7/12: Pocatello- McCammon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A nasty rabbit hole I had descended in to!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

7/10: A Tale of Two Idahos

Impatience & Indecisiveness: My Achilles Heels

I got up at about 8:45, saw that the Hippie had moved on and began to contemplate the day. Should I get in touch with the SOS Staffing people? Should I hold out for a ride with a truck? Should I hitchhike out of there today? I remembered all the warnings about eastern Idaho, and knew that if I were to hitch out of there, I should be fussy and wait for the right ride. My indecisiveness did not last long, and it went the same as it did in La Grande; I really was not interested in putting the trip on pause to work.

I headed out toward the on ramp after lingering inside for a bit. All of my success from Wednesday, and the fact that I had gotten nearly 200 miles made me a bit cocky; at least overconfident. When I got to the on ramp, I had only just set up shop when I saw a truck dropping off another hitcher and coming back onto I-84. Sure enough, he stopped. Remember the plan: Pocatello or Bust? Well, this chap was only going 10 miles up the road and I got in... Like a damn fool.

He was in his late 40's with a straggly beard and a very direct disposition, which of course I liked. The trip was quick, uneventful, and he dropped me at state highway 50, which goes toward Eden. “Eden my ass”, I thought. I would soon come to discover that there is NO Eden in Eastern Idaho. Nevertheless, I did find an Oasis. The Travelers Oasis. A nice, if slightly cheesy, truck stop with all sorts of greenery hanging inside.

I grabbed some coffee, made up my very first sign, which said something like “Montana or Colorado” (indecisiveness) and cracked open a can of cheap Wal- Mart salmon while sitting outside, again hoping to strike up a conversation with a driver to conveniently complete my odyssey to Pocatello. While I was sitting there a 20- something guy comes over and hands me a 6" Subway- type sandwich. Another example of a random act of kindness. That or I looked like a pathetic creature sitting on the steps eating canned food!

I found a nice shade tree to escape the sun as the day got hotter, propped up my pack with the sign on it, and continued the massive update of the journal. A nice way to spend a couple of hours.

A couple hours was long enough. Back to the coffee machine I went and then to the on- ramp. I was there quite a while, a sign of things to come. After a couple of hours, and many pictures of the thermometer across the road rising to 94, I finally got a ride sometime between 3 and 4:00.

Paul was another with a long straggly beard, his being snow white, and looked to be in his early 60's. I wondered to myself if this was what Moses had looked like. Another nice guy; another guy going 10 miles. He offered to take me toward the Rupert exit but by now, the feel had definitely changed from the western part of Idaho.

You can see the reactions people have to you when you are sitting by the side of the road. In Oregon and western Idaho people were just friendly. They would wave; give you the thumbs up or peace sign, or just smile. Here the looks began to change to something akin to... terror! I heard several doors lock when they would have to slow down to get on the freeway. Most were afraid to make eye contact! Those are the best!!

“If I don’t acknowledge I see him then he’s not there!!!”

The disdainful looks I understand. They are probably muttering beneath their breath: ‘Get a job, freeloader! Praise Jesus.”

But the fear! Where does that COME from? I had A LOT of time to think on this!

I was reminded of the people I’d seen in Twin Falls who were riveted to Fox News and the ‘impending war with Iran!’. They had similar looks on their faces. Or “Easy Rider” when Nicholson’s character tells Fonda and Hopper that the Rednecks weren’t afraid of them but of what they represent: freedom. If you have not seen that movie in a while, and you can stomach the cheesy music, check it out again.

I can’t quite figure it out: Why are conservative areas also the most fearful! These big, tough, gun- totin’, God- fearin’ ‘publicans and their 1950's- looking wives were literally scared of my scrawny butt sitting on an exit ramp! Why are liberals, or those in areas that are more liberal, more inclined to offer rides? Are conservatives just easier to control and manipulate with fear?

Fear da fags.
Fear da coloreds!
Fear da A- rabs... Mexicans... Muslims... WMD... Gay Marriage... Iran... Obama...

Fear of anyone who is NOT afraid? Perhaps they are just caged by this fear, and aren’t as free as they think. I know first- hand: Fear is its own prison. However, Nicholson’s character also said:

“Don’t go telling these people they aint free, or they’ll get busy killin’ & maimin’ to show you just how free they are.”

In case you self- righteous Libs are patting yourselves on the back, I have met Conservatives over the last couple of months that make more sense than ANY of you have. I have seen the same looks from the hybrids who drive by with the back window FILLED with the stupid “I’m a Hippy” bumper stickers usually highlighted by the now- ubiquitous “COEXIST”.

I am concerned about the Agenda Dogs who lap- up whatever fear Rush, O’Reilly, or Hannity happen to put in their bowl. The left has their own Agenda Dogs; they tend to go into multi- syllabic verbal seizures whenever you ask them to elaborate on or dissect the Noam Chomsky quote they just regurgitated and just love to throw around the term “World Citizen”, complete with the upward- inflection on cit- uh- ZENNN. These people piss me off more than the Neocons.

“Santa Fe, Hello!! You’re on the air!”

