10/12-31: Filling Tanks & Adjusting Sails

Early- mid October saw a bizarre repeat of what happened after I returned home in 2008, and almost to the day. Once the house-sitting was done, I almost immediately went into a funk; just as last year I had done the same after finishing my initial work with Jack. I didn't realize it until reading back through my journal and seeing that if I were to write that night I would scribble nearly the exact same words... exactly a year later! I've come to greatly enjoy these moments when I sincerely have no choice other than to laugh at myself. They seem to be on the rise!

As the intense, unpleasant scrutiny of myself, and others, continued. I began questioning people's ability and/ or willingness to see things as they really are, and a tendency to apply their own "personal narratives" to the experiences in their lives, rather than letting truth be the compass: "See things as they are, not as you would like them to be" is such a simple concept, yet at the same time I know first-hand how difficult it is to adhere to; how easy it is to hide in and project our own interpretation from our own mind. Some believe it's impossible altogether to witness things accurately, saying, "We don't see things as they are, we see things as we are." (Anais Nin or the Talmud) Many hippies have gleefully latched on to this distorted White Flag and embraced the idea of relativism with the loud declaration: "My Reality." Rather than looking further inward to identify and purge their prejudices and what's skewing their perception of reality, they've taken the route of the helpless alcoholic who's decided that, since he's been told he's "diseased," he has no choice other than to drink every day. Hey, that absconding of responsibility is "his reality," right? In retrospect, this escapism was the first Progressive Red Flag that has long-since escalated into a genuine, open disdain for escapist rhetoric, and further- how agenda has quietly hitched its wagon to the ideological horse. Somehow, people have convinced these children that self-lobotomization is the answer; that whatever they choose to "believe" is in fact their reality, encouraging a legitimization of self-delusion by teaching egoistic, protective escapism rather than an unattached commitment to truth. It manages to lend transparent credibility to the practice of placing point-of-view above truth. I have a quiet, short-fused, internally turbulent reaction to these hippies, even though we inevitably seem to travel similar paths. With that being said, ultimately the mirror had to be turned, and it was. I spent a good part of October and early November harshly questioning rather I inadvertently had skewed my perception of these experiences, and the ideas I pursue as a result, ultimately finding myself hyper-sensitive to indications that either Chris or I were diluted. The answers I came up with, for myself at least, were quite quick, obvious and for once...simple. But, they needed to be asked for my own sake.

**Rant Alert**
Through this patience- testing process, I kept hearing Andre's, "Words are important!" and subsequently noticed an increase in my intolerance for "mystic bullshit." Fancy rhetoric attempting to espouse or defend a "spiritual" idea, but failing miserably once the sentences are parsed; when the bullshit's shoveled to the side, there's often nothing left! It's a vacuum wrapped in verbosity!

It's like trying to debate that the sky is pink instead of blue. Relativists will say, "Sometimes it is! And, what if I'm colorblind? That's MY reality! Who are YOU to say?" My answer? Your internal defect, and unwillingness to acknowledge, address and compensate for it, does NOT change the language we've all agreed upon; the proper description of the general color of the sky is: FUCKING BLUE!

This is that asinine Every Kid Gets a Trophy at work, only now it's Every Kid Gets a Reality. "No Moonbeam, you're not "wrong!" You're NEVER wrong, and you NEVER lose... if you TRY! If you think the sky is fuchsia, it's fuchsia! That's your reality!"

I can't adequately express to you how that mentality pisses me off, but allow me to try to convey it to Moonbeam. Hey Moonbeam, sometimes you ARE wrong, sometimes you REALLY DO LOSE; some people REALLY are flawed. See, this is the harsh law of Nature and it even applies to you, precious Moonbeam. As you can see on display all around you every day, we are neither created, nor treated, equally, and though it's plainly neither pleasant nor fair, no amount of politically correct, voodoo-linguistics will change the REALITY of NATURE'S LAW. Progressives are the people who universally tout a special "love & appreciation" for nature, so for them to ignore Her most basic law? Well, the hypocrisies are astounding! Now, precious Moonbeam- tell your parents I said to smoke a joint then feel free to fuck off and quit wasting my time. Maybe I'll see you at Burning Man in a few years.
**End Rant** brought to you by Starbucks, proudly serving pretentious dickheads (and the rest of you) since 1971!

