2/7-8: Cancun to San Cristobal-Mexico Real

Regrettably, there are areas where we as Americans have utterly failed. Public transportation is one of them. When Americans think of Mexican buses, they think of sweaty, overcrowded, chicken-filled, mechanically questionable jalopies lumbering down underdeveloped, bandit-filled roads. While I’ve heard they do actually exist, the general stereotype is horseshit. Settling in aboard the Cristobal-Colon coach bound for San Cristobal, I thought of the South African woman I shared an overpacked Greyhound with in ‘08. She found American buses disgusting, the customer service appalling, and put the blame squarely on Greyhound’s virtual monopoly. Although Cristobal-Colon is a Mexican second-class line, it’s one of several to choose from and in direct comparison, Greyhound is clearly the cattle car company in the conversation!

Santa Fe: Watching the Wheels

People say I'm crazy doing what I'm doing,
Well they give me all kinds of warnings to save me from ruin,
When I say that I'm o.k. they look at me kind of strange,
Surely your not happy now you no longer play the game,

People say I'm lazy dreaming my life away,
Well they give me all kinds of advice designed to enlighten me,
When I tell that I'm doing Fine watching shadows on the wall,
Don't you miss the big time boy you're no longer on the ball?

1/27: 2010 Launch- Viva El Perro Sucio!

The ONLY reason Greyhound still conducts business is because it's a monopoly. Every year, they find new and astounding ways to baffle me with what I believed to be futility. I've since realized that "futility" is not the right term. They just don't fucking care... they don't have to! Why has this company been granted National Bus Line status? More on this latest vulgar display to come...

9/19-21: Portland, San Diego, Santa Fe

The ferry ride to Seattle was surreal. When I called Shalain and gave the all-clear to purchase the ticket, it finally hit me that this intense phase had ended, and it a couple days I'd be back in familiar surroundings, being mauled by my cats. Nagging regrets lingered, but I was OK with it. I was mentally spent, needed a break, and would see some interesting (and new) parts of the country on the way.

Wendie's predictions were in fact accurate. I got to see some of the city, albeit from the backseat of a cab, and was surprised at how much I actually liked it, reminding me a little of both San Francisco and Denver. The $8 cab got me to Seattle's shithole Greyhound terminal with 45-minutes to spare, and before I knew it I was nestling into a window seat on a nearly abandoned 1:15 bus and riding right back down I-5 toward Portland. I had honestly hoped that I would meet some interesting people, but all that was offered was another backpacker... with a demeanor that made me want to beat him. Rather than petty violence, I settled for my Mp3 player. Following stops in Tacoma and Olympia, I found myself back in Portland for a 90-minute service layover.

Portland felt much different from this vantage point! As I crossed the Willamette into the western section of downtown, I gazed at the river and laughed out loud at the realization that only a week ago, I was boating beneath this same bridge with Andre. Now, I was re-entering the city less a conquering vagabond- via the least glamorous mode of travel I could think of other than the back of a patrol car! It was quite odd! Despite my time there, this was the first I'd seen of the bus station, and was rather impressed: it was the Taj Mahal compared to Seattle! Clean. Modern. Didn't smell like pee. I considered calling some of my new friends while I was there, but it felt like overkill. What was we going to do with an hour? I settled for a short walk, a pack of cigarettes, and putting a charge on my phone. Leaving Portland on I-5 south took me within sight of the Oregon Yacht Club, and Andre's house. I hopped across the aisle to take one last look at the floating home, the Master Craft, and the spot that had held so much intensity the previous week. Believe it or not, it was more nostalgic than August when I retraced the route I had traveled in Idaho more than a year ago.

The sun sinks early out west, and soon enough I was sleeping the rest of the birthday away. Aside from a quick stop in Eugene, the rest of the night... and most of the trip to LA... was the standard Greyhound experience. We passed into California and I remember hearing an announcement for Redding but didn't bother to open my eyes, let alone get off the bus. Sacramento was my first transfer, early Sunday morning, and being spoiled by the empty vessel ended abruptly with this over packed Los Angeles express!

Central California is nothing to fawn over, however once you get near LA and begin crossing the mountains, it becomes quite gorgeous. The western side of the California mountains (the areas that will be swallowed by the Pacific) have always exceeded my curiously low expectations... with the exception of the Los Angeles cesspool. As we passed through Hollywood, I began to see familiar, iconic sights and signs... like the Capitol Records building and Melrose Place. Now, that's some culture!

The 3-hour LA layover was the part of this particular bus trip I was dreading! The last time I bused through LA was when I was 14. We had all of our luggage stolen from the downtown terminal during the layover. I naturally assumed (since it was Greyhound) that little had changed and we were headed back there. I was pleased when we bypassed downtown altogether and pulled into what can only be described as a "compound" on the south side of the city. The terminal is the most secure I have EVER seen, complete with cameras, fencing, razor wire, automated bus gates, and a security checkpoint that is closer to airports than Greyhound... which generally has NO security whatsoever. The LA station was quite nice after all!

The highlight of the ride same in San Diego and was a nice elixir for the mental upset I had experienced about ending this early. I finally got to meet my friend Amber. I had called after leaving LA, told her my bus was stopping for a short time, and that if she was free it would be great if she stopped in to the bus station so we could finally meet face-to-face. Amber happened to be downtown having dinner, and walked in shortly after the bus arrived. It was nice to see an actual face, and we quickly discussed possible, theoretical travel ideas down the road. I was curious to see if the vibe was the same in person as it had been via Couchsurfing and email. Indeed it was, and the possibilities of someday traveling with her seemed encouraging. San Diego and I seemed to agree with each other. It was one of the last cities that I had never seen, and wanted to. Although I didn't get a chance to explore, I liked what I saw and want to return... soon!

Sunday ended on an interesting note in Calexico, California which, as you can no doubt guess by the name, is ON the Mexican border. I assumed we would get within a mile or two, but the stop was literally within sight and a stone's throw of the checkpoint. Looking for ways to entertain myself, I took a small amount of joy in that I had essentially gone ocean-to-ocean and border-to-border since April. This little side trip was also practical & useful because it was quite close to the Salton Sea, Niland, CA... and Slab City. Chris and I have discussed The Slabs numerous times as a possible joint-destination over the winter and this gave me a chance to see the landscape first hand for the first time. I was also privy to numerous Border Patrol ID checks. Along I-8 and I-10 close to the border, Border Patrol will stop the bus, come aboard, and demand immigration papers/ ID. They also pull random luggage from beneath the bus and let their dogs go to work. In addition, the highway was blanketed with Border Patrol SUVs shining spotlights into the desert hunting illegals. It was a bizarre experience, but in retrospect should have been expected.

Soon after Tucson finally came New Mexico, and Las Cruces for my final transfer and the last 200-miles up I-25 to Albuquerque. I slept the entire way, but only after learning my father was nearby in Alamagordo on vacation with his RV. I found it richly ironic that someone I had never met before would meet up with me (Amber), but my own father wasn't approachable. It was a quick, bitter realization, but an important one. I believe that book finally closed for good when I came up with a new moniker for him: Ward. As in Cleaver. Daddy of the Year!

From Albuquerque, I caught the New Mexico Rail Runner commuter train for the last 60+ miles to Santa Fe. This was the first time I had ridden it and highly recommend it to anyone traveling from Albuquerque to Santa Fe. Greyhound had appeared to eliminate their stop in Santa Fe, but I was happy to wait the extra hour to take the train! We later discovered that the bus still stops here, but there are no schedules listed on their website. That's fine, maybe having to take the train to Albuquerque will keep me off Greyhound and out of Denver?

I finally arrived home at around 6:30pm on Monday, 52-hours and a world away from Seattle. What happens next was anyone's guess but along with quiet, yet frantic decompression, the preparation began almost immediately.

8/17- 18: Denver to Gillette

Following a couple of false starts and a Craigslist Misfire, Greyhound finally dumped me in Denver Monday evening. I had gotten an email from another Craiglister, but by the time Eric had picked Chris and I up, there was no more contact with him.

Stepping off, it seemed that this stay in Denver would last either 8- hours, or a full day until the next bus heading my way left. Chris had made arrangements for me to stay with him at Loreli's if the ride flaked out, so we went to hang out with Eric at the Candle Light Lounge for a few beers and 7- months of catch up. Eric had read about Dennis in the Denver Post prior to my write-ups, so much of our time was spent discussing each of our particular insights and what living his particular life must have been like. As always, we later began discussing society, politics, and governmental uselessness as the beer settled in.