I’ll save the rest for another day and digress, but sheep are sheep; regardless of the herd.

That may have merited a Rant Alert, no?

Paul dropped me at the top of the exit leading to Hwy. 30 toward Rupert. I continued down the interstate hoping to catch a quick ride from someone coming up the other side.

Nope.

By 6:30 or so, the reality had set in that Todd screwed up. Todd should have held out for the ride to Pocatello, and now Todd was going to pay! I wanted more coffee, and a break from the frustration so I made my way down toward the Love’s truck stop at the head of the ramp. On the way I saw that there was an irrigator overshooting the fencerow, and was almost spraying the pavement.

YES!!!!!

I hadn’t had a shower since Saturday, was sticky from being in the sun all day (I hope?) and before I’d really thought it through I was setting the pack down, pulling stuff from my pockets and aligning myself to be doused.

And doused I got!

I severely underestimated how much water these things put out! It was like standing beneath a waterfall. By the time I realized how much water I was being hit with, and not without great joy I might add, I realized that my boots were filling with water! I immediately thought about the beach in Santa Barbara, the creek in California, the blisters that had resulted from the wet boots/ socks AND how long they took to dry! I was a bit concerned, and would be a bit more so after my little piece of irrigation- heaven finished. I even figured out that I could wash the nasty- ass shirt I was wearing! I was now clean & fresh, and ready for Prom! Thanks Massengil!

It’s all relative, right?

I got to Love’s, and had long since realized that I was now spending more money on coffee than even cigarettes so I bought a 32oz mug to replace the 16oz Pojoaque mug I’d been carrying since the beginning wayyy back in Colorado. With this, I could get more coffee for less because of the ‘refill’ prices. A good buy it turned out. I also scavenged for cardboard and made four signs that I figured I would rotate. One said “Wont Kill You” from the cinematic classic ‘Joe Dirt’. Another said “Freshly Showered in an Irrigator!!”, the next: “Passed ID Checks in SIX States”... yeah a slight stretch; it was only one state, but a little white lie never hurt anyone, right Forrest? The other sign was more straightforward: “Helena, Denver, I-70, I-80, OR I-40" If I could have written “OUT of Utadaho”, I would have.

It didn’t help. Apparently, they did not find my humor to be innovative. My spirits were still remarkably high; I had just simply accepted the fact that this was about to get more difficult than I had grown accustomed to. I knew this day would come, and besides it was not THAT bad. My negativity was more directed at the perceived authors of my newfound plight: the Mormons!

Another hour or so went by, and I had finally had enough of this locale. I packed up my clever (to me) ‘Communication & Interaction Aides’ and started down the interstate toward... well, anywhere but there... with the defiant anger that has served me quite well in the past.

Once I tapped into that I had a remarkably good time, chatting with the dogs that frolicked along the fence with me, then the cows that followed as though I were their Messiah (Todd Joseph Smith? Brigham V?) staring at me strangely the whole time. I even got some excellent sunset pictures and scared the wildlife while singing along to “Friend of the Devil”. Enough to scare Satan himself.

It was almost completely dark when I came to an overpass, completely exhausted. I hadn’t been paying attention to how far I’d gone, or eating. When I finally sat down, I discovered that I had lost some coordination. I was dropping things, stumbling, forgetting to do simple things, like unbutton my shirt before removing it. I had been here before. On my bike trip. This is affectionately known as ‘bonking’; when your body REALLY needs fuel, and lets you know. I ate a can of something-- the ‘beef’ by- product stew I believe-- and immediately felt better. I began looking for places around the overpass to sleep, but finding none, feeling much better, AND urged on by the fact that it was so much cooler and easier to walk at night, especially with the moon, I kept going.

Just ½ mile up the road, over a little hill, I spied lights! Another telltale sign of a truck stop! I had visions of the by now utopian- in- my- mind Flying J in Jerome. I resolved to try my best to get there. I had no idea how far off the lights were and, remembering Fruitland, prepared for a haul. It was quite a ways up there no doubt but since my food and rest, I was feeling great except for the foot and middle back pain that’s a sure sign of poor packing. Probably from carrying the canned food. So I walked, passing a “Last Services” sign that read something like 29 and 42 miles, depending on which way you went on the upcoming I-84/ I-86 split. Now my truck stop had new significance.

I had no idea how far I had gone when I again came to the Snake River. Large river that Snake. All along I-84, the shoulder had been at least 12 ft wide. When it came to bridges however, Idaho reclaimed its shoulder- space. Maybe 3ft now, and it was dark; not a good combination. The good news was the traffic was light since it was approaching midnight, so I dug the head- lamp out of my pack, turned on the red night- vision beam and waited for the traffic to break long enough to get across... at least a significant distance. The light must have worked. No one hit me. No one even blew their horn. The other good news at getting across The Snake was that now I was essentially at my destination. The flamboyantly gaudy sign advertising an RV park with GRASS! and a STORE! and other precious goodies; I began to wonder if I had indeed found Eden in Idaho!

