The road trip movie, starring Mother Nature

It is Spring Break, and it is time to run away from winter. The car's fuel tank is full, and it is packed with exponentially more stuff than anyone can possibly need, or use, over the course of the next 10 days. A left at the end of the driveway and we are on our way to Florida. The destination is Anna Maria Island. The distance is a mere 1,250 miles. The car's navigation calculates the drive-time at 18 hours. My wife calculates the drive-time as forever. I love to drive, especially when it involves vacation. My wife hates to fly. Our transportation selection seems pretty perfect. But it's not. For some unspecified reasons, some states along our route have decided that the Spring Break period is the perfect time for road construction. Perhaps the logic is to irritate drivers to the point where they will make a forced stop and spend money. The support of this theory is that most of the construction zones are free of workers, and these workers are, in turn, hanging out in their neon safety vests at the local Buc-ees. (It was later revealed that Buc-ees employees who work outside also wear neon vests!) It also appears that other people coincidentally decided to head south at the same time we did. Thus, there were, give or take, approximately 85,743,008 other cars on the road. Applying the assumption that we were all operating our own vehicles by the same set of rules, this should have just led to a little bit of … let's say … congestion. It didn't. It led to Interstates being turned into linear parking lots and hands becoming fatigued from repetitively working the car horn. Strangely, it also led to those same tired hands being employed to perform a hand gesture that seemed to tell every other driver that they were number one. So, what were we to do? Certainly, cell phone battery power and overall reception can create options to pass the time. Also, music streaming services can occupy your time and easily make the last mile seem like it only took 3½ minutes. The real show, however, lies outside the car and beyond the pavement of the road. It lies in the change of scenery, and the change in scenery can be dramatic when you are traveling from the eastern deciduous forest to the semi-tropical climate of Florida. Ever since I was young, I have called it the "Onboard Movie." The little rolling hills of the North transition into mountains that require miles to climb or descend. Some are so large and ill-positioned that a tunnel is required to get to the other side. (Once while climbing into the West Virginia mountains, the snow line that seemed so high above us ended up being so far below us.) The northern portion of Florida has a slight roll to it that eventually gives way to some of the flattest land to be found anywhere. Its flatlands are pocked with lakes and all too many canals. Some portions of the hilly country required giant cuts through the mountains. Exposed on each side were the bones of the hill. Layers of sedimentary rocks dominated in horizontal rows. Except in one area in Tennessee where they stood perfectly perpendicular. What was the awesome force that caused this? Plant species certainly change over time. We always look for the first sighting of Spanish moss or of a palm tree. More than that, though, is how the northern push of true spring weather creates zones of tree blooms. Our favorite is redbud. Upon reaching the Ohio River, the redbuds were blushing. In Kentucky, they were in full bloom. In Tennessee, they had faded and their leaves were out. In Georgia, the bloom was over, and the leaves had expanded to full summer size. Of course, all of this was apparent in the lowlands. At high elevations, the bloom was delayed. Flowering dogwood, a tree that competes with redbud for springtime attention, was surprisingly delayed. Its bloom was further south. Wildlife also changes, although its presence is most often revealed from the still bodies that line the edges of the highway. Sad as it seems, white-tailed deer were most notable in Ohio. In several southern states, it was obvious that coyotes were not looking both ways before crossing. (No, there are no roadrunners or Acme retailers along this route!) The nine-banded armadillo showed up far south, but my attempts to see a live one along the highway's fence line fell empty. Raccoons were well-represented everywhere. Turkey vultures were common up north, but equally joined by black vultures down south. Swallow-tailed kites were surprisingly common in Florida, and cattle egrets littered the cow pastures. Northern mockingbirds darted and called for attention among the host of other southern specialties and a whole host of northern migrants. A couple of anhingas soared overhead and a three-some of white ibises landed on a residential sidewalk as if to say, "You're in Florida now!" The car's external thermometer also added to the trip. We started at 42 degrees and ended at 89. Thus, the hopeful act of starting the trip in shorts paid off. (As luck would have it, the temperature held as we returned north.) (And then it snowed two days later!) Tomorrow is Earth Day. Usually, I ask people to participate in Earthwise activities. How about just spending a portion of the day looking around at the incredible planet that we are privileged to live on, and maybe on your next road trip you can focus on watching the onboard movie. It's there just beyond the Buc-ees billboards. I promise!