8/17-22: New York to Idaho- Doug

In a shitty spot and contemplating camping possibilities as the sun fell, I was having no luck when a 4-door Toyota with Vermont plates appeared out of nowhere, abruptly pulled over on the narrow shoulder, and waved me on. When the ragged driver asked where I was going I said, “Toward Erie” and when he shockingly replied, “no problem” I suddenly knew I would make it to meet my brother and, barring any ridiculous complications, Idaho and Oregon. Aim for Maine, land in Oregon? I am the sharpshooter.

Doug was quite tall, about my age, had longish curly hair, famiiar cheap monotone clothes, and judging by all the stuff, which included a large cardboard box full of open food cans laid out buffet-style, was traveling somewhere distant and gave an initial hippie impression. That generalization was woefully mistaken, but he would prove to be a powerful reminder of our ingrained, unavoidable duplicity. Doug had the rare combination of being supremely arrogant, full of anger, and at the same time painfully awkward. Assessments aside, it quickly became obvious that Doug was brilliant and suffered from the stereotypical social deficiency that often comes along with it. In many ways, he reminded me of a genetically engineered splice of a Slabber and the guy from Big Bang Theory!

8/6- 8/8: Santa Fe- Ithaca, NY

After spending June and most of July sequestered away in Michigan, and then another two weeks back in New Mexico, August's arrival sent me spiraling into "do something... anything" mode. Purely motivated by a lack of divine inspiration, I took aim for the last three of the lower-48 I'd yet to visit: Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont and after a few days of mental wrangling I chose to forgo the 60-hour Greyhound Marathon to the Maine/ Canada border in favor of Craigslist's Rideshare.

Departure day was Friday the 6th with Elissa, a pleasant 60-something Latina from Santa Fe on her way to see family in Denver. She was almost the perfect Rideshare: no haggling over money, flexible on the departure, and drove fast with very few stops! It was quite uneventful, and entertaining in that I was treated to watching her drive AND smoke a bowl through Colorado Springs; skills I can only imagine!

2010: The Beginning

With most of the rest of the world, 2010 began quietly for us in Boise. Benefiting from her nearly 12-hours of sleep, Lynette was up and off to the Dilliards sale by 7am while the rest us were still snug in our beds... with Rum Runners and Champagne preparing to beat on our heads. I say "our" clearly knowing that I was likely the sole sufferer not named Mike or Lynette. I need the illusion-of-companionship at times. That being said, Shalain too was unable to function due to a massive hangover. I can't even fathom how she drinks like she does. Perhaps a meeting is in order?

7/11: Crossing Iowa With King Dirk

The reeds and grass worked perfectly, and before I knew it, we were back at the Iowa 80 one last time waiting for Photoguy. Chris wisely called him one last time to be sure that he was indeed nearby and not somewhere like Scranton. Our little nickname for him had turned out to be quite accurate. His actual name was Guy, and he supplemented his income by operating one of those 1950’s instant- photo booths at places like weddings. PhotoGuy. He soon arrived in his big white, 80’s conversion van hauling the photo trailer, and I felt like I was hitching again; hopping into a van with a stranger. That ended quickly as we immediately paid Guy the money Chris had arranged. It was more than a fair price, but as I handed it over there was a minor twinge of regret realizing that we could have hitched the 300-ish miles to Omaha and not spent a dime for gas. The money, in my mind, was for a week's knowledge that he was coming, and the ability to "plan" (ha!) things. Paying for a safety net. I didn’t like that, but in the interest of fairness, I wasn’t liking much at this point. The lack of sleep from the night before was not helping my attitude, and I knew it. I hopped in the back seat hoping just to sleep all the way to Omaha.

I still believe my initial assessment of Guy was dead on. Disorganized & well- meaning. However, I would amend “tool” to “dingbat.” He was in his 50’s I believe, and appeared to fancy himself quite the gregarious, amusing holder of important, relevant information. Information such as “What movie character was from Iowa?” (A: James T. Kirk.) He also had this curious habit of looking at you, expectantly, whenever he said something as though he were eagerly ready to devour the praise that was surely due him. That was fine and quite an amusing quirk to watch; amusing until later in the day when the van would follow his head and drift to the right or worse: to the left!

