4/30: Corbin City, NJ- Wendy

Chris and I got a relatively early jump on the day. The idea was to make our way as far north as we could, with a minimalist goal of May's Landing by Saturday. This would give us two days to go the nearly 20- miles or, hopefully, much further with a ride. Chris's mom was planning to pick us up Saturday, and had an offer from Ken to get a ride if we could get anywhere on I-95. Thus we had set simple "goals" of getting as far as possible to shorten her drive or, if we were very lucky, hooking up with Ken somewhere around Philadelphia or Trenton. Unfortunately, we were also coming to accept that rides were unlikely, at best, in New Jersey.

This was the first day of consistent walking since we had shut it down because of my heel, and we kept up a surprisingly good pace. Since the shoes had broken in quite a bit now, the heel was repairing itself nicely, and I had lightened up, we were moving more quickly than the week before.

We stopped for some supplies, then quickly found the ever- present Wawa... which, with its coffee and cheap(er) smokes, was becoming my favorite stop. Stop we did.

While reclined against the wall outside, we were approached by a bearded, tattooed character who slid along side, crossed his arms, and asked "What are you two up to?", as if he recognized something.

Tom was a biker who also ran a moving company. He looked to be in his 50's, and had a beard that would impress both the saltiest biker and biggest ZZ Top fan. He & his wife, Rita, were driving to Cape May with their teenage son for Rita's birthday, and running into us had delayed things a bit!

The conversation went on for quite a while considering the venue, with Rita both reminding Tom that they had things to do AND taking part at the same time! It was comical, and obvious that the four of us got along famously! Too bad that they were going the other way, we could have talked until Anchorage. I loved these two!

We lingered at the Wawa for nearly two hours not feeling the urge to accomplish much, despite our "goals", and had a nice pace for the day. Tuckahoe was next after a rest or two and a hike thru a nature preserve. On the way thru this little village, we pondered buying a converted short- bus that had been converted to an RV, much like the veggie bus. Something fitting about the fact that it was a... short- bus.

Corbin City begins across a drawbridge from Tuckahoe, and is barely a town. I had stopped on the other side (if it has "sides") to get rain gear handy, when out of the antique store we had parked in front of walked a pair of elderly ladies who were curious about the creatures mingling outside. After a nice chat, they pointed out the Corbin Cafe just up the road, which they suggested as a place to refill water before the "nothingness" further up 50.

We were greeted with what I sensed as suspicious curiosity as we lumbered in asking the bartender if we could please fill up the water bag. The suspicion quickly melted away as the 3 or 4 patrons learned that we had found their little town after traveling from New Mexico and Colorado. Corbin Cafe is the typical small- town dive I love, and I liked that it had "Corbin" in the title, as I could easily see my late- friend, Michael Corbin, loving the place!

We stayed for what I thought was a surprisingly long time chatting, and when we finally pulled ourselves away to find our ground for the night, Keith came after us carrying the Coke bottle I was using for spare water. I had left it sitting at the bar, and along with the forgotten water came an offer for beers if we chose to come back inside. That sounded damn good.

Two beers turned into us buying dinner... which of course turned into more beer. After an hour, we had an invitation to camp in the bartender's backyard, and the bar had begun to fill up for the Thursday night pool league. The bartender's name was Wendy, and thru the course of the night we met her boyfriend, Avery, as well as her daughter, Tiffanni, who were playing in the pool league. After two or three hours, the accommodations had been upgraded to Wendy's camper trailer: A bed!

Chris and I both had a grand time with the notion that all this had come about by simply stopping in to a place most would ignore to ask for water. We had also intentionally suspended frugality for the night concluding that it was worth the money to have a little genuine interaction with people. We were right. We had a great time. Everyone at the bar was unbelievably nice. They all knew each others names. And each others business. Keith had even went and put together a sort of care package, which was snack foods, along with packets of tuna and Spam. It was quite the gesture. I received a call from Ken early in the evening, saying that he was in Richmond, VA but would be driving through the night to try to make Boston by 7am. It was obvious that we were going to miss him, but I'm not sure we ever held out anything other than a faint glimmer of hope from the beginning. The topic had only rarely come up during the day.

