On Visiting All 50 States

“Watch out for that kid, she’s bear meat.”

I was wandering off toward the tundra at the Arctic Circle pull-off on the two-lane gravel Pipeline Road that runs from Fairbanks, Alaska, to Prudhoe Bay when a grizzled bus driver pulled over to help my parents fix their flat. 

Our rental car had broken down and we were at least a two-hour drive south of the nearest gas station in Coldfoot. He issued his warning after watching me meander away from the car toward the Arctic wilderness. 

I don’t recall any of this, of course. I was only 18 months old.  

I do remember the cross-country trips my family would take years later, however—driving from north to south, and straight across through the heartland of America.

In my career as a travel writer, I’ve since revisited these regions dozens of times—from the deserts of New Mexico, to the plains of Nebraska, and the swamps of Florida. I’ve chased tornadoes in Kansas, baited gators in Louisiana, and flown hot air balloons in Nevada. 

Here’s what I’ve learned about America after traveling to all of its 50 states.  

The heartland really is the heart of the country — and, fittingly, it’s unpredictable.

Weeks on end were spent driving through the open plains of America’s heartland, the landscape unchanged by the passing days. The flat terrain of the Midwest accounts for an unspeakable amount of time when driving from sea to shining sea. The uniformity of the surroundings blurred state lines.

Are we in Missouri or Oklahoma? Wait, we’re still in Kansas?

We were driving one night into that endless dark solitude of Kansas, when we saw a tornado brewing in the distance. Undeterred by the possible danger (and perhaps bored after so many miles on the road), my father drove towards the storm.

We chased its path up a dirt road, ultimately watching as it whirled away from us, up across the plains to the north, to Nebraska.

Another night, I was sitting in the backseat, watching the prairie roll by underneath that enormous black sky. I was desperate to get out of the car.

Only a few more hours until we stop, was a constant refrain.

I actually felt time stand still.

I remember sitting at a railroad crossing in Dodge City in the middle of a thunderstorm when a freight train with several locomotives and 300 cars rolled by across the track, the lightning periodically illuminating the freight cars in an eerie glow.

The mountains are calling year-round in the American West.

While the American West is, of course, celebrated during ski season (most recently by yours truly at the Ullr Fest, a Viking celebration in Breckenridge), its charms in the summertime cannot be overlooked.

Jackson Hole, for example, is best enjoyed on horseback in early June (before the forest fires and accompanying smoke of August), and fall and spring are underrated seasons throughout the Rocky Mountains and up through to the Pacific Northwest.

After hiking Tiger Mountain this fall in Washington State, I retired to the elegance of W Bellevue, a mere hour and a half away from Mount Rainier—this juxtaposition of urban sophistication and wilderness is symbolic of my experience traveling throughout the country.  

But the endless expanse of the desert casts a captivating spell all its own in the Southwest.

Visiting all 50 states has taught me nothing if not the realization that there is no such thing as a flyover state. I spent much of this fall in the American Southwest—from the deserts of Arizona, in creekside cottages at L’Auberge de Sedona, to private villas at La Cantera Resort & Spa in San Antonio in Texas hill country.

We miss so much when we board a plane from one destination in the U.S. to the next—not just the sheer distance and scale of the country, but the beauty such vastness casts upon the land. Creativity flourishes in the desert, as evident in the spectacle of Burning Man and the Nevada Museum of Art, in Reno.  

My trips to Nevada left an indelible impression upon my understanding of the country. Watching the balloons ascend above the Sierra Nevada desert at the Great Reno Balloon Race filled me with a wistful nostalgia I last felt watching a storm brewing across the prairie as a child during one of our long cross-country drives.

I was forced to reconsider the parts of the country often dismissed as tacky or superficial, especially when attending JBL Fest in Las Vegas, where an unexpected encounter with Quincy Jones post-show forever united in my mind the artistry with the debauchery that is Sin City.

You don’t need to leave the continental US to experience a dizzying array of cultures.

The debauchery of Las Vegas transitions of course to such celebrated nightlife capitals as Nashville and Miami, but they also still hold true to their own distinct culture and heritage. This summer I experienced a slice of music history while staying at Holston House Nashville, and a taste of Cuba at Life House Little Havana in Miami.

 But the Florida Keys, the former Conch Republic, truly took my breath away with its enchanting mix of artists and loners who all seemed to be inexplicably drawn to these tiny islands known as America’s Caribbean. Fate led them to these isles on a map and they decided to call them home, and we’re lucky to live amongst them if only for a week at a time.

Nor do you need a passport to experience exotic nature and wildlife.

It’s not just the culture that’s diverse within the territories of the US, it’s also the natural beauty, which can be discovered oceans away, at times. From the spiritual otherworldliness of the Na Pali Coast in Kauai to the crystal blue waters of Trunk Bay in the US Virgin Islands, you can experience another climate and setting without collecting a passport stamp.

 Plus, thanks to initiatives such as ViaHero in Puerto Rico, which connects you with locals who provide customized itineraries for your stay, you can pretend like you’ve lived in paradise your entire life, even if it’s just for one weekend.

Our National Parks have always been what makes America great.

Growing up on our cross-country trips, my siblings and I would collect National Park trading cards, counting the number of gorgeous destinations we’d witnessed with our own eyes (and slept upon in our L.L. Bean sleeping bags.)  

Today, my love for these living testaments to America’s beauty continues unabated. I spent the past fall parasailing along the shores of Incline Village in Lake Tahoe, and am planning on exploring the gator-infested swamps of the Everglades in Florida this coming spring.

But the trip I’m most looking forward to will take me back to my roots, to summertime adventures with my family. My mother and I plan to revisit Yosemite National Park, our final—or, rather—midway destination on our drives from New Jersey to California and back, only this time we’re trading our tents for an AutoCamp Airstream trailer.

There’s still something left to see in your part of the world.

Your corner of the country may feel like a little bubble, but it can surprise you. I usually feel suffocated by the tristate area, which I’ve called home ever since graduating from college, but I was delighted by the Hudson Valley when my mother and I embarked on a surprise road trip with Pack Up + Go.  

We updated our traditions. Forfeiting the minivan for a zippy and smooth Ford EcoSport (That belonged to neither of us, blessedly), our dynamic as mother and daughter faded to friends. Plus, staycations in New York—in Times Square and Williamsburg, opened my eyes to the city I’d been overlooking.

When I caught an intimate Sofar Sounds playing in the Hyatt Centric Times Square of all places, I realized afterwards on the hotel’s glorious roof that I barely knew my own city, an experience echoed by my eye-opening stay at The Hoxton in Williamsburg. Hello Brooklyn, indeed.

And the only way to see it is on wheels.

Whether minivan or luxury SUV, you’ve got to hit the road to have a better understanding of our country. Pack a Blue Highways guide for reference, or the latest edition of “Roadfood” and get off the interstate and grab lunch with the locals.

In today’s divided political climate, the social and geographic differences between America’s heartland and its coasts have never been more pronounced, and understanding and compassion is the best way to bridge the culture wars.  

Kerouac was onto something with “On The Road”: “There was nowhere to go but everywhere, so just keep on rolling under the stars.”