8/16: That Uppity Ego

Dennis has become a major catalyst for a sobering perspective shift and a stunning transition. This has been a vicious personal process, considering I knew him for five short hours 15-months ago. I often talk high-minded about “lessons,” and if there is a small positive that I may be able to take from this sad story of Dennis, maybe it’s the long- overdue, deep seeded acceptance of “give & take” and a significant reinforcement of the Big Two of 2009: “The Side Car” and “The Center of the Universe.” The last two weeks has also made me view the next few months much differently.

I have been forced to re-evaluate how I view myself and the connections I’ve made while traveling. I long ago stopped believing in random “coincidence,” and while I will not invoke the Celestine Prophecy and claim that every interaction is of some importance, oftentimes people arrive in your life, or you arrive in theirs, at just that right time. What is hard for the ego to grasp is that it is not always for you. But, it is the height of arrogance to assume that every person is a bit player in each of our own personal dramas; that “fate” has only our particular interests in mind: Center of the Universe. Yet, each of us periodically falls into this bear trap, and it is difficult to observe while in its jaws.

People much more articulate than I have written it, but it seems that sometimes we need to resign ourselves to servitude; the Brush rather than the Artisan. I have concluded that was my role with Dennis, but while I wrote at the time that I knew I was of some potential use to him, my primary focus was on the egoistic thought that, “Hey! Maybe I’m fucking right about all of this!” Pathetic, yet understandable. On the other hand, I could have done nothing to “save” him. The ultimate responsibility to reclaim his life and identity WAS his. Conveyed words and ideas are useless to he who is blind and deaf. Staying with him that night was pointless, and considering the vibe and his ultimate fate, out of the question. My instincts were solid; what else could I have done? Nothing. You can extend a hand to the man lying in the gutter but what if he refuses to pull himself up? We are always given the black and white metaphorical choice: Fate v. Freewill. Maybe Forest Gump had it right and it’s both. I am also rapidly coming to believe Rush’s notion that blaming venomous fate is victimist thinking. Fate can influence and provide us opportunity, but our decisions define us. Or, perhaps fate is influenced by our decisions? I’ll let someone else crawl into that paradox. My regret resides not in my actions, but in my ignorance as to its significance.

Days of thinking about all of this and a couple other events have caused me to step back, relax and, to borrow A.A.’s term, take a bit of an inventory. I have asked questions that have resulted in frightening and intimidating answers. Ones that require relinquishing a degree of control. I am not entirely sure at this point that I want, or even know how to accept that entirely. Then again, it’s too late to have any choice in the matter, isn’t it? That time has long past. Fighting it only prolongs and complicates the inevitable.

I have fought individual and collective battles with Uppity Egos over the months, and I believe I have begun to see where mine has been dragging me. It is also becoming clear where the good half of that duality has been not so gently nudging me with that oft-mentioned “irritation.” My purpose has little to do with developing technical schematics for the secrets of the universe. They are secret for a reason and it is laughable to think that I (or anyone) is that clever. Even if I were to come to conclusions and decided to share it, how would I then be any different from Mormon Missionaries? How would I be different from the Christians who trade charity only in exchange for the chance to impose their doctrine? I believe mine is a process of learning how to remain “awake,” or tuned- in while returning to 2008’s mindset of riding the wave; seeing what characters take the stage, but also with a keen focus on when I am playing the role of the bit player. Staying tapped into what Brian called Flow; the unseen but tangible energy of life that we can touch, feel, and use to guide us; the source of Joy. Those of you familiar with Joseph Campbell will probably recognize it as “Bliss.” For the record, I have yet to read or watch any of his material except for a few excerpts but here is one:

“But if a person has had the sense of the Call -- the feeling that there's an adventure for him -- and if he doesn't follow that, but remains in the society because it's safe and secure, then life dries up. And then he comes to that condition in late middle age: he's gotten to the top of the ladder, and found that it's against the wrong wall.

If you have the guts to follow the risk, however, life opens, opens, opens up all along the line. I'm not superstitious, but I do believe in spiritual magic, you might say. I feel that if one follows what I call one's "bliss" -- the thing that really gets you deep in your gut and that you feel is your life -- doors will open up. They do! They have in my life and they have in many lives that I know of.

…When you are at a certain age…and look back over your life, it seems to be almost as orderly as a composed novel. And just as in Dickens' novels, little accidental meetings and so forth turn out to be main features in the plot, so in your life. And what seem to have been mistakes at the time, turn out to be directive crises…

Life seems as though it were planned; and there is something in us that's causing what you hear of as being accident-prone: it's something in ourselves. There is a mystery here… Can anything happen to you for which you're not ready? I look back now on certain things that at the time seemed to be real disasters, but the results turned out to be the structuring of a really great aspect of my life and career. So what can you say?

And the other point is, if you follow your bliss, you'll have your bliss, whether you have money or not. If you follow money, you may lose money, and then you don't have even that. The secure way is really the insecure way and the way in which the richness of the quest accumulates is the right way.” –Joseph Campbell “An Open Life”

You will either sense a familiarity with that, or have no clue what the hell we’re talking about! It’s useless to attempt explaining it; you get it or you don’t, but it is the foundation of everything. It’s your “Voice.” The one that so many artists have tried to capture. Unfortunately, I don’t believe everyone is capable of acquiring that frequency or maybe they’re so lost in ego and corrupted identity that they simply can’t hear it. Many more can hear it, but have no idea what it is and are incapable of articulating it beyond a feeling. A “Splinter in the Mind.”

I am a Spiritual Anarchist. Each person’s beliefs are his or her own; to find on his or her own. That thing I term the Voice, Campbell calls Bliss, and some refer to as Consciousness, is not be dictated by, confused with, or confounded by any doctrine. I believe that was what I was trying to convey with the “Dragon Parable.” That basic, ancient concept of self-discovery IS the essence of spirituality and the Voice’s vocal cords. The “spirit” in spirituality refers to yours, and only you speak its language. It is tuning in to your sixth sense. The Voice, Frequency, Bliss, call it Broccoli if you want; terminology is meaningless. Snake and other Christians refer to it as a “calling.” Eastern religion describes it as God Within, using meditation (Sit Down & Shut Up?) to engage it and become that Sidecar. Of course, none of this philosophy is anything new. What are new is where it is taking me, and how the course has been altered.

It’s easy, when discovering something you think will help others, to become excited and want to give it away. Brian’s insight has resonated well: mirroring is the way to inspire people, by offering them the opportunity to quietly and privately inspire themselves thru introspection. In my opinion, “Peace Pilgrim” is a hypocritical nut job, and I do not buy her self-righteous claims about “finding total peace.” No one finds total peace, unless they’re named Buddha or Jesus, but there is one wonderful quote in her little pamphlet: “You cannot change anyone but yourself. After you have become an example, you can inspire others to change themselves.” I have noticed that at work several times from surprising sources when I have not spoken or written a word. It usually begins through a series of serious, heartfelt questions usually in an attempt to understand and fight fear. It’s remarkable and humbling, but I personally do not aspire to be The Great Sage of the West, nor some self- appointed Leader of Men. Beware of those assuming or preparing for that particular title. Our past is littered with these egomaniacs: Manson thought and convinced others that God put him on earth to lead following Helter Skelter. Hitler "knew the path" to domination for the Aryan Race. I am sure there are more than a couple “vacuum fillers” embedded in the various militias around the country waiting for the collapse. The best leaders do not have to campaign; they are just followed.

