10/12-31: Filling Tanks & Adjusting Sails

Early- mid October saw a bizarre repeat of what happened after I returned home in 2008, and almost to the day. Once the house-sitting was done, I almost immediately went into a funk; just as last year I had done the same after finishing my initial work with Jack. I didn't realize it until reading back through my journal and seeing that if I were to write that night I would scribble nearly the exact same words... exactly a year later! I've come to greatly enjoy these moments when I sincerely have no choice other than to laugh at myself. They seem to be on the rise!

As the intense, unpleasant scrutiny of myself, and others, continued. I began questioning people's ability and/ or willingness to see things as they really are, and a tendency to apply their own "personal narratives" to the experiences in their lives, rather than letting truth be the compass: "See things as they are, not as you would like them to be" is such a simple concept, yet at the same time I know first-hand how difficult it is to adhere to; how easy it is to hide in and project our own interpretation from our own mind. Some believe it's impossible altogether to witness things accurately, saying, "We don't see things as they are, we see things as we are." (Anais Nin or the Talmud) Many hippies have gleefully latched on to this distorted White Flag and embraced the idea of relativism with the loud declaration: "My Reality." Rather than looking further inward to identify and purge their prejudices and what's skewing their perception of reality, they've taken the route of the helpless alcoholic who's decided that, since he's been told he's "diseased," he has no choice other than to drink every day. Hey, that absconding of responsibility is "his reality," right? In retrospect, this escapism was the first Progressive Red Flag that has long-since escalated into a genuine, open disdain for escapist rhetoric, and further- how agenda has quietly hitched its wagon to the ideological horse. Somehow, people have convinced these children that self-lobotomization is the answer; that whatever they choose to "believe" is in fact their reality, encouraging a legitimization of self-delusion by teaching egoistic, protective escapism rather than an unattached commitment to truth. It manages to lend transparent credibility to the practice of placing point-of-view above truth. I have a quiet, short-fused, internally turbulent reaction to these hippies, even though we inevitably seem to travel similar paths. With that being said, ultimately the mirror had to be turned, and it was. I spent a good part of October and early November harshly questioning rather I inadvertently had skewed my perception of these experiences, and the ideas I pursue as a result, ultimately finding myself hyper-sensitive to indications that either Chris or I were diluted. The answers I came up with, for myself at least, were quite quick, obvious and for once...simple. But, they needed to be asked for my own sake.

**Rant Alert**
Through this patience- testing process, I kept hearing Andre's, "Words are important!" and subsequently noticed an increase in my intolerance for "mystic bullshit." Fancy rhetoric attempting to espouse or defend a "spiritual" idea, but failing miserably once the sentences are parsed; when the bullshit's shoveled to the side, there's often nothing left! It's a vacuum wrapped in verbosity!

It's like trying to debate that the sky is pink instead of blue. Relativists will say, "Sometimes it is! And, what if I'm colorblind? That's MY reality! Who are YOU to say?" My answer? Your internal defect, and unwillingness to acknowledge, address and compensate for it, does NOT change the language we've all agreed upon; the proper description of the general color of the sky is: FUCKING BLUE!

This is that asinine Every Kid Gets a Trophy at work, only now it's Every Kid Gets a Reality. "No Moonbeam, you're not "wrong!" You're NEVER wrong, and you NEVER lose... if you TRY! If you think the sky is fuchsia, it's fuchsia! That's your reality!"

I can't adequately express to you how that mentality pisses me off, but allow me to try to convey it to Moonbeam. Hey Moonbeam, sometimes you ARE wrong, sometimes you REALLY DO LOSE; some people REALLY are flawed. See, this is the harsh law of Nature and it even applies to you, precious Moonbeam. As you can see on display all around you every day, we are neither created, nor treated, equally, and though it's plainly neither pleasant nor fair, no amount of politically correct, voodoo-linguistics will change the REALITY of NATURE'S LAW. Progressives are the people who universally tout a special "love & appreciation" for nature, so for them to ignore Her most basic law? Well, the hypocrisies are astounding! Now, precious Moonbeam- tell your parents I said to smoke a joint then feel free to fuck off and quit wasting my time. Maybe I'll see you at Burning Man in a few years.
**End Rant** brought to you by Starbucks, proudly serving pretentious dickheads (and the rest of you) since 1971!