After several beers, many conversations, several attempted playings of the Soggy Bottom Boys on the jukebox, and another full meal for Chris, Wendy and Avery were ready to head home at about 11:30. That was perfect, since both of us were fading fast. Wendy lives in Tuckahoe, about a mile down the road we'd just walked, and once there we were quickly shown to the camper accompanied by a not so- subtle hint to "leave it as we found it!" I love direct people! Once my head hit a real pillow, it was no time at all until I was out.

8/26 & 8/27 Nashville to Santa Fe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8/25 Atlanta

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

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

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

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

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

Gotta love the Greyhound!

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

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

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

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

$30 million for that? No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Viva Dirty Dog!

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

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

I never heard a thing from Ken.

8/24 N. Carolina- Stalked!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was now in love with Jo.

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

Amerika!!

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

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

I was not exactly pleased with this spot.

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

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

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

Dick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conclusion?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whudathunkit?

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

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

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

8/14 Ken II: Ft. Smith to Nashville

We were back on the road at about 8:45 after our coffee & hygiene routine. The night before, we had missed that the Cherokee Truck Stop had a full Internet kiosk, complete with full- computers, and charged only $2 per hour. Had we noticed that, things would certainly have turned out differently!

We immediately crossed into Arkansas where of course I tried, and failed, to get my silly little picture. There was nothing of note worth talking about in Arkansas. It was Arkansas. I was again struck by how green every thing is out here. I have grown accustomed to New Mexico and Colorado’s lack of vegetation, and the brown texture to everything… even where it IS ‘green’! Also, the humidity. I am no longer conditioned to deal with higher humidity levels, and as soon as the truck’s windows went down or I stepped outside, it felt damp. This will take some adjusting.

Little Rock came and went. From there it was 150 miles or so to Memphis. I was stationed near Memphis, in Millington, during my brief fling with the Navy eons ago. Memphis triggers funny memories whenever I drive through, and it struck me how long it has actually been since I have lived there! Ugh!

"I’m still only 25... I’m still only 25... I’m STILL ONLY 25!!"

From Memphis it’s 200 miles up I-40 to Nashville. I had called Kim the night before to tell her that I was indeed coming, I was arriving Thursday, and I would call her when we were close enough to know when we would be in the city. I thought Memphis would be that point, but Ken had more time than he originally thought thus he was less stressed about arriving late. I put off the phone call until we were almost IN Nashville where we had stopped at a Petro truck stop which had a shitty little “Quick Skillet” restaurant. “Quick Skillet” is like “Iron Skillet” (my favorite restaurant), but… shitty. No buffet, just a … shitty… salad bar. We decided mid- meal to forego “Quick Skillet” in favor of whatever awaited us at the T/A in Nashville where we were meeting Kim. It was that bad. The two plates from the salad bar wound up costing us $13. We won’t be visiting your neighborhood Petro again, unless they rename "Quick Skillet" "Shitty Skillet".

The "Shitty Skillet"was a quick 20 minutes from the Nashville Sprawl, and after navigating rush hour traffic then hunting down the hidden T/A off I-65 next to the football stadium, we were finally here. The ride from Denver had taken 49- hours.

Ken parked the truck; I called Kim to give her directions, and bought Ken dinner as a token “thank you” for the ride. We chatted about other possible connections, and he again said that anytime we were in proximity, I was welcome to tag along. I told him, again, how appreciative I was for the rides then he actually thanked ME, saying something to the effect that it was nice to have someone intelligent to chat with on the road. The fact that HE was thanking ME for anything astounded me.

We had dinner, and Kim predictably called saying that she too was having trouble finding this poorly- placed T/A with no visible sign! I guided her in, by phone, and for the first time since 1995, I was hanging out with my broadcasting school- pal Kim. I introduced her to Ken, we retrieved my pack from the truck, I said goodbye to Ken, and we were off. Time to see exactly why I am in Nashville. That was a mystery to me; for about 45 minutes. And, oh! how that mystery was solved.