Once that process was undertaken, the funk lifted. I originally had come to the conclusion that the return to Santa Fe was likely a mistake; that I should have continued on toward California on foot before returning home. After purchasing ANOTHER phone to replace the one damaged sleeping outside at Wendie's, I had barely broke-even after the bus ticket, and was now forced to go into fund-raising mode to get back out there this winter.

I decided on a whim to re-list the injured Saturn on Craigslist, at a reduced price, to see if anyone with extra cash or mechanical aptitude would be interested in buying and fixing it themselves. I was quite surprised when the phone started to ring, and in a matter of a few days had sold it to a man in Albuquerque. To clarify, I was VERY up-front about the mechanical issues, which oddly had seemed to vanish when I started and drove it for the first time in six-months. I even offered to let him leave it in the parking lot until he could have it looked at here in Santa Fe. He refused, opting instead to drive it 60-miles down the interstate to Albuquerque. I sold the car on the Saturday the 17th, and on Tuesday the 20th I received a call telling me that the entire transmission casing had dropped while he was driving it around. He wasn't upset, but did share that he estimated it would cost over $2,000 to have the tranny replaced. I reminded him that he knew the car was broken when he bought it, and that I HAD offered to let it sit here until it was able to be fixed, and he'd refused. I believe he was meekly fishing for a refund after realizing he had probably fucked himself treating it as a fully-functioning vehicle without first having it looked at! That... was not happening. That... was why he got the car so cheap in the first place. I... was now thrilled to be rid of that car.

With the Saturn sold, I learned the same day that I was in-line for another week's house-sitting. Katie had to return to California, and was happy with the way things had gone in September. With that, I had just quadrupled my money in about in hour. This was quite a good Saturday, and the decision to return home suddenly looked quite astute. Shalain and I drove to Albuquerque's REI then next day where I finally got the backpack I wanted. It was costly, but a good investment. Thanks to Lynette and Dave, I would never have to buy boots again, and now with this Osprey (Kermit?), I would never have to buy another backpack... or I could return it for a cheaper one if I was in a real fix. Call me the money masseuse.

The second week at Katie's was better than the first in most ways. The dogs remembered and welcomed me with open paws and I managed to get a good amount of writing done, most of it this time in my written journal, coming to a few hard-fought conclusions. After this summer, things had begun to feel less like recess; it appeared to me that my metaphorical "play time" had ended and things were likely to change; already were if fact. Leslie and I had been in regular contact since I had returned, and we began to bounce around more ideas for the end of November, when she took her winter break at DePaul. I chatted regularly with Chris, who was on his way from Seattle to Massachusetts to see his dad and setting Halloween-goal to get there hitching... via San Francisco. Following this was his bizarre trip to England to see another ex-girlfriend, and from there it was anyone's guess for both of us. We lightly discussed Mexico and South America again, and then- to my surprise- Florida. The idea of taking Dave's suggestion temporarily took root, with the two of us concocting a grandiose plan to go to the Atlantic Coast of Florida and trying to find a "live-aboard" situation where we could work in exchange for becoming certified as scuba divers. Then, we could presumably march into Mexico like Cortes and find work as scuba instructors! It's not as far-fetched as it may seem; apparently Dave had actually done the live-aboard part. I ran the idea past Leslie, and for a few days, visions of the three of us invading Florida danced through my head... until I realized that it felt ALOT like the kayak idea. And... that I had really hated Florida when I lived there! Why was I going there again? To maybe learn scuba diving? Couldn't I get certified easier in, say... Albuquerque? Why, yes I could! No, I was looking for adventure to compensate for a lack of inspiration; a destination. Abort!

