9/12: Portland- "What Do You Want?"

"What do you want?"

With this simple, yet mind-bendingly complex question, Andre opened a floodgate. This was not the first time he had asked it, but I had left it unanswered until we were able to dive in unrushed , and uninterrupted. Finally, here we were. Andre tends to dictate rather than listen, so he had a inadequate amount of background information to understand a specific answer. To provide some context I recapped, as briefly as I could, where I had come from over the past several years, and how that shaped the moment we were in: the present. This led later to why, I believe, he found me standing at Dave's marina. For the new kids, who haven't read much of the earlier text, my backstory includes a history of alcohol abuse that stemmed, not from "disease" or addiction, but from being cut off from myself; trying to fit into the pre-constructed box called the Amerikan Dream. Since I do not yet have a dedicated page to refer you to, I'll recap briefly below. If you've read this, jump a few paragraphs.

I had a relatively successful radio career that could have been much more profitable but in the end made me no happier than making mufflers. Once I found myself hurling stacks of CD's across the studio (and drinking as much as I ever had) the awareness that the answers weren't "out there" began to slowly sink in. Ill-equipped for this, I soon hit rock bottom emotionally. Only when the status quo became more painful than change could I embrace true, naked self- examination. This was in August 2004, and over the next 4-years I came to see that the feelings of discontent were actually my greatest asset; the depression that people tried to convince me was a "chemical imbalance" was in fact simply due to not living the life I knew I was meant to. I quit believing that "they" knew what was best; how I was supposed to live my life. I had little idea what that life was, but knew it had nothing to do with "their" expectations, or "their" predetermined notions of success. I would re-define these things, if not jettison them all together, and looking back that act transitioned into a steady process of eliminating the "crap" to which I was attached, and thus tethered. Arbitrary possessions ceased to own me.

Over the next four years, and through a series of social, political, and most importantly, spiritual realizations, I found myself on the road with a backpack in May 2008, with visions of Survivorman dancing in my head! Literally, in a matter of 3-days, however, my rapidly developing, instinctual notions of a synchronicity/ oneness with the rest of you took over. These supposed "coincidences" continued, then accelerated like a spreading California wildfire. I consistently met the right people at the right time, and slowly discovered that the insights and lessons I received from these experiences and interactions would prove colossal, and at times even overwhelming. I've been doing this now for nearly 18-months, with breaks of varying degrees when I need them to process things or raise money. I immediately and unexpectedly learned that I loved writing and documenting this experience; you'll notice that the entries have become much more in-depth and have added a bit of clarity (I hope!) over time.

I told Andre that I genuinely hoped not only to tell a story but also show people that, despite bizarre proclamations that I'm doing something courageous, I'm not at all remarkable. I believe nearly everyone is capable of these life-driven revelations, but in their own ways, along their own paths. Voltaire wrote, "Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear." I explained to Andre that I hoped to use myself as a mirror in an effort to help those with whom this resonated to muster the courage to go on their own journey. Not take to the road, but venture inward. Answers and [your interpreted] salvation lie within, but there is no shortcut. No "miracle" is coming. I wish I would have realized 20-years sooner that The Miracle, The Messenger is You: that little voice we too often ignore. Thankfully, mine was too much of a cantankerous prick to be ignored!

After all this, I answered his question: I told Andre that quite honestly... I had what I wanted. For once, I didn't long FOR anything else, or to BE anyone else! The look on his face was priceless! People have such a difficult time believing that a person can be content sleeping in the weeds, sitting on exit ramps, eating cold instant oatmeal, and drinking my nephew Ben's favorite: cold instant coffee! But, from where I sit I would say that I can't imagine how a person can be happy sitting in a box 1/3 of their lives, only to go home and hand their wealth to someone else! Trading 1/3 of your existence for a sliver of safety and security never has made sense to me. How is this not mental slavery? Give me the freedom and exhilaration of uncertainty; waking in the weeds then speeding down the Willamette 12-hours later! I've never gotten a satisfactory answer to this one simple question: How is this life not preferable to a lobotomizingly monotonous existence that's dependent upon the illusion of safety and security? If you had to choose, which would you define as "living?" But, no man can tell another how to live; these are my hard-fought realizations and I hold them close. Yours will be different. All I hope is that you take the time to consider discovering them.

