If there was ever a time Americans needed a vacation, it was the
1970s. Nearly everyone had a good reason to pack up their station
wagon or VW minibus and leave it all behind. The gloomy conclusion to the war in Vietnam had sent morale plummeting, while race riots taking place across the country kept tensions high. Unemployment and inflation skyrocketed and remained elevated so long that economists had to coin a whole new term for the phenomenon: stagflation. All the term really meant was that although the seventies also gave us great new things like backyard hot tubs, home VCRs, and countertop microwave ovens, fewer people could afford them. The pressure of making ends meet also helped push the traditional nuclear family into meltdown. The number of divorces filed in 1975 doubled that of a decade earlier. Couples who did stay together had fewer children. The U.S. birthrate plunged to its lowest level since the Great Depression—half that of the baby boom years. Even the government appeared to be falling apart. Just years into the decade, first a vice president and then a president were forced to resign amid allegations of corruption—and hardly anyone placed much faith in the officials who remained. Not even a night at the movies offered much escape. In keeping with the sour mood, many popular movies of the seventies centered on disasters, demons, and dark conspiracies. Audiences were trapped in The Towering Inferno or booked on a doomed flight in any of three Airport movies. If you avoided being swallowed up by the ground in an Earthquake, you might be devoured by the Jaws of a great white shark. The Exorcist offered a hell of a fright. And if the devil didn’t get you, the government would, even if it took All the President’s Men. If you somehow managed to avoid all that, you could still be subjected to Linda Blair shaking her booty in Roller Boogie. It’s hard to say which fate was most horrifying. Things got so bad that Americans tried just about anything to find relief, from joining the Moonies (a controversial religious movement blending teachings of many faiths nicknamed for its founder, Sun Myung Moon) to disco dancing to learning to macramé. They were desperate times indeed. All things considered, it isn’t surprising that many people, including my parents, decided the best plan was simply to sit out as much of the seventies as possible at some distant beach, historic battlefield, or theme park. Anywhere but home. Despite the flagging economy, Americans continued taking vacations throughout the seventies in record numbers, just as they had since the close of World War II. Thanks to two decades of prosperity, increasingly generous terms of employment, and broader acceptance of the benefits of taking time off from work, more Americans than ever before were able to escape the daily grind, if only for a couple of weeks each year. In fact, 80 percent of working Americans took vacations in 1970, compared to just 60 percent two decades earlier. As a result, attendance at national parks, historic sites, and other attractions surged 20 to 30 percent every year until 1976. Only then did the decade’s second major fuel crisis force many families to pull the plug on their trip to see Old Faithful or halt their march to the Gettysburg Battlefield. To reach these far-off places, my family, like most others, traveled by car. It wasn’t that we enjoyed spending endless hours imprisoned together in a velour-upholstered cell, squabbling over radio stations and inhaling each other’s farts. It was that we had no other choice. Air travel had always been too expensive for anyone not named Rockefeller or traveling on the company dime, much less a pair of middle-class parents taking four kids to the beach. Adjusted for inflation, a domestic plane ticket in the seventies cost two to three times the price of the same ticket today. Given the cost, it shouldn’t be too surprising—and yet still is—that as late as 1975, four in five Americans had never traveled by plane. Not for a weekend getaway to Las Vegas, not to head off to college, not for a once-in-a-lifetime honeymoon in Paris. Never. Although ordinary Joes couldn’t afford a plane ticket, nearly every family could afford a car, often two. If there was one thing America was very good at, it was producing automobiles. Following World War II, American car factories needed only to do some quick retooling to go from churning out airplanes and tanks to cranking out cars faster than ever. And thanks to a booming economy, Americans could afford to buy all those shiny new cars as fast as they rolled off assembly lines. By 1972, the number of cars on the nation’s roads exceeded the number of licensed drivers (inviting the troubling thought that many cars were simply driving themselves around). What’s more, Americans loved to get behind the wheel. During the 1970s alone, Americans logged 14.4 trillion highway miles—enough to travel from Earth to Pluto and