I learned that Eric had nearly drowned while rafting the Colorado River over the summer, and the experience had quite an affect on him. It seemed to put the notion of fear into perspective; he pointed out that he's no longer "afraid of much." The most basic of human conditions is survival, and once you experience something like that, it can't help but snap priorities into focus. Funny how fear has bubbled to the surface as a recurring theme.

Eric had to work Tuesday morning, so Chris and I walked to the Alameda Denny's to chat over coffee and see where we were after 5-weeks. It turned out to be one of our more remarkable conversations. This supposed month of "doing nothing" had instead been an intense period of reflection and realignment for him as well. Much of the conversation centered on each of us boiling our evolving ideas down into something easier to convey. We also noted how we had been able to incorporate tangible experience to both alter and expand them. I wish I could easily explain that process, but I can only invite you to re- read about Randleman, Ciel, Pat, Kim, Mike, and others. Suffice it say that analog eyes work much better than the digital ones and, for insight, this beats the hell out of anything on CNN.

This condensed stopover in Denver was quite nice on many levels, and served a nice purpose as a place to reset and launch forward. I obviously never heard from Rideshare #2, thus Tuesday was spent chatting, being entertained by Loreli's daughter, Izzy, and waiting for the bus to leave at 6pm.

Before I knew it, Eric had dropped me off, and I was back on the bus riding thru Ft. Collins and then into Wyoming. Cheyenne and Casper came and went, and I was quickly learning that my hopes of a good night's rest were futile. That would play a significant role Wednesday.

The bus dropped me in a cold, wet Gillette, Wyoming a bit after 5am and I was thrilled to learn that the stop was actually a functioning station. I organized my now- disorganized pack and caught some precious sleep before stepping off into unfamiliar territory again at 8am, and for the first time since late May in upstate NY.

7/12: Nebraska to New Mexico- Inga

Back at the bus station, it was a familiar waiting game. I sat there in relative silence, smoking occasionally and trying to tolerate the kids running unattended through out the place. The young woman from earlier was still there with her pile of luggage after returning from a trip to the same coffee shop Chris and I had visited. We didn’t speak until the bus was almost ready to board and when it was obvious she was clueless as to which bus she was to board. To her credit, the customer service in Omaha was typical Greyhound: shitty, and having no less than six full bags did not help her, so I offered some help finding out along the way that she was taking the same bus I was, toward Denver, or her way to Oregon.

Once on the 9pm bus, we sat across from each other and began chatting. Inga was 24, and counter my assumption that she was either moving or homeless, I learned that she had actually been hitching… with all that shit! I was amazed. She had begun in Oregon, and hitched a series of rides, primarily with truckers all the way to New Hampshire where she had apparently been beaten up by one of her rides when she refused to have sex with him. Inga told me that the trucker had left her some place she could not remember (sounded like Philadelphia) only remembering that the police had let her sleep at the police station, saying that if she stayed there, she would end up dead. She went on to tell that her next ride had promised to take her all the way home, where she hoped to see her kids, but dropped her at the bus station after buying her a ticket after another coital- refusal had led to arguments across Iowa. When I told her that we had been at the Iowa 80 that week, she laughed and said she remembered seeing us sitting there when they themselves had stopped there. I instantly remembered the arguing couple I had vaguely noticed, realized it had been her, and had to laugh myself.

Inga’s story was rather pathetic. She had been married and had children, but after her separation had apparently gotten involved in dealing. Through some now- lost chain of events, she had lost custody of her kids and there had been a raid at her home leading to the arrest of two Mexican- connected suppliers. She told me that the police had told her that if she cooperated there would be no charges, but instead she chose to hit the road. Her ex- husband had no interest in letting her see her kids, and she had no idea if there were warrants waiting for her when she got home, saying only that the all- familiar ID checks had turned up nothing while she was gone.

It was an interesting ride to Denver. We sat in the back of the bus looking at pictures, chatting, and half- watching Wild Hogs on the Trailways DVD player. She had quite a different demeanor on the bus than she had given off while sitting silently at the terminal. She became quite talkative, seeming grateful for the fact that our new companionship was shielding her from the other men on the bus. That became more apparent when we stopped around 1am for dinner, and she became visibly irritated at the amusing (to me!), lewd comments!

She told me she was planning to head off again, to wherever, after she had gotten a clear indication of her situation in Oregon. I wondered to myself about how this would all play out, if it were all true, and of course about her kids. The people I have met, rather they are traveling or not, usually have a narrative that needs its final chapters written. We all have a story; I figured this was hers and it was not my place to judge. We began to chat superficially about re- connecting when I got to the Pacific Northwest, and sharing the trail for a bit. It would obviously be easier for me to get rides with a cute, young blonde in tow, but the notion of being a truck stop bodyguard did not exactly appeal to me!

We eventually dozed off waking at about 7am Sunday to the familiar sights of the I-70/ I-25 interchange in downtown Denver, then my old friend: Coors Field. My layover was two- hours while Inga’s was nearly five, so we spent the next 90- minutes drinking coffee, smoking, and chatting. Chris’ train had been an hour behind schedule, but he did indeed show up just as I was getting ready to board the Americanos line to Santa Fe. We chatted briefly as I introduced them, and left those two to chat as I headed south. I was interested to hear Chris’ take on Inga knowing that I was probably much able to relate with her background than Chris may be.

Settling into the Spanish- speaking Americanos bus, it occurred to me that I had missed these sorts of characters you meet on the bus. One of the coolest rides ever was to Asheville, NC in 2005 when I met a bonafide philosopher AND a couple who were practicing dumpster diving/ road kill eating anarchists, all within 10- minutes!

I managed to stay awake thru Pueblo until the lack of sleep over the last few days hit me with a hammer. I slept all the way to Santa Fe, and in fact almost missed my stop. Americanos drivers speak little English, so I barely deciphered “Santa Fe” as I awoke shocked that I had slept all the way through. Shalain picked me up a few minutes later, and I was finally able to exhale a bit and begin to enjoy a much- needed, extended interlude.

The next few weeks, while not inspiring for aspiring travel writers, would hold narratives of their own. The remainder of July into the beginning of August would be a smooth, quiet, roller coaster of introspection, plans, ideas, and one particularly shocking, disturbing development that would unexpectedly shake me to my core, and demand a fundamental re- evaluation of priorities, place, and purpose.

7/11: Parting Ways in Omaha- Te Nosce!

Dirk’s appointment was at a wedding reception held at a hotel downtown, literally just a block from the bus station. He was running late after all the trouble of the day. Chris volunteered to help him unload the photo booth while I arranged to get my ticket to Santa Fe. Once done, the only things left to do were pick up my ticket, swap food and gear, and kill the nearly 4- hours until my Trailways departed toward Denver. There were just two other people inside the station, one of which being a pretty, blond 20- something woman carrying so much shit I assumed she was moving! Chris and I sat down, made the exchanges, then decided to go try to find a coffee shop where we could relax, chat, and probably reflect on things that had happened and were to come.

Chris had made some very telling comments since we had left Dirk behind, including that he was debating staying in Omaha for a day or two, or hoofing out into the Nebraska countryside for a few days. These were the same suggestions I had made in Iowa, so it was apparent that I was part of the problem for him. Chris needed to get away from me… and knew it. He was polite enough not to say it so many words, as is his way, but I completely understood the words between the words! The funny thing is that I had the same thoughts before purchasing the ticket. There was a sense of missing an opportunity in Nebraska, but deep inside I knew I just had no resources left. While the notion was toyed with, my subconscious took over and drug me DIRECTLY to the metaphorical (and real) ticket counter!

A security officer directed us a few blocks toward Omaha’s “Old Town”, which reminded me a bit of Denver’s LoDo. Omaha surprised me in the sense that this area was quite nice, and there were quite a few people walking around the re-developed area that consisted of mostly renovated warehouses. After some searching, we did find an acceptable place to drink shitty, sour- tasting, hippie coffee, and chat. We put out feet up on the table, settled into the comfortable seats and relaxed. The realization that this phase “trip” was ending had begun to become apparent and the correlating elephant in the room. We chatted about a few of these things, but it was not one of our typical brainstorming sessions. We reflected on the fact that, in addition to the many positive things we had ourselves experienced, we probably had a greater positive effects on others than we could see; affecting others silently through Brian’s “mirroring.” Yes, this coffee shop had a feel of reflecting back on something that had just ended rather than that of “taking a break.” It was perfect. As we left, we made our way to a corner convenience store where Chris would make his way toward the Amtrak station, and I would return to await my Trailways.