A Naked Soul

With that, I began to see a side of Andre I had yet to see. Despite our comically antithetical positions in life, we had found an incredibly powerful common ground. Sharing my background is not always easy; sometimes impossible. Chris and I have experienced it quite often, having realized that people either instinctively "get it or they don't." I long ago learned not to elaborate much to those who don't, but Andre more than got it! Smiling and nodding, he would often finish my sentences, and when I'd finished, it was Andre's turn and he began telling me about himself. He spoke with some surprisingly intimate detail about his life from early childhood to the present day, and how being forced to confront his own mortality had affected him. It was remarkable and moving to look on as this powerful, dominant personality periodically broke down in tears while talking about his late mother, father, and the success that he'd had in his life. This was the moment that helped to define Andre for me and gave a naked, exposed look at who he was, not on the surface, but at the core. Rather than feeling sorry for himself the cards he was dealt by a random brown recluse, he was... HAPPY! Andre was shedding tears of JOY as he sat in his chair, reflecting back on the incredible life he had been blessed with! He would have been forgiven, but not once did Andre fall to the depths of self-pity; he chose to focus on the positive, and thanked the stars that he had been given what he had. I was slowly coming to the realization that sitting before me was a man who may have accepted his fate, and was in the process of reflecting back while preparing for the future. It was, I thought, not dissimilar to an elderly person looking through boxes of pictures and letters, contemplating at the end the chain of events that weave into the tapestry of life. This helped to explain his intense reaction to the video tape the night before, and when I asked him if that was the case, he weakly confirmed that perhaps it was. I was astounded, and asked myself (he was mirroring me) how I would react sitting in his chair. My answer was not entirely encouraging ...

Andre's monologue went on for a long time; probably 90-minutes to two hours while I sat there mostly silent, intently engaged: listening. I was learning about this enigmatic, complex man, and as he continued to share these private thoughts and aspects of his life, I began to glimpse details of the bare-foundation of this peculiar "How can I be of maximum assistance?" question. He was genuinely grateful for his abundance, but also had come to the cold realization that amassed wealth will do him no good once he's gone. To him, a collection of "shit" was meaningless in the end; a man's legacy is in direct proportion to how he's benefited the world: Is the world a better place upon your exit as compared to your arrival? Andre strongly desired to do the best he could, "Make Magic" while he was alive. This was a thunderous, extraordinary example on display before me.

Our conversation then turned to metaphysics; the ideas of synchronicity/ serendipity, presence, Sit Down & Shut Up, Center of the Universe, and a plethora of others. As I had repeated constantly, he and I were nearly identical in our beliefs. Andre was a disciple of the Celestine Prophecy, which was also my cornerstone after reading it in 1998. Andre took it a bit more literal than I, believing that every meeting is potentially important if it's explored. I took the book as more of a biblical parable; best used as a tool to fertilize already fertile spiritual ground, and to help expand, in western prose, the sometimes confusing base of eastern theology. We talked a great deal about this and after exchanging several examples, I confessed that since I had arrived, I'd had a strong sense that I was supposed to be here; a sense that went all the way back to that morning in The Dalles. Admittedly, precisely what that reason was had been elusive and unclear. I had by then concluded that I was in the right place, but other forces were active elsewhere: Center of the Universe. My instincts would again, eventually, prove accurate.

"Make it Happen"

At this point, I confess that as the Sunday sun began to rise over the Willamette, Andre had begun to have an interesting effect on me. His constant reminders of presence, as well as berating the phrase "Words are important!" had begun to stick, and I found myself applying them in my mind quite often. Another of these phrases was, "Make it happen" meaning, to be blunt, shut the fuck up and get it done. After all we had shared over the now- past several hours, I felt secure enough to verbalize a thought that begun as a quiet whisper, but was now screaming fanatically in my mind. I believed I had finally figured out why I was there. It was one of those "gems of circumstance," where the Dennis Lesson could be applied reciprocally. It was obvious, Andre agreed, that he needed help. And, I wanted to see how his story progressed. My suggestion was for me to possibly act as his 24-hour personal assistant in exchange for a small salary, housing, and the opportunity to just watch this incredible situation play out. I could act as an extra pair of hand and feet for him, and rather than replacing my teeth he would provide the opportunity to fund the next phase of this adventure, wherever it took me from there. More importantly, to me at least, this story could continue being told. I continue to be almost unbearably curious to see the application of his epiphany, AND the evolution of his beliefs. In addition, Andre had made an odd comment suggesting that perhaps he needed counseling to further explore his budding, powerful, spiritual beliefs- due to a perceived inability to have a dialogue "with himself." I found the thought of entrusting the development of personal spiritual beliefs to an "institutionalist" horrific! I pointed out that I would be more than happy to have more of these chats with him. It is after all where I thrive!

