8/17-22: New York to Idaho- Doug

In a shitty spot and contemplating camping possibilities as the sun fell, I was having no luck when a 4-door Toyota with Vermont plates appeared out of nowhere, abruptly pulled over on the narrow shoulder, and waved me on. When the ragged driver asked where I was going I said, “Toward Erie” and when he shockingly replied, “no problem” I suddenly knew I would make it to meet my brother and, barring any ridiculous complications, Idaho and Oregon. Aim for Maine, land in Oregon? I am the sharpshooter.

Doug was quite tall, about my age, had longish curly hair, famiiar cheap monotone clothes, and judging by all the stuff, which included a large cardboard box full of open food cans laid out buffet-style, was traveling somewhere distant and gave an initial hippie impression. That generalization was woefully mistaken, but he would prove to be a powerful reminder of our ingrained, unavoidable duplicity. Doug had the rare combination of being supremely arrogant, full of anger, and at the same time painfully awkward. Assessments aside, it quickly became obvious that Doug was brilliant and suffered from the stereotypical social deficiency that often comes along with it. In many ways, he reminded me of a genetically engineered splice of a Slabber and the guy from Big Bang Theory!

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?

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...

8/19- 21: Devils Tower, WY

Devils Tower turned out to be a calm, quiet period of adjustment. Not quite the makings of a modern- day Marco Polo!

The two days after de-busing in Gillette were harder than I had expected; failing to consider that it was almost exactly a year to the day since I had last traveled solo. Then, it quickly became obvious that despite the high traffic volume, it was going to be a hard sell hitching the 30- miles back to I-90 in Sundance. The vast majority were vacationing families and retired RVers who often see my backpack as sure indication that I am a thief... or worse. Despite all this, the people were friendly. Devils Tower loomed overhead offering a constant, peaceful reminder of why I was there and the silent reassurance that I was on the right track.

Devils Tower is about 80-miles northwest of Sturgis, South Dakota. I had missed the rally, but gotten the bikes. I've always liked and respected these people. Bikers, and backpackers/ hitchers often share an unspoken sense of familiarity that stems from a thirst for freedom and authenticity. Had my pack fit on a Harley, I would have been on my way almost immediately! But it wouldn't. And I wasn't.

A few hours after arriving on Wednesday, the weather turned from cool but sunny to cold, windy, & wet. The hot topic everywhere was always the odd weather in the region; how wet it had been and wondering if summer had missed its left turn in Albuquerque. As the sun set behind the Tower, it felt more like November than August, and I had yet to scout out a suitable place to camp. In the end, I succumbed to fatigue and paid the KOA's ridiculous tent fee, figuring I could then get a good night's sleep and a shower in the morning.

Thursday was bright, sunny, and warm. It was spent sitting and sunning. I had a nice perch propped against a log by the road, and proceeded to just be, making mental adjustments. There were several trips into the Devils Tower Trading Post for coffee and water, and I slowly became a familiar face to the staff. I finally started updating the blog, but when I went to upload it via Pocketmail, the number Chris and I had been using was out of service! Out of frustration, I concluded that Friday would be a better day to figure that out.

With Friday and the weekend traffic came the feeling that I was back to myself. I settled in to my situation and made a conscious effort to stay present and remember patterns. Whenever I had been "stuck" somewhere for an extended period, the results were memorable and dramatic, such as meeting Ken after two days in McCammon, Idaho. This had much the same feel; a time to "Sit Down & Shut Up" so I wasn't trying very hard to leave. As I told various people, there are worse places to be "stuck" than Devils Tower!

Around noon, I found another Pocketmail number that would work so spent most of the afternoon writing. It seemed to me that this helped me to tap into Brian's "flow" and from then on, coincidentally, interesting things began to happen... and haven't stopped since.
At dusk, I snuck into KOA intending to follow a game trail along the Belle Fourche river into secluded grassland frequented only by deer and antelope. While filling my water bag, a middle aged woman hollered at me asking if I wanted a beer. Indeed I did. Before I had even sat down, Lori had offered a spot to camp at their site.