This was it.

By now, Chris had all but abandoned the idea of venturing off into Nebraska, so we made “plans” to meet at the Denver bus station, since the California Zephyr was due to arrive at almost the exact time as my bus. We shook hands, took a goofy picture, and walked off in separate directions. This was the moment Phase I, which began for me on April 13th, ended in my mind. I was now stepping into something different, and had NO idea what that was; there were no guarantees that Chris & I would be traveling together again.

The events of Friday were still weighing heavy on my mind. I had time to reflect while riding across Iowa, and it began to sink in that I not only wanted a break, it was imperative. As was a corresponding ego check of my own. It had become obvious that the mental wear of Michigan had simply been too great for me to recover by simply sitting at a truck stop, or even in the woods or on the side of the road. I chastised myself for being so judgmental of Chris the day before but at the same time, I could see where it had come from. I was mentally flooded and exhausted; had lost the ability to see things clearly and, more importantly, from another point of view. The self- absorption had become so all- consuming because I needed to direct most of my mental energy inward, STILL trying to come to terms with June. I had a lot of new information, and now needed to categorize and compartmentalize it, then look outward. Any distraction from this imperial priority was going to be a source of frustration, regardless of WHOM it involved. I needed the perspective that can only come from familiar surroundings viewed through these different “lenses” to see exactly how familiar sights had changed.

As I sit here and write these over 2- weeks later in Santa Fe, this is not exactly my proudest moment and I confess I considered glossing over Friday and its causes all together to keep it “clean.” However, the name of this blog itself means “Know Thyself” and attempting honesty and authenticity with yourself is hard. Honesty and authenticity are not always easy. They are not always flattering. They MOST definitely can be quite ugly and, if you are willing to share them, sometimes reflect poorly on you if you are true to how they happen. We are human! However, these unflattering and sometimes painful experiences are ultimately the pains of growth. Knowing that, I chose to hopefully set a small example of action as opposed to empty self- righteous blather and let you digest how you see fit.


Vitam… Impendere… Vero.

7/7: Iowa

Once nestled in on the bus riding west along I-94, I finally began to decompress. Chris was right in the sense that it was time to move on, and the reality that we were leaving Michigan began to provide the perspective I had been craving. Reflecting back on the previous month seemed a bit easier; the common "forest through the trees" effect became quite clear. Sometimes it’s hard to appreciate the events of the day until the day has ended. Someday, I will learn that lesson and more importantly, be able to apply it.

The ride to Chicago was typical, except for a quick stop in Gary, Indiana where I noticed that the flags were at half-staff. I quickly realized that this was the day of Michael Jackson’s memorial. Looking around Gary, I wasn’t sure why they were honoring him with the flags; he obviously had not “given back” much of his fortune to THIS community! Chicago’s attraction to so many is still an enigma to me, and I was happy that we were there for a quick 90- minutes. Chris and I spent $10 too much for a couple of nasty sandwiches, and were quickly on the bus that would take us over the Mississippi again.

By now, I was really looking forward to getting back to what I consider the west. The Kalamazoo cop had again reinforced just how much better things “feel" out here. People leave you alone. They treat you with much more respect. It’s hard to explain, but I don’t feel as though I am in competition with everyone else, or considered a cash- cow. The pace of life is slower, and folks don’t seem to have the same, hamster- on- a- wheel priorities. Their lives and families somehow take precedent over their jobs and bills. It is refreshing, and they seem genuinely happier with lower blood pressure as those in places like Detroit and Chicago! Articulating this is hard, but I have heard it a million times. People from places like Montana, Idaho, Oregon, Colorado, the Dakota’s, and New Mexico have asked me a hundred times, “How could you stand to live out east?!?” After living in the Mountain West for nearly five years now, I have no answer for that. I just didn’t know any better.

I slept across the Mississippi and during our quick stop in Davenport, we learned that the bus not only got us close to the Iowa 80, it actually stopped there. We had been hoping this was the case, and were quite happy to think that we would be dropped off at 1:30 am in rural Iowa, at what’s billed as the “World’s Largest Truck Stop.” Chris and I had each immediately thought of this place when we discussed Iowa. He had been there, and I always made a point to stop on my numerous trips home while doing radio in Des Moines & Waterloo during the late 90’s. Shalain and I had also stopped here in 2005 where I had taken a picture of me with the sign. One I was SURE to duplicate! I got a kick out of the thought that this journey was bringing me back here.

It was a great feeling disembarking the bus, stepping into the late Iowa night, and looking around at our new stage. This was Iowa! Walcott to be precise. The bus had stopped at the smaller Pilot station across the little road that takes you to Prairie View and Walcott. We were quite the sight to the other Dirty Doggers. This was their meal stop and, judging by the looks, they must have been wondering why two backpackers were getting off… here. I confess I had missed the feeling of being a spectacle! I got a picture, and then quickly arranged the pack before we crossed the road to the Iowa 80.

The Iowa 80 looked smaller to me than I remembered, probably because it was nighttime and I could not see how expansive it really was. That would change with daylight but right now the priority was food. We were starving, and they had a 24- hour diner. We went inside, sat down for coffee, and before we had a chance to breathe, we saw a glimpse of what our stay in Walcott would hold. Enter Jess.

Jess is a rather attractive 20- year old who works as a server in the diner. It was by now nearly 2am, the place was nearly deserted, and we were laughing, interesting characters, so she naturally took an interest in us. She asked what we were up to, listened to our stories, looked at our pictures, and asked us if we had come for the “Trucker Jamboree” that happened to be Thursday and Friday. We had no idea what THAT was but, after looking at some of the pamphlets, it seemed interesting. If the weather was good, perhaps there would at least be bikini tops? Chris and I were both exhausted and borderline ecstatic. All the drama of the previous weekend had seemingly dissipated long before Indiana had arrived, and it seemed that we were back in our element. The vibe at the Iowa 80 was welcoming and, if Jess was any indication, we were going to enjoy this place!

The Iowa 80 Kitchen was the perfect spot to begin. We ate like sloths, enjoyed the endless stream of coffee from Jess, and began to toy with the notion that we may just hang around and investigate this well- timed Jamboree. Country singer Aaron Tippin was performing a free concert Thursday evening, so that was sure to draw a crowd, and this was the perfect spot to hitch a ride west making it less urgent to try. If we failed, we had Photo Guy presumably coming through Friday. In short, we did not HAVE to do a damn thing. The irony of this new attitude, particularly after the previous weekend, was not lost on me.

5am approached before we decided that sleep might be a good idea. We had yet to scope things out, so we strapped on the packs and hunted trees in which to hide. No such luck. Nothing but fields, fields, oh, and a few more fields. It's Iowa! After a few minutes, I reverted to last year: interstate exit ramps. Inside a small grove of trees between the ramp and I-80 itself, we found a perfect spot. As the sun began to rise, I finally fell asleep quite happy with my new digs, and free from the mental spider web I had been tangled in only 24- hours earlier.

Forest through the trees, dumbass…

7/7: The Gestapo Comes to Kalamazoo

Chris decided to leave early to walk the 3- miles to the Kalamazoo Greyhound station, while I opted to wait to see if Brian came home. True to form, Brian returned maybe 10- minutes after Chris had left and we both had a chuckle at his impatience. Five weeks now, and these 10- minutes are just unbearable? Brian agreed to drop me off, and after a quick good- bye chat with Joey, who was still at work, we were off to find Chris and get our tickets. We found him huffing down W. Main, and after quick hugs, we got our tickets and propped ourselves outside for the 45- minute wait for our bus to Chicago.

As I was sitting outside smoking, a Kalamazoo bicycle cop rode up and let me know that “Smoking is prohibited at the Kalamazoo Transportation Center. Do... you… have… ID?” he asked rather sheepishly.

Here we fucking go again!

