If you asked me my favorite pastime, I’d say (without hesitation) that it’s getting lost on purpose. The hum of the engine, the sway of the road, the way the world stretches and folds in the rearview mirror…. this is my church, my therapy, my rebellion.

One of my most unforgettable adventures was a long road trip across the United States that eventually led me into Northern California, somewhere near Lake Tahoe, to a quiet camp wrapped in pine and legend. It might’ve been called Camp Crystal Lake… though don’t let the horror films fool you. This one was made of sunlight and still water, not screams.

The Road to Calm

Driving across the country is like flipping through a living photo album. The terrain changes its accent every few hundred miles. You pass deserts that shimmer like dreams half-remembered, mountain passes that test your courage, and forests so thick the sunlight turns green before it touches the ground.

Somewhere in Nevada, I was singing to static because the radio gave up. I stopped at a gas station where the coffee tasted like revenge, and the cashier told me my “vibe was cosmic.” I took it as a compliment.

By the time I reached the Tahoe region, the air had changed. It smelled cleaner, colder, almost ancient. The altitude made my breath shorter but my heart feel enormous. The pines were tall and orderly, the lake itself so blue it could humble you.

At Camp Crystal Lake (or Somewhere Like It)

When I stepped out of the car, it felt like entering another dimension; one made of water, silence, and time. The air carried hints of sap and smoke. The ground was soft and dappled with needles that whispered underfoot.

Every sense woke up. The cold water of the nearby stream bit my fingers before surrendering to warmth. The sun slid gently through the canopy, catching dust motes like tiny stars. Somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker kept rhythm while the lake mirrored the clouds perfectly, as if the sky had decided to rest.

It was humbling. It was holy. It was the kind of peace that makes you want to apologize to the earth for ever hurrying.

At night, the stars were so sharp they could cut you. I lay back on the cold ground and tried to count them, failed spectacularly, and laughed until my breath became fog. There was no Wi-Fi, no traffic, no need to be anything other than present.

Moments of Humor and Humanity

• I brought four pairs of shoes for no reason. Only one pair saw daylight.
• I once asked a local for directions with full confidence. He paused, blinked, and said, “You turned left about three miles ago.”
• I experimented with playlists: jazz in Utah, trap in Arizona, and Gregorian chants somewhere in the Sierra. The monks won.
• I cried once while eating a gas-station burrito and laughed immediately after because who cries over a burrito?

If You Ever Want to Go

• When to visit: Late spring to early autumn. Winters can be harsh and often close the mountain passes.
• Best routes: Highway 395, US-50, and CA-89 all snake beautifully toward Tahoe.
• Altitude: Expect over 6,000 feet; drink water and breathe easy.
• Stay: National Forest campgrounds and small mountain inns are hidden jewels; book early.
• Wildlife: Deer, eagles, foxes, and the occasional raccoon philosopher. Respect their home.
• Nearby treasures: Emerald Bay, Desolation Wilderness, and small roadside diners that still make pancakes the size of your face.

Why I Keep Driving

Because driving, for me, is prayer in motion. It’s where I remember that the world is still bigger than my problems. It’s where I laugh alone, talk to my higher self, and collect stories from the wind. It’s a moving meditation where the journey itself becomes the destination.

Every trip reminds me: the soul travels light, and joy can survive in the smallest spaces; between mountains, under stars, or in the driver’s seat of a dusty car heading nowhere in particular.

With love and wanderlust,
Nic ✨