Obviously, this was a bold proposal! But, it made perfect sense as an opportunity for each of us to "be of maximum benefit" to the other, and Andre liked the idea. He saw the benefit of such an arrangement, but his leaving for Vancouver (supposedly later that day), then for his treatments in England complicated things as did upcoming renovations of his home. We chatted about some of the details, and agreed to revisit the idea when things had calmed a bit.

Understanding Cody

The final piece of this unbelievable Saturday- that- had- become- Sunday was his stunning reaction to how I had handled the Family Theater in Michigan back in June. I gave everyone involved the opportunity to show who they were, good or bad, while utilizing my Water through the Pipe technique: keeping the pressure on until the "cracks" (The Hens) were revealed. It was by now well after 7am Pacific time, and after hearing these thoughts and the ideas behind them, Andre sat thinking for a moment, then hopped up saying, "Let's work some Magic." He grabbed the phone, and in the end, details about Cody, that I had not been privy to, made me feel even worse about how I had treated him earlier.

I was wondering who Andre was calling at 7am on a Sunday, until he pointed out it was 10am in Ontario. On the other end was Cody's mother. I wont get into specifics, but I learned that their relationship had been a bit strained, and that he and Mom hadn't seen each other since he had left in April. Andre was pushing water through the pipe, and giving Cody's mom a chance to eliminate excuses- by offering to fly her to Vancouver to join them on this multi-day sailing trip he had put together. "Shut up and make it happen." Being of modest means, his mother was blown away and had no idea how to react. Andre was relentless however, almost too much so! She made it clear she needed to talk to her boss before she could agree, but anything less than a yes was unacceptable to Andre! In the end, thankfully, he removed himself from business-mogul mode, and seemingly left it open until she talked to her boss. I say "seemingly" because I later learned that Andre called her boss, explained the situation himself, and easily got her the needed time off. That's... Andre.

This final event was the perfect ending to the day, believe it or not. As 8am approached, I had experienced nearly every emotion imaginable, and possibly had seen a myriad of doors open. All that was left was the well-deserved dose of shame and humility I had earned earlier. When I began to grasp where Cody had come from, I got that industrial-strength dose- and another for good measure. We had similar backgrounds; I could understand him better than most. I had sensed an insecurity in him, but hadn't bothered to realize that it was one quite similar to my own from years past and had trampled all over it. I had exploited a treatable weakness out of little more than selfish impatience. I could understand him better than most, yet I chose to quickly judge him on the surface and through an unfair prism: mine. These pretty words would mean more if it weren't the hundredth time I've typed them. I vowed to repeat my apology to him the next morning (or mid afternoon!), and to be sure he knew I had regretted what had happened.

And with this, Saturday FINALLY came to an end! The rest of Sunday would be yet another important day; seeing a number of questions answered and a few more created. By now, I was invited to join Andre and Cody on their sailing trek to Vancouver, and because Sunday was the target day for departure, the end of my stay in Portland began when I awoke later that morning...

7/10: Iowa 80- Beginning Transitions

Friday began early, but not due to any heroic effort on our part. It had been hot and muggy the night before and as 7:30 came, I awoke to the sound of wind and nearly shivering. A peek from the bivy showed what looked to be a huge thunderstorm moving in. We had nearly enough time to begin packing up and get to the shelter of the Iowa 80. We almost made it, but not quite. Shortly after having the gear secured and the rain gear on, the skies opened with one of those Midwest rains that make you want to sit on the porch just to watch. We had a porch, by God, at the truck stop. There is something about storms that make us friendlier, it’s an icebreaker we sometimes need allowing us to start random conversations with perfect strangers. It as though the common “struggle” of rain or snow helps us forget the little walls we have built.

There were few walls found at our now- familiar bench at the south side of the Iowa 80. I had conversations with several of the customers and staff, one pair of young travelers was particularly interesting. They were from Illinois, and on their way to Northern New Mexico to volunteer at the large Boy Scout Ranch near Taos. I lingered briefly in my own prejudice as one began to talk with me, wearing a tie- die shirt that said, I’m Bringing Hippie Back. Not the message that draws immediate favor from me, but he was persistent, and turned out to be a good kid. He and his friend were taking something beyond a scenic route to New Mexico; they planned to visit Yellowstone, Idaho, Utah, Nevada, and Colorado. The more the four of us chatted, the more I realized we had much in common and with that came, again, the uncomfortable reminder that I am not far removed from their ideological camp. They were far from dogmatic and obviously more interested in living life than preaching doctrine. I respected that, and felt excited for the other young man. He had never been west, and was about to be in the midst of some of the most incredible terrain in the hemisphere. I remembered how that had affected me, and wished I could be there to witness his reaction. Had their car not been full, I would have. All of us had made a nice connection by the time they left telling us several times, “If the car was bigger…!” Afterwards, I commented that this was looking like a promising day.

