When I was 12, my family piled into a Honda Odyssey and headed west for a summer exploring the national parks. That trip changed my life. I tasted the freedom of the open road and experienced the wonders of America’s wild places. I was hooked.

Last August, I set out on an expanded version of that adventure, seeking to spend 10 months visiting all the national parks in the contiguous United States (I made it to 45 of the 47). I hoped the trip, which I chronicled on a blog, chasingcairns.com, would teach me more about wilderness, America … and myself.

I knew I would learn from every moment and every mile, but only if I paid attention to what was happening around me. So I adopted a series of daily practices — I called them my “roadtripology rules” — to force myself to be as deliberate as possible about the trip.

This might seem paradoxical. Aren’t road trips supposed to be as spontaneous as possible? Of course. My rules sought to enhance spontaneity by making sure I noticed it when it happened. They made a big difference for my trip, and they should work for other travelers as well.

Drive the Speed Limit

I had no room in my shoestring budget for speeding tickets. More important, I wanted to take my time. Speed limits in the national parks are notoriously conservative, often ranging from 10 to 30 m.p.h. in popular areas. Drivers racing along at 55 m.p.h. gawking at El Capitan or Half Dome endanger wildlife and people alike.

By following posted speed limits, I detached myself from the compulsive urgency so often associated with long-distance road travel. I set my cruise control and avoided the passing lane. In doing so, I experienced the freedom to focus. I no longer worried about catching the taillights up ahead. Instead, I channeled my energy toward appreciating the world around me.

Whether cruising through the autumn foliage of the Blue Ridge Parkway or passing beneath towering sequoias in Kings Canyon, I rarely felt the temptation to accelerate. I made peace with my pace, accepting that I would get there when I got there.

 Learn Where You Are

The parks are full of stories. They include the early struggles to protect the sublime wonders of Yellowstone and Yosemite, and the slower recognition that the quieter beauties of the Everglades and Congaree were also worth preserving. They include controversial actions to dispossess rural farmers of their land in Shenandoah and the challenges of making Mesa Verde’s Puebloan kivas accessible to tourists in a respectful way.

To find these stories, I tailored my audiobook and podcast selections to focus on the place or region through which I was traveling. In Arches, that meant listening to Edward Abbey’s tales in “Desert Solitaire” about his seasons working in the park. At Gettysburg, Michael Shaara’s “Killer Angels” honored the ultimate sacrifice of so many soldiers. (I also visited dozens of national historic sites on my trip; Gettysburg was one.)

I also never missed an opportunity to explore park visitor centers, talk with rangers and watch introductory films. My ranger-led tour made the labyrinthine passages of Wind Cave in South Dakota tell stories I never would have heard on my own. In the Great Smoky Mountains, a little extra time in the visitor center led me to spectacular waterfalls far from the beaten path.

Taking 45 minutes to do this at each park gave me a historical, cultural and ecological foundation unique to that area, and enhanced everything I did there.

Use Paper Maps

In the age of Google Maps, the spirit of adventure can be sidelined by blindly following the seemingly omniscient blue line on the glowing screens in front of us. When I permit myself to follow that blue line, I sometimes lose track of where I am and forget the bigger picture. I was not going to let that happen on this trip.

From Day 1, my trusty National Geographic Road Atlas rode shotgun. Its colorful pages tempted me with side trips at every turn, and never led me astray.

Without that atlas, I would just have headed south after leaving Death Valley for Los Angeles. Instead, the map guided me north toward Manzanar. What I found there surprised me. Formerly a World War II internment camp for Japanese-Americans, this deserted landscape in the Owens Valley was a stark reminder of the stories we often choose to forget.

It was one of the most memorable detours of my entire trip, but the blue line of a digital map would have ignored it.

Meet Someone Every Day

I tried to connect with someone every day: a handshake here, a hug there and conversation everywhere. These interactions helped me understand the many reasons people visit and care about the national parks — reasons often quite different from my own.

