2010: The Beginning

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

7/14: The Great Idaho Escape- Ken

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I giggled like a little girl.

Then I laughed LOUDLY!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

McCammon to Denver: ONE ride.

Another driver that I’d become good friends with.

Idaho made a lot more sense now.

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

5/29 cont.: Definitely NOT west- Rawlins- Denver

Day #10
Denver, CO

I left the library and started walking toward the T/A truckstop and I-80. On the way I ran in to Jeanette again, She gave me a hug and said she was praying for me. She seemed a bit down about something, but I couldn't really tell for sure. I retraced our steps from the day before and, like clockwork, the Wyoming Wind began to howl, pushing me and the pack around a bit. My right foot was beginning to blister- just the right one for whatever reason- and I started to notice some tightness in my right shin, calf, and thigh. Only the right side though! What the hell?

I had noticed some weather starting to push in consisting of heavy, dark clouds with a little thunder. The storm looked more like a winter storm than anything, but it didn’t surprise me. The weather forecast the day before had said it was supposed to be sunny and 70, but it was far from either! While I was crossing over I-80 on the overpass, the winds REALLY kicked up. I even had to hold onto the guardrail to keep from being pushed into traffic, and then the temperature must have dropped 15 degrees almost immediately. I was glad I was walking in when I was, although for all menacing tones, the weather ultimately did next to nothing.

I went in and bought some cigarettes, a coke, and 2 half- priced candy bars and sat down in the same place I had been with Doug on Tuesday night. I was still thinking the weather was going to do something, so I scoped out the truck stop and had thoughts of sitting down in the trucker’s lounge and taking a nap. I REALLY had gotten next to no sleep the night before and was really feeling it by now. The adrenaline from earlier in the day was fading fast, and I was really fighting to stay lucid. I concluded that I needed to stay inside for awhile, before I went out to the I-80 west on- ramp to try to get west, and thought that maybe some real food would help me to feel better. If that didn’t, a bunch of coffee surely would.

I went over to the restaurant, sat down and ordered the buffet and proceeded to gorge myself. I’m not sure I was supposed to raid the salad bar too, but I did. The service was pretty pathetic, so I wasn’t getting quite as much coffee as I had hoped and after I ate, the fatigue began to take hold. I could have, and thought about, just lying back and dozing and started to eyeball the big field behind the truck stop as a place to just throw down the tent and rest. I figured it was too early to do that just yet, only 1:30- ish, so since the weather had calmed itself I went to pay the bill, figuring I’d head out to the on- ramp to see what would happen.

While I was paying my bill, a trucker who was sitting a few seats away from me was in line chatting with someone and since he seemed pretty laid back and friendly I off- handedly asked him which way he was going. He said Laredo, Texas. Before I knew what I was saying I asked if he was going thru Denver, he said yes, and I said, “Think I could get a ride?” He checked me out for a split second and just nodded and said “Yeah” in a matter- of- factly sort of way. I was getting out of Wyoming! AND in a truck! I had wanted to get at least ONE ride in a truck on this trip to see how it went, and this guy- Cesar- was it. I was really surprised at how easy it was to hook up with him, and as we walked out to the truck my energy level began to soar. Maybe it was the food, but more than likely it was the adrenaline of being on the move again. I hadn’t even considered heading east, let alone southeast, but sort of chuckled when I saw the parallel between Rawlins and Ft. Morgan. Plans? HA! The Vagabond Gods shit on my ‘plans’!

Cesar’s truck was a brand new Volvo; beautiful. Cushy. Plush. As I was climbing in and getting the backpack situated the excitement was almost comical. I was doing one of the prime things I wanted to do on this trip, and was happy with the way I was able to improvise. We got on I-80 and began heading toward Laramie and Cheyenne.