As Guy fueled up the van, I was beyond ready for Omaha but the fates had other plans. When he turned the key, the van refused to start instead offering only the telltale clicking sound of a dead battery. The van was old, so it could have been any number of things from corroded battery cables to the alternator. After a jump, Guy was off to find a repair shop that was open on a Saturday morning. I just shook my head. This was perfect! I now dubbed Guy King Dirk of Douchebaggery and began Facebook updates detailing The Great Iowa Alternator Hunt 2009; one that it seemed would surely last all day and ultimately end with Guy missing his appointment in Omaha and leave us right back where we started. We had a rather large stroke of luck, however, as we soon pulled into Davenport. Dirk happened upon a Firestone Service Center just as the van died at a stop light. Chris and I jumped out to direct traffic as Dirk crossed the road to fetch help. By now, my frustration had turned to amusement. The bus from Omaha to Denver didn’t leave until 9pm, so the longer this took meant the shorter the shorter the wait at Greyhound. Plus, since I had paid for my ride I viewed myself as an observer to a comedy show.

Soon the van was having the alternator replaced while Chris and I lounged beneath a shade tree. With the repairs completed, we learned that he had only brought cash with him and had no credit cards. In short, he had just spent ALL of his gas money on the alternator. His saving grace would hopefully be his Sam’s Club card that he hoped to use at Wal Mart for gas to get to Omaha, then all the way back to Toledo. I wondered about the soundness of this assumption, but also didn’t quite care. Even Des Moines was progress at this point and, since he had just filled up, I thought that we would most likely make Omaha. He began to drop not- even clever hints that he would like more money from us, but that… was not happening.

Once on I-80, we passed the truck stop, this time as typical travelers. I was asleep within 2- minutes of seeing it and woke up 150- miles to the west as Dirk was driving into Des Moines. I was astounded to see that he was ALREADY almost out of gas! He said he had put nearly $40 in the tank when he picked us up, so he had only gotten maybe 190- miles on that. The Great Iowa Alternator Hunt now became the Great Des Moines Wal Mart Hunt. Chris had been on the phone locating stores & getting directions and, as we turned on to Broadway in the NE end of the sprawl, things began to look familiar.

I slowly realized that we were about to happen by my old radio station, KGGO. They had long since moved the studios from this rural, stand-alone building that is now abandoned, but I still have a special place for it. This was where I got my first “real” radio experience, doing exclusively live shows and working with & for some talented, great people. KGGO has been sold off and, of course, the staff gutted. Nevertheless, once upon a time this was one of those shining examples of how FUN creative radio could be! I mean, it had a pool to lure groupies, and imagine a “Toys for Ta- Ta’s” promotion at Christmas, where you have guys bring unopened toys to a strip club. They drive through a tent handing over toys, then let strippers, well… do what strippers do. It was huge success collecting toys for underprivileged kids, not to mention some “underprivileged” guys got to get up close and personal with silicone for a few seconds.

Wal Mart was found and, to Dirk’s dismay, he learned that there is a difference between a Murphy USA gas station and Wal Mart. No, you CANNOT use a Sam’s Club credit card at Murphy USA; therefore, we were now off to find the actual Sam’s Club. This leg took us toward West Des Moines and my old apartment on 11th St. It happened that Sam’s Club is off on the same exit, and when we arrived I could actually see the complex. This, for me, was turning into a nice little tour since I had silently hoped to re-visit these old haunts if I returned to Des Moines. Dirk did succeed in fueling up this time, and all was right in his world.