I had checked before I had lit- up to see if there were signs posted. As I looked again, I confirmed that the no smoking signs were ambiguous at best, cleverly hung to imply that it was prohibited INSIDE the building, while there was nothing beneath the area where the buses board; where we were sitting. As I was pulling my I.D., I asked sarcastically if it had occurred to anyone to make the smoking policy, you know, clear?

After he called in my stats and discovered that I was indeed warrant- free, he astoundingly decided to confirm my suspicion: this is intentional! An excuse to give these equivalent of rent- a- cops, who apparently can't be trusted with cruisers, the “probable cause” they need to ID anyone criminal enough to be smoking a cigarette! He confidently declared that I could have been a “murderer from New Mexico” for all he knew and that he had “arrested 167 people this way over the last year alone!” Using this pathetically veiled “Papers Please!” method? I could not believe my ears. A bicycle cop was actually bragging about his own personal implementation of a pseudo- Police State in Kalamazoo, or at least the parts he could pedal to!

The cops in Maryland and Tennessee had at least been smart enough to conceal their true motives, although they were no different than this guy's. This "cop" then acted a bit indignant, offended even, that I would question his tactics suggesting that I act a bit more “professional” (compliant) from now on and carrying himself as though I were lucky just to have had my privacy violated and not to have gotten a ticket to boot. A ticket I SURELY would have dragged his ass into court over.

As Goering- on- a- Bike peddled off reminding me of Reno 911's Lt. Dangle, I was of course steaming. I cannot believe what this country is becoming; how even the most basic right to privacy is being butchered in the name of an illusion: “Fatherland Security”. While Chris had typically been less offended than I, even he was dumbfounded at this brazen display of Fascism, asking repeatedly "Did he REALLY just say that?" For a state that's hemorrhaging it's population like a hemophiliac, I found this stunning on multiple levels. This was the perfect sendoff, and I was thrilled to finally be re- crossing the Mississippi that night.

PS: While Stalin would have been proud of their enforcement of the "smoking policy" and "Paper Checking," there was absolutely NO security when it came to loading baggage beneath the bus!

None.

Go figure...

July 4th: Storm Brewing at Brian’s

Brian and Joey immediately shuffled us off for dinner when we arrived back in Kalamazoo, and calm- exhaustion set in as I gorged myself at IHOP. I had been eating everything, at every opportunity, for the past week still freaked out by the weight loss I had experienced in June! The feeling of calm contentment I felt that Friday night was a nice, but short- lived reprieve. This was not going to be the relaxing weekend I had hoped.

By Saturday, I had begun to notice a pattern between 2008 and 2009. It was the 4th of July and as with last year, this was a transition point. I had gotten to the final tack on my mental- map. Last year it was Portland. This year, I had finished my tasks in Michigan. Also as with 2008, the road past July 4th was unclear, other than a general direction. I began to hope that “Phase II” would begin to show itself a bit more clearly, while at the same time I ineptly began the monumental task of trying to process and incorporate all the events of the past month. In retrospect, I needed time and perspective. I was about to get neither. It was obvious that Chris was at the end of his wits, and was not- so- subtly letting me know it. He told me once that he believes he has a way of "conveying impatience” without actually disclosing what it truly is. I will take this opportunity to counter that he may not the clever thespian he fancies himself! To be fair, on this weekend I doubt he cared what he was conveying.

As Saturday wore on, I was making little to no progress on anything. I had a conversation or two with Brian, but each time the chats became sidetracked in favor of discussions about movies, the Twilight Zone marathon, or anecdotal blather. I was desperately in need of something tangible; something other than Chris & Todd’s Story Time. However, Brian was enjoying his downtime, and I felt as though I had already traveled all the possible avenues with Chris. I sat on it, and let my frustrations simmer through Saturday, eventually falling asleep on the couch and forgetting to say Happy Birthday to Mother Amerika.

On top of all of this, by Sunday I felt the familiar feeling that something was still unfinished in Michigan. After the revelation around the campfire, then consequently meeting Mike the week before, I was NOT simply going to ignore it. Frustrations were building in both of us, and were in danger of exploding. I doubt anyone knew it was getting to that point, but then again, my thespian skills are lacking also! Chris was also getting more impatient by the hour. He was understandably ready to go, and was feeling a now obvious, borderline obsessive urge to get back to Denver. The idea of pulling myself away from Michigan to let Chris simply wander home further perturbed me because in Massachusetts I had bent over backwards NOT to pressure him to leave. “I had not tied him to my ankle!” I thought. “He has been free to go the whole fucking time!” At the same time, I was reluctant to say anything because I was sympathetic to his plight, having been there. On some level I was grateful for, and even impressed by, the fact he was sticking it out- which is not his nature. He could just do it no longer. It is fucking hard to be someone’s caboose for a month!

A much-needed dose of perspective finally came on Sunday from a yet- again unexpected source: Shalain. She was sensing my extreme annoyance, and when I told her that I had a dream where I punched Chris in the face and relieved him of some teeth; she implored me to “get the fuck away from him, NOW.” I had not told Chris about this, despite my recent experience with these sorts of dreams becoming reality, but this was a warning and she was right:

A) Chris needed to move on alone or
B) We needed to get the hell out of Michigan.

And now.

Despite this, both Chris and I continued tap-dancing toward the tipping point Monday. We had discussed a variety of options on how to get to, or thru, Chicago to at least Joliet, including rides to South Bend and the dreaded Greyhound. At that point, it made more sense to me simply to walk out of there along M-43 toward South Haven. Neither of these appealed to both of us, and Chris began bordering on confrontational when asking, almost on the hour, what I wanted to do. I finally decided to tell him, voice shaking out of anger (NOT a good sign), that he just needed to move on. I wasn’t sure what was happening, and had no clear vision of how to proceed. I felt it best to “Sit Down & Shut Up” and see what presented itself.

As was the case in Denton, this began the process of clearing the air. Neither of us was pissed off at each other, unbelievably. It was a matter of each being profoundly frustrated that we were off our own tracks simultaneously. Somewhere along the way, we had lost sight, again, of the fact that we were on SEPARATE paths that NEED to split periodically. I was not angry with Chris at all; just annoyed with the situation and perhaps subconsciously even my own shortsightedness.

Having freed up the mental energy, we began exploring Craigslist Rideshares. We had already had conversations with “Photo Guy” who was going from Toledo to Omaha on Friday, and he seemed promising despite the lack of communication. I also had begun to discuss riding from Des Moines all the way to Denver or even Colorado Springs with Eli, a friend from my Iowa radio days who lives in Marshalltown. He and his wife were taking a week- long vacation, and it seemed to me that with some patience we might be able to get all the way from anywhere along I-80 to Colorado by Saturday or Sunday. Nothing was concrete however, so in the end, we resolved to let things sit Monday night to see what developed. We would then decide Tuesday, one-way or another, what we were going to do. Chris would be on his way toward Denver on Tuesday, with or without me.

It is amazing what happens when you unload frustrations. Despite being up half the night writing, the events of Tuesday were quick and fluid. I had somehow concluded that it was indeed time to move on. As Rideshare after Rideshare continued to fall by the wayside, by early afternoon we began re-focusing on Joliet as a target. While Chris seemed to be happy with this, the idea of wandering around this industrial shithole at 11pm, looking for sleeping quarters, abhorred me. I would have much preferred a pig farm, so (not coincidentally) I decided to check on an idea I had come up with over the weekend: a Greyhound through Illinois to Davenport, and possibly close to the "Iowa 80: The World’s Largest Truck Stop!” This seemed like the perfect place to begin hitching west, and perhaps even a spot to make more trucker connections. A quick online check showed that not only did Greyhound get us close; it got us within three miles!

This was it, as was evidenced by the now telltale surge of energy and adrenaline. Chris loved the idea because it would also get me out of reach of anyone in Michigan, eliminating any possibility of returning! Why I did not check on this sooner I have no idea, but within an hour we had our tickets and were making preparations to finally get out of Michigan after 5+ weeks; on a 6:30 Greyhound to Walcott, Iowa. But, before we were freed from Michigan's grasp, there was just one more piece of drama to endure...

5/11- 13: Newark to Santa Fe

Not alot to write here, but there was a comical debate between Chris, Mary, and I over of all things, this hat of mine.

I had been pondering returning it to REI when I arrived back in New Mexico as a quick way to recoup money. A little hobby of mine, no? I had gone into financial lock- down after Manhattan, and was now scheming ways to re- acquire it prior to getting the pictures ready to sell. The hat was an obvious, easy target. Chris, however, was a bit smitten and offered to buy it instead. Terrific! Easy! Just one problem...

