9/9- 10: The Dalles- Portland, OR

Riverfront Park and I liked each other! I immediately made my way to the shore of the Columbia River and, looking across to Washington, thought about Lewis and Clark. I had gotten my first glimpse of Mt. Hood the day before, and was continually amazed at the intense beauty of Oregon. My kinda place.

I sat on the ramp for a couple hours, but as dusk approached I knew I needed to get back into the park, which was Day Use only, and find a place to hide for the night. I was tired, and had begun getting frustrated at a perceived lack of drive and vision. I held the "Sit Down & Shut Up" idea close, but when I am fatigued I tend to get bitchy. As I dozed off in a perfect, soft spot just off a nature trail adjacent to the park, I was wondering what the hell I was doing. I also knew I needed sleep! Sleep, as it turned out, would not be a problem. The grass was at least 4ft. tall, which made for something of a mattress beneath the bivy, and I slept uninterrupted for nearly 12-hours. We had crossed into Pacific Time the day before, so the sun set an hour earlier. Getting to sleep at 8:15 gave me a great jump on a monumental Thursday, and had also given my psyche a colon cleansing. I was tuned-in, present, and excited about where I was. And, I should have been.

I was noticeably relaxed as I set up a little day camp on a picnic table. All I wanted was to relax and enjoy a morning next to the Columbia. Logic said I should get my ass to the ramp and try to take advantage of the early start to get thru Portland, but my intuition was telling logic to go fuck itself! I decided to side with intuition. I fully charged my cell batteries, repacked the pack, ate, shaved, and just... was. It was phenomenal!

Around noon however, being still present, I noticed a shift. It was inexplicably time to change locales and get to the ramp. I followed without question, and spent the next 90-minutes writing before a small SUV suddenly appeared from nowhere. Let the festivities begin.

Zeno was a middle-age, pony-tailed former UN artist. Yes, an artist that worked for the UN, and on his way to pick his daughter up from the Portland airport. He was also one of the more fascinating rides ever, and set the tone for the rest of the day. Zeno had been wildly successful with the UN, and had traveled all over the world. He found himself on the floor of the General Assembly with regularity, and met numerous diplomats and world dignitaries. Zeno had also given all that up when he discovered he had a daughter who was in her early 20's, and moved to The Dalles, just to be near her. The transition had not been easy; his artwork was being held hostage because someone felt his quitting was, somehow, a breach of contract. His assets were frozen, and this man who had made a fortune was now scouring for work at places like McDonald's. It was odd to hear a well spoken, articulate, worldly man give an educated dissertation on Syria, then tell of applying at Burger King! After a short time, I greatly admired Zeno. He was a man of conviction who followed a distinct sense of right; "career" be damned. The conversation eventually transitioned into how to make money while traveling, and he was a gold mine of insight and information. Taking notes, I soon had a page full of avenues to follow. Avenues such as how to work guarding workers from bears in Alaska, and traveling to archaeological sites to work, paid, as a digger! I greatly enjoyed every minute of my ride through the Columbia Gorge with Zeno, and again wished he were one of the multi-hundred mile variety!

He dropped me at the Pilot in Troutdale, on the far- east end of Portland. I knew from 2008 that this was where the rail line ended, and since it was still relatively early, if needed I could get to the far west end by transit system. I wanted to pay a visit to my friend and '08 Couchsurf, Dave, who runs a marina off US-30 in Linnton. My thoughts were that if I could get there, it would be smooth sailing to Astoria... then the Pacific Ocean. My worry was navigating Portland. The day, however, had now took on a life of its own.

Zeno and I had gone in for coffee and before he had even returned to the car, I had been offered a ride, literally, to Dave's doorstep. Brian had approached me asking to "buy" a cigarette. He was trying to quit, but was obviously jonesing! I have been there, and could sympathize! He noticed that I was wearing a "Michigan" t-shirt Lynette had given me, and I soon learned that he was from Schoolcraft, MI and had listened to my old radio station. We were fast friends and he, like Zeno, was an interesting guy but for very different reasons. I learned on the way to Dave's that he and his wife have 8-kids, and live for free on National Park and BLM land as they save their money. He was a self-described political activist, and had very strong views on banking and the nexus of political power. Obviously, I greatly enjoyed our little ramble through Portland in his overfilled station wagon; one that was outfitted with a Corvette engine! Brian dropped me off at Dave's door, as promised, and out of my typical- character, I gave him some money both out of great appreciation and respect. Eight kids? BLM land? That has to be a bitch at times.

