I spent 9 years in ministry and burned out completely (about section for more). I gave everything I had to it. I loved it. But somewhere along the way, without realizing it, I gave every part of myself away and lost the thread back to who I actually was.
Every summer I'd tried to rest had made things worse. All second semester I'd been sneaking away to a quiet building on campus in the evenings — not to work, not to produce anything, just to sit and plan this trip. Hours of genuine excitement looking at photos and dreaming about places I hadn't been. Then everything fell apart with my buddy.
What followed was 40 days of — for the first time in a very long time — actually being able to enjoy something. Fully. Without turning it into something else. Life happening in the midst of it.
I walked up to the rental counter and they told me they didn't have the car I'd booked — the cheapest one they had, a Kia Rio. I said "Well.... you did guarantee me this price." She didn't argue, didn't flinch, just handed me the keys to a convertible and moved on to the next person.
That convertible went 7,985 miles over 40 days. Big Sur, Banff, the southwest all with the top down!
Not a bad start.
Highway 1 · California
The first thing I remember thinking was: there's a place like this in America? How had I not seen this? I was recording videos constantly trying to capture something I genuinely didn't have words for. Every turn on Highway 1 opened up something bigger than the last.
From Big Sur I made my way up to Monterey and did the 17-Mile Drive. That's where I first saw Cypress Point Golf Club. One of the most beautiful golf courses I'd ever laid eyes on. I would drive up and down streets just trying to find a spot to look at the holes.
I told myself — one day I want to play that course. What I didn't realize was that Cypress Point wasn't just beautiful — it was one of the hardest golf courses in the world to get on. Years later, a friendship that started in New Zealand would somehow make it happen.
Yosemite National Park · California
It's hard to describe the feeling of driving through the Wawona Tunnel and seeing Yosemite Valley for the first time — the dark pines, the 3,000-foot grey granite walls of El Capitan, Half Dome, and the misty 620-foot Bridalveil Fall cascading off the mountain. I'm pretty sure my mouth was just open. The kind of view where you keep cycling through the same phrases — wow, unreal, amazing, what the heck — because nothing better comes to mind. I must have said "wow" twenty times. You genuinely can't help it.
When I got to Taft Point, I was blown away by how massive the drops were — you press up to the edge and the floor just disappears. I was alone, but I couldn't pass up the classic ledge photo. A stranger agreed to help, so I handed over my camera and sprinted a hundred yards across the ridge to the overlook while they waited. I also ended up spending most of the hike up Yosemite Falls with someone I'd met only a few minutes earlier. Yosemite was incredible, but sharing parts of it with people I met along the way made it even better.
San Francisco · California
My college roommate had moved to SF a few years earlier and I stayed with him one night — great to reconnect with someone from that chapter of life. My brother flew in the next day and my buddy took us on a proper local tour: his uncle's multi-million dollar apartment with a view of the whole city, the Waller Street Wiggles, Palace of Fine Arts, Fisherman's Wharf, Pier 39, the Golden Gate. One of those perfect city days where everything works because you have a local tour guide who actually knows the place. My brother and I drove the Golden Gate, took some photos, and then pointed north toward the redwoods.
Northern California
Are we in Lord of the Rings? The red bark, the green ferns, the sheer scale of the trees — you stop trying to process them and just walk through. We had the convertible top going up and down constantly as the rain moved through the northern section, this beautiful rolling weather where you'd get five minutes of sun and then it would drizzle again. Neither of us ever got tired of adjusting it.
Fern Canyon was its own world — 50-foot walls of fern on either side, fallen trees bridging the creek, boards laid over the water. A little hidden paradise. Camping under those massive trees and seeing elk for the first time was an experience I'll never forget.
Oregon
We woke up at the hotel to find the whole street locked down — a parade was coming through and nobody had warned us. Car wasn't moving until 2pm. They gave us 50% off the night plus a free lunch for two, so we were totally fine with it. We enjoyed the parade, grabbed lunch, and headed to the nearby rose garden to kill the time. Afterwards was the real reason we came — the Columbia River Gorge. The view from Crown Point Vista House, then the old scenic highway where you pull over at five waterfalls in eight miles, the last being the epic Multnomah Falls. So green and lush. We were a little later than we should've been, but hakuna matata.
