The next day brought me to Mount Rushmore itself, a monument worth seeing once, though it was the Black Hills that stole my heart. Pine trees growing out of Joshua Tree-like rock formations made the landscape feel like a marriage of coasts. I wandered, then drove to Hot Springs for a long soak and a stop at a small shop where I picked up a cold brew and a strawberry rhubarb kombucha. My “travel hack” so far was proving true: cold brew tastes consistent everywhere, and it’s always a safe bet for an afternoon recharge. That night I camped outside Casper, Wyoming, eating dinner at The Hangar, a converted airport restaurant that reminded me how much I still love airplanes.

By Day 24 I was back in the Tetons. The drive through Dubois was stunning, red clay ridges streaked with purple rock, like nothing I’d ever seen. I hiked around Jenny Lake until the elevation wore me out, then set up camp and ate tacos for dinner. I had been so eager to see Kelly the next day, but Atlanta weather canceled her flight. It was one of the harder evenings of the trip, wanting to see the person you love most and having to wait. But if the road teaches anything, it’s resilience.

When Kelly finally arrived, everything lightened. I had spent two days exploring Jackson alone, drinking coffee at Picnic, running alongside the Tetons, hiking Lupine Meadows, even encountering bears and watching people ski down a glacier. When Kelly joined me, we returned to Picnic together, hiked Cascade Canyon, and then drove into Yellowstone. We stood with the crowds as Old Faithful erupted, a bison wandering across the steaming ground in front of it, and walked among geysers and hot springs that felt almost otherworldly. We logged over 30,000 steps that day before camping near the west entrance, where we celebrated with bison burgers.

From there we drove west to Idaho for coffee at Rădu Coffee, then on to Bozeman for smoothie bowls and a stop at Parrott Coffee. A detour brought us to a small pottery studio run out of someone’s house, where a conversation with the owners was one of the most genuine exchanges of the trip. By then we both felt the turn, that moment in every road trip when you realize you’re heading east again. We reached Billings, Montana, worked out at a Planet Fitness, ate salads, got the truck washed, and I hit golf balls before camping for the night.

The drive across North Dakota stretched long, but a stop at Theodore Roosevelt National Park broke the monotony. Fargo surprised us the next morning with Youngblood Coffee, one of my favorite shops of the entire journey. The screen door creaked open and closed, the space was bright, records lined the wall, and the baristas asked about our travels with real interest. I could have stayed there all morning. Instead, we pushed on to Minneapolis, walked the river, and had coffee at Backstory Coffee before I left the truck at the airport and flew home for the Fourth of July.

A week later, I returned to the truck and drove east through Green Bay and Door County. Five & J Coffee House served me a cold coffee and a breakfast burrito in a converted old house, cherries and pie were sold on roadside stands, and the waters of Lake Michigan shimmered under summer light. Chicago brought meaning too: my dad’s hometown, the city tied to my love for the Bears since their 1985 Super Bowl win. I stopped at Metric Coffee, where an espresso tonic and kombucha kept me going before navigating the chaos of Chicago’s freeways. In Michigan, Second and Main Coffeehouse fed me flatbread and cold brew, fuel enough to reach a quiet Indiana campsite that would be my last night in the truck.

The journey east continued through Pittsburgh, where Kelly met me, and we surprised Micah, a friend now working with Aslin Beer Co., serving Blanchard’s Coffee behind the bar. It was surreal to see our bags on the shelf in a Pittsburgh café. From there we visited Kelly’s family in Uniontown, Pennsylvania, sharing stories of the road and catching up with cousins. The drive home through West Virginia was luminous — purple blooms on the roadside, Blue Ridge mountains rising to greet me, a reminder that while the Rockies inspire adventure, these mountains give me peace. Pulling into our Richmond driveway, greeted by Kelly and AC, I could hardly believe Part 2 was complete.

And yet, the story wasn’t finished. A few weeks later, we reunited as a family in the Hamptons after AC’s summer on Martha’s Vineyard and Molly’s week at camp. The wealth of the place was striking, unlike anything I’d ever seen, but the real gift was two days on the beach together, laughing, eating fresh seafood in Montauk, and drinking coffee in the salt air. We drove into New York City afterward, stayed near Central Park, walked and ran together, ate gluten-free bagels at Modern Bread & Bagel, and marveled at La Cabra in SoHo, where design, coffee, and hospitality came together perfectly. Sitting in the darkened theater watching Mamma Mia, I felt the weight of how few road trips would still include the four of us together.

We had a week at home together before everyone started their paths toward the beginning of a new year of college. After we dropped AC off at college in Tampa and hugged her goodbye, Kelly and I boarded a plane with a mix of sadness and anticipation. The moment marked the official start of our empty nesting, and we wanted to step into this new chapter not with hesitation, but with adventure. Our first stop was the Pacific Northwest.