Looking Forward

Over the last week, I have decided to abandon the Seattle plan, and perhaps Oregon & California. Such is not my path. While Chris and I share many of the same beliefs, our focus now lie in significantly different directions. Over the past month, whenever I would discuss the plan to ride with Chris, Penney & Robert to Washington, I would notice that it was quickly followed by that same annoyance that’s been plaguing me in various degrees since New Jersey, and it had gotten more intense since Dennis. It became obvious that my path needs to be solo, and look more similar to 2008. The difference being that I have an acute awareness of the Ying & Yang of alternating roles, as well as taking the Big Two of 2009, and practicing them on a more consistent basis. It’s not hard to get back there. All I have to do is remember the people from the last 15-months: Snake, Will, Ciel, Pat, Nick, Ken, Cesar, Jo, Florian, Eric & Marine, Kim, Gus, Trent, Shelly, Steve, Brian, Dave, Inga, and more. These people and more have left significant traces.

Fear

Since Michigan, this is a topic I seem to be contemplating and discussing quite frequently. Fear is a never-ending fight and if we cower too often, it can cripple and make us a prisoner of our own mind.

I find it hilarious that people often tell me that they find me "courageous." Someone famous wrote, “None but a coward dares to boast that he has never known fear.” Well, I have known more than most! It has had a history of paralyzing me. I have made a mistake in not publishing the back-story from 2004- 2008, before Running with the Wind. I will correct that eventually, but it literally took me those 4- years to hit the road, primarily due to fear. The “what ifs” consumed me. I was never prepared enough, never had the right equipment, or the destination was not right because too much “might happen.” Much of that was due to a lack of confidence, a major source of fear. In the weeks leading up to my departure in May 2008 I repeatedly shredded myself in my journal about the fact that I KNEW I was an obvious coward with nothing but big talk and bigger ideas, and I was sick of feeling powerless to do anything about it. This is from April 20, 2008, exactly one month before I began this little adventure:

“Same old story. I thrive when it’s concept and planning but when it comes time to execute [and] put my ass on the line I hesitate, procrastinate, and try to avoid the hard fought experience I need to answer questions, identify weaknesses and conquer my pathetic fears. Fear doesn’t reside in the heart of the adversary or [in the] prospect of failure; it resides in the heart of the coward… In many ways, I am indeed a coward. How else can I identify or define it? That’s the hard truth, but I hold out hope that I’ll still be able to change that…. I’m obviously afraid to find and redefine these old boundaries and [create] new ones…. I can ‘pontificate’ to the end of the world, but it’s... simple. I’m a coward. I’m only dipping my little toe into the ocean of ideas I’ve created. It’s as though I’ve built a bridge and am afraid to cross it on my own., waiting for someone else to try it out because I’m not sure I trust my own craftsmanship… While it helps to explain the “whys” and the details of these fears, let’s not lose sight of what it really is. Call it by its real name: Cowardice… From here on, I won’t be delicate about that, and need to be conscious of attacking these things in whatever way I can... This phase is about attacking fears. Cowardice. I don’t like using that term: Coward. Yet I believe it’s an important admission… Admitting to fear, something common to all of us, is somehow gentle, and open to rationalization and easy acceptance of failings. Cowardice, however, is a character flaw. Unforgivable for a man who’s critical of the status quo and systemic life.”

Fear is a motherfucker because it is a terrifying, loud ghost. It’s usually not based on anything tangible in the moment; danger in the moment is confronted with action and instinct. Either fear is rooted in the future (what if) or on the past (what was). I decided to post this self-loathing little entry as an example because, with the benefit of hindsight and experience, I see how silly it was. I was in the business of creating my own worst- case scenarios. “What if” was the phrase most commonly running through my mind. Luckily, I was able to remember the effects of this toxic thinking after I left and this helped combat the nagging fears that remained present, but steadily and quickly faded as time went by. The “Vern Moment” in Wyoming was a watershed because, once through it, I was finally able to laugh at these previously terrifying fears.

“The ability to feel fear and keep moving forward distinguishes the living from the merely breathing.” is one of my favorite quotes. You will never completely eliminate fear, but you have a choice of how to handle it. Be crippled by irrational fears and be the equivalent of a brain in the vat, or confront them. In my experience, the more you confront them, the more confidence you gain from the realization that they usually are based on… nothing. A good starting point: Ask yourself, “What would I do if I were not afraid?”

An important distinction is the difference between irrational fear and hubris. If you put yourself in ridiculously dangerous situations, for which you are ill- prepared and do not know it, you deserve your fate. Find your boundaries and know your limitations. Chris McCandless of Into the Wild fame has attained cult status amongst many misguided hippie- youth because they believe he died “nobly” living his ideals. Horseshit. He starved to death, and stupidly. The kid thought that he could commune with nature, despite the fact that he had grossly inadequate skills to survive in Alaska.

There was a similar story just this past month in Colorado. He set off into the back-country, eventually mailed much of his gear home, and then quit receiving his supplies. They found his body near Lake City in July, after spending the winter buried beneath 20’ of snow. They found him next to a cabin that may have saved his life, but was unable to get inside because he was ill- equipped. Like McCandless, this person had noble ideals but was either arrogant, or "inadequately common sensed." This hiker was, by all accounts, highly intelligent, had well- developed ideas and kept a meticulous journal. However, he failed to protect it, so not only was HE lost… so was his essence. In the end, what did he die for? To become an anecdote?

Some fear is good; the kind that occasionally protects you from yourself and prevents you from stumbling into legitimately dangerous situations. A little courage coupled with a cup of common sense and a dash of realistic humility will take one a long way.

8/7: Dennis- Violent End to a Tragic Life

As you can probably tell by all the references and foreshadowing, I have been gnawing on this particular post. I have intended to write it each and every one of the past six days, but wanted to be sure that it did not turn into an angry, emotional, self-serving rant. It still may, but it is never going to be the perfect time to write it, so here goes. Comments as always are always welcome below, but keep them respectful.

Last Saturday afternoon (8/1), I went online to the Denver Post for baseball news when I noticed a link that mentioned a funeral the day before for a police officer in Montrose, Colorado who the previous week was killed in the line of duty. When I saw “Montrose,” I instantly thought of Dennis. He was my first “real” ride ever, and as I read the article, I discovered that the man who killed the police officer and wounded two others before killing himself on July 25th was the same man I had ridden with: Dennis Gurney.

There had been a domestic violence call, and by the time police had arrived, he had barricaded himself in his garage. From what I have gathered, he managed to gain access to the gun safe without his estranged wife’s knowledge, or had stashed guns in the garage prior to the call. Either way, the police were unaware that he was armed when they blindly entered the garage to arrest him. He ambushed them. Dennis shot the three officers with a hunting rifle, killing one, and then turned his .22 Ruger on himself, committing suicide with a single shot to the head.

I sat paralyzed in shocked disbelief for a bit, and then frantically scoured Google devouring any details I could find. I naturally then began to reflect back on the short time I spent with him going back to the original post I had written 15- months ago, and finding it grossly inadequate. In my defense, this was only my third or fourth post and I was then treating this evolving blog like a novelty item, not focused nearly enough on depth. I had not figured everything out yet and was focusing much more on my actual written journal. As you will notice, if you go back to May 2008 via the archives, the posts gradually get more detailed as time goes on. I have seriously considered rewriting them several times, but decided that leaving them relatively untouched would preserve the continuity of where my focus and attitude were at the time. With Dennis’ post, however, simply leaving that blurb to stand-alone is now unacceptable at best, and probably bordering on irresponsible.

The many people I have told about Dennis’ death have seemingly responded the same: “See! People are nuts!” or, “You’re lucky he didn’t kill YOU!”

Horseshit.

Dennis was no lunatic. In my experience, he was a good, generous, obviously tormented person. He was not a person deserving the simplistic label "just another sociopath." With the benefit of hindsight and online newspapers, here is a bit more of his story.

As mentioned in the original post, in 1980 while in his early 20’s an oil well fire severely disfigured him. I had known about the fire and obviously, his appearance, but he had omitted some things from his narrative. Before trying to extinguish the flames, he went BACK to seal the source of the fire, sparing some of his co- workers the same fate in the process, while no doubt making his own infinitely worse. While you may sit in judgment this man, I would invite you to ask yourself this: If YOU were on fire, would you first think of the safety of others first? Or, might you be focusing on the fact that you cooking alive? Does this sound like a man with no regard for life? Now, ask yourself this: How much Hell is a person expected to endure? Once you have your answer, read on.

