The next morning, storms loomed. Crossing northern Florida, we pulled into a gas station to wait out the rain—and for the first time, we put on East of Eden. Steinbeck’s words filled the cab: the Salinas Valley, the Trask family, timshel. The idea that humans can choose goodness, can choose grace. That spark lit the road ahead.

In Tallahassee, Lucky Goat Coffee gave us shelter and good conversation. We talked with the staff, shared our journey, and learned about their local coffee scene. On a whim, we detoured to the Gulf. Red flag warnings whipped the waves, but standing on the sand, wind in our faces, reminded us that wildness belongs in every adventure.

In Alabama, we stopped at Buc-ee’s, a roadside cathedral of snacks—and celebrated my birthday with banana pudding, decaf coffee and laughter. That night, in Biloxi, Mississippi, we camped beside a quiet bayou. The next morning, we woke to mist rising off the water. Coffee in hand, we sat in silence, watching the world wake up.

At Jacked Up Coffee, we fueled up and headed west. In New Orleans, Louisiana, Yellow Truck Coffee started our day. We wandered City Park, ate beignets, and met one of AC’s friends from culinary school. Crawfish for dinner, gelato for dessert—the city giving generously.

Houston, Texas. We pulled into town under a clear Texas sky, and it felt good to be with old friends again. The Walker family welcomed us into their home with open arms and full hearts. That night, after a run through Buffalo Bayou Park to shake off the long drive, we lingered over dinner and conversation. There was a comfort in that house, in those friendships, that reminded me how precious these human connections are on a long road. In the morning, we shared coffee and stories in their kitchen, reluctant to say goodbye. As always, departures are hardest when you don’t know when you’ll next return. But the road called, and after hugs and well-wishes, we set out for San Antonio.

The drive was shorter than many of the previous days, and for that we were grateful. The winds were strong, and the roads under construction, but the promise of exploring a new city kept us in good spirits. Our expectations for San Antonio were modest — a river walk, we thought, maybe some good tacos. But the city surprised us in the best ways. We walked past the Alamo, down to the river, and spent hours wandering its shaded paths and stone bridges. San Antonio had an energy, a warmth that wasn’t just in the air but in its people.

That afternoon, after a round of golf balls hit at a nearby range and a rejuvenating run for AC, we made our way to Merritt Coffee, which quickly became one of my favorite coffee stops of the trip. The staff there were as welcoming as they were knowledgeable. When we told them about our journey, they didn’t just congratulate us — they leaned in, eager to help us experience their city. It was a barista at Merritt who recommended we have dinner at Best Quality Daughter, a spot tucked into the Pearl District. That night, seated beneath soft lanterns in a dining room filled with energy and joy, we feasted on Chinese-Texan fusion: dishes that were bold, bright, and deeply satisfying. It was a meal I know AC and I will talk about for years to come.

Then westward, into the vastness of West Texas. It’s hard to describe the scale of that landscape until you’re in it — the sky stretching forever, the land rolling on and on with nothing but horizon. The desert began to speak in its own language. We reached Marfa in the late afternoon, and it was everything I had imagined — a town of contrasts: art galleries housed in old warehouses, minimalist installations set against infinite desert, tiny food trucks serving unforgettable meals. The influence of Donald Judd’s vision was everywhere, yet the place had a soul of its own.

We found our way to The Sentinel, a beautiful space where coffee, community, and creativity intersected. We spent hours there, sipping coffee, reading, talking, absorbing the quiet hum of the place. That night, beneath a desert sky alive with stars, we camped on the outskirts of town, the air cool and the silence profound.

The next morning took us into New Mexico, to White Sands National Park, where we rented sleds and threw ourselves down the impossibly white dunes. There was laughter, there was lightness — after so many miles on the road, it felt good to play. Later that afternoon, we visited our friend Benton at a nearby F-16 base. Watching those jets tear through the sky, hearing their thunder, seeing the men and women who fly and maintain them — it was humbling in ways I hadn’t expected. Courage, discipline, sacrifice — all wrapped in sound and speed.

In Las Cruces, we visited Picacho Coffee Roasters, a welcoming space that offered a different kind of fuel — warmth, conversation, and community. Then it was on through Arizona, across the desert, toward Phoenix. There, at the airport, Kelly joined us — after a week apart, the reunion felt like a homecoming of its own. The joy of sharing the road with my wife and daughter again made every mile feel lighter.

Together, we entered Joshua Tree National Park, one of those places that exists both in the landscape and in the imagination. The desert there is alive with presence, every rock and tree carrying its own story. As we drove through the park, we listened to East of Eden, and as fate would have it, we reached the book’s most powerful chapter — the conversation between Samuel, Lee, and Adam on “Thou mayest.” The timing was uncanny. Surrounded by stone and sky, the words seemed to hang in the air: we are not bound, we choose.