Walcott’s storm sirens had already gone off and once we switched perches, the weather became quite threatening. Wall clouds were approaching from the direction of Iowa City, and as they collided with the ones overhead, the sky actually began to swirl. It was quite a surreal sight, and then the floodgates opened, literally. It rained like hell for what felt like hours. I remember thinking that I had not seen a deluge like this one sustain itself, for that length of time, in years. It was remarkable, even by Iowa’s high storm- standards. Chris and I found refuge inside chatting amongst ourselves or with the constant stream of travelers waiting it out. I slightly noticed one couple walking inside arguing, but thought nothing of it. One of these people would play a role soon, but at the time, I had no clue. Once the storm ended, it was almost as though there were a resetting of a Broadway stage. Within 40-minutes, the skies were blue and we were suddenly basking in an Iowa summer sun, and almost immediately the whirlwind that defined the day began.

The “plan” all week had been to get to any point between Walcott and Omaha. There was still Eli as a possibility at this point. He was driving from near Des Moines to Colorado Springs and had indicated there may be a possibility of riding with him, but he had poignantly vanished in the last couple of days. Without Eli, the assumption was that Chris would probably get an Amtrak from Omaha to Denver, while I would most likely take Greyhound to New Mexico. In theory, we already had a ride to Omaha with Photoguy, who was driving there from Toledo. He was supposed to be leaving sometime Friday, so the idea was to see how far we could get on our own while we waited on him as a backup. If nothing resulted from hitching, we would still cross the Missouri River into Nebraska with him on Saturday. A solid “plan” (by our low standards) to be sure, except that by Friday, we had chatted with him a few times, and he began to strike me as a well meaning, yet disorganized tool. In other words, typical Craigslist.

In light of my leeriness of Photoguy, I had periodically begun to suggest contingency plans… just in case. Chris had initially expressed that he wanted to be in Denver by July 17, Angela’s birthday. Considering the facts that this was still a week away and we had been house, car, train, and bus- bound for so long, I thought it might be a good idea to get back into traveler mode and try hitching all the way to Denver down I-80 to I-76. Or perhaps even traversing the smaller state and US highways across Iowa and Nebraska using the method used in Maryland, Delaware, and New Jersey. This way, I thought, we may be able to re-tune a bit by meeting people and having some new experiences in different places for both of us. However, Chris by now had tunnel- vision, and wanted to get to Denver ASAP. These ideas would be a last resort for him, only if Photoguy failed.

All of this was almost for naught. As we were sitting in the sun, Chris ventured off to see the truck museum, leaving his pack with me. After about a half- hour, I heard, “Aww man… Denver? Fuck it. I’ll do it, man.” I had no idea what this 20- something guy was talking about, until I remembered that I had my “Denver” sign attached to my pack. This person was on his way to Boulder in a rented van, and offering a ride ALL THE WAY THERE! It quickly disintegrated however, when I told him Chris had gone off to look at the old trucks and I could not go grab him, since I was babysitting both packs. He was obviously in a hurry, and I was NOT going to suggest he drive to the museum to track Chris down when he had just offered a nearly 1,000- mile ride. He went inside for at least another 20- minutes and when he came out, he looked over seeing I was still alone, wished me luck, and drove off. I was a bit perturbed. This set the tone for the rest of the afternoon. This was #1.

We moved inside to try to re- capture lightning in a bottle but to our utter disappointment not only was Christi off, but we had seated ourselves back in "Mustang Sally’s" section! As we were chatting, between the again nearly non- existent fill-ups, Chris mentioned a crop circle website he had found, saying it was interesting and made a lot of sense. He had mentioned it before, but to be quite honest, I thought he was kidding. Crop circles? Really? When I scoffed at the idea, he became quite offended, shooting off a surprisingly snide comment regarding the premonitions that had actually manifested themselves in Michigan. Again, Really? “You’re going to mock an actual, tangible experience, something that had actually happened to ONE OF US, and compare it to conspiracy theory?” I thought. I was livid on several levels. Right or wrong, this hit one of my exposed nerves. I said nothing and tried to let it go because I don’t believe he meant to offend me, as I hadn’t him, but it was an indication of things to come. This was #2.