Lori and her big sister, Chris, were from a small town north of Rapid City, and spending the weekend to celebrate Lori's 50th birthday. Lori had been "celebrating" quite hard; she was already drunk. And she was slightly upset. Her boyfriend was a truck driver and had been stranded in Denver, missing this potentially depressing birthday. It then became crystal clear as to the reason she had invited me over: I had been drafted into the Boyfriend Substitution Program. Within 10- minutes, she had begun rubbing my arm and trying to hold my hand, much to my polite yet obvious objections. It wasn't long before she was asking for a kiss and offering to let me sleep in her tent! "You can't sleep in THAT little thing!" While flattered, I obviously wanted no part of that and repeatedly told her I'd be sleeping, all alone, in my little bivy.

I needed to handle this delicately because, while amusing, I had also lost the chance to get to my field with the sunset! Chris thankfully came to my rescue by putting Lori (alone) to bed, but then things went Jerry Springer. Lori's affections turned to the wrath of a drunken redneck scorned! She began to resemble an incorrigible 10- year old, sneaking out of her tent and screaming at Chris every time she reeled her back in. Dozens of times, "Get the fuck away from me!" was heard by everyone at the family- friendly KOA! The last I heard from Lori this Friday night was "I'm not staying out there with that guy here!" as she climbed into her truck to pass out. I was amused at how quickly I had gone from "adorable" to "that guy!" Jer-ry! Jer -ry!

Chris and I sat chatting for another half hour before I climbed into the bivy, alone, looking forward to Saturday. The feel of things had changed dramatically, and I thought to myself that it felt like things had finally gotten started.

Did they ever...

Devils Tower & Jimmy

When people ask, "Todd, why do you do this?" I often answer that it's funny how the people you meet under odd circumstances can have a significant affect on you.

In March 2008, just a few months after my divorce from radio, I took a job as a carnie with an outfit in west Texas. That may be the furthest from the expected vocational path you would expect me to walk, unless you know me well! At that point, it made perfect sense. As I saw it, I had worked with legalized, dishonest criminal- minded scum for 12- years. Why not authentic criminals living on the fringe? I never intended to do it for long; a month or two as I tried to raise money for 2008.

Many of the assumptions about carnival life are accurate. My first destination was Odessa, TX. In my two days there, I believe I saw every drug man has produced to date, and listened to a knife fight outside my bunkhouse. (I was just pissed that they had woken me up at 5am!) And yes, the arrest warrant to employee ratio is quite high! My final straw in Odessa was walking by a kiddie ride just prior to opening and finding a pouch of cocaine on the ground. Not so bad at 2am, but the carnival was about to open... and cocaine looks like sugar to a child. With that, I had had enough. I wasn't alone. Joining me on the bus to New Orleans for a change in assignment (and scenery) was Jimmy. He was Chickasha Indian, lived in Oklahoma when he had a home, and I had gotten to know him a bit over the short time we were both in Odessa.

I was primed for tangible, external ideas after spending the winter transitioning away from radio and buried in abstraction. As we rode across the expansiveness of the Texas Republic, we chatted about the similarity between my blossoming beliefs and that of the Chickasha Tribe. He was passionately proud of who he was, particularly his heritage. However, like Dennis, he was also tormented, although not to the same extreme. In Jimmy's case, he was cut- off from who he felt he was: a Chickasha. It was as though he were transplanted to live with an African tribe; society had nothing for him. He was rotting from within so, like Dennis, he drank. Alot. This is something I can easily relate to and unfortunately Jimmy's story is not uncommon around the southwest.

Once in New Orleans, we were attached to a group who were in a holding pattern thru Easter weekend. While drugs weren't tolerated, they created their own special brand of drama. This organization was known as a "gay friendly" carnie group, and I learned later that what I took as standoffishness when I arrived actually stemmed from some of the boys laying dibs on the "fresh fish." Me! They were quite disappointed, and one was particularly spiteful, when they learned that I like the girls... alot! This, along with nothing better to do in their idle time created a thick, palpable negativity. The kind you can feel. Well, at least I can.

Enter Trisha. She was a rare species indeed. An intelligent, attractive 22- year old woman with all her teeth intact, and traveling with a carnival. She took to me in much the same way as Inga did on the bus last month. I was someone who would leave her alone (the heteros), while at the same time act as a waving torch to the pack of dogs eagerly sniffing her hindquarters. Along with Jimmy, the three of us quickly bonded.