I bypassed the closer Shell station, which looked closed anyhow, for the surefire supplier of ALL my vagabond needs. And GRASS! With glee, I approached my second Oasis of the day to find...

It was closed.

Fuckers.

Why... in... the... HELL! ... would you have a sign that would attract people, or a bug the size of MOTHRA, to a place that was CLOSED!

I wanted to defecate on their steps but finding that beneath me, I instead sat down, took my boots off, and relaxed. A car soon pulled in with Montana plates... also lured like bugs by the misleading Interstate Light Show. They were a nice couple, I chatted with the guy for a couple of minutes while his girl took care of business. They were headed west though, to JEROME. In my fatigue, I confused Rupert and Jerome or you can bet your butt I would have gone BACK there and taken my day- mulligan.

In addition, to make my night perfectly complete, the local Fife- ian sheriff showed up. He rolled his window down, and with an obnoxiously- stern look and an overly- dramatic tone meant to let us know he was on the ball said: “Ev’ry thing Awlraht?”

Now I wanted to defecate on him.

I just nodded; refusing to look over for fear that my frustration and annoyance with him would get the best of me. My new Montana- friend handled the verbal interaction quite nicely however and Mr. Fife left to polish his metaphorical ‘Lone Bullet’ . . . at least in MY mind he did.

After the Montanans’ left for the true hospitality, and open stores, that is Jerome, I yet had to deal with one more piece of drama. Teenagers. A couple of carloads pulled in while I was sitting there alone, and I believe they were quite curious about me. I was quite ornery, if you haven’t noticed, and was in NO mood for any Redneck Juvenile Fun. I did everything I could to look menacing, even eyeballing them periodically while they sat there. That was probably stupid, but it worked. They left without bothering me, therefore, I must be ONE menacing mutha... or I was just playing the role of Paranoid Bitch again. Perhaps a new topic to vote on? You Read, YOU Decide! I am frightened of that actually...

I left on a hunt for the night’s nest and settled on the space Rich and I had used in La Grande: between the highway and the on- ramp. It was down in a depression, had some smallish bushes to conceal me, and best of all, it was close to the Shell station and coffee when I woke up. I lay there for a while contemplating the day before dozing into an exhausted, deep sleep.

7/9: Fruitland- Twin Falls, ID- Jack

I got up early again, seemingly falling back into the routine of rising between 8:15 and 8:45. I packed up to the curiosity of the many onlookers who were passing through the driveway between the Shell station and I. Then it was off for the morning ritual of coffee, and to get a feel for where I was, and GOING, in Idaho. I knew next to nothing about the state; did not even realize how close I was to Boise.

A significant thing had happened between the times that I went to bed and gotten up in the morning. I realized that I was now OUT of Oregon, which posed a slight problem. Remember Wyoming? Destinations? Just where the hell was I going anyhow?!?! Time to try to figure that out.

I sat down in the same booth as the night before, began drinking the coffee, borrowed the Rand McNally Atlas off the rack and began looking ahead. I saw two very foreboding sights: Wyoming and, in particular, UTAH.

Let me be very clear: I HATE Utah.

Utah is the place where thought goes to die. I’ve heard only horror stories about Utah from those who’ve tried to get thru it, either backpacking (desert) OR hitching (cops & Mormons). They, to a man, have told me to go around it, rather than set even a foot inside Utah, thereby risking being kidnapped to 1850. You risk being harassed incessantly. There is even a law on the books in some town where it is illegal to speak ill of the Mormon Church! Really? In 2008? Let’s just say it would be an act of utter desperation for me to even consider navigating Utah’s theocracy.

With this in mind, I began considering different routes. To avoid Utah and Wyoming:

* South immediately into Nevada via highway 93 toward Vegas and Bullhead City
* North immediately via 93 toward the Bitterroots into Montana & I-90 or US-12.
* Continue up 84 to I-15 into Montana, OR
* Continue up 84 to Pocatello then pick up US-30 to I-80 thru Wyoming (ugh!)

I liked the idea of US-12 because it goes all the way to Michigan through my hometown of Jonesville. Shalain is returning to Michigan at the end of July to see her family, and I also noticed that it crosses both North and South Dakota then Minnesota and Wisconsin, before turning south to Chicago. I had put Montana, and both Dakotas on my places to go, but after realizing how much I despise being cold, I wondered how wise it would be to cross the Bitterroots and the REAL Rocky Mountains. The road south appealed a bit because it would take me to through Winnemucca- Mac to Vegas, then I could go toward Bullhead City and Lake Meade in Arizona, then hop on I-40 toward Albuquerque then Santa Fe to see Shalain, bypassing the Michigan portion and heading toward the east from there. So many options.

I went round and round for a couple of hours. Money, again, reared its ugly head. I began to picture going into Montana and having something come up leaving me broke and stranded out there with the wolves and cows. (Are there cows in Montana?) A common theme that would haunt me the rest of my time in Idaho. Despite the fact that every time I had needed something it would pop up, as long as I put forth the effort, I was beginning to let fear grip me.