Leaving the restaurant, the mood of the day had abruptly changed from the happy times of that wet morning. I was building a head of steam, and genuinely getting sick of navigating what smelled, in my frustration, like egoistic neuroses. I was beginning to see Chris as a bit of a caricature that was chasing his ego’s tail, often short- circuiting and mentally- roaming like a cell phone without a tower, looking for “signs,” even if he had to create them. I know this reads outright mean, but it is what I was thinking this Friday afternoon in Iowa. I was getting quite annoyed with the perceived inability to stay focused on the present, and to take things as they come. To quote Yoda (this IS a fun exercise!), “Never his mind on where he was! What he was doing!” To me, I thought it had become abundantly clear over the last few weeks that he was probably homesick, wanting to see friends and familiar scenes. No big deal, but it seemed that he was twisting it, even to himself, to make it feel as if Denver was “calling.” Had he lost the ability to decipher between actual “signs” and obsession? Harsh? Perhaps, but I need to ask.

As we were preparing to leave the exit ramp after trying our hands at hitching again, I finally inquired about this Denver obsession and with “talking to Angela and Lorelei.” What had happened to the 17th? Were they all leaving in the next few days? Had they shut off their phones? Were they relocating Denver to the South Pacific? Or, had he manufactured it? If so, was that going to happen with Seattle? England? Perhaps even Tupelo, Mississippi if he decided he needed a goal? I also pointed out that since we had left, roles had reversed, and reminded him of the Albuquerque “side car” analogy that, not so long ago, seemed infinitely important. It was he, I reminded him, who in the weeks before we had left was excelling at staying in the moment and not looking too far ahead; able to stay grounded. I was the one that was unbearably impatient to “get going!” What had changed? "Why was it that he was now so tortured by impatience?", I wondered. The last, as it turned out, would be the important question, but we had no way of knowing the answer.

Chris’ response was an annoyed look and deafening silence, and this was enraging. Standing before me seemed to be the same impatient character that, only days before, had claimed that he “needed to get on the road” to quell his restless mind. But little had changed except for the scenery, and the fact that he couldn’t blame Michigan for it. I asked why he didn’t just take the bus or Amtrak from Michigan all the way to Denver if he was in such a rush. Nothing. Why not return to Denver, find creative housing & employment, and take “ordinary” trips to Seattle, England, Springfield… wherever? Wouldn’t this be less frustrating? Good questions, I thought, but nothing.

Once we returned to the Iowa 80, things were quiet for quite awhile. Chris was obviously lost in thought, and I was consumed in a bubbling anger that had come from now- weekly reruns of the same episode. I began to seethe on the thought that, despite the fact I had given him a free pass to stay in Massachusetts as long as he needed to, putting my own plans on hold in the mean time, Chris had been not- so- cleverly nudging me to leave Michigan after two- weeks. This despite the high- octane personal drama that, I believe it is safe to say, far exceeded his.
The fact that I did not suggest he be on his merry way after that first two- weeks in Michigan began to anger me.

And, the fact that I knew this was coming began to anger me.

The further I regressed into the previous 6- weeks, the angrier I became. I began to think I had acted like a doting housewife, complete with apron, hoping that if I stay patient, he will “change”, or if I compromise, it will make him “happy.” Fuck that. On this warm, sunny, Friday afternoon that ended with another flurry of realization brought on while pacing the sidewalk trying to control myself. I finally clearly recognized that this part of the trip had to end, NOW, when the image of the dream I’d had of hitting him again flashed before through my mind. While Chris had earlier that day rather mocked these dreams, I saw this one as a warning. I thought this was a good time to share this little detail; one I had chosen to keep silent until now!

With that disclosure Chris said rather amused, “Well, we should DEFINITELY split!” and the familiar process of clearing the air began, with an added wrinkle: We could take the coming extended down- time in Denver and Santa Fe to re- evaluate and decide if we really wanted to continue together. Again, despite everything that written here, I was not as mad at HIM as I was frustrated with myself. I was both frustrated and sympathetic to his plight, but at the same time MORE frustrated with myself for not taking control of my own situation… again. The facts that these frustrations were intensifying and becoming much more frequent were obvious indications that we each needed to focus on our independent paths, and now. It did not even occur to me at the time that perhaps we had each lost sight of what those were. Perhaps his impatience and my frustrations were symptoms of something. An exercise in hindsight with a hint of foreshadowing? Well, perhaps!

This conversation was quick & to the point, and soon enough things were back to normal; even light. We spent the evening back in the Iowa 80 Kitchen with a new waitress- friend: Sanja. She was quite cute, and had led a fascinating life. She was born in Bosnia, had fled the war when she was young, and was now living in Davenport. I learned a long time ago a very important lesson: Do not fuck with Bosnian women! I will share my stalker- story one rainy day, but for now, we had a great time laughing and joking with her until her shift ended at 11.