Easter Sunday 2008 is in part why I'm sitting in the shadow of Devils Tower today. Jimmy invited us to his morning Chickasha ritual; what he described as communing with his dead ancestors. At the time, we saw it as an opportunity to leave the hens behind, so Trisha and I went along.

Winter Quarters was directly across a small road from the Mississippi River. There happened top be a circle imprinted into the grass, so Jimmy arranged us inside and began chanting while Trisha and I sat quietly wondering what the hell he was doing! This went on for some time, and when he stopped, Jimmy said he had indeed communed with The Ancestors (doesn't always happen), and that they had given us Indian names. Mine was Runs with the Wind. Thus, the name of the first blog.

Now, I agree with you cynics. You can find a performance similar to this at any of the touristy "Indian Trading Posts" littering the west. What struck me was the gradual, then all- encompassing feeling of peace that overcame me while I sat beside the river. It was incredible, and something I had neither felt before, nor since. With it came this sense of clarity that, for my indecisive ass, is invaluable. I had the sense that I was indeed on the right path, and that this "voice" was indeed what I thought it was. The three of us sat by the Mississippi all day, just being. Trisha had felt it too, and that we were able to find calm in the Sea of Negativity was lost on neither of us, particularly when we left. As soon as we crossed the road to return to camp, Trisha and I both said, at the same time, "Did you feel that change?" It was something akin to strolling thru a garden, then stumbling out into an open landfill. It was that stark. I suspect it was what Steve describes as going from "awake to asleep" in Eastern terminology. I don't know what happened that day, but in a quiet, subtle, yet powerful way, it changed me. I wish I could give that experience away.

As I was sitting in New Mexico a week ago pondering Dennis, I thought of Jimmy. Their similarities would not leave me alone, and as I thought of that day by the river, I again began to think about Devils Tower. I had the notion in mid- July, but dismissed it in my pre- Dennis fog. I did some quick research, and while I had known it was sacred to natives, I had no idea why. Devils Tower was seen as a place of rebirth and rejuvenation. Several tribal leaders are still buried near this spot, and where young men used to come on their vision quests, the US Government now charges $10 for a "prime view."

Considering all that's transpired over the last 2 1/2 months, and looking back to that Sunday on the Mississippi, this place of "rebirth" struck me as the place to start again. No, I'm not hoping aliens take me away nor, I should point out, am I on my own vision quest. I don't know specifically why I am here, other than it "seems" right, to borrow Chris' phraseology! If the patterns hold, I suspect that will become clear enough soon enough.

To close Jimmy's story, I spent another week with them. The night I left the group, in Baton Rouge, he was drunk and making no sense other than I "shouldn't leave." In retrospect, now, this echoes with a haunting familiarity. But as with Dennis, I knew better. I found out a week after returning home that Jimmy had been beaten up, and had left too. I have no idea what became of him.

8/19: Devils Tower, WY

The weather gods were cooperative. Shortly after I made my way from the bus station to the adjacent gas station the rain stopped. It felt bizarre stepping out into Gillette. Wyoming had been a challenge in 2008, and I was a bit unsure of my prospects for a ride. The woman at the bus station had told me hitching was illegal in Wyoming as she pointed me in the direction of I-90, so with no frontage or state road, I needed to find a truck stop. Just like Rawlins.

The sun finally came out as I made the quick walk to the Flying J next to the interstate, and once there I fell into routine: plop down and wait. Soon after I settled in, I was briefly joined by another hitcher who was (proudly) of the opinion that minorities were the ones responsible for the evaporating jobs. He was nice enough, obviously because I was white, and thankfully he quickly decided to head to the on-ramp after a cup of coffee.

I had held faint hopes that since I was getting started so early I would be able to make Moorcroft, and perhaps even Devils Tower on this Wednesday. It took less than an hour to get on the road to both.

Harry and Dustin were from Washington and on their way to Jacksonville in a small, loaded down pickup. As Harry and I performed the inconvenient process of rearranging the truck to accommodate me, he quietly pointed out that any "treats" would be appreciated. I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. I prayed he was not obliquely asking for sexual favors in exchange for this 20-mile ride to Moorcroft! If so, he was in for a huge disappointment, but as it turned out, to my relief he just wanted pot. Of course, I had none so I agreed to give him a little money instead. That seemed worth it to get closer to the state line!