The fire had burned Dennis’ nose and ears completely off. With 3rd degree burns over 75% of his body, he literally died several times in surgery. Then, his wife was not allowed to see him  for 6-weeks after the accident because she was pregnant, and the doctors were afraid the sight would cause a miscarriage.

His burns were so devastating that doctors were unable to get enough of his skin to complete the graphs and resorted to harvesting skin from human cadavers and pigs. His body periodically rejected these, and the transplanted skin would actually decompose ON his body.

Once the doctors realized he would survive, the reconstruction process began doctors predicted Dennis might live another 10-years. Certainly no more than 20. Remember, this was in 1980.

Dennis’ recovery process required countless reconstructive surgeries over the span of years. The legal process of gaining a settlement from the oil company also took years. Dennis had indicated to me that he was “well off” but I paid little attention figuring, wrongly, that it was bravado. He and his wife ultimately received a huge sum of money, enough so that neither of them ever had to work again. At some point, they moved to Montrose on the advice of doctors who said the dry climate would help a man who had lost his sweat glands.

It appears that things were, relatively speaking, fine for nearly 20- years after the accident. He was active in the community, made friends etc., and there are even anecdotes from friends who never knew him to drink- even a beer. Yet, it appears that in the end that, despite the money and affluence, somewhere around 2000 things began to take a turn. From what I can infer, he began to drink more, becoming increasingly mean, spiteful, depressed, and ultimately violent when he did. Clearly, something had happened or changed. Someone noted that 2000 was the 20- year mark he was never supposed to reach.

Fast forward now to 2008.

Dennis picked me up in May while I was in Ft. Morgan. He claimed that I was the only hitcher he had picked up "in 20,000 miles," and had done so because (as I would hear often from that day forward from various people) he just had a “feeling.” I believe he needed the nonjudgmental companionship that an anonymous backpacker might provide. We spent nearly 5- hours riding along I-70 toward Glenwood Springs and he was gulping his now- famous vodka the entire way. He had a few peculiar conversations with his wife that I could hear via the truck speakers (On- Star), and then became progressively more despondent as the night (and vodka) wore on. His wife had a strange tone to her voice, as though she sensed something familiar (drinking), and was not buying in to his repeated proclamations of sobriety. As the night progressed he became more introspective and reflective, and we forged an odd sort of bond as he began to open up. During that time, I saw first hand, at least superficially, many of the things written in various publications: Depression, self- destruction, self- pity, a quiet rage, and a complete lack of the fundamental tools needed to cope with his burden.

Dennis really was a good- hearted human being; but one relentlessly tormented by his appearance and by what had happened on that oil rig. Our conversation centered on how he hated his appearance and despised people for the way that they silently, but blatantly reacted to him. He knew his life was out of control because of it. The resulting over-sensitivity and self- consciousness turned vodka into his best (and indispensable) friend. Dennis knew his life was slipping through his fingers into that bottle, but was helpless to do anything about it because, for whatever reason, it was his only refuge. These were his own words, not just my vain attempt at street- corner psychiatry.

I tried to encourage him to treat the source, rather than simply the symptom. In other words, I thought Dennis needed to deal with his appearance and how he felt about himself before the alcoholism. The two walked hand- in- hand, and I knew what I was talking about. I spent most of my own teens, 20s and early 30s using alcohol as that same readily available anesthetic and social lubricant. I could clearly see my own reflected image in his anger- driven self- destructiveness. It is the kind of rage that has no outlet because it has no target. Whom could he blame for his condition? God? I shared my own experience with alcohol abuse, and that the “state” had also tried to force me into the blanket cure-all: AA. And, how it was a complete failure even though I went in with an open mind. In the end, the solution cannot be found externally because it’s not “out there.” It must come from within; otherwise, you are substituting one anesthetic for another. One that is less destructive to be sure, but one that also continues to hide or suppresses the “infection”, so to speak.

I told Dennis that, for me, nothing worked for any length of time until I began to take a long, painfully honest look inside and began to confront some of the darkest, frightening, suppressed, corners of my psyche. The very ones we desperately want to avoid out of fear. The fear that we may not like what we find. Nevertheless, I told him, in the end it is a dragon we must face and ultimately, we each have to face him alone. The good news is that while the dragon has a mighty growl, he has no teeth other than those we ourselves provide him through our own fear and cowardice. Rather than breathing fire, he has a nasty, chronic case of halitosis. Once you discover this closely guarded secret he begins to cower, then sit relatively quiet in the corner, snorting occasionally. But, a good metaphorical dirty look will silence him. Some say that he my eventually die of starvation once we quit feeding him our irrational fears. Perhaps we have the choice of either wallowing in our own mental feces feeling victimized, or taking control of our fears and embracing the responsibility for becoming the person we choose?

Again, I know I just said it but it bears repeating: This is not a job we can contract out, and no person can “give” you these things. You can receive guidance but ultimately, it is your battle to fight alone. The reward however is priceless. Along the way, it will redefine you and allow you to reclaim your identity and establish it from within. I shared all of this with Dennis and, a year later much of what happened with me personally in June was yet another step in this long process. I don’t believe it’s “coincidence” that I noticed that I was finally able to drink like a normal human being again without the familiar Random Acts of Stupidity.

Dennis took to this concept and desperately (not an exaggeration) wanted me to stay at the hotel to talk more, offering as bait to take me all the way to Grand Junction or Montrose the next day. However, by the time that he checked into Glenwood Suites he was unable to hold a sensible conversation due to fatigue and vodka. I also had begun to sense an odd vibe as his mood deteriorated. I'd had long since had enough and needed to move on. I told him, truthfully, that I liked him & would love to chat with him more but was simply sick of dealing with vodka. His truck conveniently had a laptop with nationwide broadband, so I had secretly sent out Couchsurfing requests from Idaho Springs all the way to Breckenridge before finally arranging to stay with Leah in Glenwood. I then hoped that I could keep him motivated to make it that far through our conversations, and the implications that there were ladies waiting to party with us!

I never talked to Dennis again, although he did have my cell number. I have since hitched and backpacked all over the country, and Dennis had been a favorite story and reference point about the interesting, and GOOD people I have encountered. He will continue to be. I believe he was a tormented soul who was seeking the friendship of a complete stranger and for a while, and found it. I had often wondered what had become of him and thought of him often. People seem to love to label Dennis as a “cop-killing monster” but he was no monster. The best and most accurate assessment I can give would be that, knowing what I know now, I would GLADLY still hop in and take that ride across the mountains with him again.

Dennis had talked of alcohol related legal- troubles in Oregon and Eagle, CO and, from what I have read; the state had ordered rehab which, not surprisingly, failed miserably. Cart before the horse. According to the papers and court documents, things began to get more severe last September. There were at least two arrests since then for domestic violence and Dennis and his wife had separated. He was living in a hotel and spending most of his time writing reconciliation letters, drinking, and violating restraining orders until July 25th.

It would appear to me that Dennis simply did not have nearly enough fists to swing. Even if he had them, there would still be no target for the rage and depression that consumed him. Other than himself. Inevitably, when all you can blame is God, the lashings lands on those who are closest. In his case, this person appears to be the wife who had stood by him through everything. While I cannot imagine living his life and can sympathize, the raw truth is that, in the end, the responsibility for his life lay in his hands, as it does all of us. Tragically, his inability to regain control ultimately led to alcohol-induced bloodshed and devastated families.

I seriously considered making the 300- mile journey to Montrose for Dennis’ funeral this past Tuesday. Had the Saturn not broken down in March, I surely would have. I would liked to have made the humble gesture to his family, and let them know that there was one other person who was thinking of them. Someone else who had some level of compassion and at least a primitive understanding for what they have been through over the last 29- years. It also would have been a nice gesture to Dennis himself. Unfortunately, it did not work out.