Considering all the rain earlier in the day, we assumed our nest was flooded, so after contacting Photoguy and learning that he was not arriving until early Saturday morning, we set the alarm and bedded down behind some reeds next to the ramp. I didn’t even bother with the sleeping bag, reverting to last year’s mindset… although the bug spray came in handy!

It is important to clarify something at this point. I have tried to tiptoe along a very fine line while recounting this particular day. I have hoped to convey the day’s vibe, while at the same time being fair. That is not easy to do because many of my reactions were unfair. Chris and I had been remarkably successful as travel partners, including on this particular day. There was no lingering animosity. Since April we have, of course, had disagreements but no real arguments and it is significant that even on this day, when both of our frustrations reached their limits, we were able to get through it productively and learn something. After reflection, I believe Friday's events stemmed from not accepting and acting on the fact that we had reached a distinct, obvious fork in the road. The first three months of this trip were self- consuming times for both of us. We each had our own agendas in our own respective places and once these ended, we were BOTH feeling like a “cell phone without a tower.” Ultimately, Chris was right to be drawn to Denver. What should have happened sooner is admitting this, in Michigan, leaving each of us to deal with our own demons. Traveling with another person can be tumultuous; considering that this is as bad as it’s been, I give us high marks!

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...

7/10: A Tale of Two Idahos

Impatience & Indecisiveness: My Achilles Heels

I got up at about 8:45, saw that the Hippie had moved on and began to contemplate the day. Should I get in touch with the SOS Staffing people? Should I hold out for a ride with a truck? Should I hitchhike out of there today? I remembered all the warnings about eastern Idaho, and knew that if I were to hitch out of there, I should be fussy and wait for the right ride. My indecisiveness did not last long, and it went the same as it did in La Grande; I really was not interested in putting the trip on pause to work.

I headed out toward the on ramp after lingering inside for a bit. All of my success from Wednesday, and the fact that I had gotten nearly 200 miles made me a bit cocky; at least overconfident. When I got to the on ramp, I had only just set up shop when I saw a truck dropping off another hitcher and coming back onto I-84. Sure enough, he stopped. Remember the plan: Pocatello or Bust? Well, this chap was only going 10 miles up the road and I got in... Like a damn fool.

He was in his late 40's with a straggly beard and a very direct disposition, which of course I liked. The trip was quick, uneventful, and he dropped me at state highway 50, which goes toward Eden. “Eden my ass”, I thought. I would soon come to discover that there is NO Eden in Eastern Idaho. Nevertheless, I did find an Oasis. The Travelers Oasis. A nice, if slightly cheesy, truck stop with all sorts of greenery hanging inside.

I grabbed some coffee, made up my very first sign, which said something like “Montana or Colorado” (indecisiveness) and cracked open a can of cheap Wal- Mart salmon while sitting outside, again hoping to strike up a conversation with a driver to conveniently complete my odyssey to Pocatello. While I was sitting there a 20- something guy comes over and hands me a 6" Subway- type sandwich. Another example of a random act of kindness. That or I looked like a pathetic creature sitting on the steps eating canned food!

I found a nice shade tree to escape the sun as the day got hotter, propped up my pack with the sign on it, and continued the massive update of the journal. A nice way to spend a couple of hours.

A couple hours was long enough. Back to the coffee machine I went and then to the on- ramp. I was there quite a while, a sign of things to come. After a couple of hours, and many pictures of the thermometer across the road rising to 94, I finally got a ride sometime between 3 and 4:00.

Paul was another with a long straggly beard, his being snow white, and looked to be in his early 60's. I wondered to myself if this was what Moses had looked like. Another nice guy; another guy going 10 miles. He offered to take me toward the Rupert exit but by now, the feel had definitely changed from the western part of Idaho.

You can see the reactions people have to you when you are sitting by the side of the road. In Oregon and western Idaho people were just friendly. They would wave; give you the thumbs up or peace sign, or just smile. Here the looks began to change to something akin to... terror! I heard several doors lock when they would have to slow down to get on the freeway. Most were afraid to make eye contact! Those are the best!!

“If I don’t acknowledge I see him then he’s not there!!!”

The disdainful looks I understand. They are probably muttering beneath their breath: ‘Get a job, freeloader! Praise Jesus.”

But the fear! Where does that COME from? I had A LOT of time to think on this!