Omaha was now only a quick couple of hours away, and as we approached Nebraska, I could see Dirk beginning to doze off. I pointed this out to Chris, after Dirk almost wiped out a motorcyclist trying to pass him. Chris re-engaged him in conversation to keep him awake, and as we crossed the Missouri River into Omaha it occurred to me that it was nice that Chris and I were finally doing this after all the Lewis & Clark talk over the winter…

7/9: Iowa 80- Jamboree

The decision to stay was a good one.

Thursday began as expected with coffee & breakfast. This time however, we were quite possibly treated to the best server the Iowa 80 has ever employed. Christi was a very pretty blonde, in her early 20’s and quite reserved at first, but as time went by became quite friendly and some would say… even playful. After Sally and her 45- minutes between half fill- ups the day before, Christi was stopping at our table at least every 5- minutes, and rarely let the cups get below half full. Slowly, we learned that she was a single mother of a young daughter, who has a pain- in- the- ass ex… and no life. Chris and I felt badly for her and, remembering Corbin City, only half- kidding suggested that the three of us get together at whatever bars Walcott offers. That went nowhere, of course, but our “first- shift” stay lasted the rest of the morning and all the way thru the rest of her shift, which ended at 3pm. We were quite happy and bordering on caffeine overload while Chris had actually taken up coloring- with crayons- by the time we packed up to see the Trucker Jamboree that was now in full swing.

Fun Fact: I believe this is the first time, in 150+ posts, 30+ states, and 14- months, I have EVER typed the word “crayon.” Thanks, Chris!

The Jamboree initially reminded me of a brand name circle- jerk. It was first and foremost a "Corporate Fair." There were logos and sales- generated displays everywhere, particularly beneath the massive tent. It was the type of setting where any of my old radio stations would surely have reserved a booth to pass out bumper stickers and free Styx/ REO Speedwagon tickets. This part was a bit too familiar for me, but I loved the truck displays. There was everything from Semi- Truck Hotrods, to 100- year old antiques, the latter of which I found fascinating. I have long loved old cars & trucks, despite knowing nothing about them mechanically. It was nostalgic to think who had originally bought and used these relics, and more than once I pictured the jalopy the Tom Joad had ridden to California.

We did a couple of slow laps around the site and in that time I came to realize that the nostalgia had unexpectedly continued. I had begun to appreciate Iowa, while at the same time remembering how I had all but hated it when I had lived here. It's funny how you view the same scenes differently at alternate points in life. Everywhere I looked were families. Young, 20- something couples with toddlers, people my age with teenagers, and periodically multiple generations walking together. Kids were everywhere, many actually working as volunteers’ side- by- side with their parents. It struck me that there was an ACTUAL sense of community; one not manufactured or contrived for image out of a sense of “Nuevo Idealism.” This was their heritage and tradition. It was, pardon the phrase hippie, organic.

I quietly snickered when I realized that this might have been the most conservative crowd since North Carolina in 2008, and that they had achieved the very thing that the hippies in Portland and Santa Fe were seeking: Community. The irony being that these farm boys would ultimately pummel most of the “community forging” progressive- elitists I have met. It occurred to me that perhaps the answers the dreadlocked granola- eaters seek exist, but wrapped within the very thing they despise: traditional conservative ideals. The brand of Conservatism that has nothing to do with Mississippi Racism, Pat Robertson, or Dick Cheney. A Conservatism where people are self- sufficient, take an unforced genuine interest in their neighbors and, yes, their community, but not needing or wanting a "Daddy State" as their babysitter. To a man, I’ll bet if you asked they’d point out that with an abdication of personal responsibility comes the correlating abdication of personal freedom and choice. Depending of course on rather you consider “credit or debit” or “paper or plastic” choice. I’ll leave the rest of the Illusion of Choice rant to Carlin. No need to thank me... I hear the chorus of "Thank God's" loud and clear!