In the end, I decided that going through the Nevada desert was a bit foolhardy, and heading north into the Bitterroots, at least at that point, did not make a lot of sense either. I ultimately concluded I was going to Montana via Pocatello. I would continue the course I was on, and set Pocatello as my destination & point of no return. I could either pick up US-12 further east in Helena, off I-15, or go back to Denver (again!) to try to make some money. I should have just rolled the dice then...

This posed some troubling questions for me. I had now opened Denver as an option, and in the interest of being honest with myself, that could potentially be a cop- out and lead me back to the safety and security of Santa Fe. There were times that I felt road weary, as though I could use a break.

The troubling notion also began to sink in that, since Olema, I had become The Happy Hitchhiker. I was no more sustainable than when I left, and had lost sight of much of the philosophy and adventurous aspect (save the train) behind this. Was this just reality setting in? I had been gone nearly a month, traveled in the neighborhood of 1500 miles, and had gained a sense of method, for lack of a better term. I missed the idea of hiking across the Marin Headlands, not knowing what was ahead of me. The idea of setting off down Highway 1- just walking. I needed perspective. Time for some self- examination.

However, not today.

I got out of the gas station and up toward I-84 at about 10:00, and it was already HOT! Scorching. The coming 100- degree heat was all the rage with everyone, so I was prepared. I’d even decided to dig out the sun screen; something I despise. I didn’t know what to expect when I sat down on the ramp and threw the thumb up. I felt cautiously optimistic considering the luck I’d had the day before after not starting until 4:00! I had sat there in the sun listening to music for about 30 minutes when the theme for the day presented itself. Ride #1.

Chris too was 37 and sold gas detectors to chemical companies. He was on his way toward Nampa, near Boise, to drop something off and said I could ride along. He seemed very intrigued not only in the physical aspect of my trip, but the WHY. He is another in the string of people who said they wished they could do something like this, but had responsibilities. Chris has three kids and a wife, so gets his adventuring- fix boating, camping, and drinking beer. He is a guy who has a distinct edge to him. We are disgusted by many of the same things; materialism etc.; but he doesn’t see what he can do about it.

He pointed out something I had not thought of or had many discussions about: being afraid to pick up a hitchhiker is somewhat ridiculous. The hiker is taking more of a risk than YOU are! For example, if he tried to rob you; all you have to do is punch the accelerator to about 90 mph; what’s he gonna do? Jump? That thought would fuel my disgust later on in the week...

Chris dropped me off at a gas station in Nampa, where I briefly walked around inside then set up on the ramp again. It was getting hotter, but I was sitting in the heat for less than 5 minutes when along came ride #2.

Inside were two black guys, I believe the ONLY two black guys in Idaho, so I felt privileged to meet them. Actually, when they pulled over I felt my upbringing kick in. Apprehension. The sounds of gangsta rap were coming from the car, and they seemed to fit every stereotype Whitey has been taught to fear about blacks. In addition, he wanted me to put the pack in the trunk, which even I know is a no- no.

They asked where I was going and I asked if they could get me to the other side of Boise, and since both of my Couchsurf requests had come back negative, I wanted to get thru the city. The driver, who I had seen at the truck stop moments earlier, answered that it shouldn’t matter how far if they were offering a ride. He had a point. I decided to ignore the second- thinking and hopped in the back seat; keeping my pack on my lap.

I was immediately treated to a wonderful Gangsta Rap Sing- Along. I will not lie and tell you I felt completely comfortable in that car, but they just left me alone- rapping along. I understood none of what they were saying other than the frequently used “nigga” and either “tap dat ass” or “put a cap in dat ass”. Perhaps it was both? I was laughing quietly to myself thinking of the stereotypical display before me.

These were a couple of cool people. They had just stopped off to grab a 40oz bottle of Coors. In the end, I felt like the stereotype for feeling the twinges of judgment purely at the sight of these people. I was neither beaten nor robbed, and they even shook hands and wished me well when they dropped me off. Not my best moment.

I never got their names but they did indeed drop me off on the other side of Boise, at exit 52 or 53. I went into the truck stop to use the rest room and fill up the water bottle with ice to combat the heat.

Chris had warned me early in the day to get ALL THE WAY to Mountain Home from Boise because there was next to nothing in between. That was exactly my plan when I sat down on the ramp and waited for ride #3, which showed up 20 minutes later.

Corey reminded me a bit of my friend Joey. Very flamboyant. Gay. Personable. We exchanged stories, and I believe I caught him eyeballing my ‘nether-regions’ a couple of times. Whatever. He was a perfect gentleman (never used that phrase pertaining to MY experience), and it was blazing hot in the high desert, so I was just happy to be in the A/C getting a ride to Mountain Home. Another perfectly enjoyable ride! Corey is also the one who warned me about eastern Idaho when I mentioned I was going toward Pocatello. He described it as having as high, if not higher, LDS concentration as Utah. Great. He predicted I would have trouble finding rides out that way. He dropped me off at yet another truck stop, continuing the theme that would stay with me the rest of the way.