I had called Dave from Troutdale to let him know I was around, and to be sure he hadn't moved! We had not chatted since July '08, but had become good friends over the July 4th weekend I was there. As I walked up, it appeared little had changed in 14-months. Fred's Marina was the same, and I found him in the same spot I had last summer: manning the store. We quickly caught up, and exchanged stories before he invited me in to his floating home to meet his son, who is also quite a talented musician. Pretty soon, it was time to leave and continue up US-30 toward Astoria. We took a picture, but before we could exchange out proper goodbyes, a sudden influx of customers needing gas for their boats, or candy for their kids left me standing there feeling slightly awkward. Then, in pulled a blue and white Master Craft needing gas. Inside was an odd pair. One looked to be a middle aged, boisterous Italian, while the other was a dreadlocked young man who looked to be barely in his 20's. The kid saw my pack, and asked if I was traveling. I said yes, and just like that the most extraordinary, random weekend of either summer commenced.

Fasten your seat belts, and put your trays in the upright position...

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.

7/12: Pocatello- McCammon

I woke up rather late beneath the bushes huddled under my raincoat for protections from the sprinkler and the chilly night. I packed up quicker than normal because I was unusually close to the exit ramp, and rather than being in a depression in the terrain, I was on a small hill, which put me in plain view to Pocatello’s Saturday morning traffic.

Then it was off to the Flying J gas station. I got my 65 cent coffee refill and sat down outside hoping the backpack would help to strike up a conversation leading to a ride to at least the truck stop in McCammon. I got half of it; the conversation. There was a couple of trucks filled with Boy Scouts returning from camping in the Tetons’, but headed west; toward Rupert. I would not be going back there!

I had become fixated on the REAL Flying J in McCammon, and hoped getting there would help me decide: Montana or Denver. (Still undecided!)It had become clear, and did not escape me, how fearful I still was. Montana, or anywhere but Denver carried with it risk. Denver was safe and within reach. My fear was overpowering my sense of adventure and clouding my judgment; preventing me from leaning on experience. I KNEW I’d gone through all of this before in San Francisco and that there was very little difference between then and now, but just couldn’t get the clarity needed to allow that experience, and meeting Eric & Marine, guide me. I would not REALLY be able to see that until much later.

After an hour, I made my planned trip to the Wal Mart Supercenter, conveniently located directly behind the gas station, to get food and cigarettes and at the upswing on the indecisive cycle, thinking Montana. I went directly to the canned food section grabbing some salmon, off- brand Beefaroni, and the staple: Pork & Beans. I also picked up Ibuprofen, razors, and a couple of Clif bars.

The Clif bars had all but been eliminated by now due to cost. Some place charge as much as $1.85 for each one, and while they are great for energy and convenient, I was spending in the neighborhood of $20 a week on them; something I could easily eliminate, or at least drastically cut back on. Wal Mart had them for $.75 making it a difficult decision not to get a whole box!

I was a great curiosity at Wal Mart. I guess people are not used to seeing a fully loaded backpacker come through doing his shopping. The looks! It was curiosity mixed with utter amazement at the size of the pack and my appearance. I took no small pleasure in this. Kids were the best! I overheard one kid saying to his dad, “He looks like Survivorman!” I got a real kick out of that because Survivorman (Les Stroud) is my favorite TV show, but I also felt a bit ashamed! I doubt Les would have been plagued by the asinine, fabricated, mental drama I had created over the last 24 hours!

On the way out, I realized that I had forgotten my tobacco (horrors!), so had to go back in to the ‘tobacco line’. At the register, I slowly began to recognize the young man working it! It was the kid driving the overheated- minivan in Jerome! I could not believe it, but after a moment of reflection… I could. He remembered me and said, “This is all the farther you’ve gotten?” I just shook my head not repeating what I was thinking. “Why the HELL didn’t I hit YOU up for a ride when I had the chance?” That was one of the odder events of the trip so far. Eerie. It was as though the universe is mocking me saying, “See! I tried to help you, DUMBASS!” I walked out of there shaking my head dumbfounded.

The plan was to sit down outside, pack my new loot, and then head to the I-86 on- ramp to try to score a ride to McCammon. There was, thankfully, a different feel to the day and I felt optimistic that I’d have success at getting there and perhaps beyond.

I was walking past some lawn furniture that Wal Mart was hocking, and sitting there was a large, tough- looking young man who, despite looking like he belonged on the cage- fighting circuit, was quite friendly and asked what I was up to. I thought he had the right idea and I would become another person demonstrating the comfort and versatility of this quality Wal Mart lawn ornamentation. I began packing and chatting with Trevor about the California and Oregon coasts and he got particularly interested when I got to the part about the train. Funny thing about that train… it seems to be the one story I have that garners the most attention, even though to me, after the initial euphoria, at the time it was no big deal; even something of a disappointment.

