get back on the road. Next stop: New Orleans!

*On our way back to our hotel in this huge storm that was flooding streets and bringing down trees, we passed by the UT football practice facility and saw hundreds of fans standing out in the rain watching the Longhorns practice. Practice! We’re not talking about a game, we’re talking about practice. Practice! I guess that’s what happens to sports fans in a state capital city without a pro sports team. Oh yeah, and it’s Texas.

Coast to Coast - Santa Fe, NM to Austin, TX

Needing a bit of a break from the road, the following morning we stuck around Santa Fe, taking Zoe to an off-leash trail head on the outskirts of the city and hiking up a ridge that offered panoramic views of the city and surrounding mountain ranges. We lunched at another patio restaurant, and took that time to plan our next leg of the journey.

It would take us 13 hours to get to Austin, and we knew that we didn't have that in us today. So we decided not to decide. We would just get in the car and drive as far as we felt like and then we would stop where ever we wanted and that would be that. It was kind of invigorating not to have a destination, we could go anywhere, do anything, and we wouldn't be veering off course because we didn't have one.

So, with that spirit in mind, we started the day with a detour to Galisteo, a small (and when I say small, I mean 13 mailboxs total small) town about 20 minutes of the highway from Santa Fe. The 'town' lay on the same plateau as Santa Fe, but far removed from the tree lines of the mountains. Here, it was just rolling open plains of sage brush and red earth.

The center was nothing more than a crossroads of the highway and a church with a few houses clustered around. Scattered residential plots with single homes and large barns where visible along the open horizon. But other than that, there was really nothing else. No stores, no restaurants, that was it. Why did we bother to stop here you ask? It was here, some 27 years ago, in a Tepee on one of these desert plains that Naomi Windblossom Coffman was born. What on earth her mother was doing here at that time I haven't a clue, and when I asked her she responded with "Well, Galisteo was really hip back then!" I don't know if that is the term I would use to describe it, but it was beautiful. Both stoic and timeless, and if you stood at those crossroads for 100 years I doubt much would change in the end of that time except the cars passing through.

After a few snapshots, we were back on the road, settling in to our familiar routine of drive, gas/coffee/switch seats, drive. Although I haven't wanted to say anything about it until now in the fear that I might somehow jinx it, Zoe, our feisty lab who usually whines if she has to be in the car for more than 20 minutes, has been absolutely amazing. When we head out the car in the morning, she jumps right up in the back seat and lies down in between the two front seats so she can get her share of the A/C. When we stop for gas or food, she hops out, relieves herself on any nearby grass and then hopes back up in the car and lies back down for the next leg. We couldn't believe it. And here we thought we were going to have to sedate her 3-4 times a day to get this desired effect. It made the drive that much more enjoyable.

Even with our little detours, we crossed over into Texas by mid-afternoon and were able to slingshot around Carlsbad Caverns by nightfall. The West Texas landscape was a dry deluge of broken limestone gullies and aired brush. It looked a bit like the Arizona desert, only with more vegetation and color. The air felt different too, where Arizona had been a dry heat, here the air was heavy and thick with moisture. We soon found out why.

As the last of the daylight reseeded back into the western sky, a huge pocket of black thunderheads loomed before us. As we drove straight into the storm, the wind began to push the car from one side of the road to the other. Lightening bolts crashed down at almost the exact same time as the ear-ringing thunder cracked through the darkening night sky. Then the rain came.

It was as if we were driving up a river. We slowed to 25 mph and had the windshield wipers going full blast but we still couldn't see past the constant stream of water coating the windshield. Sensing the tension, Zoe was standing, almost on the front dashboard, to figure out what was wrong.

Finally, we passed through the heart of it, and the rain subsided, but the thunder and lighting remained with us as we pulled into the highway outcrop of Sonora to find a hotel for the night, reminding us that nobody messes with Texas.

Coast to Coast - Santa Fe, NM

Though the temptation to stay in this frying pan of a homestead was almost too much to resist, we were on the road by 8:30 the next morning, Needles quickly fading out of site in our rear view mirror. We had a long drive ahead of us, 600 miles to Santa Fe, and we wanted to get there early enough to enjoy an evening out on the town. Luckily for us the speed limit on 1-40 was 75 (sometimes 80) miles an hour and it was a straight shot to New Mexico. We set the cruise control and popped in another book on tape.