It was here in Mountain Home that I ALMOST hit hitchhiking's mother lode. A cross- country ride. I met a kid who was moving back to Canton, Ohio that day and had been looking for someone to ride along. He had no luck, so his mother flew out to Idaho to ride back with him. He was on the way to the airport to pick her up then. That was only slightly disappointing though, I was having a good day!

After again doing the non- spending tour of the truck stop, I went to the on- ramp again and through the familiar routine. This time I was there for about 30 minutes when ride #4 came along. One of the most interesting rides, and favorite people of the entire trip.

Jack picked me up at about 2:40, saying he was going to Twin Falls to pick up parts for his farm equipment and I could ride along. He was a farmer from Grand View who looked to be about 60- 65, and was VERY soft- spoken. Almost too soft! I could understand only about half of what he said at first, but he smiled when he said it, and had a great sense of humor. I settled in for what I figured would be a nice steady, albeit slow, ride to Twin Falls: he rarely topped 55 mph.

By now, we were in the true heat of the day. It was about 100, and now the temperature would begin to have its effect. Not on me, but Jack’s truck began to overheat. He pulled off at a rest stop to check the water and acknowledged that he had checked everything BUT the water before he left Grand View, and that there was NO coolant mixed with what water there was. The radiator was almost bone- dry, so he filled it up and we let it cool for 20- 30 minutes while we chatted and watched a bi- plane crop duster fly overhead. I was struck by odd feelings of nostalgia; this reminded me of my childhood for some reason, and I was growing very fond of this old coot. He had such a calm demeanor and handled everything that came along the same way. He just dealt with it, I believe I was taking mental notes, and respected that about him. I would have been closer to Rich’s end of things than Jack’s!

When we got back on the highway, we discovered that our overheating ordeal was just beginning. It got to where the truck just refused to go any further and he had to pull off to the shoulder to let it cool. This happened a few times; the truck would eventually start, and then go MAYBE 100 yards before it would stall. I was just fine with this. I had gone somewhere between 125 and 175 miles thus far, and was happy to be in the company of someone I enjoyed. At one point, when the truck died next to a small stream, I hopped over the barbed wire fence, climbed down and doused my head and bandana with the cool water. It felt incredible. There is nothing better than a well- placed river on a hot day. I remembered Rich and I thinking how great it would have been to be able to jump in one of the many streams we saw from the train, so I felt like I was making up for that missed opportunity.

This went on for quite awhile. Start- stop. Start- stop. Finally, we got to Jerome, which is a little town to the north of Twin Falls. Jack stopped at a gas station to let the truck cool, refill the radiator, and douse the engine block with water to assist the cooling. The sun was now much lower in the sky and we were finally getting some relief from the heat. About now happened one of the weirdest events of the trip, although I would not realize it at the time, at least not past the sense of a lost opportunity.

A minivan pulled in overheating. Inside were a mother and two kids, one of which looked to be 19 or 20. They seemed friendly, if a bit annoyed by their car’s issues. Through conversation, I had learned that they were going to Pocatello on their way back from Washington. The perfect chance to finish this stretch of Idaho in ONE day! However, I did not bother to ask for the ride. Why? They seemed friendly enough, had enough room . . . AND I had Jack standing right there as a hitcher’s reference! I just could not do it. I don’t know why— to this day. I should have. I would be reminded, starkly, in just a few days.

Jack’s truck eventually cooled enough and he had decided to go to Wal- Mart to grab coolant. I was quite happy with that since that meant I could grab some more cheap canned goods. I rode along, got my stuff, and we arranged where he would drop me off: a Flying J near the interstate and well north of the city.

Jack seemed sorry to end this little adventure, and I was too. He was a terrific man. He even seemed to feel bad that it had taken so long to get there, and wondered aloud what I would say about it in the journal. I told him I would say this: A genuinely nice man stopped, picked me up and we had a perfectly enjoyable afternoon getting to Twin Falls despite his truck overheating. It is telling about Jack that the afternoon was so enjoyable despite all of that; the comparison to Rich and his whining did not escape me! We finally got to the Flying J at something like 8:00, shook hands, and I again told him how much I had enjoyed the day. By now, I think the compliments were making him uncomfortable!

From the Jerome Flying J I had visions of catching a truck, so I sat on a bench out back where the drivers fueled and went inside. No luck with the ride, but I did find out from an employee that there was a staffing service in Jerome, SOS Staffing that was DESPERATE for English- speaking temp- help. That sounded appealing; the same way La Grande sounded appealing. I wrote down the directions and figured I would try to call them the next day. I also chatted up the restaurant manager discovering a place to sleep for the night... in a picnic area right next to the building out in the open, much like the place in Fruitland.

Another event of note: the stupid looking sunglasses that I had bought in Ft. Morgan finally died. They had been through a lot, so I gave them a decent burial... in an ashtray.

With all that settled, I went inside and began a massive update in my written journal. I probably spent 3-4 hours in the café writing and drinking the free coffee refills while being forced to listen to Fox News. It occurred to me at that point, when I began to not- so- quietly tell Sean Hannity what I thought of him, that I had watched next to NO TV since I left, and that my tolerance was now zero for the fabricated, pre- packaged selling of bullshit. I will mercifully spare you that rant. For now.

