16.

Two Termini
The Beginning Is the End Is the Beginning Is the…

Various of the Interstates make it all the way across the continental United States, but none with the single-minded mono-directional elan of I-10.

From Jacksonville to Los Angeles, in 2,419 miles, Interstate 10 goes across the country as close to arrow-straight as you could hope for. Sure, there are some odd squiggles along the way. Approaching New Orleans, the highway makes it southerly loop down and through the city. One can imagine Old South politicians, back in the 1950s when the routes were being set, demanding that, by God, New Orleans would get a real Interstate highway. It did. But for drivers who don’t want to do the loop, the builders conveniently provided a straight-across section (called I-210).

Then there’s the bizarreness that happens in Phoenix, a stretch of several miles where you’re actually going due north-south.

Otherwise it’s generally zip-zip-zip eastward or westward, revealing vast transcontinental panoramas along the way, from the pine forest of northern Florida, through various levels of swamp and sizes of bays across the South. Then you come to Texas, with its eastern, forested coastal plain, followed by miles of fertile, gently rolling farmland, into the southern Hill Country, whence into the beginning of the great American deserts, with mesas and purple mountains and often nary a fence in sight. Lamborghini drivers get a 600-miles break from west of San Antonio almost to El Paso where the speed limit is 80 mph. Then comes New Mexico and the lonely, barren continental divide, and down into Arizona and the endless sentinals of saguaro cactuses, and mostly barren mountains and rock formations rich in color, shape, and texture. Then the Mojave where Route 66 used to warn people about having enough gas and water to make it across but now of course with modern conveniences at every exit. Soon enough you plunge into the busy edges of the Southland, first in the rich green patches of artificial oases like Palm Springs, then the mini-inferno of the so-called Inland Empire, and finally Los Angeles proper (or improper, depending on your view). But that’s not where I-10 stops. After sweeping right through the heart of the beast, with blurred visions of Blade Runner imprinted over downtown, the highway presses on and on.

Finally comes a last hill. Up you go and everything stops, including Interstate 10, at Ocean Boulevard in Santa Monica. There you sit, at the first traffic light in 2,419 miles. Straight ahead, just across the street is a statue of, well, St. Monica her own self, perched on that remarkable cliff, below and beyond which stretches the pacific Pacific.

Coming up that hill, to that stoplight, with that view opening before you is one of the great moments in Interstate driving. Indeed, there’s nothing like it.

The contrast with the eastern terminus, in Jacksonville, is striking and revealing. There I-10 stops at a T-intersection with I-95. No drama, no sudden gasp of surprised delight.

Which of course says volumes about Florida vs. California, indeed about East Coast vs. West Coast.

The Peaks of Otter continues >>

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