8/12 CHAPTER 3 Ken II, 2 Months

Eric and I were up at on our way at 9:30, running all over the Denver metro basically tying up loose ends. We stopped at a Sprint store so I could get a car charger for my cell phone so as not to repeat the events in northern California with Eric and Marine. The damn thing cost me $25 and I knew I would live to regret buying it.

The work- day was uneventful, and I heard from Ken at about 2:00 letting me know that he was in Laramie, WY as we’d arranged the day before. Laramie is maybe 2 ½ hours from Denver, and now that I had a good idea of when he’d be in town, I could begin to plot a place to meet him.

I had hoped to be able to get to a convenient place on I-70, so he would only need to exit momentarily to pick me up, and then return immediately to his route. I was leery of that plan when, not knowing that part of Denver well, I couldn’t pinpoint locations that I was certain would be hassle- free. I decided on I-25 and 20th St., up the street from Coors Field, because it was maybe just ½ mile past the I-70 interchange, had a stop light, and he could just re- enter I-25.

Once that was set, I repacked again, foolishly eliminating food and rearranging the pack’s balance for the hike, via Light rail, to 20th St. Eric and I settled up on money, and much to my dismay I was forced to evaluate just how much money I had spent while in Denver. It isn’t a pretty picture. After the rain- fly, I was leaving with significantly less money than I should have been. The beer wasn’t THAT good.

Eric and I said the goodbyes; I loaded the pack on my back, and set off. For the first time in nearly a month, I was traveling again. Officially back on the road. There was no euphoria this time; no excitement for the unknown. I KNEW what to expect. In that sense, this phase, Phase #3, felt MUCH different. I was no longer the adolescent exploring the woods. I knew what was in the woods, how to handle it, AND I knew how what I would see from the woods would effect me. The lack of that excitement was a disappointment, and the fact that I was not experiencing the same energy- lift I had at the tracks after the Rockies game was surprising. It felt like I had just woken up in the bushes somewhere and was resuming the trip.

Go figure.

I decided to forgo paying the $1.50 fare for the ride to Union Station, remembering Thoreau’s “get what advantage of her” line in Civil Disobedience. I felt like quite the Anarchist as I rode the familiar route downtown. I was in a bit of a hurry, having spent more time chatting with Eric than I’d planned to and concerned about missing Ken in case he was early.

I got to I-25 & 20th without issue, and planted myself back in the old- familiar spot. The ramp. I arrived at about 4:00 and as I waited, a panhandler returned with his handy little sign pronouncing his abstinence from both drugs and alcohol, saying he just needed “a little help“. Todd was skeptical. The bum was NOT pleased with my presence. I wasn’t hitching, holding a sign, or ANYTHING; just sitting there. He must have thought that made him look bad, because after five minutes or so, he shouted across the exit ramp “Are you just sitting there for the Hell of it, or waiting for a ride?” I answered that I was waiting for a ride, but by now this guy’s demeanor and blatant stares were bugging me. He was acting as if his urine- soaked Jansport book bag had marked his “turf“. He apparently didn’t hear me, or was feeling belligerent, because he asked again. This time I replied “I LOVE the fucking views here… I might just have to stay here all night. Is that OK with you?” Again, I must have had a sinister look in my eyes because suddenly my presence seemed less important to him. Funny how that works.

At 4:34, four minutes after he predicted, Ken pulled off I-25 to 20th St. Our plan had worked perfectly. As I climbed in the cab, I saw my new ‘friend’s’ look of utter amazement. Here was a guy who had just been sitting there now climbing into a semi. Not so astounding, I know. But HE seemed to think it was. I just waved as we drove off.

Ken and I shook hands, I explained the situation with Dufus, and we quickly settled back into our roles from last month. We got re- acquainted as I settled in for the ride to Limon, where he was going to stop for the night since he’d been driving from Idaho since 5am.

Shortly after I got in the truck, the indecision concerning my destination was resolved. Ken has a friend in Chattanooga, TN who wanted a ride to Tampa. I could ride to Nashville and see Kim, and he could pick Jay up a couple hours down the road. Simple. Easy. Go with it Todd… go with it. I went with it.

