I need a direction, a destination, and an adventure

Wanderlust

by Becky "Human Map" Baumann

We are on the precipice

of a panic attack searching for an escape

from the stress and anxiety that has relentlessly assaulted

our nervous systems for the last twenty-two years.

It is only 1,646 miles to Montana.

We will forsake the GPS device in favor

of the decades old atlas that has lived undisturbed

under the passenger’s seat of the station wagon I used to loathe.

And when we embark we will listen repeatedly to my Nico CD because

her voice sounds as disoriented as we feel.

And we will drive North to Wisconsin, which will look

just like the corn-covered central Illinois we are running away from,

but we will not be disappointed because we will see it

through the exhilarated eyes of explorers. And we will venture straight

West through the land of 10,000 lakes, steering clear

of the obvious shortcut through North Dakota because you understand

my fear of falling face-first into a Fargo wood-chipper.

And we will drive towards the bison and bare beauty of the black hills, but

we will ignore the overrated, underwhelming

tourist trap that is our beloved Mt. Rushmore.

And we will climb to the tops of the glacier-glossed mountains

of Montana and discover that we have not nearly reached

our destination.

It will be an adventure—and we know all about adventure

because we have read Hemingway and London and Kerouac

and we will be delighted when we realize

we are leaving confusion and nonsense behind

on the road of self-discovery, which winds its way

through the Americana we had previously tried to avoid

—and we will decidedly overlook the cliché of it all.