I headed out to my little nesting area, and on the way ran into the first fellow backpacker I had seen on the trip. I forget his name, but he was coming from the east, from the Rainbow Gathering at Medicine Bow in Wyoming. He told me a dramatic horror story about walking 25 miles through eastern Idaho completely unable to get ANYONE to stop, echoing what Corey had told me earlier. He had finally stumbled across a trucker at a rest area who had brought him, and his dog, to Twin Falls.

He told me to be sure that I got ALL THE WAY THROUGH TO AT LEAST POCATELLO! I heeded the warning and told him about the picnic area. He said he had gotten his second wind and wanted to keep going so we parted ways. I set up my humble little nest, put on some music and dozed off. I woke up in the middle of the night to... eliminate excess coffee... and to my surprise saw him and Norma Jean curled up in his sleeping bag nearby. I guess he didn’t get out of there. I never did talk to him again; he was gone before I got up.

7/8: Idaho

Rich and I got up and around at about 8:45, packed up, and walked across the on- ramp to get some coffee while he continued to remind me of the dog; he would metaphorically howl at each train whistle. Rich also resumed yesterday’s indecisiveness as we headed toward the library, again getting on my nerves but I was getting a little help from the coffee and the ideas/ possibilities floating around in my head.

The ideas from the day before were still with me, and I began to consider ways to earn some money while I was in La Grande. The possibilities seemed limited due to the small size of the town, but I thought I’d at least sniff around... a little.

I stopped into what I thought was a staffing place that turned out to be training for displaced workers; mostly loggers in this area I was told.

I then stopped at the ‘local’ radio station. This had been an idea that had been stuck in my brain since Ft. Morgan. I knew EXACTLY how it would go but I was curious to see if there were ANY stations left in America that actually had a person, inside, who could discuss something without first having to go through ‘corporate’; outside of “Santa Fe Skippy” of course.

I went inside and was greeted by the friendly receptionist, whom I’m sure was wondering what this dude in the backpack wanted. I explained to her what I was doing with the trip, that I was trying to figure out ways to make some money while on the road and that I was interested in doing some production and voice work while I was in town. I then asked her about their ownership situation, and she went into the typical diatribe about how they owned ‘several local stations in Eastern Oregon’. That phrase reeked of familiarity. I pressed on and asked if the owner actually lived in La Grande, since the sign outside said ‘local’. She conceded that the owner was actually based in Pendleton and was only in town a day or two a week. A- HA! I asked if there was even a Program Director: he too was mysteriously unavailable. I deduced from my experience, and her vagueness, that this station was likely programmed from Pendleton too.

Now I was really curious.

There was no other activity in the building, so I asked if the station was live or voice- tracked. Voice tracking means they record the ‘shows’ prior to their airing; sometimes days ahead of time and even occasionally from different cities. She answered that they have ‘live local news and sports every morning!”. HA! Now I knew. She was leery of disclosing the secret that the ‘live and local’ station definitely was NOT ‘live’ and probably wasn’t ‘local’! I pressed on and asked again if they were voice tracked, and she finally relented, admitting that all of their programming outside of the morning newscast is piped in by satellite. Probably Jones Networks out of Denver. Their ‘local’ station in La Grande probably consisted of nothing more than a sales staff and some equipment to feed the transmitter. The sales- piggies were probably out hocking commercials, which explained the lack of personnel. The receptionist was only there to answer phones, give the impression that there was actual ‘life’ to the station and, of course, in case anyone came in wanting to buy advertising. I just laughed. From there it was a game of cat and mouse, with me asking questions I knew she would not want to answer, but I decided to cut her some slack. It was not her fault. I gave her the link to my audio- webpage and left quite satisfied that everything I have ever said about my old business was correct. Radio is now truly obsolete.

*RANT ALERT!*

I feel bad for the good people who hang on hoping it gets better; like a man hoping his wife will recover from terminal cancer. The sales staff will soon enough be the only people working locally, still trying to convince businesses (that know better) that someone, ANYONE, is still listening to their canned, sterile, ‘product’, and that the listeners are stupid enough not to just ‘punch- out’ when the music stops, despite the fact that common sense and radio’s OWN studies say otherwise!

How do they expect you to listen to some generic, pre- packaged ‘product’ that has no REAL local angle, no immediacy, no interaction AND have to deal with the horrendous commercials screaming at you to buy another new car?!? Christ, you cannot even get traffic or weather information during a tornado warning anymore because there is NO ONE in the building! Google: Clear Channel’s Minot fiasco. I’ve asked radio ‘professionals’ that EXACT question, and have NEVER gotten a real answer! I was fed some pre- practiced pep- talk, or as is the case with my last gig, told I should ‘get on board’!

Seriously!

No. However, feel free to stay aboard the Titanic if you choose; I’ll take my chances with the sharks. No real solutions. No real innovations. Just recycled buzz phrases and sales pitches.
I’ve also asked “Why listen to this crap, when you can just get a satellite radio, or better yet plug in your Mp3 player and listen to what you want?” Christ, that’s what I did when I worked there!

