I only remember one event from my very first road trip.

My parents were heading West: Our journey started in suburban Virginia and ended in Southern California. We (apparently) piled into the family car—a red Chevy Nova, I think—and rambled along the interstates to the Golden State.

My only memory of that trip is the Gateway Arch in St. Louis. Sometimes I’m not even sure if it’s really a memory of mine—though I do recall gazing up at the thing; my parents told me later that I had asked if it was part of an arch for McDonald’s—or something my mind concocted from the stories my parents told about the trip.

In retrospect, our family took a lot of road trips. California houses many travelling gems:

I recall the cold spray of the ocean against my face during a cloudy, windy day in Monterey Bay; I had picked up several smooth pebbles from Pebble Beach. I wasn’t that impressed with the Lone Cypress; it was just a tree on a rock. What was the big deal?

We weaved our way through Sequoia National Park; the gigantic redwood and sequoia trees loomed overhead, blotting out the crystal light of the sun.

My parents insisted on touring Hearst Castle. We lingered by an ornately tiled pool; the garish decorations and opulent markers of wealth bored me. At the time, I thought my parents were envious of the castle; now, I think they were simply marvelling at the excess.

The fondest road trip memories I have, however, are from our visits to Yosemite National Park. Our bicycles were crammed into the rear of the van, occasionally clanging against each other during turns. My parents packed hard-boiled eggs, ramen noodles, and bananas for snacks. My dad purchased a small, green kerosene stove from a local swap meet and could hardly wait to create soups with the random ingredients we packed. He also recorded road trip music: Beethoven’s symphonies poured out of the stereo speakers as he drove along the winding roads.

On a few occasions, my mom and I asked that he stopped the car so we could barf.

Then there were the weekend trips to Las Vegas, where the flat desert seemed to stretch on forever in every direction as far as the eye could see. Scraggly cacti lifted their spiny arms to the sky with prayers for rain and the occasional tumbleweed ambled across the road. My parents were never interested in the world’s largest thermometer. The thing is huge.

I was relegated to the back seat and, unless I was nauseated, I enjoyed the freedom of the road. I still associate Beethoven’s symphonies with Yosemite National Park; I came to eagerly expect the stunning orchestral arrangements as we settled deeper into the tree-lined mountains. I loved stumbling out of the car, inhaling deeply, and witnessing the glory of El Capitan and Yosemite Valley. I even came to appreciate eating hard-boiled eggs at the rest stops.

Tomorrow, I leave for a road trip that has absolutely nothing to do with relocation. Technically, I have tackled a solo road trip in the past—when I moved from Northern California to Seattle, I zipped along Interstate 5 with my then iPod my only companion. Though it was a leisurely drive, I did not explore the surrounding regions (but let me tell you, the views are stunning from Redwood City, California, to Seattle, Washington)—I just had to get from point A to point B.

I fully intend to indulge in some of the distractions along the Cascade Loop. I already have four waterfalls, a chocolate factory, a fruit-and-nut factory, and a garden on my itinerary. I’m trying to avoid a minute-by-minute plan; part of the fun of solo travelling is doing whatever, whenever. People keep telling me that my eyes will pop out of my head in disbelief when I get to the North Cascades—I can hardly wait.

Wish me safe and joyous travels. God willing, I should post something here by Wednesday night to indicate my safe return.

(Part of the ongoing Relationship Series.)