He asked where I was going next, and when I said I was trying to get to the Flying J truck stop in McCammon he lit up and said he and his friends were going right by there on their way to Lava Hot Springs. They were going out there to drink beer and ‘play on the river’, and said he would call his friend to see if I could hitch a ride with them. After some creative ways of generating gas- money: no problem. I felt bad that I could not really offer them anything, but that was the reality of it.

Trevor seemed like a decent dude, but he off- handedly would talk about how he would be going to jail on Monday because of a failure to pay his probation officer. This left me mildly concerned, and I spent a few moments creating my now- famous imaginary scenarios that conclude with me in a bloody heap out in the desert, minus my wallet and backpack. I can be a creatively disturbing cuss. I caught myself slipping into Paranoid Bitch role again, I quietly, but severely chastised myself, and felt quite at ease when his friend Dustin and his girlfriend emerged from Wal Mart. It helped to remember how much of a tool I had felt like after the Boise ride.

I again declined to load my pack into the trunk, which is just a good policy if you can help it, instead keeping it on my lap in the front seat as we set off toward the Real Flying J, 25 miles south of the I-86/ 15 interchange. These were just some kids off to have some good, mildly clean fun. They reminded me of people I would have hung out with if I was a bit younger, and for a while, I missed those days! Drinking beer, basking out in the sun, and hoping you didn’t get hurt... at least not too bad! I even thought about tagging along with them for the day to experience a REAL Idaho Saturday night, but decided against it, in favor of trying to get my head put back on straight and getting my indecision under control. In retrospect, going with them and NOT thinking about it may have been exactly the tonic I needed, but I will never know for sure.

Trevor (the bald guy), Dustin, and the mystery girl dropped me at the truck stop after quite the enjoyable and informative ride. I learned quite a bit about the area and found it to be not unlike Hillsdale, where I grew up. Just less trees! I got a picture of them, and they went on their way while I began to survey the Flying J I had been so hell-bent on getting to.

It was definitely a ‘real’ truck stop. About the same size as the one in Jerome, and seemed to have good traffic coming through. It was also located literally ON US-30, so I could indeed go either way: Montana or Denver. Even to Utah if I could find a ride through it, or at least to a truck stop that may serve as a haven shielding me from fascists and Mormons!

I sat outside for a bit and then went into the trucker’s lounge to write and charge the cell. I was disengaging, and if you would have asked me why I could not have answered. I just felt like that was the right thing to do. I had reached the point where I HAD to begin that process of reflection, self- examination, and the processing of events that I needed back in Fruitland. There were no intermittent destinations to help me to procrastinate the inevitable. THIS was it. So, there I sat writing, thinking, drinking coffee.

The weight of the money- issue became THE significant problem. So much so that at times it factored into EVERY detail of my thought process. Like the fog on the coast, I could not see through it.

There were times that I was SURE the trip was over; even for good and that, I was destined to be back in Santa Fe, even if it were via Denver for a short time. The thought of going back to find work seemed to lead only to my contrived inevitable: quitting.

Yet, through all of this negativity, there were examples of clear recollection fighting to escape.

I remembered the conflict I had with myself in San Francisco- again. Deciding to enter the Headlands was obviously a bigger decision than I even realized at the time. It also reminded me of one of my favorite questions to ask yourself, “What would you do if you weren’t afraid?” I had asked myself in San Francisco, “Would you have traded meeting Florian and his family for anything?” Of course not. Then why eliminate the adventure up the road to Oregon? That is what had reset my brain in California and led to Eric and Marine 3 days later, but STILL…it was not working here.

During the day Shalain surprisingly pointed out, or rather reiterated, something that had been obvious to me until this point. Things ALWAYS work out. Things come along at the right times. I had seen this, and now believed it. Friar had seen and experienced it on his cross- country walk. Shalain now even believed it! Nevertheless, for me then, it was impossible to lean on. It seemed that my faith in not only that, but myself, was beginning to fail. I was fully aware of the attitude changes of the past couple of days and wondered if I could rely on myself to keep a clear head, make good decisions, and follow through.

A nasty rabbit hole I had descended in to!

Fear and Impatience won Saturday’s battle, even though I KNEW for sure that, for whatever reason I was SUPPOSED to be here. Even though I could see the forest through the trees, I didn’t want to just accept that it was there. I had taken 10 steps back: trying to intellectually, and institutionally manhandle the situation; something I knew better than to try to do. I was painfully re- learning a most valuable lesson. An important lesson was being bonded into my brain.