Leslie and Chris independently came to the same general conclusion for different reasons, and the conversation shifted from traveling to Florida to me possibly just traveling to Chicago for a visit, then perhaps the southwest if Leslie still wanted to come out n' play. Arizona & California's deserts appeal much more to me in the winter than Florida, believe it or not. Nothing was decided, however, and as Halloween came and went, I was no closer to knowing what the rest of the winter held than when I arrived. I just knew I was in the right place at the right time. Sometimes, that's all a guy can ask!

8/23: Sioux Falls, SD

When Leslie confided to me at the Cabaret that she was seriously considering joining me for a week or so I was stunned; it came out of nowhere. At first, I thought she may be just batting around abstract fun- thoughts, but the look on her face quickly showed how serious she was. Immediately she began running down a laundry- list of things she needed to do and, judging by the detail, she had been putting much thought into it. I was flattered by the trust. Considering that she had known me a scant 24- hours and would trust me enough to wander off to parts unknown was touching.

In the moment, I was excited for her. Through the conversations we'd had there had been an obvious budding connection, although I was clueless to where it was going. It began to seem to me that my simple presence and the exchanging of ideas had stirred something lurking just beneath her surface. To my recollection, I had not implied that my particular path was the one for her, but as we began to discuss the details, it became apparent that Brian's concept of mirroring had again been doing its silent work.

That now- frequently mentioned concept of synchronicity, serendipity as she prefers to call it, now came front and center. It was plain to both of us that there was something at play here. I could only assume that this was an instance where I was playing a supporting role in Leslie's drama. My feeling was that I was there to serve a purpose; not influence this particular decision one way or another regardless of my wants. All I could do was lay out a welcome mat, offer perspective, and answer questions.

Things felt decidedly different as we made sandwiches on the hood of the car outside the Cabaret. Events were now in an uncertain, exciting state of flux. We talked more, and I reiterated that I thought it would be great for her to tag along, but it was up to her. I loved that she was even considering it, and that she had the courage to explore the idea. In fact, I believe she would have agreed to go right then, but the problem was, understandably, going to be her family!

The road to Brookings and I-29 was quiet as Leslie re- immersed herself in thought trying to piece everything together. Bonnie wanted to get to Madison, Wisconsin to see a friend that night, so I told Leslie if she decided to come, I could ride along and we could both leave from Madison for a quick Wisconsin Wander. I liked the idea of adding Wisconsin and Minnesota to my list anyhow, and it would be relatively easy to pick up where I left off when she returned home. However, I needed to know by the time we reached Brookings about an hour later. If she went home, going any further with them would take me south, toward western Iowa. Not my intended direction!

Brookings arrived, and as we fueled up Leslie walked off talking on the phone. I began to scout the area for places to sleep, just in case this was it for me, and found the BP station quite suitable. All that was left was the verdict.

When she returned, Leslie said that she didn't think there was any way she could do this. She knew it was her decision to make in the end, but had enough respect for her mother not to. It's understandable for a mom to be a bit leery of her daughter spontaneously running off to travel- with a guy she picked up on the side of the road!

With that, things laid out nicely. We continued to talk about a reunion of sorts for the end of the year and I rode along to Sioux City anyhow, just to hang out another 45- minutes with my new friends. As we sped toward the reunion with I-90, it occurred to me that I would be talking about them in the same way I do the other stars of my travels. This had been two of the more incredible days to date, not to mention rides!

I was sad to be pulling in to the Flying J on the north end of Sioux Falls. The 30- or- so hours I had spent with them felt more like a week because of all that had happened, and that spoke volumes. We had as a group managed to hit Brian's "Flow." Leslie and Bonnie loaded me up with extra food and bug spray, we hugged, and they drove off toward their meet up in Madison. It was an empty feeling standing alone in the parking lot after all that had transpired. I immediately began the process of decompressing, adjusting to a new situation, and realizing I now had to formulate a plan. This Flying J, while nice, was not conducive to stealth camping. It was best to get moving.

