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!
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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…
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.
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.
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.
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!
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!
est 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.
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.
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!
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.
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!
to the sound of steady rain hitting the goretex. After donning the rain gear, we slowly packed up and trudged back across the exit ramp to dry out and get coffee. This was the beginning of what would become ritual during our time there. A few hours passed sitting by the window watching it rain and being amused by Sally, our elderly and utterly incompetent server. Sally was so slow and disconnected that she wasn’t even annoying; just entertaining!
I was enjoying the friendly atmosphere of the Iowa 80 and of course, the people watching it provided. One of these people we chatted up was another hitcher whose name I have forgotten, if we got it at all. He looked to be somewhere in his 50’s, and claimed to be on the very last leg of a 30- year hitching adventure, saying that he had supported himself as a welder, dishwasher, and by subtly panhandling. I didn’t quite believe everything he said, but also didn’t care. He had neat stories and, unlike another hitcher who had shown up, wasn’t trying to bum cigarettes or change from every person sitting beneath the roof watching it rain. Even if it was bullshit, his was easy to digest!
We continued to “make ourselves available,” just in case, without actually seeking out an escape. The Aaron Tippin show was the next evening and, judging by all accounts, the previous 29 Jamborees had been huge, so we resolved to try to get some sleep, rise early, and spend the day “making ourselves available” again. If that failed, there was the flock of truckers and Iowans partying at the Iowa 80. How could we lose?
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.