One of the most disconcerting things I have seen over the last week is the barbaric treatment of Dennis and his family by the supposed “innocents” sitting unseen at computer terminals. The ability to anonymously “contribute” to news articles opened the door to Hell’s Kitchen, and out have slithered some of the most vile invertebrates imaginable. I have seen an odd mix of contrived busllshit. For example, obvious feelings that Dennis was “Burning in Hell” due to their personal religious beliefs, yet conveniently omitting those main tenets of Christianity; compassion and forgiveness as opposed to a blood thirsty vengeance. Some of the comments directed at his family are unconscionable. Anonymity removes accountability and breeds a curious regression back to the schoolyard. It has shown me once again the rotted underbelly of the vultures some show themselves to be when no one is looking. On a positive note, the nephews of the slain police officer recognized that there were two families decimated, and sent flowers to the Gurney family. I thought that showed extreme empathy and kindness. I hope it will serve as an example to the Christian Vultures eagerly pecking away at Dennis’ corpse.

That said, I have yet to come to terms with is this knightly treatment of the police officer who was killed “in the line of duty.” Colorado Governor Bill Ritter spoke at his funeral. It was a hero’s celebration complete with an antique fire truck taking the casket through Montrose. People lines the streets crying and holding hundreds of signs invoking the curious adjective “hero.” Admittedly, my opinions are slightly skewed having been involved in the “Justice for Money” system once or twice, and because of my own recent experiences; bringing the treatment of Leif in Tennessee, and the cop in Kalamazoo to mind. My respect for the law enforcement culture has been steadily waning for years, and I find the on-cue, contrived, advertised, on- your- knees- worship outright amusing. It is as though all the episodes of CSI have rotted brains, allowing some to believe the peddled propaganda. Perhaps this cop WAS a great human being and Father-of- the- Decade, but these story’s are always portrayed the same: “Saint Killed by Monster!” It is as though the media is following a pre- conceived playbook. My background has led me to suspect strongly that is indeed the case with most “journalists,” but Nancy Lofholm at the Denver Post opened herself up to criticism by writing a very fair article last Sunday. It was through her piece that I learned of Dennis’ actions on the rig, and much of his background. She took the time to gather and present a more complete picture, and I was impressed. She avoided the route of generic sensationalism, instead choosing to attempt to tell the full story. I personally emailed her, and she deserves acknowledgment here.

I do not see any of these cops as bonafide “heroes.” They were, I assume, entering Dennis’ garage while drawing a paycheck. I do not recall reading that they just happened by on their way to Baskin Robbins for sherbet and cake, spontaneously and selflessly choosing to get involved for the common good! Personal safety be damned! No, that was not the case. They were law enforcement professionals. It was… their fucking job. They chose their professions clearly knowing what the job may entail and, in my mind, are all too often little more than deified, marketed-mercenaries who are contracted to uphold “The Law.”

There are wonderful, stand- up policemen and, not knowing this person, I do not presume to know anything about his motives. However, let's just keep in mind that an act of true “heroism” is NOT knowingly compensated. It is NOT an act initiated by the orders of others. Many of the comments directed at Dennis obliquely reference his “personal responsibility,” and that is fine; I am all for it. However, let's apply it equally. There is an element of that same "personal responsibility" when choosing a dangerous profession; one that presumably pays well. Many have lamented as to how his daughter is now fatherless, and while that is sad, some of that responsibility lies with the cop himself. Using the litmus test applied to Dennis, one could ask whythe cop did not take a desk job once his daughter was born. In addition, there is a big difference between NYPD’s heroes running into the collapsing twin towers, and running into a garage under the assumption that that a disfigured 50- something may throw a hammer. What exactly is heroic about believing you are running into little more than a fistfight when you outnumber the guy at least 3:1 with backup outside?

Heroism is something that requires a decision made, and action done knowing your life is in jeopardy; not being shot because you were unaware that a person was armed when you were ordered, or gave the order, to rush him. I know these opinions are not popular is a society desperately clinging to every contrived example of heroism presented (and defined) by the propaganda machine in the media. A collection of people whose "reality" is interpreted while sitting on the couch seeing the world through electronic eyes. I no longer care. This is common sense, and I hope people are noticing this pattern. Right on cue, the media is blatantly enforcing the boundaries for the dialectic of “acceptable” thought.

That leads me to one aspect of this story that has not been addressed anywhere. Why were the police storming the garage in the first place? Obviously, they were acting on defective “intelligence” in assuming that Dennis was unarmed. Whose decision was it to run into this ambush? Where is the accountability here? Was that person not thinking of this cop’s daughter? It seems to me that using well- measured restraint; the situation could have ended much differently. Conceivably, Dennis could have sobered up and surrendered, or committed suicide alone. I do know that he had called his sons from the garage asking them to come to the scene. Possibly, they could have helped talk him out with an exercise in patience. I wonder if, with this patience, maybe a lengthy jail term would have provided an uninterrupted opportunity, and sobriety, needed to get a grip on his life. So many typical “maybes”; we will never know.

Finally, over the last week I have noticed a return of yet another of Morpheus’ Splinter in the Mind made evident by the re-manifestation of a well-known & gnawing negativity. Some of which are hovering directly above! I have decided to split this into two separate posts, to make this a bit easier to digest. The next one will focus more on the future, and how I’ve been managing the sometimes-confusing process of digesting and incorporating all of this into the next phase, not just of the travels, but also perhaps on a larger scale.

7/12- 7-31: Santa Fe

In 2008, my “interludes” while traveling did not go perfectly. They generally degenerated, after a few calm days, into impatience and a mad- searching for signs & answers as to what step is next. This year has been different. My visit home in May was quite nice, and the rest of July continued that theme. Once off the bus and in the apartment, I literally exhaled and collapsed from mental exhaustion. I proceeded to sleep and do little else for the better part of the first week. Chris and I had left our futures open- ended, and didn’t communicate at all that first week as he settled into whatever Denver held for him, and I basked in the old routines and familiar surroundings hoping to do a bit of a study of what had changed from a familiar perch. Perspective is a constant battle.

The first thing I noticed was that I was in no way clear that I wanted to return to the road anytime soon, if at all. I had told Shalain and Chris that, on some level I was afraid that confronting my age- old demons in Michigan would leave me motivationally impotent after being the frustration- fuel for so long. I had attacked this peculiar, inwardly- directed anger and seemingly neutralized it, but was afraid complacency would now take its place. Someone asked me once what motivated me to “succeed.” I was surprised myself to learn that it was indeed this anger and my healthy ego needing to “show people” something. Externalization and adapting an identity- through- praise; pure, unadulterated ego and an attempt to fill a cavernous, festering sore with someone else's skin. No wonder it was infected.

The end of this cycle was when I hit a mental rock- bottom in 2004, which led to meeting Chris via his website. These two events directly connect; it was the first time I seriously considered jumping into a backpack and setting off to eliminate life’s fat in an effort to see what was truly necessary; what was real. It was also around the same time I began to take Thoreau seriously, which then led me to Gandhi’s ideas on unfiltered truth. Authenticity. I wondered now what that pursuit meant, and whether it still involved backpacking around the country and beyond. I could not answer that, but I knew in my core that something had at least fundamentally changed as to the method and purpose.

Shalain and I went camping, of all things, the first weekend I was here and once on the road had a great time driving toward Pecos Canyon and sitting around the little fire drinking beer. It was the most relaxed I could remember being in a very long time, and we chatted about all sorts of things past and future. It was the perfect escape even though it was only for one beautiful, calm night. I had also had an odd conversation with Chris that Saturday afternoon. He had seemed quite lost, not exactly sure what he was doing in Denver, and I was of little help. We had truly disconnected and were on our own little quests where neither could help the other. I was quite sure he would figure it out soon enough, and it took about two days until he was happily announcing a regained energy and focus.