I had become attached to the thing.

It had seen the Veggie Bus, DC, Trent's, The Chesapeake, black widows, ticks, and the euphoria on the beach in NJ. I had spilled beer on it in both Corbin City and in New York City! It was in half of our pictures! How could I just abandon it? Chris pointed out that I was like Indiana Jones, "Don't... touch... my... HAT!" Ultimately, and even after Mary offered to pay for it, I elected to keep it. Plus, Kwami had said that I look like a badass in it. He's a man of obvious taste, and that's good enough for me.

The bus left Newark, and took me to exotic locales such as Allentown, Pittsburgh, Columbus, Indianapolis, Des Moines, Omaha, and finally Denver before my connection to Santa Fe two days later.

Des Moines was a bit odd. I had lived there from 1998- 99, and the bus happened to drive quite close to one of our old apartments then directly past the other. It's odd how things become nostalgic as time passes. Ten years ago, I would have never guessed that, at least as pertaining to Des Moines.

One note on Greyhound: They are making obvious improvements. The buses are still shitty, but the stations are resembling Bangladesh ghettos slightly less. I actually watched part of the Nuggets game at the swanky little station in Pittsburgh! Plus, I was quite shocked to learn that I would watch movies on TWO of the smaller lines: Trailways and Americanos. One featured Toby Keith, and another starred a pre- pubescent Lindsay Lohan, but they WERE movies! So, props to The Dirty Dog for being a bit less... filthy.

Shit, I AM a travel writer!

Americanos got me to Santa Fe 30- minutes early on Wednesday. That's unheard of in my experience, but true nonetheless. Shalain picked me up, and we spent the night simply hanging out.

It felt like I had just left, and been gone a year at the same time. I got a kick out of driving past the exit Devin had taken off I-25 in the Veggie Bus, exactly a month earlier. One hell of a loop I had just made!

8/26 & 8/27 Nashville to Santa Fe

Kim and I were at the bus terminal early… very early… to assure that I would not be shut out due to Greyhound’s notorious policy of overselling, leaving those at the end of the line to wait for the next bus. I threw the pack onto the floor behind the two people who had gotten there before me, chatted with a couple of young women going to Clarksville, and finally boarded the bus when it arrived… an hour and a half late.

The bus went through northern Tennessee, into eastern Kentucky, the extreme southern end of Indiana (Evansville), then thru southern Illinois into St. Louis. I had some graphic memories of the St. Louis terminal from a trip to Asheville a few years ago, and was initially pleased to learn that they had, just the week before, opened a new station. It was nice. Clean. Sterile. Creepy. It resembled something directly out of a futuristic totalitarian- state film! There was a definite presence of over- the- top security, and as I went through only the SECOND security checkpoint I have ever seen (Albuquerque being the other), I remember thinking that this is what I imagine Fascism smells like. Feels like. We were required, once inside, to remain in line and if we whose to smoke we were ordered to completely leave the property, cross the street, and go back through security. I have never understood searching people who have just gotten off another bus, and the attitudes of the Brown Shirts reminded me of something I had seen on “Lockup”. I was seething as I compared today to 10, 15, and 20 years ago. The experience was topped off by a rather poor, dirty, young woman sitting on the floor wailing because the Brown Shirts had told her she was not going allowed on her bus because of something she had “said” to the security thugs. Her kid was crawling all over her wondering what was wrong. By the time I got on the bus I was fuming… barely beneath the surface. In the end the woman did board the bus, but the whole thing reminded me of a totalitarian “run through”. I hope I never set foot in that shithole again.

Of course, the St. Louis- Los Angeles bus was overcrowded. Very overcrowded. I have figured out that one of the benefits of working for the Dirty Dog is access to free rides. I have seen as many as four employees just riding along, in full costume, and this was no exception. There was an employee sitting in the front seat, with the seat next to his empty, while the rest of the bus was filled past capacity, meaning some had to stand. This route passed through Ft. Leonard Wood, MO thus there were GIs on board, and one of these had to either stand or sit on the floor… in uniform. I was still steaming from my Nazi- experience beneath the Gateway Arch, and not in a mood to keep my mouth shut. I began pointing out—loudly—to the people sitting around me that there was a serviceman sitting on the floor, while this employee who was either riding “space available” or working-- getting paid-- was sitting in the front row isolated in a little bubble. The other passengers expressed their displeasure as well, but the employee did not budge. I decided that it was best in this situation to shut up and go to sleep. I was tap-dancing around the edge of trouble… and being bounced off this cattle- car myself.

I slept on and off, and had a very interesting political conversation with a guy from Arkansas. He was returning from his summer job in Pennsylvania to his winter job in Arkansas. He and I agreed on many things and he had noticed the “Big Brother” feel back in St. Louis as well. He had even worked for a carnival for a few weeks, and had some of the same experiences as I. When he got off the bus in Joplin, I was shocked to realize that he was MAYBE 4’9”. He conversed much bigger. Later on I chatted briefly with a South African woman about the non- existent customer service with Greyhound. She pointed out, accurately, that it was due to the monopoly the have on bus- travel. If there were ANY competition, or if Amtrak was closer cost- wise, I would never touch another Greyhound and neither would any of the people I have talked with. It’s pretty pathetic when the occasional driver expresses embarrassment about it, as the driver from Nashville to St. Louis had.

The rest of the ride was as any other. Boring. We got to Oklahoma City shortly before dawn, and then it was on to Amarillo. From Amarillo to Albuquerque I had the privilege of listening to the young man behind tell how insane he is; how he suffers from paranoia, and schizophrenia, and that he had been in jail a “shitload.” And… he liked guns. I chatted with Chris a bit, and finally heard from Ken too. He said that he had lost the charger to his phone, and since my number was in there, had no way to let me know that things had changed. In no way did I believe him but honestly, it did not matter! He had done enough already, and I knew that there was a slight risk in going to Atlanta to meet him. It was a risk/ reward decision, and I lost. I did not like what had happened, but it seemed ludicrous to be mad at him.

As we got closer to Albuquerque, the realization that the trip was essentially over began to set in, and I rather enjoyed the solitary time to reflect on everything that has happened since May. It has been quite a summer, and now the prospects for the winter began to take center stage. Mexico. South America. Getting there.

The bus was close to on- schedule for once and I arrived in Albuquerque shortly after 4:30. Shalain picked me up, and that was that.

We made a b- line for the Albuquerque REI so I could return the shoes, backpack, unused rain fly, and the shoe- inserts they had sold me in San Francisco. As expected, I had attached myself to the shoes and the backpack! We had been through a lot and I hated to see them go, but had long since realized that I did not need a pack that large, and that the shoes were probably overkill.

The lead up to the trip had been maddening in the sense that I could NOT decide on a backpack for the life of me. I had gotten the Gregory at the last minute when I found it at the Denver REI for at about half- price. I began to realize that the old Coleman external- frame pack I already owned would have worked fine. From here on it may serve me better in the sense that it is older, and less flashy; less of a target. The shoes were entirely too expensive, and I already had a pair of German Army surplus boots that were not as fancy (or as comfortable), but had only cost me $15. I decided to see if I could make them work. I was also thrilled to learn that the Santa Fe REI was opening in about 2- weeks meaning NO more driving to Albuquerque for stuff!

Once I got home, I mentally exhaled. I needed some time to process everything, and deal with nagging feelings of disappointment and failure. Todd being Todd. The time in Randleman with the church- folk had been nagging me a bit, and I wanted some time to compartmentalize it.

I remember wondering while in Oregon how this trip would end, and how I would look back on it. Now I know. The next few weeks would be a mixed- bag, and although I hoped that through reflection I would feel that metaphorical “lightning bolt of enlightenment”, I knew better. I was curious to get back to familiar, comfortable surroundings, not only to relax, but to see how I had changed. I enjoy playing the part of the guinea pig.

8/25 Atlanta

As always, Greyhound was running late. The driver had tried through the night to recapture lost time by driving like a crazed lunatic, and we arrived in Atlanta at about 7:45. The terminal was better than I expected, rather clean at least by their standards, had a decent snack bar, and most importantly—coffee.