The conversation to Moorcroft was interesting. Harry had a self-published book on Amazon, and correctly guessed that I was writing when I told him I lived in Santa Fe. I'm not sure what bothered me more; the "progressive, liberal, artist" cliche about moving to Santa Fe for "inspiration," or the fact that on the surface it appeared I was perpetuating it! I took no small amount of joy in pointing out that I drew my "inspiration" by LEAVING Santa Fe for places like Gillette no less! Draw whatever you like from that.

As we continued toward Moorcroft, I learned that Harry & Dustin were actually moving to Florida with nothing but $500 and motivation. They were planning to camp and look for work once there. The thought that he may be working me for cash entered my mind, but I was inclined to believe him and figured that if true, I could help them out a bit in exchange for a lift the rest of the way to Devils Tower. If he was working me, hell, at least he was good! After a quick negotiation, we were through Moorcroft and on the small road that leads to the National Monument chatting about religion and politics. I believe he liked my "to hell with all of them" political insights.

Thirty miles later, we pulled into the Devils Tower Trading Post in the shadow of this place that 400-years ago was the most sacred of grounds to various area Indian tribes and now, is recognized as "that place from Close Encounters." It did not disappoint at first sight, and you can see how in the age before high-rises this place would be awe-inspiring.
Devils Tower has been on my list for a long time, but not due to Stephen Spielberg and Richard Dreyfus. A bit more back-story may be in order...

8/17- 18: Denver to Gillette

Following a couple of false starts and a Craigslist Misfire, Greyhound finally dumped me in Denver Monday evening. I had gotten an email from another Craiglister, but by the time Eric had picked Chris and I up, there was no more contact with him.

Stepping off, it seemed that this stay in Denver would last either 8- hours, or a full day until the next bus heading my way left. Chris had made arrangements for me to stay with him at Loreli's if the ride flaked out, so we went to hang out with Eric at the Candle Light Lounge for a few beers and 7- months of catch up. Eric had read about Dennis in the Denver Post prior to my write-ups, so much of our time was spent discussing each of our particular insights and what living his particular life must have been like. As always, we later began discussing society, politics, and governmental uselessness as the beer settled in.

I learned that Eric had nearly drowned while rafting the Colorado River over the summer, and the experience had quite an affect on him. It seemed to put the notion of fear into perspective; he pointed out that he's no longer "afraid of much." The most basic of human conditions is survival, and once you experience something like that, it can't help but snap priorities into focus. Funny how fear has bubbled to the surface as a recurring theme.

Eric had to work Tuesday morning, so Chris and I walked to the Alameda Denny's to chat over coffee and see where we were after 5-weeks. It turned out to be one of our more remarkable conversations. This supposed month of "doing nothing" had instead been an intense period of reflection and realignment for him as well. Much of the conversation centered on each of us boiling our evolving ideas down into something easier to convey. We also noted how we had been able to incorporate tangible experience to both alter and expand them. I wish I could easily explain that process, but I can only invite you to re- read about Randleman, Ciel, Pat, Kim, Mike, and others. Suffice it say that analog eyes work much better than the digital ones and, for insight, this beats the hell out of anything on CNN.

This condensed stopover in Denver was quite nice on many levels, and served a nice purpose as a place to reset and launch forward. I obviously never heard from Rideshare #2, thus Tuesday was spent chatting, being entertained by Loreli's daughter, Izzy, and waiting for the bus to leave at 6pm.

Before I knew it, Eric had dropped me off, and I was back on the bus riding thru Ft. Collins and then into Wyoming. Cheyenne and Casper came and went, and I was quickly learning that my hopes of a good night's rest were futile. That would play a significant role Wednesday.

The bus dropped me in a cold, wet Gillette, Wyoming a bit after 5am and I was thrilled to learn that the stop was actually a functioning station. I organized my now- disorganized pack and caught some precious sleep before stepping off into unfamiliar territory again at 8am, and for the first time since late May in upstate NY.

7/15: Denver IV

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

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

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




















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

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

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...