I was reminded of the people I’d seen in Twin Falls who were riveted to Fox News and the ‘impending war with Iran!’. They had similar looks on their faces. Or “Easy Rider” when Nicholson’s character tells Fonda and Hopper that the Rednecks weren’t afraid of them but of what they represent: freedom. If you have not seen that movie in a while, and you can stomach the cheesy music, check it out again.

I can’t quite figure it out: Why are conservative areas also the most fearful! These big, tough, gun- totin’, God- fearin’ ‘publicans and their 1950's- looking wives were literally scared of my scrawny butt sitting on an exit ramp! Why are liberals, or those in areas that are more liberal, more inclined to offer rides? Are conservatives just easier to control and manipulate with fear?

Fear da fags.
Fear da coloreds!
Fear da A- rabs... Mexicans... Muslims... WMD... Gay Marriage... Iran... Obama...

Fear of anyone who is NOT afraid? Perhaps they are just caged by this fear, and aren’t as free as they think. I know first- hand: Fear is its own prison. However, Nicholson’s character also said:

“Don’t go telling these people they aint free, or they’ll get busy killin’ & maimin’ to show you just how free they are.”

In case you self- righteous Libs are patting yourselves on the back, I have met Conservatives over the last couple of months that make more sense than ANY of you have. I have seen the same looks from the hybrids who drive by with the back window FILLED with the stupid “I’m a Hippy” bumper stickers usually highlighted by the now- ubiquitous “COEXIST”.

I am concerned about the Agenda Dogs who lap- up whatever fear Rush, O’Reilly, or Hannity happen to put in their bowl. The left has their own Agenda Dogs; they tend to go into multi- syllabic verbal seizures whenever you ask them to elaborate on or dissect the Noam Chomsky quote they just regurgitated and just love to throw around the term “World Citizen”, complete with the upward- inflection on cit- uh- ZENNN. These people piss me off more than the Neocons.

“Santa Fe, Hello!! You’re on the air!”

I’ll save the rest for another day and digress, but sheep are sheep; regardless of the herd.

That may have merited a Rant Alert, no?

Paul dropped me at the top of the exit leading to Hwy. 30 toward Rupert. I continued down the interstate hoping to catch a quick ride from someone coming up the other side.

Nope.

By 6:30 or so, the reality had set in that Todd screwed up. Todd should have held out for the ride to Pocatello, and now Todd was going to pay! I wanted more coffee, and a break from the frustration so I made my way down toward the Love’s truck stop at the head of the ramp. On the way I saw that there was an irrigator overshooting the fencerow, and was almost spraying the pavement.

YES!!!!!

I hadn’t had a shower since Saturday, was sticky from being in the sun all day (I hope?) and before I’d really thought it through I was setting the pack down, pulling stuff from my pockets and aligning myself to be doused.

And doused I got!

I severely underestimated how much water these things put out! It was like standing beneath a waterfall. By the time I realized how much water I was being hit with, and not without great joy I might add, I realized that my boots were filling with water! I immediately thought about the beach in Santa Barbara, the creek in California, the blisters that had resulted from the wet boots/ socks AND how long they took to dry! I was a bit concerned, and would be a bit more so after my little piece of irrigation- heaven finished. I even figured out that I could wash the nasty- ass shirt I was wearing! I was now clean & fresh, and ready for Prom! Thanks Massengil!

It’s all relative, right?

I got to Love’s, and had long since realized that I was now spending more money on coffee than even cigarettes so I bought a 32oz mug to replace the 16oz Pojoaque mug I’d been carrying since the beginning wayyy back in Colorado. With this, I could get more coffee for less because of the ‘refill’ prices. A good buy it turned out. I also scavenged for cardboard and made four signs that I figured I would rotate. One said “Wont Kill You” from the cinematic classic ‘Joe Dirt’. Another said “Freshly Showered in an Irrigator!!”, the next: “Passed ID Checks in SIX States”... yeah a slight stretch; it was only one state, but a little white lie never hurt anyone, right Forrest? The other sign was more straightforward: “Helena, Denver, I-70, I-80, OR I-40" If I could have written “OUT of Utadaho”, I would have.

It didn’t help. Apparently, they did not find my humor to be innovative. My spirits were still remarkably high; I had just simply accepted the fact that this was about to get more difficult than I had grown accustomed to. I knew this day would come, and besides it was not THAT bad. My negativity was more directed at the perceived authors of my newfound plight: the Mormons!

Another hour or so went by, and I had finally had enough of this locale. I packed up my clever (to me) ‘Communication & Interaction Aides’ and started down the interstate toward... well, anywhere but there... with the defiant anger that has served me quite well in the past.