However, and unlike many of mine, this particular mini- rant serves a purpose. Beyond the inner social- dialogues, walking around in this atmosphere with these friendly down- to- earth people began a process of snapping my purpose into perspective; reminding me of what I had encountered in 2008 while seemingly doing nothing in places like McCammon; much as I was at this Jamboree. The majority of my best experiences had little to do with living in the woods, or walking down a fucking road trying to get to the next town just to do it or update my mental- map, while hoping to have Grand Adventures to use as anecdotal evidence to prove my badassitude. No, it was the direct (or even indirect), seemingly random, insignificant interaction with all sorts of ordinary people. Passively being the sidecar, rather than it's propagandist.

It was the group in Randleman, after sitting passively at a gas station for nearly a day.

It was Drunken Dennis driving across the Rockies and randomly dropping me at Leah’s door, after passively sitting in Ft. Morgan for 2- days.

It was rides that had resulted from passively sitting on the side of the road: “Z”, Jack, Corey, Jo, Doug, Florian, Ken.

It was sitting quietly at a picnic table at a truck stop in McCammon, Idaho passively watching people: Ciel, Rick, and others.

Sure, it was also train hopping, but it seems the best stories and biggest lessons have oftentimes come when I am not seeking anything; waiting for “chance” to carry me off; just being where I was. This is Eckart Tolle’s “Present”: not being obsessed on the past or the future; where you’re going or how far you’ve been. In this case, it was not a lightning bolt of realization, but the Seed of Recall sprouting in the fertile, metaphorical farmland of Walcott, Iowa.

Chris and I staked out a piece of damp ground shortly before Aaron Tippin. He struck up a conversation with a woman from Illinois while I wandered off on the phone. The concert was good, since I knew at least a few of his songs, and afterwards we witnessed what was, unequivocally, the WORST fireworks “display” ever. I have seen better fireworks on a cul-de-sac!

The crowd, sparse early, had exploded just before Tippin took the stage around 7. The traffic was so heavy coming in that it nearly backed up onto I-80. Chris and I made our way to the front of Iowa 80 after the mass exodus had begun, getting coffee and finally setting up shop hoping to take advantage of the insane volume of slow moving, happy drivers. Neither of us was comfortable hitching with the police directing traffic next to the exit, so we tried the well- lit driveway leaving Iowa 80 hoping to reel in a truck, to no avail.

When it began to lightly rain, we took our toys back to the front door where was witnessed one of our more intriguing incidents to date. As we were quietly sitting here, a nondescript couple passed in front of us followed by what seemed, initially, to be a replay of the “Fair Maiden of the Wood” incident in Maryland. Chris bolted off the bench, yet again mumbling something that sounded like Klingon while picking something up and sprinting after them. Considering the time of day, I half expected him to return with a fat lip, but all was well when he proudly came out of the store. The man had dropped a $50 bill out of his pocket and it had landed directly in front of us, which I had missed. Chris had chased him down to return it.

A brief discussion on rather we should have returned it ended in full agreement that we definitely should have because we had blatantly seen to whom it belonged. The thing that troubled me was that he initially (offhandedly) indicated that retuning it would "keep karma on his side.” This thought took me back to Randleman and Pastor Snake’s sermon about “loaded charity”; attempting to make a “business deal with ‘God’” by performing acts of charity simply to move ahead of the Heathens at Heaven’s gate. Perhaps, that $50 falling in front of us, and not 20- feet to the left or right, WAS “...karma on his side?” Either way, returning it was the right thing to do, but these motivational questions tuned my antenna to see what kind of karma Chris would incur from this point on. Be careful when reaching into Bitch Karma’s rabbit hole… it runs deep!

As it turned out they were, as you can imagine, grateful for the honesty. Chris struck up a conversation after they came out thanking him and handing him his reward: $2. Apparently the woman was half of a husband/ wife team that took I-80 all the way to California almost on a weekly basis, but not THIS week. She said she'd be happy to give us a ride because we were "obviously honest people." We'll see how that works out in the end, we do have their cell numbers!

With that, quite an eventful day ended. We had discovered the hard way that we were sleeping almost directly on top of a large anthill for the past two nights, so we switched nests, moving down a few trees as we prepared for a full day of trying to leave the hospitality of Iowa 80 behind us on Friday.