After gathering my wits, I drew up a sign for Brookings; exactly where I had just come from. Not 20- minutes later, I was in the pickup with Patrick. He was a no- nonsense kind of guy who professed to hate talking politics. He hated it, until he figured out we had similar "fuck em all" views toward politicians! Then, that was all he wanted to talk about! A great way to get me going again.

Patrick dropped me at the same BP station that we were at just a couple hours earlier. It was getting late and I'd had a long day, so before long I was scouring the bushes between the northbound exit ramp and I-29. I was quickly discovering that I would need to adjust to the scarce vegetation of the plains! I settled beneath a bush in a spot that offered barely any concealment at all, and was soon falling asleep with the thought that this had been a day that I would never forget.

8/23: A Pilgrimage to Carthage, SD

We got an early jump on Sunday thanks to Mother Nature. Thunder woke me from a light sleep and, rather than continue sleeping and break camp in the impending rain, we chose to hit the road at 6am. Before running into Leslie & Bonnie, my intentions had been to go south from Spearfish to Deadwood, then further south thru the Black Hills and toward The Badlands. After hatching this little plan, I learned from Shelly that our father planned to be in the Hills at about the same time then on his way to Arizona. I loved the coincidence, but made no effort to connect with him in favor of leaving it to chance. How things have changed in 2- months! Bypassing Deadwood killed that possibility, but with no regrets. I have done enough. Plus, leaving the Black Hills unseen would give me something to see later.

Back on I-90 and thru Sturgis, we stopped off in Rapid City for Leslie to pick up buffalo meat for her mother as a thank you gesture for the use of her car. I already felt good vibes from South Dakota, and they got better. As we would ask about places that were open on an early Sunday morning, it seemed everyone was eager to help.

Further east past The Badlands, we all settled in for the long ride across South Dakota and the conversations continued. It's rare to ride with someone and have so much in common. None of the conversation was forced, or worse: bogged down by uncomfortable silence. Some rides reach this point after 10- minutes!

Our chats were at times intense, and always three- sided. Bonnie continued to show herself as someone who is passionate about making a difference with her life, and on a quest to find the best means to that end. As we debated the merits of different ways to proceed, I naturally encouraged an avoidance of institution.

Whenever organized charity is invoked, my mind snaps back to my volunteer trip to New Orleans in 2005 following Katrina. This was the beginning of my personal exodus from Kamp Liberal. I saw the corruption and resulting ineffectiveness of organizations like the Red Cross, while at the same time seeing first hand the cancerous infestation of personal, dogma- driven agenda into relief work. Rather than concentrating on the task at hand, many (not all) of these "Progressives" were chiefly interested in pounding their chests in self- righteousness; proclaiming themselves noble carriers of the Evolutionary Torch. "I'm volunteering in New Orleans AND I'm a vegetarian (lesbian, socialist, PETA member, Democrat, environmentalist, pot head...) too!" It was repulsive, and a harsh lesson in how factionalism will manipulate any situation to promote dogma and further agenda. The Red Cross is The National Charity, and has exploited our sympathies borne out of tragedies like 9/11 & Katrina.

This is not out of humanity, but to turn a profit while in turn offering little tangible help. Don't believe me? Turn off the TV and go see for yourself. No one I talked to anywhere near New Orleans in the weeks following Katrina had any respect for FEMA or the Red Cross, despite the propaganda.

I continued to express my belief that the way to have the greatest effect is as an individual; quit talking and see with your own eyes where you can help. If you want to get involved, writing a check is literally the very least you can do. It usually offers only the illusion of help; a substitute for actual involvement. "Charity" is oftentimes big business, and donated money is used to grease its machine; a blatant oxymoron.

