I packed up camp, amped for the day ahead. I grew up in North Carolina, I've lived in Oklahoma, and I've seen the states in between them before. Today though would mark the start of all new terrain, the part of the journey I had been looking forward to the most during my planning days. It was an excitement that filled me with a renewed sense of adventure.

Barely minutes after setting out however, I was forced to stop for a herd of cattle standing stubbornly on the road. I waited for a moment, studying them and wondering how skittish they were or how protective of their young they might be. I chose to test them, inching slowly towards them. One or two looked at me, but most stayed concerned with whatever keeps a cow’s interest. I moved closer still and the cows, unbothered by my presence, shifted slowly to let me pass. Their indifference felt like a fitting welcome to the slow rhythm of this region.

I rode through the seemingly abandoned highways of New Mexico, with only the occasional tumbleweed bouncing across the road to remind me of life in this desolate place. It was a world apart from the structured city life I’d left behind in DC, almost like a scene from a movie. Once the pavement ended, I half expected to see John Wayne galloping by on horseback.

Eventually the pavement returned and I found myself climbing through winding roads that followed the contours of the Cimarron River, the landscape once more shifting dramatically around me. Tall pines and sheer cliffs lined the sides of the road, resembling something more akin to Colorado than New Mexico.

The next morning, I found myself facing a more immediate issue—my tires were wearing down fast, particularly the rear. The weight of all my gear and the long stretches of straight highway had taken a toll. I headed for Santa Fé in search of a replacement, certain that the city was large enough that there'd be a place with a set of tires in stock. But luck wasn’t on my side, and the Yamaha/KTM dealer I found didn't have anything in my size, forcing me to come up with a Plan B: Albuquerque. Once again, being able to adapt to the situation and keep the plan flexible proved to be the key to the journey.

In Albuquerque, I stopped at a BMW dealership. They had tires that would fit—Michelin Anakee 3—but they couldn’t install them for another few days. Frustrated but undeterred, I followed their suggestion to try a Triumph dealer nearby. Finally, some good news—they had time to install the tires that day, but I had to figure out how to get the tires there myself. With the tires strapped awkwardly to the back of the bike, I wobbled my way across town, grateful the distance wasn’t farther. Unfortunately, the mishap of the day came when I realized my tent, which had been dangling too close to the exhaust, had melted. Another casualty of the trip.

While waiting for my tires to be installed, I took the opportunity to test ride a new Triumph Tiger 800XC. It was a thrilling machine, smoother and more powerful than my Scrambler. For a moment, I wondered what the trip would have been like with a bike designed for these kinds of adventures, but deep down, I knew that part of the thrill was doing it on the bare-bones Scrambler. It wasn’t built for this, but that was part of the challenge—part of the story I would take back with me.

With new tires finally installed, I picked up a replacement tent at a nearby REI, packed everything up, and set off again. The road out of Albuquerque, Route 550, led me through towering mesas, their red rock formations standing stark against the blue sky. After a stop for dinner, I arrived at Navajo Landing State Park, my campsite for the night. The lake shimmered in the fading light as I set up camp. I cooked a simple meal and settled in, ready for the next part of the journey.

The following morning brought clear skies as I packed up and began heading toward one of the most iconic points of the trip: the Four Corners. I had seen plenty of tourist attractions along the way, but there was something special about standing at the meeting point of four states. I snapped a few obligatory photos and continued on, eager to reach Valley of the Gods. As I crossed into Utah, the landscape began to change again, and I was greeted by towering buttes and mesas. The gravel road of Valley of the Gods wound through some of the most awe-inspiring terrain I had ever seen. Alone on the road, with only the sound of the wind and the distant call of birds, I felt an overwhelming sense of solitude and peace.