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…

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...

7/14: The Great Idaho Escape- Ken

I woke up at about the same time as always, and went through the familiar coffee/ hygiene routine while feeling quite energized after the intensity of Sunday. This day had a different feel then the last few had; the optimism of the night before had hung on.

I ran into my nameless trucker- friend from Kentucky almost immediately. He was still hanging out, waiting to hear when he could drop his load and move on. We did not discuss a ride, or much of anything beyond the usual pleasantries.

I also ran into Richard the Racist again. We chatted for a bit, and he offered me another pack of smokes and handed me $5 unexpectedly. My spending habits had changed drastically since the US-30 ‘Come to Jesus’, and had spent money on nothing but coffee since Saturday. Richard’s $5 had more than replaced that, and again I was struck by the generosity of people. He was getting ready to head to Soda Springs, and then Rexburg and I revived my efforts to convince him that a ride would be a wise career- move. No luck there! With a handshake, he was off.

I lingered around the table for a couple of hours updating the journal, drinking coffee, and in the end finally decided to replace the atlas that had been lost in Cambria, CA. They had the 2008 Atlas on clearance for $4, and with the money Richard had just given me, it seemed like a wise investment considering I’d paid $5 for just the Idaho map a few days before.

Shortly after noon, I’d had enough of the table. I’d not gotten anywhere with the potential ride with "Kentucky", and thought it time to try the road. I had by then come to terms with returning to Denver. There was motivation in the fact that I may be able to work and put some money away for a week or two while sitting on the cash I still had, thereby preparing for August in a way that would leave no chance of reliving recent monetary dramas! Plus, it was becoming apparent that I needed time to process everything, not to mention the fact that the memory card in the camera was getting full and the online journal needed a massive update. An opportunity to "pull things together." The self- expectations had waned with the shift in perspective back to that of a "passenger."

I found some cardboard, made up a couple of signs, one saying “Cokeville, I-80, Cheyenne” then hunkered down in the sun at the Flying J entrance from US-30, not really sure what to expect. People drove by, came then went, and I sat there with a serene calm that had been missing for a few days. I had missed that!

At about 2:00, I heard a voice behind me trying to get my attention asking where I was trying to get. The voice belonged to an apparently gregarious, outgoing driver-- who seemingly came out of nowhere. I told him I was trying to get toward Denver and asked where he was going. He said toward I-80, then all the way to West Virginia and that I could ride with him if I liked.

I giggled like a little girl.

Then I laughed LOUDLY!

Ken looked at me as though he was taken aback by my joy as I said the first of a few hundred thank yous. I stowed my pack, and made a quick trip inside to use the restroom, say goodbye to my new cashier- friend, and to let her know I’d finally found a way out of there.

Ciel had never made it back and I realized, to my lasting disappointment, that I had not gotten a picture of her or thanked her properly for that conversation. Sometimes the seemingly most insignificant things can have an incredible effect other people, and we will have no clue. I am sure she had no clue what that little talk meant to me.

Soon Ken and I were on the road, going east down US-30 toward Wyoming. I was finally seeing the places I had noticed on the map. Lava Hot Springs, Soda Springs, and eventually the Wyoming state line, and Cokeville: the next Flying J I had set as an intermittent goal if I ever got a lift out of McCammon. I also finally got a chance to see the terrain changing as we moved east. I had considered walking out of McCammon eventually and could now see that it would not have been that bad… yet.

Ken and I got along quite well. We didn’t struggle to keep conversation going at all. He was one of the surprisingly small numbers of black truckers that I had seen come through, and he made the same observation I had: Idaho is quite white- bred. He said he was from Tampa, Florida and had a 20-year-old son back home, which surprised me because he looked closer to my age than h really was. We’re both blessed with looking a lot younger than we really are!

