Pathway of Unlimited Potential

Steve Jobson
Abstract: My essay shows a focus on instrumental value, and a spiritual/biographical
sense of rootedness. I do this by virtue of explaining my past with the roads, my
personal connection, and the joy I find in adventure. Leonardo da Vinci once said
Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned
skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return. This is the
truth of the road for me.

May your trails be dim, lonesome, stony, narrow, winding and only slightly uphill.
So goes the benediction of Edward Abbey. These words are slowly driving their way
deeper into my head, into my mind. The road has long been a fascination of mine. Not
the (excellent) book by Cormac McCarthy, mind you, but the means by which we access
our work, our homes, our adventure. Five in the morning, my mom with a cup of hot
chocolate, my dad with the car loaded up and ready to go, off to wherever we were
going long before the sun ever saw us. The rush of the early morning chill, flying off
towards the clearly visible stars, and points unknown.
I will always go back to the road, in times of trouble, in times of doubt and panic.
While writing this, in the stress and the heat of junior year, I had this urge to get out, to
walk around downtown, to shake myself loose of the confines of my desk, of my
computer, of my head. Fight or flight. All a part of my basic human instincts. Our first
roads followed game trails. Driven by commerce, by a desire for resources. Primitive,
animalistic, logical. Did the drivers of those carts, those oxen, realize the opportunity
there? It seems to me to be unlikely that they didnt recognize the value of the ease of
movement, of the joy present in the freedom and luxury of mobility.

Why would I feel so at home in such a varied environment? Im not a trader,

making my livelihood off of the road. I dont need it to survive on a daily basis. But it is
part of my survival. I am in desperate need of the choice, the options. Its not home, its
not where Im comfortable, but its where I find my purpose. The options arent the usual
myriad of colleges, of opportunities, but rather ones that come up unexpectedly. Out on
the road, in this environment of unlimited potential, is where I find my freedom. Not in
the air-conditioned metal box hurtling along it, nor in the ocean of refuse bordering it, but
in the concept of the road. A portal, a never-ending destination, and an ever-ending
loop. I suppose my philosophy regarding the road is not entirely my own, but bits and
pieces stolen from my parents, from authors, from philosophers, that I have taken for my
own, and applied freely to my life.
One basic truth about the road: no matter where you stop, theres always
something worth seeing. Truth is a matter of perspective, but so is art. The Museum of
Modern Art in Denver, when I visited it, had half a story dedicated to pictures that some
individual took of abandoned buildings and machinery and other assorted relics from the
era of big Cadillacs and Route 66. Its all rusted now, aged and decrepit, like a
snakeskin long since shed, but it tells a story. It echoes the story of some folks who
found enough beauty in the road that the road became a major point of industry, or was
it that the road was a major point of industry, and they chased it? It whispers of the

ghosts of the past, the spirits of my sense of place. And there is history, in all the roads,
be they modern 24-lane superhighways or overgrown backcountry only recognizable as
a road by the twin dents in the plant growth. Not every road is paved, nor is every worthy
view right on the roadside.
The first trip I recall, we drove out to Muley Point, Utah. Desert, slickrock
canyons, long, narrow, bumpy roads, shaking me free of the cobwebs of home, of
school, of how I normally view life. No longer a dull daily routine, surrounded by the
sterile shades of buildings and green grass of lawns. An open sky, massive monuments
to the efforts of time, of previous travelers. All fairly interesting. But what piqued my
interest was getting out of the car, and standing in the desert. All along the rocks of
Southern Utah are roads, carved into rocks and against sheer faces, ancient roads, not
travelled for eternities. The more pure, simple roads, not designed for metal behemoths,
but for a person, and a person alone. These roads lead to far more interesting sights
and destinations than rusted scrap. Down these roads lie the only remains of a
intercontinental trade civilization, ancient, incomprehensible. Perhaps I find a
storehouse, or a spring. Perhaps some petroglyphs engraved under a fallen boulder,
preserved by the improbability of that rock falling, a temple that only one may enter at a
time, rules enforced by cramped dirt. Beautiful, but the beauty stems from the
accessibility. In order to appreciate the view, we must be able to see the view. That is

why the road is my sense of place, because I can feel a solitude and a kinship, for even
as I walk alone, I can sense the presence of those who came before.
I remember driving through Texas, and stopping at a small turnoff at the side of
the road, with a small plaque. At first barely noticeable, relevant, but once the tall grass
was pushed aside, a small metal square with a few words, and nothing more. I bent over
to get a closer look, to read what it said: Two miles east of here, Captain Ranald S.
MacKenzie killed 2000 horses to keep them from falling into the hands of the Indians.
The accuracy of my transcription may not be complete, but its mostly there. Not far from
that point where I stood, in those long fields, all this bloodshed in what Wikipedia tells
me was a major U.S. victory. A large industrial farm was there now, tractor in the
distance, plowing calmly over what may have been a mass grave. A standard sight in
these parts, I reckon. But for that one plaque, that one marker of the past, no trace of
anything unusual. Yet, due to chance, random happenstance, I found this trace of
forgotten history. That is why the road is my sense of place, because the obscure,
perhaps trivial, is shifted into a place of importance, of remembrance. Because the road,
although mutable, is always there, and will always be there, in some way, shape, or
form.
Once my mind shifts into travel mode, so does my perception. Where once I
would have seen a tree, I begin to see the rough scales of a lodgepole pine, rocks

become monuments to the wear of time, birds in the distance become fellows, peers, in
a pure flight. Leonardo da Vinci once said Once you have tasted flight, you will forever
walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you
will always long to return. This is the truth of the road for me. Even as I write this, I long
for nothing so much as that freedom, that knowledge that the trip is temporary, and the
joy that comes with the abbreviation, the inevitable conclusion.
My godfather was a traveler. He went all over the world, and all over the country,
taking pictures, talking to people, and riding his bicycle. I dont know how he defined the
road, or his sense of place. I missed my chance to ask him. If I had to guess, though,
based off what I have left, I think (I hope) that he would have defined both in much the
same way I do, in the joy of travel, of constant, self-refreshing, uniqueness. I dont know
from experience what its like to be on a road of that scale, one that takes me around the
world, but I can dream and imagine. Ive never been anywhere outside the United States
of America, but I believe that the concept of the road doesnt depend so much on the
method of transportation as the spirit of transportation.
The road, or at least my concept of it, is a human invention. A pathway not just for
ease of movement, from routine and ritual, but for greater gain, is one of our inventions.
Theres something undeniably human in the need to travel, to roam, to see new sights
and learn new things. The road is a serpent, winding tirelessly through and across

whatever obstacles it encounters. The road is a bird, soaring, free, unfettered. The road
is human, endlessly inventive, endlessly clever, and capable of communication. The
road has jokes. It has little ironies, inconstancies, and other means of entertaining those
who pay close attention.
Thus, my sense of place is the road, the eternal, undying field of hopes and
opportunity. A wise man once said When you are born, you have limitless potential.
Time shaves that potential away. That is the road, the eternal rebirth, for there is always
a myriad of options. That is the cycle, as steady as the wheels, as steady as the
footsteps that drive it forward, that keep it moving. That is my legacy, passed down to
me from experience and desire. Not stable, nor steady, but peaceful. That is my sense
of place. That is the truth of the road.