We did stop at the Flying J on the far- east end of Aurora, and the cashier asked Ken to take a box of urgently- needed fuel tickets with him to Limon, since they were running out. She told him that we’d get free dinner in exchange for their box occupying his floor. Quite a deal.
The ride to Limon was typical eastern- Colorado. Not a lot to see save some dramatic storm clouds on the horizon that got more intense as we moved further southeast.

We arrived in Limon at about dusk, and feasted on Steak and Salmon. The manager in Limon had apparently only intended to give us the soup n’ salad bar, but had neglected to tell Ken this before hand. That led to some mini- drama when we went to leave, but the acting manager handled it diplomatically.

We settled into the double- bunked cab for the night and watched “10,000 BC” on DVD player while I also wrote in my journal. The dominant themes as I reflected on the past couple of days were the ‘coincidences’ and the fact that I was feeling very little emotion about being back on the road. I also was encountering Che’s 'split- moment' phenomenon; feeling slight melancholy about not returning home, and also fleeting, inconsistent excitement stemming from the recall of past experience, experiences that were precluded by similar circumstances and emotions. In short, I was having trouble unplugging from The Matrix, and re- establishing a solid connection with… you choose the term! It also dawned on me that today was the two- month anniversary of leaving Santa Fe for Santa Barbara, and I was heading even further away this time. Maybe the # 12 is lucky for me!

Ken and I set the alarms and got to bed ready for a day full of Oklahoma.

8/11 Denver V: "'Plans' of Mice & Men"

Monday morning and early afternoon was spent working and trying to figure out this next step. Eric offered to let me stay at his place for the night so I could catch the 10:30 am bus to Santa Fe on Tuesday, if need- be.

Some people may be a bit confused, and with good reason. I had a plan when I arrived in Denver from Idaho almost a month ago, but somewhere along the way, the inspiration and motivation to go to New York City and Maine had left me, if it was really ever there at all. I have never been a big fan of NYC, and have already spent a small amount of time there, in Brooklyn during the anti- war march in 3/03. I have no interest in enduring a “San Francisco on Steroids” experience. In retrospect the idea was probably a temporary sedative to allow me to focus on the real purpose of this interlude. I DO want to see New Hampshire and Vermont, and I will. I just don’t feel a compelling urge to do it now.

So, on went the day. I had pretty much resigned myself to the fact that I was returning to New Mexico for lack of a better plan, figuring that I could get to work on stashing money for this winter’s trip south.

The problem was that there was only ONE bus from Denver toward Albuquerque per day, when there used to be FOUR, and I‘d missed it. That meant I had to hang out at Eric’s, or in the woods, until morning. I tried to contact Greyhound to inquire about the AAU “Americanos Americana” line that they list on their website. It goes to Albuquerque, with a stop in Santa Fe, at 6:30 every evening. However, that route does NOT seem to offer the option of getting OFF the bus in Santa Fe! I got no answer during the entire 40 minutes I tried to contact them. This coupled with Greyhound’s blatant disdain for ANY other kind of customer service, AND the fact that they were raising their fares AND cutting their routes … I began to become irritable. (Shocking I know) I used to enjoy Greyhound, despite the fact that I seem to be the ONLY one! Now it just seems like cattle- car service.

I finally gave up and decided to try to call my trucker- friends, Ken and Cesar, to see if by chance they were near, or would be near, Denver. I got a hold of Ken and was amazed, shocked, and floored by the fact that he was back in Idaho, and on his way back to Tampa. Through Denver. THE NEXT DAY. He told me that he was headed through Nashville to drop off a load, and that I could either ride there, or all the way to Tampa if I liked. I had no clue what to tell him; he said to get in the truck and decide on the way.

I was NOT returning to Santa Fe. This phase of the trip would continue.

The term coincidence was mentioned, and then brutally mocked. This made this Denver ‘experience’ feel like a longer, drawn out rerun of McCammon, and not just because it would again be Ken that I was leaving with. Denver was a bit of a struggle this time, mostly of my own cause. I spent the day stressing about ‘what I’m going to do’, and again, the solution presented itself- in its own time. I didn’t talk a lot about this, but it occupied my mind for most of the night. A lesson I just can’t seem to learn.