At each park, I listened to personal narratives of solitude, tradition, adventure, family, spirituality. A restaurant manager from Santa Barbara, Calif., sought scenery and serenity in Yosemite. A climber in Joshua Tree came looking for a home and a challenge. No two stories were alike.

Though we often think of a park visit as a solitary experience, there is so much to be gained from sharing it with other people. Groups of travelers come and go, but you can find community if you take the time to look, and you should.

This brings back memories of car camping with my parents when I was growing up. Over the years they owned a succession of station wagons…

I never would have found the Chasm of Doom if I hadn’t introduced myself to the climbers camped among the boulders of Hidden Valley. As we squeezed beneath the rock and lowered ourselves into cracks, we experienced a different side of Joshua Tree. Gone were the wide horizons and desert heat. In the Chasm, claustrophobic shadow ruled.

See a Sunrise and Sunset in Every Park

I knew I could take years to fully explore the national parks. I didn’t have that kind of time.

Instead, I vowed to spend at least two days in every park, observing it in as many ways as I could: rain or shine, dawn to dusk. I chose to take my time, knowing that each moment I lingered would deepen my experience. I made time for the unpredictable.

In Saguaro, I watched an unexpected dust storm blow in under the brutal heat of the midday sun. One night at Great Sand Dunes, I surfed dark waves of sand under the brilliant light of the Milky Way. In Glacier, I snowshoed through frosty pines while fresh snow immediately erased my tracks.

I did not necessarily seek out these experiences. I just made sure I had time to take them in whenever a park offered them.

Engage All Your Senses

So much of what we find in the national parks seems visual by default: It’s what we go to see. We’re always on the lookout for something new and sublime. But making the visual our priority can blind us to the depth of multidimensional reality.

By employing each of my senses, I expanded my understanding of the world around me. I savored the unadulterated waters of Lake Superior. I felt the sweat on my palms as I gripped the chains on the precipitous hike up Angels Landing in Zion. I listened to the ever-shifting drone of insects in the Everglades. I sniffed the stale, earthy air inside Mammoth Cave.

Avoid Interstates

William Least Heat-Moon was definitely on to something when he decided to travel the “blue highways” of America. I too found myself drawn to the local roads that take their time meandering.

Interstates rush straight ahead, a kind of travel I wanted to avoid. Local roads reached the parks just as effectively, and also encouraged me to visit farm stands up and down the East Coast, to chat with a cafe owner in a small town just outside Crater Lake, and to feel tiny and alone amid the endless valleys of Nevada.

Go Where Tourists Go. And Where They Don’t.

Every park has its famous highlights: Mather Overlook in Grand Canyon, Cadillac Mountain in Acadia, Big Room in Carlsbad Caverns. Tourists flock to such places, and are right to do so. They are undeniably glorious.

But I wanted also to explore places that don’t make it into many guidebooks. These were often where I found myself confronting what felt like the deeper realities of a park. I spent a night shivering all alone at the bottom of Black Canyon, humbled by the raw power of the Gunnison River beside me. In Grand Teton, I sat silent in the Chapel of the Transfiguration, meditating on its picture-window marriage of natural beauty and spirituality.

In these moments I felt personally connected with a place. Sharing views from the rim of the Grand Canyon with thousands of other travelers leaves a powerful impression, but I will never forget my 28-mile solo hike along the Tonto Platform, far below the crowds on the rim. As the shadow of the setting sun spread across the parched sea of blackbrush before me, my footsteps and breath fell into pace with the warm canyon winds. For those nine hours, I knew there was nowhere else in the universe that I should be.

Vary Your Pace

I spent much of the last year traveling at 55 m.p.h., and grew accustomed to life at that speed. But I also relished any opportunity to slow down.

Early on, I traveled over 500 miles across most of Michigan in just one day. Later, on California’s Lost Coast, I hiked just over five miles in a day. During an extended rock climb in Arches near the end of my trip, I think I traveled a couple hundred feet in eight hours.