Seven years ago, in 2002, my then-girlfriend and I decided it was time for us to live together in my Seattle apartment, and we took a Pacific Coast Highway road trip to move her lipstick red Saab from San Diego to Seattle.

Four years later, in 2006, I decided to leave my career in Seattle, and I asked my brother Brian, his girlfriend Beatrice, and my best friend Brad to join me on a road trip in my silver BMW to Los Angeles on Pacific Coast Highway.

Three years later, in 2009 (last week), my friend Erin decided to leave her job in Seattle, and I agreed to help her drive her purple Toyota on PCH to her new life in Southern California.

Pacific Coast Highway -- actually a combination of US Route 101, California's Highway 1, and Mexico Route 1 -- takes travelers on a dramatic journey from the top of Washington's Olympic Peninsula to the southern tip of Mexico's Baja California, traveling through diverse terrain, from temperate rain forest to arid desert.

But PCH is unique not because it simply facilitates North American latitudinal travel -- lots of speedy highways through boring countryside make that possible. PCH is special because the people driving it aren't there just to change locations; the road is too slow for that. PCH is the kind of highway people take when they need an unhurried transition to a new life.

In 2002, even as my girlfriend and I insisted that we were completely ready to leave San Diego, her always concerned parents insisted upon loading our car with additional healthy snacks and guidebooks. We humored them by excitedly chomping on carrot sticks as we prepared for a separation both symbolic and literal. After some emotional goodbyes, we set out toward the motion sickness-inducing stretch of PCH through Big Sur, California's most beautiful section of coastline. Slowly but surely, we navigated the twists and turns of our first long road trip together, stopping at viewpoints to flirt while overlooking the ocean.

The Prospect Cafe and Trophy Room

Meanwhile, in 2006, Brian, Brad, Beatrice, and I gathered on my Seattle condo's deck for one last look at the Space Needle and a quick breakfast of chai and blueberry coffee cake. Terrified to leave an almost-perfect life that I loved just to try something new, I was thankful that my friends were there to take the trip with me. When I walked out of my home and locked the door behind me for the last time, I had an urge to simply make a quick run to the grocery store and then return home. Fortunately, my friends ushered me into the car, and with the strong feeling of having left something important behind, I drove with them out of the city.

After a quick stop at famous Powell's Books in Portland, the four of us took a detour inland away from PCH to visit Crater Lake, Oregon, one of the purest and bluest mountain lakes in the world. We hiked on a ridge high above the crater, and though Beatrice repeatedly insisted she had seen bluer lakes in South America, Brian, Brad and I were floored by the overwhelming azure hue of the US's deepest lake. Too high above the water to throw buzz-killing Beatrice into the crater, we stared into the sapphire abyss, hypnotized. Though the soothing vista helped calm anxieties about my future, I couldn't help but think of the collapsed Mount Mazama volcano that lay just beneath the blue water, still sporadically discharging molten lava.

Eventually, we hiked back down, and after staying overnight at a tiny motel in Prospect, Oregon, we ate blueberry pancakes under stuffed bears and deer nailed to the walls of the rustic Prospect Cafe and Trophy Room (imagine the synergy!). We inspected the Oregon Keno game cards on our table, and we weren't sure if our inability to understand them was due to our being too stupid or too smart. Seattle already felt far away.

Meanwhile, in 2009, I flew from my home in Los Angeles to Seattle to meet Erin and begin our road trip. After a bittersweet visit with my old friends and coworkers, I watched Erin say teary goodbyes to her best Seattle friends, as I had done with my friends only three years before.

When she finished, I wanted to take a look at the condo I still owned that I had left so reluctantly in 2006. I felt strangely surprised when my key unlocked the front door, and inside, I found everything eerily unchanged since the day I left. My photography lined the walls, my furniture filled the apartment, and the condo's view of the city was as impressive as it was the day my friends and I had our final, lingering breakfast on the deck. The condo let me time travel to my old life. When Erin and I finally walked back out and I locked the front door, I again felt reluctant to leave. I half-hoped we were only taking a quick trip to the grocery store.

This time, though, I had to play the role of the encouraging friend designated to keep the trip on track. As we drove south toward Los Angeles, Erin looked back and said goodbye to her life in Seattle. Then, I too said goodbye, for the second time.