Washington + British Columbia
Got to Seattle on a Sunday, went to church, then walked Pike Place Market — eight years since I'd been there with my family, and watching them launch fish across the room felt exactly the same as I remembered. Ended the day at a Mariners game. Then north to Vancouver — a quick stop in one of my favorite cities in North America. Beautiful, walkable, great energy. We didn't stay long, but I always love being there.
British Columbia · Alberta · Canada
You start in the lush, green coastal mountains of British Columbia — deep forests, winding roads, waterfalls everywhere. Then gradually the trees start to thin, the peaks get bigger and more jagged, and the water in the rivers turns these impossible blues and greens you've never quite seen before. By the time you cross into Alberta and the Rockies come fully into view, you're somewhere different. The drive itself is the destination — don't rush it.
Banff is still in my top three places on earth alongside the Swiss Alps and the Amalfi Coast. Walking up to Moraine Lake for the first time, looking out over Peyto Lake from Bow Summit, driving the Icefields Parkway with the top down, mountains in every direction and stopping at waterfalls along the road — it all felt almost too beautiful to be real.
But what I remember most is the grizzly. We spotted a mother grizzly and her two cubs just off the Parkway and pulled over to watch. As we sat there in silence, she slowly worked her way toward us, grazing with her cubs until she was maybe ten yards away. My brother quietly slipped the car into drive, just in case, but she never paid us any attention. For ten minutes we had front-row seats to one of the wildest scenes I've ever witnessed. It remains one of the best experiences of my life.
From there we continued north to Jasper. A few days later my brother flew home out of Calgary.
Waterton Lakes National Park · Canada
My brother had just flown out of Calgary, and for the second time on the trip, I was solo. I rolled into Waterton Lakes at 11:38 p.m. It was dark, raining, and I had absolutely no plan for where I was going to sleep, the feeling ominous. I found a campsite and started setting up my tent in the rain sometime after midnight. By then everything was wet: the fly, the tent, my gear. I finally crawled inside, thinking I was gonna be ok. Then the wind showed up.
My brother had left me with his giant six-person tent, and as the gusts started hammering it, I felt like I was in a tornado. I finally had enough so I bailed, threw everything in the trunk, slammed it closed and BAM it hit me — my keys were in the trunk.
In Canada. In the rain. After midnight. All alone. Without my contacts in.
I found a covered shelter to try and sleep until sunrise where I paid international roaming charges so I could call a locksmith. While I waited, a guy wandered over and thankfully gave me some food. To this day, I have no idea what he looked like because I couldn't see a thing. Eventually the locksmith arrived, got the car open, and rescued me from my stupid mistake. That morning I hiked up Bear's Hump and the view was beautiful. What a time in Waterton Lakes ha!
Montana · The one that got away
The Going-to-the-Sun Road hadn't opened yet for the season, the hikes I'd wanted to do were closed because of bear activity, and it was raining. I was determined to see something, so I drove as far as the road closure allowed and started walking up the road in the rain. My only respite were the tunnels, but it didn't matter — I was completely soaked and cold. I decided to call it. Glacier National Park — fail. I never really saw it.
Jackson Hole, Wyoming · (Technically Driggs — funny that I live here now)
A buddy of mine, Tom, lived in the area, so I based myself with him for ten days. This stretch of the trip had a completely different rhythm. Instead of constantly moving, I fly fished on the Snake River with some of his friends, hiked, watched a drive-in movie, helped build out his new garden, ate at his favorite spots, and did all the local things. After sixteen straight days on the road, the change of pace was refreshing.
I also spent a few days exploring Yellowstone and the Tetons — not knowing that one day I'd end up living there. Then my childhood best friend flew in, and the trip picked up speed once again.