I stepped out of the truck, tears rising. The vastness around us, the depth of the novel, the presence of my family — it was all too much and exactly enough. One of those rare moments in life where everything aligns.

That evening, plans shifted. AC wasn’t feeling well. We traded our campsite for a hotel room — a small act of love and care that reminded me that no itinerary matters more than the people you’re with. We made a simple dinner in the room that night, and the three of us, together again, rested and looked forward.

Santa Barbara was a balm. Morning runs along the Pacific, the salt air sharp and invigorating. Coffee at Dune Coffee, bright and balanced. In Santa Cruz, we made a pilgrimage to Verve Coffee, a space that had shaped our own ideas for the Broad Street café. It felt like coming full circle, seeing that vision alive and thriving.

And then came the bittersweet goodbye. At the San Jose airport, I hugged Kelly and AC tightly. Watching them walk away toward their gate, I felt the weight of the road ahead — the solitude, the miles. But also the pull of the journey, still unfinished.

From San Jose, I turned east once more, Yosemite in my sights. The drive into the park is one of slow revelation—each curve of the road revealing more of the granite spires, the waterfalls crashing in the distance. I camped that night near the entrance, under tall trees, with the air crisp and clear.

The next morning, I met up with an old friend and her family at the visitor center. It was a gift to reconnect in such a place. I hiked Upper Yosemite Falls, one of the more challenging hikes of the trip. The trail was steep, switchbacking endlessly, the spray of the falls drifting over us as we climbed. Every step seemed to demand presence. The air grew thinner, the path rockier, but the reward was immense: a view from the summit that took my breath away. Sitting on sun-warmed stone, eating a simple lunch, the roar of the falls below—I felt a deep gratitude. For the land, for this body that could still climb, for the freedom of the road.

I pressed on to Reno, Nevada. Morning brought espresso at Hub Coffee Roasters, a space alive with energy and craft. The baristas there treated each cup as a small act of care, and the experience stayed with me.

The miles stretched ahead on Route 50—the “loneliest road in America.” I drove through an immense landscape of high desert and snow-dusted peaks. The solitude wasn’t empty; it was vast, contemplative. With each mile, the road seemed to whisper its old wisdom: there is beauty in silence, and space in solitude.

Crossing into Utah, the land opened wide. The road curved through high desert passes, red cliffs in the distance. I listened to the final chapters of East of Eden as the miles passed beneath my wheels. The sun hung low, painting the desert in gold. And then it happened: Adam Trask’s final “Timshel” to his son. The weight of it caught me off guard. I had to pull off the highway, into the vastness. The tears came. It wasn’t just the power of the novel, though that was immense. It was how perfectly that story had accompanied this journey—every mile, every moment. The truth of it was simple: we are not bound. We choose. Again and again. That was the road’s lesson, too.

By the time I rolled into Moab, I carried that emotion with me. There was something about the light there—sharp, clean, endless. At Mas Cafe, I found comfort in a good cup and friendly conversation. Later, at the Moab golf course, I hit balls into an open desert sky, each swing a meditation.

Then came the parks: Arches and Canyonlands. The trails led me deep into landscapes shaped by eons. Stone arches, canyons carved by wind and water. I hiked for miles alone, following cairns across red rock, the quiet so complete it almost hummed.

Crossing into Colorado, I climbed toward Glenwood Springs. I soaked in the hot springs, letting the heat ease both body and mind. The next day, driving east on Route 70, through Glenwood Canyon and over Vail Pass and finally through the Eisenhower/Johnson tunnel, the mountains rose around me, brilliant under the snow. The road twisted through alpine heights—one of the most beautiful drives of the trip.

Denver was a welcome stop. At Sweet Bloom Coffee Roasters, I found one of the finest cups of the journey. My nephew Alex joined me in Colorado. It felt right, bringing another piece of family into this story. I picked him up from the airport, grabbed dinner, and rolled eastward.

The two of us made good time across the plains. In Topeka, Kansas, we stopped at PT’s Coffee, a pioneer of the specialty coffee movement. We saw a local news report in Kansas that severe storms were coming, so we cut our slow trip home short and added miles to each day. In Louisville, Kentucky, we visited Quills Coffee, another gem on this long road. With Alex alongside me, the miles passed with greater ease—conversation, music, the rhythm of the road.

Spring had come to Virginia. As we neared the Blue Ridge, the familiar landscape opened before us: soft mountains, budding trees, a sky just beginning to turn toward summer. Home was close now, the pull of it strong. But the road wasn’t quite done.

In May, helping AC move to Martha’s Vineyard for a summer kitchen job, Kelly and I set out once again—this time into the Northeast. It felt like a new chapter of the journey, a time to reflect on all that had come before. And now the pace was different—a whirlwind, a kind of caffeinated sprint up the Eastern Seaboard, fueled by curiosity and cups of coffee.