I’ll tell you how they ‘expect’ that.

Ever see “American Beauty”? Annette Benning’s character, we’ll call her Vera, sells real estate and behind closed doors has to listen to motivational tapes and repeat Stuart Smiley mantras (I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, I WILL sell this house today!) in the mirror, brainwashing herself into believing that she’s doing something honorable and worthwhile, and that money will cure a dead soul.

Radio folk are the same. I can just see the sales staff being led by the owner or GM in some cult- like chant beginning their day trying to brainwash themselves into believing that they’re not merely whores, and ‘motivate’ themselves into believing that everything’s going to be all right when they “hit that goal”.

Sounds like something Heaven’s Gate would have done.

In fact, I have seen these cultist rally- sessions in real- life and no, not in Nuremberg. They call them ‘staff meetings’. I’m quite certain that a lot of these uber, almost disturbingly positive people- while at work- go home and kick the dog, smack the kid, and guzzle the Popov to try to restore some sense of peace & balance.

*END RANT*

Rich went ahead to the library so he wouldn’t have to wait, but I also wanted to rediscover what it felt like not to hear his incessant bitching. It was gooood.

I got to the library, checked in with the librarian to get a computer and find out how long I’d have. She said 30 minutes, but sort of with a wink. That reminded me of what I had hated about other places. Santa Fe, Cambria: The ‘Internet Nazis’ who kick you off after your 30 or 60 minutes... even if the place is empty.

I started updating the journal, uploading pictures, and sent a couple Couchsurf requests to Boise. I kept going... and going... and was never asked to leave. I was unsure as to when I would have internet again; I wanted to get as much done as I could. Rich had been online too, but finished up shortly after I’d gotten there. He resumed the ‘dog in a cage’ routine again... running to and fro... occasionally stopping by to chat, ask silly questions, and look over my shoulder; obviously annoyed that his annoyance had no effect on me.

In time, he had had enough. He said he was heading off to try to catch another train, and if that didn’t work he would then get in touch with some girl he’d dated at one time... who just happened to live in La Grande. I found that to be an odd coincidence. Like the 13 y/o who “gets laid over the summer”: “She’s from Niagara Falls, you wouldn’t know her”.

I didn’t care... carry on Wayward Son...

Unceremoniously that was it. We did the obligatory ‘keep in touch’ stuff, each knowing that would not happen. I half expected a repeat of the day before when he’d suddenly reappeared, but I’ve neither seen or heard from him since. The Lesson of Rich? Choose your travel partners carefully, AND be prepared to go your own way when they get to be too much. He was a decent guy, and in all honesty I got pretty lucky with him. He wasn’t ripping me off, breaking into houses, trying to shoplift etc. I actually felt comfortable with him around. We just had different ideas of how to travel, different goals, and definitely different ways of going about things. Moreover, he howled at trains. I hope he got to Telluride ok.

After about three hours, I left the library, got some coffee, and aimed myself back toward I-84, still pondering whether to stop into the McDonalds next to last- night’s nest to see about work, or just start hitching. I walked right past McDonalds, got MORE coffee, and planted myself at the on- ramp. I guess I was ready to leave the hospitality of La Grande behind me. I had no luck for about an hour, so I started walking toward the next exit and a truck stop I had learned was there. Just as I got to the top of the ramp, a pickup pulled over and I had my first ride.

Earl was going as far as North Powder, 20-40 miles up I-84. I thoroughly enjoyed this ride! He was a VERY pleasant guy, probably 65 or 70, who had spent his life driving Caterpillars until he tipped one over and had broken his hip & back. He was now involved in logging and drove perhaps the dustiest pickup I had ever seen.

Earl dropped me off at a tiny café/ general store in North Powder so I went inside to try Rich’s idea of canned food; buying it in small quantities to last a day or two and take advantage of carrying less water- weight while hitchhiking. Canned food is definitely cheaper. I grabbed a few cans of Pork & Beans, and Beef By- Product Stew and began chatting up a guy who was standing in line and was interested in my backpack. As I went out the door, another guy who had overheard the conversation asked where I was going, and then offered me a ride to Ontario, 80 miles up the road and on the Idaho border. I was thrilled and thought how much easier this was without Rich!

Jordan Dimick was a bee farmer; the first I’d ever met. It was a kind of family business, and he had a wonderful pride in that family and its place in Oregon history. I-84 roughly follows the Oregon Trail, which I hadn’t realized until very recently. That greatly appealed to my sense of history, and so did his numerous tidbits of trivia about the old trail. He also told me an interesting story about how his great- grandfather was a sheriff and had thwarted the last attempted train robbery in the West. Another entirely enjoyable ride that I thought ended too soon. He had offered to take me to the first exit across the Idaho border, but I asked him to drop me at the last Ontario exit, so I could actually walk across the Snake River and get my silly picture.