Pat flew in and we decided our Teton adventure would be the Cascade–Paintbrush Canyon Loop — 20 miles over two days with a night in the backcountry. An audacious goal for a couple of Georgia boys. The rangers warned us about snow on the trail, but that only made me want to do it more. It felt like they were trying to convince us not to go. Don't tell me I can't do something I've been dreaming about for months. We rented ice axes from Dornan's, picked up bear canisters neither of us had ever used before, and headed into the mountains.
The first part was exactly what we'd imagined — alpine lakes, towering peaks, and endless views. The higher we climbed, though, the less trail we saw. Eventually the route disappeared beneath the snow and we were left guessing where it went. Neither of us had ever hiked on snow before, and we wandered up the canyon until we spotted a set of footprints ahead of us. We called them "angel tracks" and followed them up the mountain, picking up bits of trail whenever they emerged from the snow. By the time we reached Paintbrush Divide it was after 9 p.m. and we were exhausted. We were nearly to the top when a 20-foot snowfield completely covered the trail. It was too exposed to cross safely. We'd spent so much time navigating the snow that we'd nearly run out of daylight. So we turned around, dropped a thousand feet, pitched camp in a grassy meadow below, and hiked out the next morning.
On the way down we ran into a ranger heading up the canyon. We asked where he was going. "Paintbrush Divide," he said — it was going to be their first crossing of the season and they were roping up to clear the route. The rangers hadn't even been up there yet. We felt like absolute beasts.
We didn't make the Divide, but somehow that news felt almost as good as making it. Two Georgia boys, a pair of rented ice axes, and a new badge of honor.
Utah
Bryce Canyon surprised me. I'd expected it to be cool, but I hadn't expected it to feel like a different planet. Coming through Wall Street and emerging into a maze of hoodoos with the sun setting behind them, I genuinely felt like I was walking through a Star Wars set.
Then came Zion, which is still one of my favorite places in the United States. The best way I can describe it: imagine the Rocky Mountains, except somebody painted the cliffs red and orange. The contrast between the deep green trees and the towering sandstone walls is just striking. It's one of those places that doesn't quite look real, even when you're standing in it.
Havasupai · Arizona
During those hundred hours of trip planning, I came across a photo of Havasu Falls in National Geographic and couldn't believe it was real. The water looked like something out of the Caribbean, not the middle of the Arizona desert. Permits were notoriously difficult to get, but on a whim I called to see if there had been any cancellations. There had. Even now I feel lucky that happened.
We made the long 10-mile hike through the canyon heat with all our gear, camped for the night, and spent the next day wandering downstream from waterfall to waterfall, swimming and exploring in that ridiculously blue water. It felt less like Arizona and more like some hidden tropical oasis tucked away in the desert. Along the way we met a couple in one of the swimming holes. We ended up hitting it off and spent the day exploring together, including the Grand Canyon and the slot canyons that followed.
California
Pat flew out of Las Vegas and I drove up to Sequoia for one last national park. Then it was back down to LA to spend the final day with friends. We went out to dinner that night, ordered Jarritos, and for some reason my buddy Casey and I still bring that up whenever we talk.
Day 40 didn't really feel that strange. By then the road had become normal. Driving six hours didn't feel like a big deal. Finding a place to sleep didn't feel like a big deal. Changing plans, getting lost, figuring things out as I went — it had all become routine. There wasn't really anything left on the list. I'd seen almost every place I'd spent those hundred hours researching. Almost every stop I'd circled on the map.
Somehow the trip had become real life, and then real life was about to start again. Before heading home, I recorded one last video like I had every day along the way.
"Today is Day 40."
Looking back, I don't think the trip restored me overnight. It took years for that. But it did remind me of something I'd forgotten: God had created me with desires, curiosity, wonder, and delight — and those things weren't selfish.
For nine years I had become very good at doing what was needed. The trip helped me remember what I loved.
Years later, three simple phrases emerged:
Life is Fun.
Life with People.
Life Advancing.
Looking back, I think all three were already there. I just needed forty days and 7,985 miles to start finding them again.
Part of the Odom.Wild story
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