Over the next couple of weeks, things began to sort themselves out. After the events of June slowly but surely began to make their way to the appropriate places in the recesses of my mind, I began to notice a tangible difference in my thinking. With a gentle nudge from Shelly, I began using my father’s last name; changing it on Facebook and various email accounts as a way of getting other people (and myself) used to it. Essentially, that is the name I use now and will complete the legal paperwork soon. That was a rather bold step for me, considering that I have been quite the thorn in the saddle of some people over the past couple of months. I have no idea how Pam and Kim have reacted to it, still not hearing from either since April. Right or wrong, on some level I kind of hope it stings as a reminder every time they see it. I also began one final blog transfer, although to date it is still not ready for full activation. I have been delaying while trying to decide rather or not to begin an actual full- blown website. In all likelihood, this will happen, in URL at least. This will be the third and final one. I like the procession of the three, from Running with the Wind, to Te Nosce (Know Thyself), to this new one.

I also began to find myself keenly annoyed when I occasionally would find myself looking backwards, beyond May 20, 2008. My focus is now forward, and integrating what I had learned over the last 15- months into whatever is to come. This would turn out to be some massive, unknown foreshadowing, and was quite astounding for a man historically haunted by ghosts. Not even real ghosts as it turned out but of course, those fabricated by victimist- thinking, creating little make-believe scenarios, and then letting them become a framework for an outlook on life and identity. Pathetic? Yes. The annoyance stemmed from just REALIZING how fucking pathetic and misguided it really was. This is obviously an important conclusion, but it also opens up what could be Pandora’s Box. Inside the box: "What is next? Have the travels of the last year and the visions of future adventures sprouted from within this rusted, rotting framework?" Tough questions to ask, but they obviously needed to be. I was afraid that this was the source of the misgivings about setting out again.

Chris and I had a good conversation around the 25th where we candidly discussed the future and what it was each of us was hoping to do. I did not let on about my questions, and thankfully so because things were rapidly changing. He had begun making a ton of progress bouncing around Denver, having several discussions with Robert, the Post- Apocalypse class teacher I had met in March, about a pseudo- plan that was developing. This “plan” entailed riding with them to San Francisco then Seattle on what sounded like a bit of a boat scavenger hunt. Yes. A boat. Penny (Robert’s girlfriend) and Robert had made plans to quit their jobs, hop in their veggie powered, self- contained blacksmithing van, and head toward the Northwest presumably to seek out like-minded people and begin unplugging from what is viewed a steadily collapsing system. A system that at the same time is clearly closing in on all sides. The boat? A sailboat that would eventually be capable of sailing at least to Central and South America, and at most crosses oceans. The trip to San Francisco would be to network with friends- of- friends who would “be more than happy to teach us to sail it.” This conversation shot my energy level through the roof and we quickly found ourselves scheming ways to re- connect in August heading toward Wendie’s place on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State, perhaps via the Bay Area. It slowly became apparent that perhaps I’d had enough of wandering for wandering’s sake. Now maybe it was time to get busy building something. Building what? Well, THAT IS for another post. Sorry Steve- O!

After this conversation, things seemed back to normal and we tentatively set August 4th as a date that would see him depart Denver for his “week alone in the mountains.” In the interim, we could discuss ways to meet somewhere. Somewhere like Boise, and Lynn’s place? Penny and Robert’s ideas triggered further discussions about my friend Amber in San Diego. She has continuously suggested that she “may” be interested in joining us if / when we venture into Mexico, or further. She holds dual citizenship, speaks fluent Spanish, has WWOOF-ing experience in Italy, and would be a huge help to a vagabonding troupe of gringos speaking next to no Spanish! Amber’s trouble is her family, and the fact that she is 21. No problem for me, since she does not act like a ditz, but she has traditionally been torn between going to school and living her life. Her family is also Hispanic, so there is a pressure to remain close to family. A pressure that Whitey does not always comprehend. This sent us on wild conversations about possibly meeting Penny and Robert in places like Moab, Flagstaff, Taos, or anywhere else, that may put the four of us on course toward San Diego.

Toward the end of the month, these “plans” began to get a bit more complicated due to the simple and obvious fact that we are four people who hate making plans. The obvious question then is how do four people in three different places (Penny and Robert are bound for S. New Mexico 8/9) connect… without plans?

Are you seeing a lack of cohesiveness here?

Friends, this is the aforementioned “Limbo” and a good example of your author’s feeble attempts to manipulate the fates; forgetting… again… the all too familiar reminder to, all together now, SIT DOWN & SHUT UP!

On August 1, 2009, your humble scribe would be grabbed tightly by the metaphorical throat and slammed into his seat, complete with duct tape around the mouth and wrist to force further introspection that is more genuine and a long overdue, but now possible, evaluation of purpose and ego. What will follow is for me easily the saddest and most dramatic event to date, including 2008. You folks in Denver and Colorado will take a keen interest in this when it's finally posted.


I did it to you twice Steve. In radio, they call these teases! In Te Noscestan, we call it preventing an overload.

7/12: Nebraska to New Mexico- Inga

Back at the bus station, it was a familiar waiting game. I sat there in relative silence, smoking occasionally and trying to tolerate the kids running unattended through out the place. The young woman from earlier was still there with her pile of luggage after returning from a trip to the same coffee shop Chris and I had visited. We didn’t speak until the bus was almost ready to board and when it was obvious she was clueless as to which bus she was to board. To her credit, the customer service in Omaha was typical Greyhound: shitty, and having no less than six full bags did not help her, so I offered some help finding out along the way that she was taking the same bus I was, toward Denver, or her way to Oregon.

Once on the 9pm bus, we sat across from each other and began chatting. Inga was 24, and counter my assumption that she was either moving or homeless, I learned that she had actually been hitching… with all that shit! I was amazed. She had begun in Oregon, and hitched a series of rides, primarily with truckers all the way to New Hampshire where she had apparently been beaten up by one of her rides when she refused to have sex with him. Inga told me that the trucker had left her some place she could not remember (sounded like Philadelphia) only remembering that the police had let her sleep at the police station, saying that if she stayed there, she would end up dead. She went on to tell that her next ride had promised to take her all the way home, where she hoped to see her kids, but dropped her at the bus station after buying her a ticket after another coital- refusal had led to arguments across Iowa. When I told her that we had been at the Iowa 80 that week, she laughed and said she remembered seeing us sitting there when they themselves had stopped there. I instantly remembered the arguing couple I had vaguely noticed, realized it had been her, and had to laugh myself.

Inga’s story was rather pathetic. She had been married and had children, but after her separation had apparently gotten involved in dealing. Through some now- lost chain of events, she had lost custody of her kids and there had been a raid at her home leading to the arrest of two Mexican- connected suppliers. She told me that the police had told her that if she cooperated there would be no charges, but instead she chose to hit the road. Her ex- husband had no interest in letting her see her kids, and she had no idea if there were warrants waiting for her when she got home, saying only that the all- familiar ID checks had turned up nothing while she was gone.

It was an interesting ride to Denver. We sat in the back of the bus looking at pictures, chatting, and half- watching Wild Hogs on the Trailways DVD player. She had quite a different demeanor on the bus than she had given off while sitting silently at the terminal. She became quite talkative, seeming grateful for the fact that our new companionship was shielding her from the other men on the bus. That became more apparent when we stopped around 1am for dinner, and she became visibly irritated at the amusing (to me!), lewd comments!

She told me she was planning to head off again, to wherever, after she had gotten a clear indication of her situation in Oregon. I wondered to myself about how this would all play out, if it were all true, and of course about her kids. The people I have met, rather they are traveling or not, usually have a narrative that needs its final chapters written. We all have a story; I figured this was hers and it was not my place to judge. We began to chat superficially about re- connecting when I got to the Pacific Northwest, and sharing the trail for a bit. It would obviously be easier for me to get rides with a cute, young blonde in tow, but the notion of being a truck stop bodyguard did not exactly appeal to me!