Things got progressively worse as the day went on, into the night. I had found a table outside where I could sit, relax, smoke, write… whatever… and hope for a ride. I sat there thinking, lost in my own head until I came to the realization of the obvious: the source of my frustration was… myself.

It was not ‘moneys’ fault. It was MINE for losing sight of the original vision and getting giddy about how much fun I was having. It was my OWN damn fault if I had to quit. It was my OWN damn fault if I could not make the decisions I wanted to make NOW because of foolish spending all along. I was not frustrated or mad with anyone but my own damn self!

Not even the Mormons! Well, maybe a little...

That realization came slowly, and as my mood began to lighten with both acceptance of this AND a developing stubborn, ornery, resolve to “fucking fix it!” things began to slowly return to normal. My thinking went away from self- pity, “woe is me!” to lessons and solutions.

Shortly after all this began, I found a potential ride with a trucker. He was going to Salt Lake City in the (Sunday) morning, and while SLC did not thrill me, I had begun to alter my thinking back to taking things as they came. The driver said he was leaving at 5am, so I said I would be there at 4:30.

With that, a very trying, troubling day came to a merciful end. I walked over to the other side of the truck- parking, set up the nest, set the alarm, and tried to get a few hours sleep before my ride to Salt Lake. I had trouble sleeping as I thought about the course of the day. Lying there, I began to reclaim a bit more responsibility for myself, and the fact that I control the future of this trip. I concluded that this day, as unflattering (and embarrassing to write about) as it was, was going to be one of the most important of ANY I will have, as long as this lasts.

7/11: Pocatello- "Z" and a Reckoning

This day I was prepared for. In fact as I went to bed I resigned myself to the fact that I may be sitting right there, at the Albion exit, for perhaps MORE than just a day. I was NOT going to repeat the mistake of Jerome. I would be getting to Pocatello, or grow roots right there!

I awoke earlier than I probably should have, 7:45, considering how tired I was. On some level, I was subconsciously prepared for the day and wanted to get going ASAP. I went over to the now- open Shell station to begin the day with some coffee as planned, study a map, and do some writing. There was a rather attractive, very friendly, almost creepy, cashier working that morning with whom I become acquainted through the day.

I sat there for a couple of hours writing and charging the cell phone, not really in a big hurry to get on the on- ramp to nothing. I did however get out there, at about 10:30, and began receiving the same blank, fearful stares as the day before. This went on until 1:45 when I trekked back to the Shell for more coffee and the hope that I would be able to MAYBE converse my way into a ride. No such luck, but I did wind up chatting a bit more with Heather. The fact that she was nice (not so creepy now) gave me SOME hope that there were nice people around there.

I probably should clarify something, since I have been assailing eastern Idaho quite heavily! The people there ARE nice. They are not the pricks that perhaps I have led you to believe. They are in- fact very friendly, and will chat with you at the drop of a dime. They seem quite down to earth and personable, just as they did in the western part of the state... until you get on the highways and put out the thumb! It was rather difficult to remember the kindness at times though; perspective. Foreshadowing. I also had stopped even bothering trying to thumb cars with Utah plates. If they were out here, they were going to Utah most likely anyhow!

After chatting with Heather, and learning that she got off work at 3:00, I walked slowly back to my spot. Same results. At about 2:50 I was just about to enact my long shot plan: ask Heather for a ride to the I-84/ 86 split. That would have been foolish, but I was beginning to wonder if I was REALLY stuck there. It seemed like an eternity after my luck 2 days before, but in retrospect, I was mentally- bundling everything that had happened since then and projecting it onto Friday! Dangerous waters to navigate.

Just as I was about to venture back to the Shell station, the skies opened, the seas parted, lightning rained down from the Heavens... use any biblical reference you like, I had a ride! AND... it had UTAH plates! What the hell?

He wanted to be called ‘Z”; would not tell me his real name. He appeared to be a younger guy of about 25 or 26, had a rather thick accent, had a dark complexion, so I assumed he was Mexican. He said he was heading home... to Ogden, Utah. I really wanted off that on- ramp, so I asked him if he’d take me as far as the 84/ 86 split; again rolling the same dice that came up craps the day before. The split was only 5 miles up the road, but I was happy. I had even considered walking there the next day and was beginning to see how the Hippie had walked 25 miles a few days ago.

