Taking The Wheel

We’ve always been a road trip kind of family. So after my mother died, my father and I jumped into a car and just drove.

- Tim Johnson 

IN JULY 2015, I was cruising down the freeway on the last day of a tour of California (I was covering the area’s cul-ture and cuisine for some travel magazines) when I received a disappointing phone call. I’d been looking forward to an upcoming expedition to the Arctic, but the Russian research vessel that was supposed to carry me from Baffin Island across the Davis Strait to the west coast of Greenland for my next assignment was stuck in ice. The trip had been cancelled.

In the back of my mind, I’d been constructing a vague itinerary for a possible extension of the west coast journey I was currently on, if something like this were to happen. But my plan would only work if my father, who’s now 68, agreed to join me—it wouldn’t be much fun otherwise. I called him at home in Peterborough, Ont., with my last minute idea: he’d fly to California the day after tomorrow; we’d rent a car and drive north, worrying about the details as we went along. “Yes, let’s do it,” he said, a crescendo of excitement in his voice. “I’m in!”

Two days later, I met my father at San Francisco International Airport. We made our way to the car rental kiosk, settled into a white Nissan Altima and drove along the interstate to Fairfield, Calif., where we planned to stay for the night. The nondescript town didn’t have many attractions, but it was located just off the highway and more or less en route to the places we were headed, further north. As we crossed the road from our motel to grab some fast food for dinner, he smiled and said, “I love this. So many memories.” I knew exactly what he meant.