I loaded up on the caffeine, and after about an hour I went to investigate the public transit system that I would use to meet up with Ken later in the day. I figured I would get a grip on it, and then explore Atlanta if the weather and now tropical storm Fay held off. I thought of getting a picture of MLK’s Ebenezer Baptist church, and then going to the CNN building for a picture of their sign—with me flipping it off. Always making statements…

The MARTA station was next to Greyhound’s, but I had to buy the $1.75 ticket just to get through the security doors to the map. Ken’s vague directions on the location of the truck stop made next to no sense, at least on the map. The one thing that he had told me that I could find, Forest Park, is on the extreme south end of the metro. The train (not subway) did not appear to drop me near I-75, let alone a T/A. I called Shalain to see if I could get a little Internet- guidance on T/A's locations, and in the end the only one in Atlanta was NOT in Atlanta at all, but 30- miles south of the city and FAR from being “right next to where the subway drops you off.” This was mildly disturbing, but Ken had promised to call early that morning. I guessed it would be easy enough to recalibrate a connection point when we talked so I went back to Greyhound, continued to charge my phone to the taste of overpriced coffee, and waited.

As a precaution, I also had asked Shalain price the tickets from Atlanta to Albuquerque and Santa Fe, as well as compare prices and arrival times with schedules leaving Nashville. Greyhound has cut its service, presumably due to the price of gas, so you need to be careful about checking itineraries, or risk 12- hour layovers in places like El Paso, Amarillo, Wichita Falls, Raton, or worse yet... Utah!

If I chose to go all the way to Santa Fe: a five- hour layover in Albuquerque to go 60 miles up I-25, the main route to Denver!. In addition, since I had bought the ticket to Atlanta, I was now going to need to return the backpack to REI if I booked a ticket to New Mexico—thus arrival times became an issue. To avoid an unnecessary drive BACK to Albuquerque, and more unneeded expense, I needed a schedule that got me into New Mexico during business hours AND at a time that where Shalain could pick me up. Leaving from Atlanta offered none of these; the bus either got in at six in the morning, where I would have either to sit all day, or endure the five- hour layover to get to Santa Fe… only to make the return trip to get to REI!

Gotta love the Greyhound!

The Nashville schedule was more direct. One transfer in St. Louis, and scheduled to arrive in Albuquerque at four in the afternoon. The problem was that I had already missed it for Monday, so I would to buy the 1:15 ticket from Atlanta to Nashville and wait there from 5pm until 11am Tuesday morning, or rely on Kim to put me up for another night. I hoped I would still hear from Ken and it would not come to that.

The phone was still charging, and it had begun to rain quite heavily (Fay), so I nixed exploring Atlanta. I was preoccupied with what was going to happen with Ken, and what I would do if things fell through. I was sure I would at least hear from him soon, so I chose to remain in the terminal, hang out, and see what developed.

I met a couple of interesting people here; one young person from Honduras who was returning there from New York City, where he said he had been living for a number of years. He was thoroughly grooming himself in the restroom, haircut and all, and not- so- cleverly trying to work me for money, getting none.

I then chatted with a woman who had been on my bus from Greensboro, a very gregarious black lady who reminded me of Whoopi Goldberg, although she looked nothing like her. She appeared to be in her 40’s and told me that she was returning to Louisiana from New York City after meeting with her lawyer. She was suing a hospital for $30 million after falling and breaking her wrist there.

$30 million for that? No.

When the same hospital performed surgery to repair it, they screwed it up, and ultimately they had to fuse her wrist and she has no mobility left.

“I’m gonna be a rich bitch!” she said.

She had also had a stroke (unrelated), but somehow managed to make her recovery stories seem amusing. I enjoyed chatting with her immensely, and told her about the people I had met over the past few months, and how this was by far the most common theme. “Stick it up their asses!” I told her, and that I hoped she got every penny from these bastards, and then some. I never got her name, but as she was leaving to board her bus, she unexpectedly handed me $5, “for food.” I am not exactly sure why she did, but I took it. It was close to noon, still no Ken, and the prospect of buying more Dirty Dog tickets made me think I may need every cent.

The reality set in at about 12:30. I knew that for whatever reason, I was not hearing from Ken. I tried calling him, but it went straight to voice mail. My indecisiveness and disappointment in not reaching the coast took over so I began to mull options, none of which seemed promising. I thought about the night before and “Sherman’s March”, I entertained the thought of heading west out of Atlanta toward Alabama, Mississippi, and eventually New Mexico. I even considered hitching to Nashville to save the cash.

I then had the recognition that I was… toast. Weary. I needed to step back, take a deep breath, and evaluate everything. Trust that things are where they should be. We all have a tendency to think that “this moment” is the end- all; that we are never simply on yet another stepping- stone. Yet I had begun to see that this is exactly what these experiences are: Never ending stepping- stones— at least if I am doing things right! When I realized that this was not the ‘end’, of the whole story, but merely a chapter, I felt better about, and accepted it. (for the most part)

At 12:50, I talked to Kim, and let her know the situation, that unless Ken called in the next 10- minutes I was buying a ticket to Nashville, and would be on the road in a half- hour. She generously offered to pick me up (again!), and let me stay with her. (again!)

I gave Ken until 1:05, and then I had to act. I got the $45 ticket, and despite the outside speakers, somehow missed the boarding announcement while outside smoking. When I returned, if not for the help of some friendly Amish folks, I would not have known that my bus was boarding! I scrambled out of the terminal, thinking I was close to missing it, only to wait another 20 minutes. This bus was late before it even left!

Viva Dirty Dog!

We finally got on the road at about 1:40, and from Atlanta all the way to Nashville it was nothing but heavy rain, and sleep. We went through Chattanooga, ironically, I thought, and saw some of the most beautiful parts of the country, right there in Southern Tennessee. I called Kim when we arrived and we were off to the familiar surroundings that I had left not even a week before. “Really?” I thought. “Not even a week?”

I immediately showered, before I even sat down, and that was it. Rich had let Kim bring his laptop over for me to use (thanks!), so I bought tomorrow morning's ticket to Albuquerque, edited and uploaded pictures half the night, and got to bed at about 3am. Did not matter how late I stayed up; like anesthesia, sleeping makes the Dirty Dog more bearable! Especially a dog- ride lasting 30- hours!

I never heard a thing from Ken.

8/24 N. Carolina- Stalked!

It was a long process finding a place to camp. After walking back to the main road I was trying to decide between three different spots when from the woods, I spied a car driving by-- very slowly. This woods was between the two ramps leading to 220, and the car proceeded to stop just before the entrance to the southbound lane. I was on the phone with Shalain, and slowly crept out of the woods to see what he was doing, thinking at first that he had somehow seen me. The car just sat there, lights on, for about 10 minutes. No activity that I could see or hear, so I figured he was lost or waiting for someone.

I hung up and continued to go about my business when another car drove slowly by; slow enough for me to see in the limited light that it was the Sheriff. I dove for cover then, when I realized that he was pulling in behind the mystery car, I crept closer to play the role of spectator thinking that I may see some high- drama from the woods. This was weird, not your typical stealth- camping experience!

I watched as the cop cautiously approached the driver’s side of the car, and spoke with the driver for what seemed like eternity. Odd. Cops are generally to- the- point and it went on so long that I re- entered the woods and decided where I was going to sleep for the night while periodically peering out to check in. Cars would drive past regularly, yet still no flashing lights.

Just as I was getting ready to set up, I heard voices. Even from the woods, it was obvious that the cop was giving him a sobriety test. It was Saturday night; “typical” I thought. Just as I went back into the woods, the lights came on- scaring the hell out of me. The cop was back standing at the driver’s side door indicating the operator was back inside. This, again, went on for what seemed like forever. I just wanted them to leave so I could stealth in peace!

By now, I had gotten used to the scenario, so I went a bit deeper into the woods to be certain of avoiding detection. Just as I removed the bivy from the backpack, I heard a car start and take off—fast. I assumed it was the cop, but as I hunched back toward the road, I saw the other car FLY past me, heading east toward Randleman. Then, I heard the cop-approaching, siren blaring. Hot Pursuit! The driver had gone loco, and was trying to escape! I had visions that I would see the drunk (I presumed) crash and burn, but no such luck. The chase went directly past the intersection and through the red light that led to Wal-Mart, and into downtown Randleman. I sat by the road and listened to the siren for quite awhile. First to the north of town; then south. This chase was obviously dramatic. I could still hear the siren fading off to the south as I climbed into the bivy at about 2am, laughing at this day! I never learned anything else about the chase, and thankfully saw no more of law enforcement.