We began in Maryland, stopping at Ceremony Coffee, where the staff’s precision and passion for roasting shone through every sip. The morning light was already warm when we rolled into Delaware for midday cups at Brew HaHa!, a cozy spot filled with the rhythms of local conversation and the clink of espresso cups. By the time we crossed into New Jersey, the sun was high and the traffic thick—but the visit to Small World Coffee, right by Princeton, made it worthwhile. The space buzzed with students, professors, townsfolk—a living intersection of ideas and flavors.

From there we pushed on. We skipped New York this time, knowing we’d return for a proper visit later in the year. The next morning in Connecticut, we stopped at Feppo Cafe, where we both tried inventive drinks infused with mushroom extract—an unexpected but welcome twist.

Rhode Island greeted us with a bright, clear morning, and at Drift Cafe, we paired our coffees with acai bowls and sat for a while, savoring the pause after so many miles. From there we rolled into Boston—a city alive with history and motion.

In Boston, we were able to connect with my nephew Ben, whose warm presence and quick wit added new energy to our days. Over dinner that night and breakfast the next morning, we caught up on life and stories, sharing laughs and reflections. It was one of those moments when family reminds you of its quiet power—rooting you, recharging you for whatever lies ahead.

And of course, no trip through Boston would be complete without visiting George Howell Coffee, one of the foundational figures in American specialty coffee. Standing in that space, thinking about how George Howell’s work helped shape an entire industry, I felt again how connected this journey was—not just to our family story, but to the larger story of coffee in this country.

We dropped AC of at the ferry in Woods Hole, MA, and from there, Vermont called us north. In Burlington, at Brio Coffeeworks, we started our mornings with slow, thoughtful cups of coffee and easy conversation. The air in Vermont felt lighter somehow—cool and green, a freshness that mirrored our spirits. Hiking Mount Mansfield proved far more demanding than we’d expected—steep scrambles, stretches above the tree line, rocks slick from the mist. It was one of those hikes that tests you physically, and yet every step seemed to bring a deeper connection to the land, to the moment, and to one another. When we finally stood at the summit, breathing hard beneath a sweeping sky.

That night, we celebrated with dinner at Frankie’s—an experience that will stay with us always. The flavors were bold and inventive, yet deeply comforting; the atmosphere warm, intimate, and full of life. At one point, Kelly looked at me over the candlelight and said, “This might be one of the best meals I’ve ever had.” We lingered long after the plates were cleared, reluctant to leave the magic of that table.

Our route then wound into New Hampshire. The drive through the White Mountains was nothing short of stunning—jagged peaks softened by the new green of spring. We made our way to the base of Mount Washington, where we stayed at a cozy lodge with an enormous stone fireplace that seemed to invite conversation and reflection. It was the perfect place to pause. We sipped countless cups of coffee in that lodge, watching the clouds drift over the peaks, grateful for the quiet. We had thought, briefly, about climbing Mount Washington, but the snow still blanketed the summit. Instead, we chose slower hikes through the lower trails, winding through pine forests and beside cold streams—a choice that felt just right.

In Conway, New Hampshire, we wandered through town—one of those quintessential New England places, framed by mountains and a timeless Main Street. We grabbed burritos for lunch, poked into outfitter shops, and found Frontside Coffee Roasters, a bright, welcoming space. 

And then, finally, Maine. The drive from New Hampshire to Acadia was longer than expected, but with every mile the land seemed to shift—growing wilder, more elemental. We were meeting dear friends there and were eager for time outdoors together. The house we stayed in looked out over a small harbor, where tides rose and fell with a quiet grace.

There was a rhythm to life in Maine that I loved. Mornings began with pots of coffee brewed in the kitchen, shared around a big table as we watched seabirds and the changing light on the water. The hikes in Acadia were extraordinary—trails that climbed to granite peaks with sweeping ocean views, paths that curved through mossy woods and along rocky coastlines. There was one especially clear day when we stood atop a summit, the Atlantic stretched before us, wind in our faces—a moment that made me feel both small and immeasurably lucky.

The meals were equally memorable. The seafood was as fresh as you’d expect—simple, perfect. One night, I ordered a lobster so large that I couldn’t finish it, which became a running joke among our group. But really, the joy was in the gathering—the laughter, the stories, the feeling of being held in a place and a moment that would not come again.

When it came time to leave, Kelly and I drove toward Bangor, stopping for one final coffee at Nest Coffee. That cup, bright and clean, seemed to carry all the emotions of the journey. Sitting there, looking back on the miles traveled, the mornings and cups shared, the faces and landscapes that had filled these months, I felt nothing but gratitude.

Fifty states. Fifty cups. But of course, it was never about the numbers. It was about presence. About choice. About family. About the land. It was about taking the time to notice: this moment, this place, this cup, this person beside you.

And always, the road calls again.