Ever since Merriwether Lewis and William Clark set foot on the far banks of the Mississippi River, Easterners have known that life is different in the West. From the vast expanses to the varied ways of life, the land explored for the first time by non- Native Americans 200 years ago ushered in a new epoch in world history.

For those reasons and more, seeing the West should be at the top of any U.S. traveler's to-do list. That we, as runners, are privileged to explore the mountains, plains, and urban areas first-hand via our feet is enough to make me eager to plan my next trip toward the setting sun.

And that's after three recent trips west, to Arizona, the Rocky Mountains, and southeastern Alaska. Vacations present opportunities to relax, learn, enjoy-and run. Some may have a hard time understanding how ramping up one's mileage away from home can be reconciled with more typical away-from-home goals, but those who pound the pavement will forgive me for describing my trip through the soles of my training flats.

'I Feel Just Like a Cowboy'
Visiting the Southwest can feel paradoxical because the culture can't seem to decide whether it lives in air-conditioned high- rise condominiums or in sawdust-floor bars that open onto dusty streets. Arizona embraces elements of both, but runners tend to find themselves more at home in the latter.

Perhaps it's because we're so in need of hydration that the bars seem more welcoming. Because-as if anyone could forget-it's a dry heat out there. Moreover, shade is a precious commodity and sun block is de rigueur. In the summer, when temperatures regularly reach triple digits, early morning or after dark are the only viable times to run.

Since I visited Tucson in the early spring, the weather was nearly ideal-warm, dry, and unceasingly sunny. The landscape has a similarly static quality, but I never tired of the rolling, dusty soil dotted with anthropomorphic cactuses that seemed to salute passers-by with wry good humor. After five days, the ubiquitous sunshine did begin to get on my nerves-probably just too harsh a contrast with my natural disposition-but the brown hills and those inscrutable cactuses provided an endless source of imagination and amusement.

I happened to be in Tucson during one of that city's iconographic races, the Run Through the Pass. A late afternoon start did little to ease the heat, and the local pre- race ritual, aside from a few perfunctory striders, was an effort in appropriating what little shade was available. I commented on the profusion of anti-sun worshippers while stretching with my friend Randy in the shadow of an SUV. "Welcome to Arizona," he said.

The race-two miles up a mountain and two back down-ended in Old Tucson, a faux Western town movie set where the post-race barbeque was held. Once the sun set, temperatures plummeted toward their desert lows, but a full moon rose, illuminating the craggy landscape like, well, a Western movie. I felt ready to kick off my boots and stretch out by a campfire.

"I know," Randy said as I gazed dumbstruck at the oversized moon. "You feel just like a cowboy."

But soon enough we were all shivering in our running togs, so we rounded up our posse and skedaddled to one of those seedy Southwestern bars, where we passed around pitchers of beer.

Bad, Bad Lands
Driving through the Badlands of South Dakota a few months later provided an altogether different experience. But running among the peaks and valleys of the otherworldly rock formations was a 10-miler I'll never forget. Early French trappers called the area les mauvaises terres a traverser. It's all that and more. Once I left the RVs and day hikers near the parking lot, a loosely marked trail was the only sign of life for miles. Park rangers warned of rattlesnakes, prairie dogs, and even bison, but in that moonscape I would have been less surprised to see a pterodactyl swoop out of the sky to the booming accompaniment of Stravinsky's The Rite of Spring.

Because I ran in the middle of the day, the unrelenting sun seemed to starch every geographic feature. Towering spires, fathomless gorges and endless plateaus looked made of sand, ready to crumble against a strong wind or disintegrate in a rain that seemed unlikely to ever fall. As the afternoon wore on, shadows cast the land in a whole new light, full of depth and color. I couldn't help but worry just a little about what would happen if I became dehydrated or disoriented and didn't find my way back. I remembered the zebra kill I had seen one day in Kenya, and how three days later all that remained were the sun- bleached bones.

Southwest Passage
Much less adventurous was traveling on a cruise ship from Seattle to Juneau. About the worst that can happen during such a light-duty tour is a bout of gout from an excess of fine dining, or, for the more active, cutting short a second run to make it to the 8:00 PM dinner seating.

Running at sea usually means running on a treadmill-the outdoor "tracks" are impractically small. But the on-board gyms were nicely appointed and the chance of sighting a large water mammal helped keep me on my toes when the to and fro of the ocean swells prove insufficient. In port, however, when most of my fellow travelers browsed tourist shops for tchotchkes and souvenirs, the chance to explore on foot even the fringes of the 49th state beckoned.

Southeastern Alaska is a misty, fecund area of rocky coastlines, not very different (or very far from) from the Pacific Northwest- an area good for running and a stark contrast to my experience in the Desert Southwest. It didn't take many miles to leave small towns such as Juneau and Skagway behind and find myself in a beautiful but eerie solitude.

But I'm not so much of a misanthrope that I didn't quickly wonder how those folks managed, not so much without urban amenities and conveniences, but in such extreme isolation. At least in Tucson civilization (in the form of Phoenix?) is two hours away. Even South Dakota, which is in many ways more remote, is part of the contiguous United States. But along the Alaskan coastline, it's a plane trip to Seattle or Vancouver.

Sure, the small ports of call are cute, quaint, etc. But living there? I'm sure those hardy residents would scoff at the notion of living in Washington, DC, much less in our cookie-cutter suburbs. Regardless, I hope they'll reciprocate my visit to their state; shrinking the world via travel is the world's oldest and perhaps best form of diplomacy.