We eventually dozed off waking at about 7am Sunday to the familiar sights of the I-70/ I-25 interchange in downtown Denver, then my old friend: Coors Field. My layover was two- hours while Inga’s was nearly five, so we spent the next 90- minutes drinking coffee, smoking, and chatting. Chris’ train had been an hour behind schedule, but he did indeed show up just as I was getting ready to board the Americanos line to Santa Fe. We chatted briefly as I introduced them, and left those two to chat as I headed south. I was interested to hear Chris’ take on Inga knowing that I was probably much able to relate with her background than Chris may be.

Settling into the Spanish- speaking Americanos bus, it occurred to me that I had missed these sorts of characters you meet on the bus. One of the coolest rides ever was to Asheville, NC in 2005 when I met a bonafide philosopher AND a couple who were practicing dumpster diving/ road kill eating anarchists, all within 10- minutes!

I managed to stay awake thru Pueblo until the lack of sleep over the last few days hit me with a hammer. I slept all the way to Santa Fe, and in fact almost missed my stop. Americanos drivers speak little English, so I barely deciphered “Santa Fe” as I awoke shocked that I had slept all the way through. Shalain picked me up a few minutes later, and I was finally able to exhale a bit and begin to enjoy a much- needed, extended interlude.

The next few weeks, while not inspiring for aspiring travel writers, would hold narratives of their own. The remainder of July into the beginning of August would be a smooth, quiet, roller coaster of introspection, plans, ideas, and one particularly shocking, disturbing development that would unexpectedly shake me to my core, and demand a fundamental re- evaluation of priorities, place, and purpose.

7/11: Parting Ways in Omaha- Te Nosce!

Dirk’s appointment was at a wedding reception held at a hotel downtown, literally just a block from the bus station. He was running late after all the trouble of the day. Chris volunteered to help him unload the photo booth while I arranged to get my ticket to Santa Fe. Once done, the only things left to do were pick up my ticket, swap food and gear, and kill the nearly 4- hours until my Trailways departed toward Denver. There were just two other people inside the station, one of which being a pretty, blond 20- something woman carrying so much shit I assumed she was moving! Chris and I sat down, made the exchanges, then decided to go try to find a coffee shop where we could relax, chat, and probably reflect on things that had happened and were to come.

Chris had made some very telling comments since we had left Dirk behind, including that he was debating staying in Omaha for a day or two, or hoofing out into the Nebraska countryside for a few days. These were the same suggestions I had made in Iowa, so it was apparent that I was part of the problem for him. Chris needed to get away from me… and knew it. He was polite enough not to say it so many words, as is his way, but I completely understood the words between the words! The funny thing is that I had the same thoughts before purchasing the ticket. There was a sense of missing an opportunity in Nebraska, but deep inside I knew I just had no resources left. While the notion was toyed with, my subconscious took over and drug me DIRECTLY to the metaphorical (and real) ticket counter!

A security officer directed us a few blocks toward Omaha’s “Old Town”, which reminded me a bit of Denver’s LoDo. Omaha surprised me in the sense that this area was quite nice, and there were quite a few people walking around the re-developed area that consisted of mostly renovated warehouses. After some searching, we did find an acceptable place to drink shitty, sour- tasting, hippie coffee, and chat. We put out feet up on the table, settled into the comfortable seats and relaxed. The realization that this phase “trip” was ending had begun to become apparent and the correlating elephant in the room. We chatted about a few of these things, but it was not one of our typical brainstorming sessions. We reflected on the fact that, in addition to the many positive things we had ourselves experienced, we probably had a greater positive effects on others than we could see; affecting others silently through Brian’s “mirroring.” Yes, this coffee shop had a feel of reflecting back on something that had just ended rather than that of “taking a break.” It was perfect. As we left, we made our way to a corner convenience store where Chris would make his way toward the Amtrak station, and I would return to await my Trailways.

This was it.

By now, Chris had all but abandoned the idea of venturing off into Nebraska, so we made “plans” to meet at the Denver bus station, since the California Zephyr was due to arrive at almost the exact time as my bus. We shook hands, took a goofy picture, and walked off in separate directions. This was the moment Phase I, which began for me on April 13th, ended in my mind. I was now stepping into something different, and had NO idea what that was; there were no guarantees that Chris & I would be traveling together again.

The events of Friday were still weighing heavy on my mind. I had time to reflect while riding across Iowa, and it began to sink in that I not only wanted a break, it was imperative. As was a corresponding ego check of my own. It had become obvious that the mental wear of Michigan had simply been too great for me to recover by simply sitting at a truck stop, or even in the woods or on the side of the road. I chastised myself for being so judgmental of Chris the day before but at the same time, I could see where it had come from. I was mentally flooded and exhausted; had lost the ability to see things clearly and, more importantly, from another point of view. The self- absorption had become so all- consuming because I needed to direct most of my mental energy inward, STILL trying to come to terms with June. I had a lot of new information, and now needed to categorize and compartmentalize it, then look outward. Any distraction from this imperial priority was going to be a source of frustration, regardless of WHOM it involved. I needed the perspective that can only come from familiar surroundings viewed through these different “lenses” to see exactly how familiar sights had changed.

As I sit here and write these over 2- weeks later in Santa Fe, this is not exactly my proudest moment and I confess I considered glossing over Friday and its causes all together to keep it “clean.” However, the name of this blog itself means “Know Thyself” and attempting honesty and authenticity with yourself is hard. Honesty and authenticity are not always easy. They are not always flattering. They MOST definitely can be quite ugly and, if you are willing to share them, sometimes reflect poorly on you if you are true to how they happen. We are human! However, these unflattering and sometimes painful experiences are ultimately the pains of growth. Knowing that, I chose to hopefully set a small example of action as opposed to empty self- righteous blather and let you digest how you see fit.


Vitam… Impendere… Vero.

7/11: Crossing Iowa With King Dirk

The reeds and grass worked perfectly, and before I knew it, we were back at the Iowa 80 one last time waiting for Photoguy. Chris wisely called him one last time to be sure that he was indeed nearby and not somewhere like Scranton. Our little nickname for him had turned out to be quite accurate. His actual name was Guy, and he supplemented his income by operating one of those 1950’s instant- photo booths at places like weddings. PhotoGuy. He soon arrived in his big white, 80’s conversion van hauling the photo trailer, and I felt like I was hitching again; hopping into a van with a stranger. That ended quickly as we immediately paid Guy the money Chris had arranged. It was more than a fair price, but as I handed it over there was a minor twinge of regret realizing that we could have hitched the 300-ish miles to Omaha and not spent a dime for gas. The money, in my mind, was for a week's knowledge that he was coming, and the ability to "plan" (ha!) things. Paying for a safety net. I didn’t like that, but in the interest of fairness, I wasn’t liking much at this point. The lack of sleep from the night before was not helping my attitude, and I knew it. I hopped in the back seat hoping just to sleep all the way to Omaha.

I still believe my initial assessment of Guy was dead on. Disorganized & well- meaning. However, I would amend “tool” to “dingbat.” He was in his 50’s I believe, and appeared to fancy himself quite the gregarious, amusing holder of important, relevant information. Information such as “What movie character was from Iowa?” (A: James T. Kirk.) He also had this curious habit of looking at you, expectantly, whenever he said something as though he were eagerly ready to devour the praise that was surely due him. That was fine and quite an amusing quirk to watch; amusing until later in the day when the van would follow his head and drift to the right or worse: to the left!