I slept quite nicely after that, in what I thought was a very secluded area beneath some pines. When I awoke Sunday morning at about 10:00, I was shocked to see that I was actually in plain sight. Under the cover of darkness I was fine, but only 75 feet off the road, and the pines had less coverage than I thought. It was too late to stress it and I figured that everyone was either sleeping one off or in church.

I thought I had been prepared the night before, bringing extra water so I would not have to walk back toward Wal-Mart and restock first thing in the morning. Unfortunately, I had lost the Gatorade bottle searching for the spot, and since it was already hot… back to civilization I went, loading up on water and on- special Gatorade figuring that it was going to be a long day just sitting.

I began to contemplate the wisdom of continuing to hitchhike after the experiences of the past two- days, and the results I had seen from walking. I knew Old 220 went all the way to Greensboro or, with some creative navigating, could take me around it to I-40 skirting the city all together. Again, I could not bare the idea of walking back to where I had just come from, so I settled for another day of hitching hoping that with some luck I could get into Greensboro early, swing another ride OUT of the city, and get through Raleigh.

This ramp was much better than the others in North Carolina. It was long, wide, and had a natural pull- out for people to use if they took pity on me sweating in the sun. Just as the last two days, I laid out on the pack, strapped on the headphones, and prepared to wait all day. I knew that I had NEVER gone a day without at least ONE ride, so I was relatively certain I would see Greensboro again by day’s end.

I sat on the ramp for 3-4 hours, only moving to heed Nature’s Call, or stand to awaken my sleeping--- posterior. As I was returning from a nature- break, a rickety old van pulled over and a woman who looked to be in her mid 50’s jumped out and asked if I needed a ride. “Hell yeah!” I said, trying to seem“Confederate”. It is rare for a single woman to stop, and I was glad that I did not look threatening enough to scare her away! As I recall, this was only the fourth woman to pick me up, and the first since the bus stop in Portland.

Jo opened up the rear doors, and warned me to be careful as I loaded the backpack because she was charging a car battery back there. Something I had never seen before. Jo seemed outgoing, and a bit odd. She resembled a few aging hippies I have met; the original ones that I respect. I immediately liked her, and we began a vigorous, mostly one- sided conversation immediately after I settled in the van. Stop me if this story- line seems familiar…

Jo was nearly 60, and a few years back had a stroke. And guess what. She had been fighting health insurance companies, the state, former employers… you have heard this before, right? I laughed aloud, shook my head, and told her that she would be amazed at the number of people I had run into with similar storylines. The insurance companies and the State had essentially thrown her away after the stroke, despite the fact that she had lost use of the left side of her body, the ability to speak, and much of her short- term memory. However,… Jo was different. Jo was old- school. Jo had lived through the 60’s, and on the right side of them. Jo had never sold- out. Jo was a fighter.

She told me about rehab, regaining use of her left- side, and re- learning how to talk. She told of how during all of this, the insurance companies were doing everything they could to avoid pay outs, and that North Carolina wanted no part of her disability claim, nor could she get assistance. Human… Kapital.

Apparently, Jo had been quite the little radical in her day, and still was. Sufficiently recovered, she began berating the health- care officials, local media outlets, and anyone else who would listen to her story—thereby creating quite a stir, and negative publicity for the state and her insurance providers. So much so, that the local officials had told her that if she did not ‘shut up or move’ they were going to ‘destroy’ her. She told them exactly where they could take their threats and publicized them. Eventually, and I believe it was with a change in administrations, the state issues were resolved. She got limited assistance.

I was now in love with Jo.

She apparently has spoken out against more than just the corrupt healthcare system. She has radical viewpoints that make me look like Reagan. She told of how before the stroke, she was involved in ‘Economics’, and that in 1997 she had seen indications that the country was on thin economic- ice, only to be rescued by the dot- coms. Then in 2000 the same thing was happening and that without a major influx of something, the country would go bankrupt. She pointed out that in 2000, PNAC had long since begun planning the Iraq invasion, and of course the next year: 9/11 and the ratcheting up of the famous Military Industrial Complex, conveniently generating untold billions in corporate revenues. She is convinced that the World Trade Center was the 21st Century Reichstag Fire, and has been outspoken enough for the CIA to add her to their “Dissenter List”. Quite an honor! She even told how she found out about that; losing her mail or having it delivered weeks late, then a friend working for the Postal Service informing her that it was due to the government snooping through her stuff. That’s our Patriot Act; keeping us safe from 60- year old stroke victims!

Amerika!!

Interestingly, she was also one of the few liberals I have met who have a strong religious conviction…as the theme of religion continues. She spoke about that “Splinter”, the “Calling” (all unprovoked), and said she stopped because she sensed that I was on a "Mission from God." I left it there; I had had enough God for 24- hours! Nevertheless, the prevalence of southern religion, even amongst the heathenish- left, struck me. This ride lasted only thirty minutes, and I did not do a lot of talking. In Greensboro, she gave me her phone number and invited me, not just to call, but stay with her whenever I was in the area. What an interesting person, and seemingly as emphasis to her memory loss, she almost left before I could get my backpack out of her van!

Jo dropped me off on the south side of Greensboro, at what they call the “spider- web”, or “black hole”; I forget now, but something denoting that this is where all major highways converge. And, it was Randleman Rd.; Old 220— the same road I had considered walking.

I was not exactly pleased with this spot.

It was perhaps the most urbanized setting to date, and it was nearing 4:00. It reminded me of Boise, and I tried to encourage myself with a reminder that I had been out of Boise in 20 minutes. I sat down beneath a tree at the Shell station where Jo had left me, and looked at the Atlas. In the two- days, since Francesco had picked me up, I had progressed two- miles. Sobering.

I was directly across from the ramp leading to I-40 east, so I crossed the street and assumed the position: lying against the pack with headphones blaring. I was encouraged because the traffic volume was extremely high and consistent. I was however in the ghetto; there were a portion of Greensboro’s projects directly next to me along the frontage road, and I was a point of curiosity. This made me a bit uneasy, not so much that I was there, but that I was attracting silent attention. Shortly after I arrived, a ragged woman joined me on the ramp, thumb in the air, shouting something to no one in particular. She kept rambling as she continued right past me, down the ramp, and on to the I-40 shoulder… her thumb still waving.

I was optimistic I would get out of there if I exercised some patience, so there I sat… and sat… and sat. I must have been quite the spectacle. A middle- aged man in a Geo Tracker gave me short- lived hope at about 7:30 by stopping, but rather than offering a ride, said that he “wanted to take my picture, because I was the most relaxed looking hitchhiker he had ever seen! Bwaaaahahahaha!” I let him; he left.

Dick.

At different times, I thought about following my crackheaded- contemporary and walking the grass that ran next to the highway, if only to get a change of locales. The projects next door were beginning to be abuzz with life as dusk approached, and although they never said anything, it was apparent I was attracting more attention still. On the verge of moving, I remembered the ill- advised attempt Friday, and decided against it. That… was a mistake.

Soon, the vibe turned VERY negative. As the sun fell, the looks from the almost exclusively black motorists went from curiosity and indifference, to something else. Then rather than ignoring me or just gawking, they began to get-- interactive. Cars actually began swerving toward me in an effort to spook me and force me to jump out of the way. I sat there like a stone, never flinching. I had seen this once or twice before and had come to half- expect it occasionally, but this was just different; ominous. It was not a time to sing Kumbaya, and mentally extol the merits of well- intentioned man… it was high time to get the hell out of there. There is a line between adventure, courage, faith, and naïve, foolish, idiocy—and everything in my being told me I had crossed it. So, it was back to the Shell station for water and directions to the next exit.

It was now about 8:45, and almost completely dark. When I got to Shell, I was surprised to discover the doors already locked, and the cashier closing out his register. The store had closed before 9:00, even though the sign on the door said they were open until 10. I wondered why a Shell, right off I-40 in Greensboro, would close AT ALL, let alone 10… or NOT EVEN 10. Not all was lost though, as I looked around, I did see what seemed to be promising places to camp close to the interstate. I sat down leaning against the wall facing Randleman Rd., plugged in the phone, dug out the Atlas, and prepared for the employee to shoo me away when he left. Then the plan was to explore the on- ramp for places to sleep.