I got the “something told me to stop” story again. He was different. Different- good. I learned that he was on the verge of losing everything due to his inability to find work in Utah, and that he had just ‘gone for a ride’. Somehow, at this point, I was leaning toward Denver (indecisiveness!), and he told me that he’d been considering moving there, but knew nothing about it. I told him I had lived there for 2 ½ years and he became quite interested in what I knew. He offered to take me to the next exit past the 84/ 86 split, and thank God. There was NOTHING there at that interchange but highway. I would have had no access to water had I been stuck there. I also had done my homework. I knew that the next exit was something like 25 miles up the road. I nestled in and began chatting with this VERY interesting person.

Z was not Mexican or anything close. His family had moved to the US from Afghanistan in 1986 after a Russian missile hit their neighbor’s house. On top of that, he wasn’t so young. He was in his mid 30's, and he was eager to talk about the philosophy of life, its purpose, all of that. He was in the process of losing everything he had worked toward chasing the “American Dream”. House, car, everything. And it is the third time it has happened. He’s Muslim, so he defined it as God’s will, but I interjected my own thoughts on the matter. He was not the dogmatic Muslim we are indoctrinated to believe make up the entire faith. He was VERY open to other ideas, opinions, and possibilities. He simply used the Muslim teachings as his foundation.

We talked about freedom, freewill v. fate, even Thoreau’s thoughts on freedom equating to the things we can do without; as opposed to the things we’re tethered to... physically OR mentally. I had THAT discussion knowing I was failing miserably in that respect; at least failing to make progress. Z by- passed the next exit... and the next... and the next...

Near the end of the ride, he quoted Mohammad as saying something to the effect of “Live your life as a traveler”. He said it was that that had made him stop; I reminded him of it. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, but was honored.

I came away from that conversation feeling much better about things, and I had a new appreciation for the idea that people are people. Governments and religions fuel divisiveness, not individuals.

NO! That does NOT mean you can call yourself a “World Citizen” . . . hippie.

Soon we were on the southern fringes of Pocatello when he finally HAD to stop for gas. I had told him I would have ridden all the way to Denver with him if either of us had the money, and I meant it. I got a picture; he bought me a liter- bottle of Cherry Coke, and then was headed back toward Ogden. I laughed quite loudly when I realized yet ANOTHER foreigner had come along to treat me better than my own people... and this guy was a MUSLIM! From AFGHANISTAN! The irony of it all... I thought we were the Evil Satan or some silly shit like that.

This gas station at was desolate and had no traffic whatsoever, so armed with my cold bottle of tasty Coke: to the on- ramp . . . briefly. It too had no traffic, so after about 5 minutes I was walking a new interstate: I- 86, which connects I-84 and I-15. I still have not figured out WHY exactly it is an interstate. It’s only in Idaho as far as I can tell. Anyhow...

I was of course hitching, but had fully learned by now the futility of hitchhiking the interstate itself. Traffic volume and speed. There is too much traffic for people to stop safely, and even if they wanted to, it would take almost 1/4 mile to do it and then they would have to wait for me to catch up. It just was not going to happen at around 5:00- 5:30, but it DID make me feel better!

After a few miles, I hopped a fence to the frontage road, which appeared to follow 86 all the way into Pocatello. Shortly after, I came to a little truck stop that had two wonderful things: cardboard and a shade tree. I re- packed a bit, ate a little something and made a new sign: “I-15: Montana”. Indecision: it blows!

I situated the sign on the pack where the few trucks that had gathered could see it, and dozed off for about an hour and a half. It was beautiful beneath that tree! The weather had not been quite as hot; upper 80's, but it was still nice to be out of the sun.

I awoke to the sound of the phone, and Shalain calling. I was groggy, needed coffee, and wanted to get back on the road hoping to get to that magical point: US-30.

US-30 had been with me since Portland, but Pocatello is where it breaks away and heads east into Wyoming and joins I-80 toward Cheyenne. If I were to avoid Utah AND go to Denver, this was going to be the place I would hang a right. At least I thought. I had not looked at the map closely enough... but that’s not important now. The important thing was to make a decision on which way I was going. Montana v. Denver. I even broke out the dice, or single die. I had done this once before when I was stuck between the northern and southern routes of the Discovery Trail in Colorado. It had come up ‘North’ on something like FIVE consecutive rolls. I went north. This time it was almost as clear. Odd: Montana Even: Denver. The first two rolls were three’s. Then a six. Then ANOTHER three. The dice say Montana. Let’s see what US-30 says.

I got back on I-86 and walked at a pretty good clip toward US-30, 3-5 miles up. I was feeling quite good and didn’t even realize I’d walked something like 7 or 8 miles since Z had dropped me off. Finally US- 30 came.