With this as our soundtrack, our goal was Mitchell, home of the Corn Palace and a small town where we would begin plotting our route north to Carthage and Chris McCandless' bar. We stopped for a quick, impromptu bath in what turned out to be a lake apparently created by damming the Missouri River. Then, it seemed that we each retreated into our own thoughts, listening to music and watching the countryside. Leslie in particular seemed deep in thought, and I would occasionally catch her intently looking at me in the mirror. I wasn't sure what she was thinking, but would find out in Carthage.

Carthage is barely a town, with a grand total of something like 187 people. When we stopped for pictures at the city limit sign, there was a sense of accomplishment. I had conceptualized coming here for a beer well long before leaving in 2008, and here I was.

The Cabaret was featured in Into the Wild, and Sean Penn had brought the cast and crew to South Dakota to film. McCandless was picked up by a local, Wayne Westerburg, while hitching in the area and found work on his farm. They became good friends, and McCandless spent a significant amount of time here, even returning to earn money prior to his fatal trip to Alaska in 1992. My draw to Carthage had never been clear, beyond thinking it would be neat to have a beer as a sort of toast to his memory.

The Cabaret is exactly as it's seen in the movie, and by far the busiest place it town! Walking in, the first thing that struck me was how they embrace the media- created tether to Chris McCandless. I was curious rather the locals would resent Into the Wild Pilgrims, but the first thing seen is a sign for a beer special called "The Into the Wild!" Inside, it's a typical dark, small town bar except that it's quite nice, clean, and frequented by older folks on Sunday afternoons. It struck us as a place that is probably packed on weekends; the only place to go!

We settled in and ordered our $1.50 beers, and I periodically found myself lost in the realization that I was seeing, and on some level had experienced, a few of the same things as McCandless. Life on the road has had its priceless rewards; Leslie & Bonnie were an at- the- table reminder of this! Also, I could see how McCandless could become attached to this isolated little town and its friendly people. It seemed there was no bullshit to be found, just real, friendly, authentic people.

I quickly snooped around the Cabaret's empty nooks and crannies, taking it all in. There were pictures of Vince Vaughan, Sean Penn, and Emile Hirsh posing from various locations around the bar as well as original memorabilia from "Alex" McCandless including a newspaper article. I decided against buying the Cabaret's Into the Wild t- shirt, but seeing it answered my question about how they felt about their most famous patron. He was drawing people, like me, from afar and making them money. I believe Bonnie asked a very poignant question: How would he feel about that?

Our stay in Carthage was brief, just long enough to drink a few cheap beers and ultimately discover part of what Leslie was pondering through the South Dakota farmland.
She wanted to come with me...

8/22: Spearfish, SD- Leslie & Bonnie

Things were odd as I awoke Saturday morning to a very different Lori than was on display the night before. She was quietly subdued as she and Chris made breakfast and coffee while I repacked. We had some small talk as I ate their delicious potato & egg concoction, and soon I was waving goodbye and heading for a shower. I told them I'd stop back that night if I was still there, and was prepared to accept their offer of a ride to Rapid City if I hadn't left by Sunday.

A member of KOA's Golf Kart Militia noticed my pack, and gave me a brief, sKornful inkwisition about where I had slept, thinking I had hijacked a tent- sight. Nothing came of it, but it did set the tone for the remainder of my stay. It was time to leave, and I had a distinct feeling that things were about to change.

I spent a few hours relaxing outside the Trading Post before learning that there was a restaurant a half mile up the road; one I had failed noticing when Harry dropped me off. That was all that was needed to push me down the road. I had no idea what exactly I was doing, I just knew it was time.

A quick 15- minutes later, I found myself at the intersection of Route 24 looking at the restaurant. I had gotten water before leaving, so I planned to sit at the corner just to see what happened. As I was crossing the road, a small SUV passed me with a pretty young woman hanging half way out the window flashing me the thumbs- up. When I returned the gesture and smiled, they unexpectedly pulled over and my new friend- in- thumb asked me if I needed a ride. A simple "Yeah!" later she had hopped out, and I was finally on my way toward Sundance.