back 2,500 times. To be sure, most travelers selected closer destinations, as there are so few decent hotel options along that route even today. My family alone was responsible for approximately 1 trillion of the miles logged by travelers in the seventies. At least that’s how it seemed to me: as the youngest of four kids, I was the one relegated to the backseat, rear window shelf, or rear cargo compartment of a series of fine American automobiles purchased by my father over the course of the decade. Together, we toured the country (well, half of it, anyway—we rarely traveled west of the Mississippi) in week-long journeys taken two and sometimes three times a year. We were hardly pioneers, of course. By the time we got rolling on our family road trips, Americans had already been beating a well-worn path to the Grand Canyon and sunny beaches of Florida for more than half a century. But for much of that time and in many areas of the country, the routes those motorists took were often little more than dirt tracks. Even in populated areas, drivers often had to pick their way through a confusing maze of privately owned turnpikes and poorly constructed two-lane highways built simply to connect one town to the next. It wasn’t until well after World War II that America got serious about making long-distance road travel fast, safe, and convenient. That’s when the country began rolling out the first of its mighty interstates, the so-called superhighways. The interstates were marvels of a modern era, unlike any roads Americans had traveled before. These high-speed highways weren’t narrow and hemmed in by trees and tall buildings. They were wide and broad-shouldered, with huge swaths cleared on both sides to invite in sunshine and blue sky. What’s more, they were elevated well above the surrounding terrain, affording drivers and passengers a panoramic view of the landscape. Perhaps the most remarkable thing about the interstates was the way they instantly made the country seem so much smaller. Suddenly it was possible to travel from one state to the next and even one coast to the other in a fraction of the time it once took. Places many Americans could once only read about in newspapers or see pictures of in magazines were now all within reach, given a reliable car and enough cash for fuel. What’s more, the whole family could come along. In an automobile, four or five people could travel nearly as cheaply as one. Making things even nicer for my family, many of the interstates had been around long enough by the 1970s for an ample number of restaurants, gas stations, motels, and other conveniences to sprout up along their sides. By and large, we could count on exits with such services at regular intervals, allowing us the opportunity to fill our tank, grab a bite to eat, or rush in to take a quick potty as needed. At the time, my siblings and I took all of these things for granted. It seemed like they’d been around forever. Of course, we were young. Compared to us, it all had been around forever. The reality couldn’t have been further from the truth. Like any destination worth reaching, it took considerable time and effort to make everything that went into those great road trips possible. It took the relentless determination of a long list of pioneers to plan and build the roads, highways, and interstates that allowed my family—and maybe yours too—to motor across the expanse of our country and go anywhere we pleased. It took the raw courage of a handful of daredevils to blaze the trails those road builders would follow. And it took the boundless ingenuity and quirky ideas of a long list of clever innovators and dogged entrepreneurs to create what we remember and think of today as the Great American Road Trip experience. After all, somebody had to be crazy enough to be the first to try to drive a car across the country. Somebody had to chart the first road maps, open the first motel chains, and cut the first drivethrough window into the side of a hamburger joint. Somebody had to come up with nifty gadgets like the police radar gun (boo!), the Fuzzbuster (yay!), the CB, cruise control, and the eight-track tape deck. Somebody had to decide it was just fine for precocious sevenyear- olds like me to roam around the car—and even sprawl out across the rear window shelf—completely unrestrained. Somebody had to create the first station wagon; then somebody else had to come along years later, look at a perfectly fine brand-new design, and say, “You know what that model needs? Some fake wood paneling on the sides!” So who were these somebodies? Where did they find the inspiration for all these ideas? How did everything we remember and love about those great road trips come to be? And why don’t many families seem to take those long road trips together anymore? Make yourself comfy. We’ve got some serious ground to cover along the seldom-traveled back roads of America’s history. Fascinating stories await.