What a fun ride. Cesar is in his late 40's I believe, and came to the US from Mexico 20+ years ago. He looks almost exactly like Al Pacino in “Scarface”. I would chuckle every time he said “Montana”, hearing lines from the movie. He was good- natured about it; obviously hearing that comparison a million times. His impression was dead- on: “You cocaroach!” He told me stories about how he used to pick up hitchers all the time, and since he’s Mexican would try to help out the illegals from time to time, giving them rides, food, and even money; then finding out some of his stuff had disappeared with them. That reminded me of a few of the people I had crossed paths with. The ones who brand everyone on the road as a thief, bum, or criminal. Really pissed me off, but I understand it. Hopefully I thought I could change a bit of that stereotype.

The rest of the ride to Denver was great. We chatted, checked out all the antelope that were hanging out along the way and enjoyed the scenery. He took 287 from Laramie to Ft. Collins, then I-25 to the city. I called Chris and Eric, and made arrangements of Chris to drop his keys off at Barracuda’s, and to meet Eric at his baseball game in Wheat Ridge, just off of I-70. Cesar took me all the way there, we exchanged phone numbers and conceptualized a plan to keep track of each other in case we end up in the same area. Then I could hitch a ride with him… wherever. What a good guy he was. Yet another example, eh?

I got to Anderson Park at about 8:30 or so, and came bounding in looking like something out of a Kerouac novel, and smelling like campfire. Quite the sight. There was something odd in the air Thursday night; everyone seemed riled up over something. Chris, Me, Eric… the two teams that were playing the game were at each other’s throat the whole time! Normally I’d blow that off, but I’ve seen brawls in these rec. league games! Too many baseball heroes with shattered dreams of glory I guess, but I wasn’t exactly helping calm things! I was struck at the contrast that the day had held. Waking up in on a Wyoming prairie with the elk, then the truck stop, then walking up to the baseball field in familiar territory with friends. That still boggles my mind.

The game ended and Eric and I went straight to Barracuda’s in Capital Hill, a place becoming familiar again. We had a pitcher of PBR, and Chris and his friend showed up almost immediately. I was curious to see how Chris and Eric got along because while their VERY different in a lot of ways, including age, they’re VERY similar too. The synergy was great, and the conversations were cool, except for all the grief I got for being in Denver again so soon!

“Oh yeah, big world traveler!”

I couldn’t quite get the concept across that there are NO RULES here! Improvisation. I was in Denver; make it work! Later on it occurred to me that this was actually going to work out quite well. I had decided on the way back to take the car back to Santa Fe so Shalain wouldn’t have to worry about picking it up in July, It would save a lot of money, AND I could get rid of more gear and relax for a few days. It really did work out for the best. They just seemed convinced I was going to STAY there! No way.

The drinking commenced, and I made the mistake of letting Angela buy me a Jager shot, then had some of Chris’ Jim Beam when we got back to his house. Ugh!! I don’t drink much anymore, and when I finally got to sleep, after trying to convince Chris to come join me, I was flopping around on the couch like a fish!

Quite the day Thursday. Again, not what I expected when I awoke!

Wyoming

Denver

5/29: North, eh?

Rawlins, WY

Ha! More lessons learned, one I already knew but apparently needed some 'practical' experience to drive it home. Let's start from the beginning.

I left the library yesterday at about 3:00 and found my way out of Rawlins via 287 north- having to maneuver around the ubiquitous road construction (putting in a new sewer system). Getting out of town was relatively easy, but it became apparent that I've become spoiled. I called Chris to find out how close I was to where he crossed 287 on his trip, and through the discussion learned that he had the opinion of Wyomans(?) that they were much less likely to offer rides than other places. Unfortunately I had PLANNED on getting rides. The next town is 30- some miles up the road, and Lander was 120. I hadn't filled my water supply completely, and was carrying just my 3- liter Camelback. It soon became apparent that I should have left prepared. I have no idea what my stamina would be, although Wednesday was a good day for me to find out!

I continued up 287, and eventually got into the Prairie land of nothingness; not even trees. Traffic on 287 was medium, and the shoulder was wide enough. I took my time, stopped when I needed to to rest and eat, heard my first yells of "Git off thuh fukkin road...", and thought pretty highly of myself when I had gone 7 or 8 miles by 5:30 pm. I had been eyeballing places to camp for quite a while because I hadn't expected it to be so FLAT... no hills or trees to hide behind. I had also noticed places called "Walk- Ins" that consisted of a gate made of barbed wire, and a sign saying not to litter, and clean up after yourself. Obviously public, or state land. I found a place behind one of these gates that at least had some hills which would shield me from the wind, which was incredibly strong all day from midday on. I plopped down by the gate, and waited for a ride--- which never came. Chris was right.