Ken set into motion a strange, quick moving chain of events. I had already finished packing and arranging a ride with Eric to his house, then Chris and I devised a plan where I would serve as a Bivy Guinea Pig. For those that don’t know, a bivy is essentially a waterproof sleeping bag cover that also covers your head. They usually weigh about a third to a quarter that of a normal tent, and take MUCH less space. The downside is, of course, that you can’t sit up, nor can you place the pack INSIDE with you, meaning that a more elaborate rain- fly system is needed to keep it from getting water- logged in the inevitable downpour.

We walked down to REI and put an Outdoor Research ‘Alpine’ 4- season bivy on his credit card. REI’s got the best return policy possible. If you’re not satisfied for any reason at ANY time, bring it back for a full exchange or refund. (I pity the price- gauging ’local’ outdoor- store in Santa Fe when the REI finally gets built!) I could take it east, get rained on, and if my review was satisfactory we would get another before South America. If it blows, return it with no damage done. A fine plan indeed.

I had called & sent emails to two friends: Kim in Nashville and Nikki in Tampa. I had a pretty good indication of how this was going to go after I called Nikki and someone, who sounded an AWFUL lot like her, answered but said that they weren't Nikki and didn't know who she was! I had left Kim a voicemail, and she returned the call on the walk back from REI. She said I could stay with her for a day or two on Nashville, and to just let her know if I decided to. Nikki emailed me back later claiming that her number had NOT changed, yet no one had called and she didn't know what I was talking about! O...K then.

Removing the tent made a huge difference. Suddenly the backpack was not only lighter, but suddenly cavernous! I could now downgrade the pack, but thought it’s better to have too much room than not enough. Also, I could add another pair of pants and STILL be lighter. As I was about to leave for Eric’s, we weighed the pack in at 43#. Considering I left Denver on May 20th with the same pack weighing 55#, I’m quite thrilled. I also discovered that, for the first time since HIGH SCHOOL, I was below 160# myself! I have dropped 45 pounds in the last 15 months, and 30 in the last 4 alone. Yes… I AM proud, thank you.

Chris and I said our goodbyes and it was off to Eric’s place after a trip to McDonald’s and to the Skylark Lounge on Broadway for some PBR and a final rant- fest. This is in the neighborhood we lived in when we left Denver last summer, and it was nice to be back there hanging out. I love Capital Hill too, but it’s a bit ‘hip’ for me.

We got back to Eric’s place, and since Ken wasn’t going to be arriving until 4:30- ish the next day, I had one more day to work. I slept on his floor… and like a stone.

7/15: Denver IV

Everything went according to plan. We were up at 6am and on I-25 heading into Colorado by 6:45. The ride from Cheyenne was a quick 90- mile sprint, and I felt better about this controversial little decision the closer we got to the city. A good sign!

Ken and I exchanged information just as I had with Cesar and we promised to stay in touch, which we have. He also indicated, as did Cesar, that if we were ever in the same area that I'd be welcome to ride wherever he was going.

He dropped me at the 23rd St. exit and I began the short trek from I-25 to Capital Hill via the free shuttle that runs up the 16th St. Mall downtown. When I got to the Friary at around 9, Chris was of course still sacked out, since he RARELY rises before dusk due to his chronic addiction to amphetamines and Catholic Porn.




















We got caught up and after a couple of hours, that was that. I collapsed for most of the rest of the afternoon, then began sorting through the 1300+ pictures I'd taken. Not alot of excitement. We went out for drinks after he got out of work, and I began what would turn out to be a lengthy process of processing.

I noticed almost immediately that there was indeed something different about how things... felt. Smaller. I felt like an observer who was completely disconnected from everything which was odd because whenever I had returned to Denver before the trip, I had felt that cozy familiarity of 'home'. Not this time. As this Interlude continued, I'd learn that this was FAR from isolated and it would soon be VERY apparent, disturbingly in some ways, how much I'd been affected by what I had experienced.