After sitting there for about ten minutes, I looked up to see five people crossing Randleman Rd., coming from the projects toward the Shell. As they crossed the median, they went in slightly different directions, spreading out a bit going toward different parts of the parking lot. One of them kept shifting their eyes from me, to the side of the store, to his left, right, then back—directly—to me. The others actively searching, but looking everywhere but at me-- AVOIDING looking at me. They all looked to be relatively young, skinny, and hip- hopped out with the full, latest ensembles delivered directly from Stereotypical Ghetto Garb, LLC.

There was no conscious decision needed. I calmly, but quickly, unplugged the phone, shoved it in my pocket, and in the same motion, put the pack on and began walking toward the north end of the parking lot, directly in front of two of them, (neither of which were very large), and generally away from the others. That was the moment I knew I was not “just being paranoid.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the other three abruptly change course, toward me, while these two were sizing me up. They never said a word; didn’t need to. I had no idea what they were after, but I was relatively sure I had just strapped it to my back. My knife was right there on my shoulder- strap, but what would that do against five? Other than perhaps find its way into my own gut? With a split- second thought, I realized that this was the FIRST time I had been in any real danger.

Then a stroke of luck. Two cars pulled in, both loaded with guys from Virginia. I needed friends at that moment, so I politely told them they might not be able to get gas because the station had closed early, hoping to start a conversation and open a window of escape. This temporarily stalled and apparently confused the Welcoming Committee. Apparently not able to improvise, they all began to congregate together on the far (south) side of the parking lot, leaving the north side open for me to get out of there. That is exactly what I did. I crossed over Randleman Rd. to the raised median and walked a short distance down the middle of this temporary divide. I then crossed the rest of the way over, to the east side of Randleman Rd. I looked back, and saw all five Committee Members following a measured, yet uncomfortably close distance behind me; maybe 75ft. I picked up the pace, thanking God that I had lightened the pack, and crossed over I-40. When I got to the other side and looked back, they were gone. I have no idea where, nor did I care. Just gone. Now what? I went in to a well- placed (for me!) BP station to catch my breath, grab a Coke, and process what had just happened.

Oddly enough, I would not define any of what I felt as “fear”. The decision to leave the Shell was instantaneous; instinct. The rest was adrenaline, a razor- sharpening of senses, a quickening of thought, and almost literally involuntary action.

The reality did not really set in until I got to the BP. I quickly began to realize the gravity of the situation, and realized that if I was not VERY smart about the next few moments I could have real problems. I needed to either find a place to get out of sight, or get the hell out of this area.

A quick survey showed that, on this side of I-40, there was nothing. There was nowhere suitable to hide for the night, and I had cut off my known- escape route by crossing I-40. I looked up Randleman Rd. and saw nothing appealing, but by now, my survival instincts were in overdrive. Not the paranoid ‘instincts’ from Wyoming mind you; real ones! I was estimating everything—buildings, cars, semi- trailers, houses, yards, trees—anything I could use as shelter. However, those survival instincts also told me that my young stalker- friends knew the area, and since I had no idea where they had gone, they could be watching me even then, waiting for me to make a move. Paranoia? Maybe. Justified in this case? You bet.

It was becoming painfully obvious as I was at this ghetto- BP that I was in a bind. If I left this sanctuary, I had no idea what I would find; knowing nothing of the area other than what street the bus station was on. Like quicksand I realized, desperate, unmeasured, and irrational action could make things much worse. It was now shortly after 9:00, and this BP closed at 10. Fortunately, I had a 45- 50 minute haven where I could think.

Conclusion?

I’d had enough of Greensboro. Enough of North Carolina. To hell with the Atlantic Ocean. It was reminding me of Ft. Morgan, where just getting to Nebraska was bordering on impossible. The difference being that, in Colorado, it was Mother Nature (tornadoes) seemingly blocking my path, rather than roving bands of Ghetto Kings. I already had the bus information, thanks to Friday’s drama, and knew I was relatively close to the terminal. I called Shalain again to tell her about this little adventure and to try to get some perspective.

Her assessment: “You need to get the fuck out of there!”

I agreed. We discussed the ticket, and since I still had the $20 Will had given me the night before (forgot to mention that, didn’t I?), I had cash for a Taxi if I needed one.

The attendant inside was very helpful. I asked him how far it was downtown, and when he told me it would take a couple hours to walk, I asked how much the taxis would charge to get me down there. He said he could not imagine it being more than $10, so I borrowed the phone book, wrote down the number, and thanked him. We then chatted for a few minutes about the trip, as he was intrigued by where I had been, and how far to this point. I left what had just happened of my list of preferred anecdotes. I am not sure why, other than it was the ONLY example of its kind, and it seemed like a shame to bring it up. When he asked me why I was taking the bus, I again ignored the obvious, in favor of “I’m just tired.” which was not exactly a lie.

The clerk had to get busy closing, so I went outside and on a whim decided to give calls to Ken & Cesar, on the off chances that they may be in the region. A slim chance, but it was a slim chance when I called Ken from Denver the last time. I had really hoped that I could get a hold of Ken. He had made an offhanded comment on the way to Nashville that if I ever got a ticket to Tampa, I could hang out, and perhaps ride out with him. Not only would I get to see Tampa, but also the trip would continue, and the ticket would cost less than Albuquerque would! I got voice mails for both of them, so called the taxi and after 20 minutes, it came and took me downtown to Greyhound, costing me $10 even.

As I got to the desk, and began pricing different locations (Albuquerque, Santa Fe, Denver, etc.), Ken called back. Good timing! I quickly gave him the rundown, and said that if the offer was legit, I could come to Tampa and see what happened. Ken said that he was actually planning to leave the next (Monday) morning however, and would be long gone by the time the bus got there. He suggested instead that I go to Atlanta, where he was almost certain he would be picking up his usual load, and then heading somewhere that he would learn early Monday morning. Perfect! I could get the same bus out of Greensboro tonight, get to Atlanta at 7am, meet up with Ken, and then ride off to Parts Unknown and perhaps continue this little adventure, with another neat little wrinkle in it! At the very least, I figured I could ride back toward Denver, and if that was were where I wound up, the ticket home would be a fraction of the cost. The only slight reservation I had was if something happened the next day, and he DID NOT pick up in Atlanta. Atlanta is not a good place to be stuck, although if I were stuck it would be at the terminal, or a truck stop. I was taking a slight risk, but the odds were heavily in my favor.

That was that. After getting some vague directions from Ken on where to meet him, I bought the $71 ticket from Greensboro to Atlanta and left at 11:40pm. I was happy that I had gotten a hold of Ken and was not just heading to New Mexico, although a significant part of me just wanted to relax, and begin to process everything that has happened over the last three months, which was daunting! Nevertheless, with September fast approaching, and with it yet another 29th birthday, I concluded I had better keep going; make use of the time I have this summer. Again, I was astounded at the progression of the day: I had woken up in woods near Randleman, North Carolina hoping to get, finally, back to Greensboro then to Raleigh and toward the Outer Banks. 12 hours later? I would soon be in Atlanta, Georgia.

Whudathunkit?

The ride to Atlanta? Other than stopping in Charlotte, the driver being half- crazed, the bus being over packed, riding through Hurricane Fay’s remnants, and the door flying open in the middle of the night? Other than that? Uneventful. Typical “Dirty Dog”. I dozed off half- hoping Ken would not show up, so I could follow Sherman’s March to Savannah, and stick my smelly feet in that damn ocean just to spite it.

In the end, these events in Greensboro did not faze me much. Ultimately, they were my own fault. I have purposely avoided urban centers for exactly this reason. I never conferred with Jo when it could have mattered, and that is no one’s fault but mine. In Colorado, Wyoming, California, Oregon, and most of Idaho, I was VERY good about this, but after pulling off “urban- stealthing stunt” in Pocatello, then getting lucky with the location in Winston- Salem, I lost sight of things.

Secondly, I lingered there long after I realized the setting could get dicey; long enough to where it was too late. I relied, again, too much on getting a ride, and should have simply hiked out. There is a reason that this was the only significant danger I have ever found myself in on this journey, with the exception, some would say, of the freight train. It is telling that it was due to a failure of discipline and common sense.