We followed the highway, paralleling the famous Route 66, as it bisected the barren heart of Arizona; a seemingly endless expanse of flat, dry desert. It stretched on for hours, the only signs of life were the occasional cars that passed by or the sparse gas stations that popped up along the way.

Five hours in, we hit the New Mexico State line and the topography began to tansform before us– hills formed beneath us; trees and valleys dotted the horizon; and the earth, once a partched pale gray, was now glowing with an iron-rich red hue. The hills soon turned into mountains as we passed through Albuquerque and began to climb the tail of the southern Rockies.

Santa Fe itself sits atop a 7,200ft plateau but also makes up the basin of three large forested mountain ranges. A bustling metropolis of 75,000, it still manages to retain its wild west meets nomadic Indian outpost feel with strict adobe color and architecture building codes throughout the county and the over-abundance of Indian jewelry, clothing, and trinket shops throughout the city proper.

We pulled into town as the last of the suns rays slipped passed the encompassing mountains and twilight decended on the warm summer's sky. Having been cooped up in the car all day, we decided that we would bring Zoe with us and strolled along the brick-lined sidewalks into town. We heard music up ahead and followed the bluegrass tunes to a small tree-lined central plaza where hundreds of people were sitting around in the grass listening to a live country band on a stage in the center of the park. Children ran around in the fountain, hot food vendors lined the sidewalks, and near-by restaurants all had roof-top balconies filled with tourist and locals watching the show.

This scene seemed like it was a nightly occurrence in this town and Naomi and I were quick to fall in step with Santa Fe's the easy-going ebb and flow. We had a delicious tex-mex dinner in the courtyard of a local restuarant that allowed dogs and sipping maragritas and happy to be in a town where Denny's wasn't your only choice for food, entertiament and social interactions.

Coast to Coast – Photos

A few photos from the first couple days:







Dog is my co-pilot.











Standing on a corner... somewhere in Arizona.

The look Zoe gives me before she makes a brake for it.

Coast to Coast – The first leg

Heading south, down the spine of California, along the hot, black tarmac of 1-5, we tried to plan our route. We didn't have a particular destination in mind for the end of the day, only that we wanted to get as far as we could so we could pull into our real destination, Santa Fe, NM, sometime the following afternoon. It was a good plan, but alas it wasn't meant to be.

With a couple hundred before our next turn, we decided to kill a few listless hours with one of the books on tape our friends had given us for the trip. I have listen to books on tape a few times before and I think that, in my case anyway, it is entirely unsafe for highway travel. I get so caught up in the stories that I loose track of where I am and where I intend to go. Apparently, so does Naomi. We weren't even a few minutes into the tape, a James Patterson thriller, before we became so engrossed in the plot of who killed who for what, that we missed our exit, and the next dozen before we realized our error, and spent the better part of 2 hours getting back on track.

Needless to say, we didn't make it as far we would have liked for our first day on the road. In fact, we didn't even make it out of California, stopping instead at a small town right on CA/NV boarder called Needles. Oh yes, Needles.

Nothing more than a collection of mobile homes, a motel 6 and a Denny's, Needles is set in a dust bowl at the tail end of the Death Valley Desert plains where, upon our arrival at 11:30 at night, it was still almost 100 degrees and seemed to be heating up. While checking in, I asked the motel clerk, who looked like she'd seen a needle or two herself, what people did around here for fun. She looked at me as if she wasn't sure what the word fun meant.

"Uh, well," she finally offered, "there's a Denny's down the road, people go there sometimes."

As Bill Bryson as apt to do in this type of situation, I came up wit a couple slogans the town might want to consider in any new tourism ad campaigns :

Needles: because you'll want to prick yourself with one to make sure you still alive... and not in hell.

Needles: you want em', we got em'!

Needles: because Snaketown, Ghostville, or Monsterland doesn't quite invoke enough terror in visiting young children.

Feel free to add your own...