This ride began to remind me a lot of the ride out of Wyoming with Cesar back in May. As we crossed from Idaho into Wyoming, I breathed a sigh of relief and felt a sense of accomplishment. I had gotten out of Idaho, and was now back in Wyoming. I cannot say that there was any degree of longing to return, and since we had not discussed how far I was going with him, I had visions of hitching through Rawlins again soon! Looking at the terrain of western Wyoming however made me thank Ken again. Nothing but the kind of desert that reminded me of Nevada and Utah. No settlements. No water. No anything! Not the kind of place you want to find yourself stranded.

After a few hours and about 180 miles, there was I-80 again. From there it was a straight shot east to Cheyenne. Somewhere along the way, Ken asked me how far I wanted to go. I had left that open to him, and figured I would go as far as he was comfortable. I answered something to that effect, and said I would probably go all the way to Indianapolis if he’d let me! To my utter shock, he indicated that he WOULD.

This triggered a flood of scenario- building in my head. I’d not even considered it a remote possibility that I’d be getting that far east that quickly. I began to think about where exactly I’d go IF I got to Indiana. Shalain’s trip home was still 2 ½ weeks away. As I considered the developments, the irony was not lost on me that I had gone from nothing to the Hitcher’s Lotto in a day.

Soon, things started to look familiar. We passed the exit where Doug and I had gotten on to I-80 in May, and Ken was planning to stop in Rawlins to get us showers. That really made me laugh! No matter what, it was going to be Rawlins! In the end, there were no showers in Rawlins, so he continued toward Laramie passing the T/A I’d been at before. In retrospect, I was feeling nostalgia at being there. Isn’t it funny how things that seem to be obstacles today trigger the most emotion and the best stories later?

Laramie didn’t have a Flying J, so Ken kept going toward Cheyenne as we had some killer conversations about the state of things and yet another example of Mutual Disgust in Society and Government! It seems that wherever I go, it is coming through the cracks. Rest assured friends, I am only a singular example of what appears to be blanket- disgust of the ‘system’ and how it treats common people. Ken gave me a crash course on how the government nickels and dimes truck drivers BEYOND income and gas taxes, permits, etc. It’s nothing short of extortion.

He was at the end of his allotted drive- time for the day, so he had to stop for the night. He knew where the Flying J was located in Cheyenne, just south of I-80 on I-25; the road to Denver. There were no showers here, so Ken decided that we’d stop in Nebraska the next morning to clean up; crashing in Cheyenne for the night.

I’d begun to seriously wonder about the wisdom of continuing on to Indiana. I had NO idea where I was going to stay for 2 weeks, or if I even WANTED to. It would make getting from west to east infinitely easier, but maybe TOO easy.

I decided to call Shalain and Friar Chris to discuss it. Chris divulged that he and Angela were going to New York City the third week of August, and suddenly I had a possible destination if I were to continue east. I could just meet up with them, then continue to Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine, then reverse course and go down the Atlantic Coast from there.

From Cheyenne it’s a quick 90- mile stretch to Denver through Ft. Collins. From Denver, I could go back to Santa Fe, see Shalain and thereby eliminate Michigan all together-- if I chose to. And… I could find a way to stash some money. This plan came together with almost no effort, which is usually an indication that it is a GOOD plan!

I felt kind of bad turning down Ken’s offer, but I simply was not prepared for it. What I was prepared for however was hiking up to the I-25 on- ramp to find a ride that night, figuring Ken had done enough and I should let him have his space. To my shock, he grabbed the atlas and concluded that it would be just as easy for him to get to West Virginia via I-70—from Denver—as it would be via I-80. He said he would be happy to drop me in Denver in the morning and that I could have the other bunk in his cab.

McCammon to Denver: ONE ride.

Another driver that I’d become good friends with.

Idaho made a lot more sense now.

We got to bed rather quickly, and after sleeping on the ground and on trains for the past week, that bunk felt like a fluffy little cloud! I passed out, and slept like a stone. Obviously my optimism for the day was well founded, and this leg of the trip was about to end. I knew I needed time to process it all, and my reaction to re- entering ‘society’ would surprise even me.