There happened to be a truck stop, so I got an Idaho map, replaced my little ear- buds that were falling apart, then sat down in the grass out by the road to re- pack and prepare for my walk across The Snake. An interesting mullet- bound character sheepishly walked up to me and asked if I was from around there. I thought that was a stupid question, with me sitting in the grass next to a backpack, so I said laughingly “Does it LOOK like it?” assuming he was panhandling. He slinked into the truck stop, and I continued what I was doing. By the time he would come back out toward the road, looking quite disoriented, I was feeling like an ass. I hollered at him to come over and asked what he was looking for.

Walt told me he’d just gotten out of prison and all he was given was a bus ticket to Albuquerque... they’d sent all the money he went in with to his Parole Officer as “insurance that he’d show up”. So, here was a guy who’d just paid his “debt to society”, left broke and trying to find a way to get some food. Not the first time I have heard this story. I immediately remembered the person in La Grande unexpectedly handing me $5. While I could not spare the money, I had food. I dug out a can of Pork & Beans (later to be to the chagrin of his fellow Greyhounders!) and let him have at it.

It turns out that Walt had spent three years in prison for running drugs from Arizona to Oregon. He was up front about it, so I said “So, you’re not one of the ‘I didn’t do it’ guys then?” He said, “Oh hell no. Guilty as hell.”

I love honesty.

He told me about the bust and that the cops had seized $20,000 in cash and a cache of guns in the process. He then told me how NONE of the guns and only $600 made it into the arrest report! Beneficial for him, no doubt. But it makes one wonder where all that money goes, AND the guns! To protect and serve, eh? The chat ended with me wishing him luck and wishing I had had some money to spare. He seemed like a very decent person in a trip filled with very decent people.

I got back on I-84 and to the mile walk toward the Snake River, and out of Oregon. The bridge spanning The Snake was having construction work done, and was down to one lane... with a shoulder that was about 18- 24" wide. That was a hairy crossing. In retrospect, I could have walked unmolested through the construction itself, but didn’t realize that until it was too late. After what seemed like an hour, and 1000 car horns angrily letting me know what they thought of my presence, I got to the other side. Idaho. I got my silly picture, and felt damn good about the fact that I had finally walked into another state.

I began to think about how much I loved being in Oregon, and there was a twinge of regret that I had only spent a week there. The people were just as incredible as the landscape and in the same way that California’s natural beauty had exceeded all expectations; EVERYTHING in Oregon seemed to do the same. I don’t think I’ve seen the last of it.

Idaho, eh?

I had NO idea what to expect. The state intrigued me, but had mostly been just a stretch of land that bordered Oregon. I kept an open mind, but actually felt sorry for any state that had to follow the one I had just left. I walked up a bit, getting some pictures of the now- setting sun, then sat down and “enjoyed” a can of Pork & Beans now realizing that a little variety in diet... if it can be called that... was nice!

Since the sun was setting and I had no urge to walk I-84 at night, I began to spy places to nest. There was a closed rest- area right next to me, but when I got to the other side; I was shocked to see that there was a HOUSE next to it, complete with barking dog and curious resident. Who the HELL lives next to a rest area ON the interstate! I decided not to ask and moved on.

As it got darker, I began to try hitching again, to no avail. After a mile or two, I saw the telltale lights of a gas station on the horizon, which probably would have a decent place to bed down. I figured I would try to get there and kept going... hoping for the ride that never came. I began to wonder if the exit would EVER get there, and was getting pretty tired. This was where Jordan had offered to take me.

The exit did eventually come of course, and I staggered into a Shell/ A & W combo that was next to an RV park. I decided to find a place to sleep near there, hiding from the RV-ers. I wanted to just collapse, but went inside to use the restroom to clean up a bit, and to try the “write off” trick. Some places, when they have food that they don’t sell... usually hot dogs etc. ... will throw the stuff out at a certain time. If you are there, they will sometimes let you have it rather than just waste it. Worked like a charm... here. I loaded up on corn dogs, mozzarella sticks, and tornadoes, said thanks and sat down to feast.

At the counter chatting with the girl working the register, was an older biker- type guy who obviously LOVED to talk! He told me that I should abandon my original plan to stealth camp behind the RV Park and just sleep in the grass in front of it and right behind the store; no one would say a thing. I said I would give it a look and the guy proceeded to join me at my table.

He was 69 years old and REALLY LOVED to talk! While I was eating, he told me all about his life. His 11 kids. Indian heritage. Two stints in different branches of the military. He reminded me in some ways of Pat; still not sure why. It was the perfect dinner conversation because I did not have to say a thing!

Eventually my new friend left, and I walked out back to see my accommodations. I picked a spot behind a rather large metal box that contained what I envisioned to be electrical things of some sort. It was actually perfect. It was 2-3 ft. high, and about 7 ft. long thus hiding me, a little, from people driving thru– although I cared little about that at this point! What a difference from Ft. Morgan and Cambria I thought to myself! There were also truckers pulling off the interstate to sleep for the night, so that made me a bit more comfortable. I figured no one looking to cause me trouble would with a lot full of truck drivers. Truckers are my friends.

The weather had been in the mid/ upper 80's so I didn’t even bother with the sleeping bag, although I should have. It got chilly, but I REALLY did not want to re- pack it in the morning! Still wound up sleeping quite nicely- between shivers.