I had to laugh. I had sat at Devils Tower for 72- hours with nothing. After 15- minutes of walking, on nothing more than intuition, I was off. The pattern was still intact, but at the time, had no idea as to the extent. As I settled in, all I could see ahead was a half- hour hop back to I-90.

The thumb- flashing passenger was a Leslie. She was a short 21- year old who, even at first sight, flowed with raw energy. And, she was absolutely stunning. She has the looks that steals your breath for a moment. Leslie is the last kind of ride you expect to get, but as it turns out, there is nothing ordinary about her.

Driving the car was Bonnie. She struck me at first as the typical Santa Fe/ Boulder progressive. Bonnie would hate the idea, but her general ideology was written all over her in pretty simple language. What I've called "being different- just like everyone else." I would learn later that, while accurate on a base level, it was an unfair assessment to make in a split second. She had alot going on beyond typical, dictated agenda.

Leslie and Bonnie are from Chicago and were on their way home from an abbreviated road trip. They had intended to go all the way to Montana, but things had come up and Bonnie needed to be back by Monday. One of the first things we talked about was how we all had common spiritual views. There was an excellent, instant rapport, and as I told them more about my travels they invited me along to Spearfish as they tried to find a microbrewery they were told about. I was none too sad to be leaving Wyoming, especially like this! This ride had all the early indications of something remarkable, and I again laughed. I had cautiously felt it coming.

The conversations continued uninterrupted into South Dakota, and the energy in the truck was addicting. Bonnie was familiar with Chris McCandless, and when I mentioned I was considering going to Carthage SD to have a beer at the bar featured in Into the Wild, my original hop to Sundance, then skip to Spearfish suddenly jumped into a pilgrimage across South Dakota.

When we pulled into the Crow Peak Brewery in Spearfish, I had permagrin. My mind's eye traveled back to Devils Tower, and I could see the perfect progression of events laid out as though they were planned. Some say that the elderly sometimes say they same things when looking back over their lives. All coincidence? Ha!

Our pit stop at Crow Peak quickly became a night out. Leslie challenged a couple to a chugging contest while, at the same time talking the bartender into offering a t-shirt to the winner. Quite persuasive, this Leslie! I figured my shady past would be of some benefit here, so I signed up as a ringer to ensure Leslie got her shirt. It was the least I could do, after all! It was no contest. I won easily. Leslie: happy. Life: good.

Dean was one of the non- participating bystanders and had taken the picture of the contest for me. He and his wife were from Wisconsin, and the three of us were soon chatting politics and sociology. It was an excellent conversation, and I was beginning to realize how much I was going to enjoy these Northerners. Relatively speaking, there seemed to be an abundance of common sense borne from living life, rather than just reading about it then later simply swapping spit in a self- labeled Salon. Theme alert!

Obviously, continuing on toward Carthage Saturday night was out of the question. To add a perfect exclamation point to the day, our bartender actually offered to let us camp AT the brewery! We didn't even need to re- park.

Bonnie and I sat up for quite a while chatting about philosophy and metaphysics before going to bed. It was then that I realized that she herself was on quite a quest. Bonnie has passion for real change, but seemed at first to think it's an institutional issue rather than individual; that the solutions are "out there." (See the Dragon Parable) She seemed to be slightly hindered by ideological dogma, but also had the Splinter in the Mind that leads, inevitably, to critical/ original questioning. This way, your organic ideas are accessorized by philosophy. Most people, even those who call themselves highly educated, are vice versa. Thus, recyclers of others thoughts. Parrots. Authentic, self- awareness is not an easy process, but Bonnie has begun it. She would periodically tune- in as we chatted, and when she did, she would shine.

I was exhausted by the time I climbed into the bivy. Leslie set the alarm early; all of South Dakota and Carthage lie ahead for Sunday. A least in theory...