As Guy fueled up the van, I was beyond ready for Omaha but the fates had other plans. When he turned the key, the van refused to start instead offering only the telltale clicking sound of a dead battery. The van was old, so it could have been any number of things from corroded battery cables to the alternator. After a jump, Guy was off to find a repair shop that was open on a Saturday morning. I just shook my head. This was perfect! I now dubbed Guy King Dirk of Douchebaggery and began Facebook updates detailing The Great Iowa Alternator Hunt 2009; one that it seemed would surely last all day and ultimately end with Guy missing his appointment in Omaha and leave us right back where we started. We had a rather large stroke of luck, however, as we soon pulled into Davenport. Dirk happened upon a Firestone Service Center just as the van died at a stop light. Chris and I jumped out to direct traffic as Dirk crossed the road to fetch help. By now, my frustration had turned to amusement. The bus from Omaha to Denver didn’t leave until 9pm, so the longer this took meant the shorter the shorter the wait at Greyhound. Plus, since I had paid for my ride I viewed myself as an observer to a comedy show.

Soon the van was having the alternator replaced while Chris and I lounged beneath a shade tree. With the repairs completed, we learned that he had only brought cash with him and had no credit cards. In short, he had just spent ALL of his gas money on the alternator. His saving grace would hopefully be his Sam’s Club card that he hoped to use at Wal Mart for gas to get to Omaha, then all the way back to Toledo. I wondered about the soundness of this assumption, but also didn’t quite care. Even Des Moines was progress at this point and, since he had just filled up, I thought that we would most likely make Omaha. He began to drop not- even clever hints that he would like more money from us, but that… was not happening.

Once on I-80, we passed the truck stop, this time as typical travelers. I was asleep within 2- minutes of seeing it and woke up 150- miles to the west as Dirk was driving into Des Moines. I was astounded to see that he was ALREADY almost out of gas! He said he had put nearly $40 in the tank when he picked us up, so he had only gotten maybe 190- miles on that. The Great Iowa Alternator Hunt now became the Great Des Moines Wal Mart Hunt. Chris had been on the phone locating stores & getting directions and, as we turned on to Broadway in the NE end of the sprawl, things began to look familiar.

I slowly realized that we were about to happen by my old radio station, KGGO. They had long since moved the studios from this rural, stand-alone building that is now abandoned, but I still have a special place for it. This was where I got my first “real” radio experience, doing exclusively live shows and working with & for some talented, great people. KGGO has been sold off and, of course, the staff gutted. Nevertheless, once upon a time this was one of those shining examples of how FUN creative radio could be! I mean, it had a pool to lure groupies, and imagine a “Toys for Ta- Ta’s” promotion at Christmas, where you have guys bring unopened toys to a strip club. They drive through a tent handing over toys, then let strippers, well… do what strippers do. It was huge success collecting toys for underprivileged kids, not to mention some “underprivileged” guys got to get up close and personal with silicone for a few seconds.

Wal Mart was found and, to Dirk’s dismay, he learned that there is a difference between a Murphy USA gas station and Wal Mart. No, you CANNOT use a Sam’s Club credit card at Murphy USA; therefore, we were now off to find the actual Sam’s Club. This leg took us toward West Des Moines and my old apartment on 11th St. It happened that Sam’s Club is off on the same exit, and when we arrived I could actually see the complex. This, for me, was turning into a nice little tour since I had silently hoped to re-visit these old haunts if I returned to Des Moines. Dirk did succeed in fueling up this time, and all was right in his world.

Omaha was now only a quick couple of hours away, and as we approached Nebraska, I could see Dirk beginning to doze off. I pointed this out to Chris, after Dirk almost wiped out a motorcyclist trying to pass him. Chris re-engaged him in conversation to keep him awake, and as we crossed the Missouri River into Omaha it occurred to me that it was nice that Chris and I were finally doing this after all the Lewis & Clark talk over the winter…

7/10: Iowa 80- Beginning Transitions

Friday began early, but not due to any heroic effort on our part. It had been hot and muggy the night before and as 7:30 came, I awoke to the sound of wind and nearly shivering. A peek from the bivy showed what looked to be a huge thunderstorm moving in. We had nearly enough time to begin packing up and get to the shelter of the Iowa 80. We almost made it, but not quite. Shortly after having the gear secured and the rain gear on, the skies opened with one of those Midwest rains that make you want to sit on the porch just to watch. We had a porch, by God, at the truck stop. There is something about storms that make us friendlier, it’s an icebreaker we sometimes need allowing us to start random conversations with perfect strangers. It as though the common “struggle” of rain or snow helps us forget the little walls we have built.

There were few walls found at our now- familiar bench at the south side of the Iowa 80. I had conversations with several of the customers and staff, one pair of young travelers was particularly interesting. They were from Illinois, and on their way to Northern New Mexico to volunteer at the large Boy Scout Ranch near Taos. I lingered briefly in my own prejudice as one began to talk with me, wearing a tie- die shirt that said, I’m Bringing Hippie Back. Not the message that draws immediate favor from me, but he was persistent, and turned out to be a good kid. He and his friend were taking something beyond a scenic route to New Mexico; they planned to visit Yellowstone, Idaho, Utah, Nevada, and Colorado. The more the four of us chatted, the more I realized we had much in common and with that came, again, the uncomfortable reminder that I am not far removed from their ideological camp. They were far from dogmatic and obviously more interested in living life than preaching doctrine. I respected that, and felt excited for the other young man. He had never been west, and was about to be in the midst of some of the most incredible terrain in the hemisphere. I remembered how that had affected me, and wished I could be there to witness his reaction. Had their car not been full, I would have. All of us had made a nice connection by the time they left telling us several times, “If the car was bigger…!” Afterwards, I commented that this was looking like a promising day.

Walcott’s storm sirens had already gone off and once we switched perches, the weather became quite threatening. Wall clouds were approaching from the direction of Iowa City, and as they collided with the ones overhead, the sky actually began to swirl. It was quite a surreal sight, and then the floodgates opened, literally. It rained like hell for what felt like hours. I remember thinking that I had not seen a deluge like this one sustain itself, for that length of time, in years. It was remarkable, even by Iowa’s high storm- standards. Chris and I found refuge inside chatting amongst ourselves or with the constant stream of travelers waiting it out. I slightly noticed one couple walking inside arguing, but thought nothing of it. One of these people would play a role soon, but at the time, I had no clue. Once the storm ended, it was almost as though there were a resetting of a Broadway stage. Within 40-minutes, the skies were blue and we were suddenly basking in an Iowa summer sun, and almost immediately the whirlwind that defined the day began.

The “plan” all week had been to get to any point between Walcott and Omaha. There was still Eli as a possibility at this point. He was driving from near Des Moines to Colorado Springs and had indicated there may be a possibility of riding with him, but he had poignantly vanished in the last couple of days. Without Eli, the assumption was that Chris would probably get an Amtrak from Omaha to Denver, while I would most likely take Greyhound to New Mexico. In theory, we already had a ride to Omaha with Photoguy, who was driving there from Toledo. He was supposed to be leaving sometime Friday, so the idea was to see how far we could get on our own while we waited on him as a backup. If nothing resulted from hitching, we would still cross the Missouri River into Nebraska with him on Saturday. A solid “plan” (by our low standards) to be sure, except that by Friday, we had chatted with him a few times, and he began to strike me as a well meaning, yet disorganized tool. In other words, typical Craigslist.

In light of my leeriness of Photoguy, I had periodically begun to suggest contingency plans… just in case. Chris had initially expressed that he wanted to be in Denver by July 17, Angela’s birthday. Considering the facts that this was still a week away and we had been house, car, train, and bus- bound for so long, I thought it might be a good idea to get back into traveler mode and try hitching all the way to Denver down I-80 to I-76. Or perhaps even traversing the smaller state and US highways across Iowa and Nebraska using the method used in Maryland, Delaware, and New Jersey. This way, I thought, we may be able to re-tune a bit by meeting people and having some new experiences in different places for both of us. However, Chris by now had tunnel- vision, and wanted to get to Denver ASAP. These ideas would be a last resort for him, only if Photoguy failed.