Here it was. I HAD to make a decision. Montana to Michigan? Denver? What would it be? I had no idea and needed some input other than my own; I was still suffering a bit from my own mental diarrhea and could not see the forest through the trees. Part of that may have been due to mental fatigue, or maybe the mental exhalation of leaving Oregon. I don’t know, but I do know that I DON’T function as well when I don’t have SOME sort of direction. I am telling you, INDECISIVENESS BLOWS! Well, this was going to be the time I would decide… at least that’s what I told myself.

Shalain and I talked for a good hour, trying to figure out money v. time- frame. How I was going to get through August if I kept going and IF I would even get thru July! It was here that my failure to remember past experiences began to haunt me, AND where I let fear reclaim control.

I had forgotten San Francisco. I had had the SAME conversation the night before I entered the Marin Headlands. The difference was that now I was closer to Denver, and I had opened it up as an option; a safety net. I didn’t realize this at the time of course. All I saw was possibly being stranded in Montana broke and being chased by Brokeback Bears. Forest through the trees Todd, forest through the trees.

The conversation ended with me calling Friar Chris to see if he could get online and price bus tickets. I had almost reverted to the person who would need a bus out of Pocatello. I had gone nearly 2,000 miles by now... and I was pricing bus tickets out of Pocatello! The pricing knocked me back into commonsensical, and even metaphysical reality. There was no way I would be bussing it to Denver, or ANYWHERE.

From the beginning the point of this has been, at its core, learning how to experience more while doing with less. I had lost sight of that almost completely, and the Happy Hitchhiker thought came to mind again. This trip was in danger of ending abruptly now only because of my failure to remember exactly WHY I was here in the first place. That pissed me off AND motivated me at the same time. It also helped me to realize how much I valued this and wanted it to continue. I was not ready to curl up and die in Santa Fe! Yet, where was the faith that the solution would present itself? I believed it would, but was I ready to REALLY put it out there and PROVE it? Not yet. A great opportunity to grow significantly was slipping through my fingers. I knew it and could see it happening before my eyes. I just was not ready for a leap of that magnitude. However, it planted seeds. Some would sprout over the next few days and some would take a bit more time.

The practical reality: I knew that I wasn’t going to get through 8/15 if I didn’t generate cash, and I now had a solid idea of what that amount was. Unfortunately that figure was the same as it had been a week ago... 2 weeks ago... back in San Francisco! For all my pontificating and philosophizing, I am a Grade- A dumbass sometimes.

I had started down I-86 again toward US-95/ Yellowstone Ave. where Google Maps had told Friar I would find a Flying J. I was now coming into the very place I DO NOT want to be while I am looking for a place to sleep: the city. Thank God, Pocatello barely qualifies. I would later discover that I’d walked about 12 miles since Z had dropped me off at 5:00 and I was still holding up ok, although rest would be good!

After about another 4 miles of walking, and about 1 million miles of mental marathoning, I finally got to Yellowstone Ave. Sure enough, there WAS a Flying J there. A Flying J gas station. NOT a truck stop. I was not sleeping there unless it was in the restroom– and that was not happening.

I asked the guy inside about what was located at the I-86/ I-15 interchange; whether or not there was a truck stop or not. I figured that since it was only another mile, I could walk the rest of the way if I knew what was there. This may have been the stupidest person I have ever met. He just could NOT process “Is... there...a ... truck stop... at ... I-15.” It was as if his ability to interact went only as far as midgetporn.com could take him, which was not far at all.

I quickly grew tired of this place and him, so I took my coffee across the overpass to the Shell truck stop. I was quite the novelty again. Walking up and down a busy cruising lane on a Pocatello Friday Night, wearing my backpack and smelling like road. I am sure ALL the ladies were hot for me. I believe one of the Denny’s dishwashers actually WAS, as he eyeing me all the way across the bridge.

**Quick! Name that movie: “I suppose it doesn’t matter that I’m NOT a homosexual?” “Shit Andy, neither are they.” (Perhaps a slight paraphrase)**

This is the scene I remember seeing in my head as I walked past that creepy little Denny’s! That and “Deliverance”: ”SQUEEALLL!”

The woman at the Shell station was no less annoyed, but much more informed and coherent than her contemporary had been. It was here that I first learned of the HUGE Flying J. Unfortunately it was NOT at I-15 as I had hoped, but 25 miles out of town on I-15 in a place called McCammon.

I now had a destination... at least for now. From there I figured I could go east OR north and find a ride there. I was stoked to have the information, so I trotted back to the on- ramp and hoped to catch a ride to McCammon. One guy DID stop, but he was headed north and smelled like a stale bottle of Night Train.