Seattle was familiar ground, a city we’d visited many times before, so instead of lingering we drove straight toward Mount Rainier. In summer, Washington feels almost sacred, long days, crisp air, and a mountain so massive it seems to follow you everywhere you go. Driving into the park, we caught one of those rare clear days where Rainier stood unobstructed, its glaciers glowing under the sun. We laced up our boots at Paradise and joined the trail that climbs steeply toward the glacier. We had no intention of summiting, but we passed groups descending from the top, faces weathered, legs tired, yet eyes lit with the triumph of standing on the peak. Others were beginning their ascent to base camp, planning to rise at 2 a.m. to push for the summit. I couldn’t help but feel inspired, not by the idea of conquering the mountain, but by the determination and grit that such a feat requires. I’ve always known I wanted to summit Rainier someday, but walking those trails made me more certain, maybe not today, maybe not next year, but one day. That evening, we sat outside a small pizza joint near the outfitter’s lodge, live music drifting through the air, and I felt the pull of both adventure and contentment.

The next morning, still shaking off jet lag, we headed south. Instead of big-city stops, we chose something simple, pulling into a tiny drive-thru stand just before the Oregon border for a cup of coffee that tasted like exactly what the Northwest has always meant to me, straightforward, unfussy, but brimming with care. Portland, on the other hand, was the opposite: layered with quirks and contradictions. The city was in the midst of a heatwave, and walking through downtown carried a strange tension, evidence of a place wrestling with itself. But then there were the bright spots: a long, slow browse through Powell’s Books where I stumbled on a first edition of East of Eden and immediately bought it as a symbol of this entire year, and a visit to Snow Peak’s flagship store where an employee insisted we try Courier Coffee for shaved ice, a tip that turned into one of the best surprises of the trip. On a blistering day, shaved ice with cold coffee was perfection.

We also joined the line, thirty people deep and constant all afternoon, at Project Matcha. There was something almost spiritual about watching people queue patiently for matcha drinks that were crafted with as much seriousness as any high-end espresso bar. The next morning we met an industry friend at Puff Coffee, where the irreverent branding belied the real care put into every cup. Portland lived up to every stereotype and also managed to exceed them, proving once again that the heart of a place isn’t in its reputation, but in the details you find when you wander without expectation.

From Portland we boarded a flight to Anchorage, and in many ways, Alaska felt like the farthest edge of this journey, the place where the map stretches into something more mysterious. For years I had dreamed of coming here with our family, but our 2020 trip had been canceled by COVID. To finally arrive, even for just a few days, felt like a kind of redemption. Anchorage itself surprised me. Many locals joked that “Alaska begins twenty minutes outside of Anchorage,” but even in the city there was a pulse I found comforting, people gathering in cafés and restaurants, lingering together at the end of long summer days.

Kelly and I had one of the best meals of our lives at a new restaurant called Whiskey and Ramen. Every dish was layered with flavors and textures that left us marveling at what creativity in the kitchen can do. The next day we drove north toward Alyeska, where the mountains rise sharp and the valleys seem carved for adventure. We hiked until our legs burned. Our coffee stop was at Kaladi Brothers Coffee, one of the icons of Alaska’s coffee scene. It was exactly what I had hoped for, a place buzzing with locals, baristas who seemed to know everyone by name, and coffee that reminded me that sometimes consistency and community matter just as much as innovation. From the minute we landed, I knew there would never be enough time to fully take in Alaska, but I was grateful to have absorbed at least a taste of its vastness.

And then came Hawaii. We caught a late-night direct flight from Anchorage to Honolulu, the kind of one-way adventure I secretly love, tracing arcs across the map with no intention of backtracking. We landed close to midnight, unable to see much of the island, but the next morning I rose early and walked to Waikiki Beach. The sun was barely up, but already the water was dotted with surfers. There was something about the rhythm of it, wave after wave, people paddling out, falling, trying again, that felt like a metaphor for this whole journey.

We only spent a day and a half on Oahu, just enough to explore a little and to visit Pearl Harbor. Standing over the USS Arizona was one of the most humbling experiences of my life, a reminder of sacrifice and the fragility of peace. Most of our time, though, we spent on Maui, letting ourselves rest, reflect, and simply be. We drank matcha at Maui Matcha and coffee at Akamai Coffee, savoring each cup not just for its flavor, but for the pause it gave us.

Hawaii closed this chapter of the journey with grace. For Kelly and me, it was more than just checking off the last state of Part 2 — it was about beginning our empty-nest years with intention, with a reminder that adventure and discovery don’t have to end just because our parenting role has shifted. The Pacific Northwest, Alaska, Hawaii — they were less about geography and more about spirit. They whispered the same truth that Steinbeck once wrote: we don’t take a trip, a trip takes us. And this one has been taking me farther than I ever imagined.