At about 7:30, I headed back to prospect my camp site only to discover it had many uses, none of which had much to do with hiking or camping. It was a dump, and a dirt- bike trail. Lots of activity back there, and much of the refuse that was left behind had bullet holes! Just like Hillsdale! Ugh...

I was pretty sure though that since the sun was setting there probably would be no one coming back there to dump or ride, so I found a decent spot and set up the tent. It was still relatively light out, so I had time to gather wood from the trash I'd seen laying around and I had visions of a glorious night. The clouds had even dissipated enough to give me one HELL of a sunset.

I was out collecting my wood when it happened. My lesson. I knew better than to camp near where there's high human activity. See... 'stealth camping' is supposed to be... stealth. I wasn't so- stealthy. A truck pulled thru the gate and literally destroyed my little piece of Nirvana! I began having thoughts that maybe I was on private land ( I knew better), or that these two guys had seen me walking and decided to come and relieve me of what little I had. They'd have plenty of Cliff bars to take home I guess. The truck bounced around, diving up and down the hills and I believe they parked for a minute to smoke a joint or make sure I hadn't disturbed their (imaginary) cocaine deposit worth millions more to them than my life. I ripped the rain- fly off my tent when one of these guys climbed a hill at the other end of this place, and looked toward my direction. I was pretty sure he saw me and was about to bug out, but remembered what had happened on the S. Platte in Ft. Morgan last week. Nothing. So, I decided to wait and see what they did.

They left.

See how paranoia works?

I waited for a bit to see if they returned and when they didn't I built my little fire by burning Canada. I mean really- what do I need Canada in my atlas for? It was a nice fire; easy to light and I even used horse- dung to get it going. Yes it DOES burn, and doesn't even smell that bad. Thanks Les Stroud.

The fire helped me to regain my senses, and since it was getting cold, kept me toasty while I talked to Shalain to let her know what was going on. I got off the phone, peed the fire out (THAT stunk), and hopped in the sleeping bag- making sure that most everything was in the backpack and not even bothering with the rain fly, although it was going to drop to near 40. All this in case I had to make a quick exit-- still having visions of doom.

Ever see Stand By Me? Remember the part where they're in the woods camping and the fat kid, Vern, is standing 'guard'? You know, every time he heard a noise, he'd spin around like there was a ghost or something, all freaked out? I was Vern. All night. But I was instead imagining phantom rednecks. In fact, I now have a road name:

Vern.

I'll keep Vern until I earn another one. I'll be taking suggestions for last names, and I'd appreciate any correspondence to be addressed to "Vern" until further notice.

I woke up early this morning to the sight of my kind of visitors: elk. A herd of them. One was particularly interested in me- just eyeballing me while I smoked and eyeballed him. He didn't budge until I got up, then he darted off toward his friends. That was a great way to start the day, even though this cold I got from Leah's kids is getting stickier!.

I packed up and headed back toward Rawlins feeling as though I had grown a vagina for being freaked out so easily, but glad that I rode it out using the Platter experience. I had also had time to think about the wisdom of going further north. I decided no. I'm far enough north; maybe too far. I like warm. Warm: gooood. Plus, if I get to Lander and need to be 'stealthy' again, which is a certainty here, I'll have to deal with bigger critters than the High Plains Redneck. I'm not yet wanting to play mountain- man, so I've decided to get back to I-80 and point my thumb west toward California. Maybe Fresno to see what my sister's got going on. If not, I should be close enough to get toward Astoria from there.

There I go... making plans again. I think I just make this shit up to SEEM like I have a plan...

Way to go Vern-o!



Oh, about the lesson. If you're going to stealth camp. Don't camp ANYWHERE that there's a likelihood someone will show up! Laziness kills! Or at least scares the Bejeesus out of you...