All of this was almost for naught. As we were sitting in the sun, Chris ventured off to see the truck museum, leaving his pack with me. After about a half- hour, I heard, “Aww man… Denver? Fuck it. I’ll do it, man.” I had no idea what this 20- something guy was talking about, until I remembered that I had my “Denver” sign attached to my pack. This person was on his way to Boulder in a rented van, and offering a ride ALL THE WAY THERE! It quickly disintegrated however, when I told him Chris had gone off to look at the old trucks and I could not go grab him, since I was babysitting both packs. He was obviously in a hurry, and I was NOT going to suggest he drive to the museum to track Chris down when he had just offered a nearly 1,000- mile ride. He went inside for at least another 20- minutes and when he came out, he looked over seeing I was still alone, wished me luck, and drove off. I was a bit perturbed. This set the tone for the rest of the afternoon. This was #1.

We moved inside to try to re- capture lightning in a bottle but to our utter disappointment not only was Christi off, but we had seated ourselves back in "Mustang Sally’s" section! As we were chatting, between the again nearly non- existent fill-ups, Chris mentioned a crop circle website he had found, saying it was interesting and made a lot of sense. He had mentioned it before, but to be quite honest, I thought he was kidding. Crop circles? Really? When I scoffed at the idea, he became quite offended, shooting off a surprisingly snide comment regarding the premonitions that had actually manifested themselves in Michigan. Again, Really? “You’re going to mock an actual, tangible experience, something that had actually happened to ONE OF US, and compare it to conspiracy theory?” I thought. I was livid on several levels. Right or wrong, this hit one of my exposed nerves. I said nothing and tried to let it go because I don’t believe he meant to offend me, as I hadn’t him, but it was an indication of things to come. This was #2.

Leaving the restaurant, the mood of the day had abruptly changed from the happy times of that wet morning. I was building a head of steam, and genuinely getting sick of navigating what smelled, in my frustration, like egoistic neuroses. I was beginning to see Chris as a bit of a caricature that was chasing his ego’s tail, often short- circuiting and mentally- roaming like a cell phone without a tower, looking for “signs,” even if he had to create them. I know this reads outright mean, but it is what I was thinking this Friday afternoon in Iowa. I was getting quite annoyed with the perceived inability to stay focused on the present, and to take things as they come. To quote Yoda (this IS a fun exercise!), “Never his mind on where he was! What he was doing!” To me, I thought it had become abundantly clear over the last few weeks that he was probably homesick, wanting to see friends and familiar scenes. No big deal, but it seemed that he was twisting it, even to himself, to make it feel as if Denver was “calling.” Had he lost the ability to decipher between actual “signs” and obsession? Harsh? Perhaps, but I need to ask.

As we were preparing to leave the exit ramp after trying our hands at hitching again, I finally inquired about this Denver obsession and with “talking to Angela and Lorelei.” What had happened to the 17th? Were they all leaving in the next few days? Had they shut off their phones? Were they relocating Denver to the South Pacific? Or, had he manufactured it? If so, was that going to happen with Seattle? England? Perhaps even Tupelo, Mississippi if he decided he needed a goal? I also pointed out that since we had left, roles had reversed, and reminded him of the Albuquerque “side car” analogy that, not so long ago, seemed infinitely important. It was he, I reminded him, who in the weeks before we had left was excelling at staying in the moment and not looking too far ahead; able to stay grounded. I was the one that was unbearably impatient to “get going!” What had changed? "Why was it that he was now so tortured by impatience?", I wondered. The last, as it turned out, would be the important question, but we had no way of knowing the answer.

Chris’ response was an annoyed look and deafening silence, and this was enraging. Standing before me seemed to be the same impatient character that, only days before, had claimed that he “needed to get on the road” to quell his restless mind. But little had changed except for the scenery, and the fact that he couldn’t blame Michigan for it. I asked why he didn’t just take the bus or Amtrak from Michigan all the way to Denver if he was in such a rush. Nothing. Why not return to Denver, find creative housing & employment, and take “ordinary” trips to Seattle, England, Springfield… wherever? Wouldn’t this be less frustrating? Good questions, I thought, but nothing.

Once we returned to the Iowa 80, things were quiet for quite awhile. Chris was obviously lost in thought, and I was consumed in a bubbling anger that had come from now- weekly reruns of the same episode. I began to seethe on the thought that, despite the fact I had given him a free pass to stay in Massachusetts as long as he needed to, putting my own plans on hold in the mean time, Chris had been not- so- cleverly nudging me to leave Michigan after two- weeks. This despite the high- octane personal drama that, I believe it is safe to say, far exceeded his.
The fact that I did not suggest he be on his merry way after that first two- weeks in Michigan began to anger me.

And, the fact that I knew this was coming began to anger me.

The further I regressed into the previous 6- weeks, the angrier I became. I began to think I had acted like a doting housewife, complete with apron, hoping that if I stay patient, he will “change”, or if I compromise, it will make him “happy.” Fuck that. On this warm, sunny, Friday afternoon that ended with another flurry of realization brought on while pacing the sidewalk trying to control myself. I finally clearly recognized that this part of the trip had to end, NOW, when the image of the dream I’d had of hitting him again flashed before through my mind. While Chris had earlier that day rather mocked these dreams, I saw this one as a warning. I thought this was a good time to share this little detail; one I had chosen to keep silent until now!

With that disclosure Chris said rather amused, “Well, we should DEFINITELY split!” and the familiar process of clearing the air began, with an added wrinkle: We could take the coming extended down- time in Denver and Santa Fe to re- evaluate and decide if we really wanted to continue together. Again, despite everything that written here, I was not as mad at HIM as I was frustrated with myself. I was both frustrated and sympathetic to his plight, but at the same time MORE frustrated with myself for not taking control of my own situation… again. The facts that these frustrations were intensifying and becoming much more frequent were obvious indications that we each needed to focus on our independent paths, and now. It did not even occur to me at the time that perhaps we had each lost sight of what those were. Perhaps his impatience and my frustrations were symptoms of something. An exercise in hindsight with a hint of foreshadowing? Well, perhaps!

This conversation was quick & to the point, and soon enough things were back to normal; even light. We spent the evening back in the Iowa 80 Kitchen with a new waitress- friend: Sanja. She was quite cute, and had led a fascinating life. She was born in Bosnia, had fled the war when she was young, and was now living in Davenport. I learned a long time ago a very important lesson: Do not fuck with Bosnian women! I will share my stalker- story one rainy day, but for now, we had a great time laughing and joking with her until her shift ended at 11.

Considering all the rain earlier in the day, we assumed our nest was flooded, so after contacting Photoguy and learning that he was not arriving until early Saturday morning, we set the alarm and bedded down behind some reeds next to the ramp. I didn’t even bother with the sleeping bag, reverting to last year’s mindset… although the bug spray came in handy!

It is important to clarify something at this point. I have tried to tiptoe along a very fine line while recounting this particular day. I have hoped to convey the day’s vibe, while at the same time being fair. That is not easy to do because many of my reactions were unfair. Chris and I had been remarkably successful as travel partners, including on this particular day. There was no lingering animosity. Since April we have, of course, had disagreements but no real arguments and it is significant that even on this day, when both of our frustrations reached their limits, we were able to get through it productively and learn something. After reflection, I believe Friday's events stemmed from not accepting and acting on the fact that we had reached a distinct, obvious fork in the road. The first three months of this trip were self- consuming times for both of us. We each had our own agendas in our own respective places and once these ended, we were BOTH feeling like a “cell phone without a tower.” Ultimately, Chris was right to be drawn to Denver. What should have happened sooner is admitting this, in Michigan, leaving each of us to deal with our own demons. Traveling with another person can be tumultuous; considering that this is as bad as it’s been, I give us high marks!