I found a spot to set up camp and sat in the fading light, watching as the stars slowly began to emerge. The vastness of the sky here was unlike anything I had ever experienced—millions of stars, more than I had ever seen in my life. As I lay in my tent, the cold night air seeping in, I found myself thinking about Alyssa. Even in her absence, her presence was strong, guiding me through the more challenging moments. The decision to propose, made in the Smokies, felt even more certain now. Each day brought me closer to that moment, and each mile reminded me of why I wanted to spend my life with her.

The next morning, I left Valley of the Gods behind and crossed into Arizona, descending into Monument Valley. It was a surreal experience, the massive buttes rising like sentinels from the desert floor. Despite the grandeur, I found myself oddly more captivated by the quiet beauty of Valley of the Gods from the day before. There was something about the solitude, the feeling of being completely alone with the land, that resonated with me more deeply.

After a quick stop in Page, Arizona, to replace some batteries and pick up a rain suit, I made my way to Zion National Park. Words failed to describe the beauty of Zion. The towering cliffs, the winding roads that twisted through the canyons—it was unlike anything I had ever seen. I forced myself to keep riding, knowing that if I stopped to take photos, I might never leave. Zion was a place that demanded more time than I could give, but it left a lasting impression.

That night, I stayed in Springdale, a small town nestled just outside the park. I found myself wandering the streets, soaking in the charm of the place. As I passed a rock store, I remembered Alyssa’s request for a souvenir from the trip, and I found the perfect stone to bring back to her. As I sat at a local brewpub, I reflected on how far I had come, not just in miles but in the journey itself. The city life of D.C. felt a lifetime away. This was something entirely different—wild, unpredictable, and freeing.

The following morning, I reluctantly left Springdale, wondering how much more impressive my next destination, the Grand Canyon, would be just as awe-inspiring. The road twisted and turned through the landscape, the desert giving way to towering cliffs and deep canyons. The wind howled as I rode through stretches of open highway, the tumbleweeds once again rolling across my path. I played a little game with them, dodging or letting them hit my legs as I cruised toward the next adventure. It was moments like these, small and seemingly insignificant, that reminded me how much this trip had become a part of me.

By the time I reached Peach Springs, I was exhausted but excited. The next day promised a day of white-water rafting through the Grand Canyon—a new kind of adventure. Yet, when I woke the next morning, I was met with disappointment. The weather had taken a turn, and the rafting trip was canceled due to snow. It was a strange sight—snowflakes falling lightly on the Arizona desert. But I wasn’t ready to let that dampen my spirits. I rescheduled the trip for the following day, allowing myself a much-needed rest.

The Colorado River rushed beneath us, the rapids crashing against the sides of the raft as we navigated the wild waters. The towering canyon walls rose on either side, and the roar of the river drowned out everything else. It was a visceral experience—one of those moments where you feel completely alive, completely present. Water sprayed across my face, soaking through my rain suit, but I didn’t care. I was in the heart of the Grand Canyon, and every second felt like an adrenaline-fueled dream.

There were calm moments, too, where the boat glided through the quieter sections of the river, giving us time to take in the sheer scale of the canyon. It was humbling, to say the least. The canyon walls rose so high above us, their colors shifting from deep reds to oranges and browns as the sun moved across the sky. It was one of those places that made you feel small in the best possible way—reminded you of how vast and powerful the world could be.

At the end of the day, after rafting down miles of the Colorado, we were lifted out of the canyon by helicopter, the ground falling away beneath us as we rose toward the rim. The view from above was breathtaking—an endless expanse of rugged cliffs and winding rivers. The Grand Canyon truly lived up to its name.

At the end of the day, after being airlifted out of the canyon by helicopter, I walked out onto the Grand Canyon Skywalk, a glass bridge suspended over the canyon. Looking down through the transparent floor, the drop seemed infinite, the canyon walls falling away into the abyss. There were no photos allowed on the Skywalk, so I stood there, taking in the view. The Grand Canyon stretched out in all directions, a reminder of just how far I had come. As I looked out over the canyon, I thought of Alyssa again. The time was coming, and with each new adventure, I felt more certain that she was the one I wanted by my side for all the journeys to come.