Once I tapped into that I had a remarkably good time, chatting with the dogs that frolicked along the fence with me, then the cows that followed as though I were their Messiah (Todd Joseph Smith? Brigham V?) staring at me strangely the whole time. I even got some excellent sunset pictures and scared the wildlife while singing along to “Friend of the Devil”. Enough to scare Satan himself.

It was almost completely dark when I came to an overpass, completely exhausted. I hadn’t been paying attention to how far I’d gone, or eating. When I finally sat down, I discovered that I had lost some coordination. I was dropping things, stumbling, forgetting to do simple things, like unbutton my shirt before removing it. I had been here before. On my bike trip. This is affectionately known as ‘bonking’; when your body REALLY needs fuel, and lets you know. I ate a can of something-- the ‘beef’ by- product stew I believe-- and immediately felt better. I began looking for places around the overpass to sleep, but finding none, feeling much better, AND urged on by the fact that it was so much cooler and easier to walk at night, especially with the moon, I kept going.

Just ½ mile up the road, over a little hill, I spied lights! Another telltale sign of a truck stop! I had visions of the by now utopian- in- my- mind Flying J in Jerome. I resolved to try my best to get there. I had no idea how far off the lights were and, remembering Fruitland, prepared for a haul. It was quite a ways up there no doubt but since my food and rest, I was feeling great except for the foot and middle back pain that’s a sure sign of poor packing. Probably from carrying the canned food. So I walked, passing a “Last Services” sign that read something like 29 and 42 miles, depending on which way you went on the upcoming I-84/ I-86 split. Now my truck stop had new significance.

I had no idea how far I had gone when I again came to the Snake River. Large river that Snake. All along I-84, the shoulder had been at least 12 ft wide. When it came to bridges however, Idaho reclaimed its shoulder- space. Maybe 3ft now, and it was dark; not a good combination. The good news was the traffic was light since it was approaching midnight, so I dug the head- lamp out of my pack, turned on the red night- vision beam and waited for the traffic to break long enough to get across... at least a significant distance. The light must have worked. No one hit me. No one even blew their horn. The other good news at getting across The Snake was that now I was essentially at my destination. The flamboyantly gaudy sign advertising an RV park with GRASS! and a STORE! and other precious goodies; I began to wonder if I had indeed found Eden in Idaho!

I bypassed the closer Shell station, which looked closed anyhow, for the surefire supplier of ALL my vagabond needs. And GRASS! With glee, I approached my second Oasis of the day to find...

It was closed.

Fuckers.

Why... in... the... HELL! ... would you have a sign that would attract people, or a bug the size of MOTHRA, to a place that was CLOSED!

I wanted to defecate on their steps but finding that beneath me, I instead sat down, took my boots off, and relaxed. A car soon pulled in with Montana plates... also lured like bugs by the misleading Interstate Light Show. They were a nice couple, I chatted with the guy for a couple of minutes while his girl took care of business. They were headed west though, to JEROME. In my fatigue, I confused Rupert and Jerome or you can bet your butt I would have gone BACK there and taken my day- mulligan.

In addition, to make my night perfectly complete, the local Fife- ian sheriff showed up. He rolled his window down, and with an obnoxiously- stern look and an overly- dramatic tone meant to let us know he was on the ball said: “Ev’ry thing Awlraht?”

Now I wanted to defecate on him.

I just nodded; refusing to look over for fear that my frustration and annoyance with him would get the best of me. My new Montana- friend handled the verbal interaction quite nicely however and Mr. Fife left to polish his metaphorical ‘Lone Bullet’ . . . at least in MY mind he did.

After the Montanans’ left for the true hospitality, and open stores, that is Jerome, I yet had to deal with one more piece of drama. Teenagers. A couple of carloads pulled in while I was sitting there alone, and I believe they were quite curious about me. I was quite ornery, if you haven’t noticed, and was in NO mood for any Redneck Juvenile Fun. I did everything I could to look menacing, even eyeballing them periodically while they sat there. That was probably stupid, but it worked. They left without bothering me, therefore, I must be ONE menacing mutha... or I was just playing the role of Paranoid Bitch again. Perhaps a new topic to vote on? You Read, YOU Decide! I am frightened of that actually...

I left on a hunt for the night’s nest and settled on the space Rich and I had used in La Grande: between the highway and the on- ramp. It was down in a depression, had some smallish bushes to conceal me, and best of all, it was close to the Shell station and coffee when I woke up. I lay there for a while contemplating the day before dozing into an exhausted, deep sleep.