At about 1am the traffic just suddenly died. Next to no cars... anywhere. It was as if I was seeing a B- horror movie and they were running to hide from the ‘Attack of the Man Eating Mormon’. This was enough for me to call it a night.

I crossed the interstate overpass again to follow a promising tree- line just off the highway, to no avail. There was so little traffic that I crossed all 4- lanes and the median of I-86, slowly, and wasn’t even seen by anyone.

I finally found a nice little hedge row whose bushes had enough space beneath the branches for me to clear out a small space for me and the pack to be both concealed, and provide a bit of insulation through the night. Problem was it butted up against a fence that separated the right- of- way from an apartment complex, and there were still a few people up drinking. I had to be uber- quiet because I had FOUND my spot, dammit!

I was exhausted, a bit cranky, and did not care about anything but sleeping and being left alone. Once I was settled, the people left me alone all right. However, the sprinklers did not. About an hour after I had dozed off, I heard the damn things go off. I hoped against hope that they would miss me all together, but I quickly felt water hit me in the face. I was a bit perturbed to say the least. I muttered something about irrigating ‘every f-ing thing’, dug out my rain pants & jacket, covered the pack with the rain fly, and went back to sleep. I didn’t care if Noah’s very own personalized & modified ‘Epic Flood 2000 Sprinkler’ went off; I was going back to sleep.

7/6 Leaving Portland:"The Last Great American Adventure"

If you would have told me how THIS day would eventually be ending, I would have laughed you out of the room, especially when I woke up.

I rose pretty early after getting to bed at a decent time, and began preparing to leave, not really knowing exactly how I was going to do it. I had posted an ad on Craigslist's Rideshare the night before on the outside chance I may be able to catch a ride with a charitable person heading toward Colorado... fat chance, but why not?

I figured that I'd probably end up taking the transit system out toward Troutdale and then start hoofing it down US 30 toward Lewis & Clark State Park to check on the Hike & Bike, then take things from there. I was pretty much all set with my 'planning' (HA!) when I got an email from a guy via my Craigslist ad. He wasn't driving, but was also traveling toward Colorado on a limited budget, and suggested that maybe we try hopping a train out of Portland! He had done some research, and was certain that the trains would run into Grand Junction then Denver after that. I was immediately intrigued. It would be a DEFINITE adventure, get me a great distance, and it's impossible to blow money on a train!

We exchanged about 25 emails over about 2 hours. I wanted to make sure the best I could that I wasn't dealing with some sort of a tool, psycho, or otherwise illicit character... save the train hopping thing! It's funny, but you can tell alot about a person by their spelling. If they can't spell simple, yet uncomplicated multi- syllable words, tend to say 'bro' all the time, and show through words the size of their 'manhood', I tend to avoid them. This guy could spell, use a computer, had a gmail account with his real name (presumably), and wasn't trying to 'man- up' for me. I felt reasonably certain he wasn't too much of a vagrant, and thought it would be pretty cool to travel a ways with another person. Plus, he said if the train thing didn't work, he'd be open to hitching or whatever. Why the hell not?

We set up a time to reconnect, exchanged phone numbers (another good sign... he has a phone!) and I finished of the business at Dave's place. He had been working pretty much all day, so I hadn't seen much of him at all. We said our goodbyes, asked him to say goodbye to Bree for me and thank her for sharing all her training- info, and headed off the bus stop to catch the #17 toward downtown and head to REI for, I thought, just Clif Bars.

When I got to the bus stop, I sat patiently for about 35 minutes with no sign of the bus. The thought occurred to me that, perhaps, there was no Sunday service out that way, but I'd been on the Tri- Met website several times checking schedules and it said NOTHING about "No Sunday Service".

Turns out: No Sunday Service.

The only reason I ever found out was that a VERY nice woman turned around, pulled over and informed me with a smile that I'd be waiting all night if I stayed there. She then proceeded to offer me a ride first to the next stop, then said she'd just take me to REI! Seriously, where are all these assholes everyone kept warning me about?

She saw a friend of hers on the way, picked him and his dog up then got me downtown to the REI. She offered me a couch to sleep on the next time I was in Portland, and gave me her phone number. She was such a terrific person. Treated a complete stranger like she'd known him her whole life. I gave her the link to the journal, said thanks, and hopped out in a great mood and excellent outlook on how the day may turn out.

I went into REI and decided to go check, on the outside chance, if they'd give me any grief if I tried to exchange the North Face pants I was wearing that had begun to split "down there". I felt kind of weird about it because the pants were 2 years old, BUT they have the most liberal return policy EVER. If you're EVER not satisfied, you can exchange or return anything. I weighed the honesty and righteousness of it, then pictured the pants splitting in the middle of the woods! That would pretty much suck, so I gave it a shot. Eventually I found the same pants and had no trouble exchanging them whatsoever, so I walked out of REI with 6 Clif Bars and a new pair of pants after spending about $6.50. Not too shabby.

From there it was on to meet up with my new travel partner, Rich. We'd decided to meet at the largest bookstore I've ever seen, Powell Books, which is 3 stories tall, and takes up an entire city block. He got there about 20 minutes after I did, and we walked to a nearby park to get acquainted and scope each other out to see if the other was perhaps a tad psychotic. He doesn't make much of a first impression. He looks the role of a beat- generation train- hopper, with ripped up raggedy jeans, etc. I was hoping that the conversation would be sustainable and that he was pretty laid back. I wasn't so sure of my own ability to hop with all the weight on my back, and needed him to display some patience if that were the case. It seemed that he was exactly that, so as we set off across the bridge into E. Portland, I was cautiously optimistic.

We walked about 25 blocks, stopping for coffee, soda, and cigs, then went to find the spot he had tried and failed to hop from the night before. We eventually got there, relaxed and continued chatting about various things. Then came the first east- bound train. I figured I'd be shitting myself, running next to it trying to grab hold, but it was really no big deal. This train was moving a bit to fast for either of us, and Rich said it was probably no a very good train for us to be aboard anyhow. He had done this in Pennsylvania a number of times and at least knew, to some extent, what he was doing.

We then walked about a mile up the tracks and found a spot where the train would have to be going a bit slower, thereby making our job a bit easier. Just after we got there, at about 9:00, we spied a train stopped at the other side of the bridge. It was loaded with what looked like ship containers full of something from overseas that had just arrived at the port. It began moving, and was just CREEPING along. We hid from the engineers, waited for a moment after they passed then pounced! We got aboard with ease! We were situated outside, on the car itself, but there was a grate- platform, with a depression in the middle that backed up against the car's frame. It was designed so that with me and my backpack inside, there was NO way we could fall off no matter what. I was ecstatic!

The train had 3 or 4 engines, and was relatively long, so Rich figures this one would be going quite a ways, and with few stops, but he thought we were a bit too far toward the front of the train... easy to see when we pulled into the eventual train yards. We were still creeping along, so we hopped off again, and went further back until we were at least 3/4 of the way to the end and found another car with suitable accommodations. Once there, we were off!

Rich was situated on the back of one car, in HIS Union Pacific Hotel space, while I was on the front of the next car directly facing him. I would learn later that I had made a poor choice of sides. Another thing I learned about trains is that they are VERY unforgiving places to be. Not only for life and limb, but also anything you're carrying. EVERYTHING needs to be stowed someplace, or it will find a hole to fall thru and be lost forever. Thankfully, I realized this immediately and was overly cautious with the camera, cell phone, and water bottle. It also became apparent that you need to be prepared to sustain yourself with water when you get aboard, because you're not going to just be running to the 7-11 when you run out! We made that mistake, or at least Rich did, and that would affect things the next day-- for him.

It took quite a while to get out of Portland, so I called Shalain and Friar Chris to tell them exactly how proud I was of myself, and eventually the train picked up a little speed and I settled in to take in the view.

We followed I-84 most of the night along the Columbia River, and through the Columbia Gorge Scenic area, and scenic it was! There are no lights on any of these cars, no night- vision kicks in after a short time- enough that you can see what you're riding through and it was one of the most spectacular parts of the trip so far. A montage of mountains, lakes, rivers, forests, cities, towns, and the largest dam I've ever seen just north of The Dalles. I was hypnotized.

It began to cool down drastically, and since we were on teh outside of the car, I needed to be bundled up in everything I had including my rain pants and coat to break the wind. It would be a cold night. The rain pants would take the brunt of the abuse of the train because while it wasn't as dirty as I expected, it still was far from clean.

Eventually around 3:00 I dozed off curled up in the fetal position and shivering. I had my sleeping bag available to use, but had visions of having to make a quick escape and first needing to repack the bag into the backpack! I decided to shiver for a couple of hours, drifting in and out of a light sleep. No REAL sleep to speak of.

The night, even with the cold, was great. But this train made frequent unexplained stops, and was obviously low- priority because it would seem to stop for EVERY other train that passed. That was fine at night, and when the experience was new and exciting, but would become maddening in just a few hours...