Once that process was undertaken, the funk lifted. I originally had come to the conclusion that the return to Santa Fe was likely a mistake; that I should have continued on toward California on foot before returning home. After purchasing ANOTHER phone to replace the one damaged sleeping outside at Wendie's, I had barely broke-even after the bus ticket, and was now forced to go into fund-raising mode to get back out there this winter.

I decided on a whim to re-list the injured Saturn on Craigslist, at a reduced price, to see if anyone with extra cash or mechanical aptitude would be interested in buying and fixing it themselves. I was quite surprised when the phone started to ring, and in a matter of a few days had sold it to a man in Albuquerque. To clarify, I was VERY up-front about the mechanical issues, which oddly had seemed to vanish when I started and drove it for the first time in six-months. I even offered to let him leave it in the parking lot until he could have it looked at here in Santa Fe. He refused, opting instead to drive it 60-miles down the interstate to Albuquerque. I sold the car on the Saturday the 17th, and on Tuesday the 20th I received a call telling me that the entire transmission casing had dropped while he was driving it around. He wasn't upset, but did share that he estimated it would cost over $2,000 to have the tranny replaced. I reminded him that he knew the car was broken when he bought it, and that I HAD offered to let it sit here until it was able to be fixed, and he'd refused. I believe he was meekly fishing for a refund after realizing he had probably fucked himself treating it as a fully-functioning vehicle without first having it looked at! That... was not happening. That... was why he got the car so cheap in the first place. I... was now thrilled to be rid of that car.

With the Saturn sold, I learned the same day that I was in-line for another week's house-sitting. Katie had to return to California, and was happy with the way things had gone in September. With that, I had just quadrupled my money in about in hour. This was quite a good Saturday, and the decision to return home suddenly looked quite astute. Shalain and I drove to Albuquerque's REI then next day where I finally got the backpack I wanted. It was costly, but a good investment. Thanks to Lynette and Dave, I would never have to buy boots again, and now with this Osprey (Kermit?), I would never have to buy another backpack... or I could return it for a cheaper one if I was in a real fix. Call me the money masseuse.

The second week at Katie's was better than the first in most ways. The dogs remembered and welcomed me with open paws and I managed to get a good amount of writing done, most of it this time in my written journal, coming to a few hard-fought conclusions. After this summer, things had begun to feel less like recess; it appeared to me that my metaphorical "play time" had ended and things were likely to change; already were if fact. Leslie and I had been in regular contact since I had returned, and we began to bounce around more ideas for the end of November, when she took her winter break at DePaul. I chatted regularly with Chris, who was on his way from Seattle to Massachusetts to see his dad and setting Halloween-goal to get there hitching... via San Francisco. Following this was his bizarre trip to England to see another ex-girlfriend, and from there it was anyone's guess for both of us. We lightly discussed Mexico and South America again, and then- to my surprise- Florida. The idea of taking Dave's suggestion temporarily took root, with the two of us concocting a grandiose plan to go to the Atlantic Coast of Florida and trying to find a "live-aboard" situation where we could work in exchange for becoming certified as scuba divers. Then, we could presumably march into Mexico like Cortes and find work as scuba instructors! It's not as far-fetched as it may seem; apparently Dave had actually done the live-aboard part. I ran the idea past Leslie, and for a few days, visions of the three of us invading Florida danced through my head... until I realized that it felt ALOT like the kayak idea. And... that I had really hated Florida when I lived there! Why was I going there again? To maybe learn scuba diving? Couldn't I get certified easier in, say... Albuquerque? Why, yes I could! No, I was looking for adventure to compensate for a lack of inspiration; a destination. Abort!

Leslie and Chris independently came to the same general conclusion for different reasons, and the conversation shifted from traveling to Florida to me possibly just traveling to Chicago for a visit, then perhaps the southwest if Leslie still wanted to come out n' play. Arizona & California's deserts appeal much more to me in the winter than Florida, believe it or not. Nothing was decided, however, and as Halloween came and went, I was no closer to knowing what the rest of the winter held than when I arrived. I just knew I was in the right place at the right time. Sometimes, that's all a guy can ask!

10/11: Santa Fe- Pondering Camels

"It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God" (Matthew 19:24)

Chris and I had a wonderful conversation in Michigan on June 1st about evil, and I offered that perhaps greed and power lust are its fundamental root. Money is inanimate , and so cannot itself be "evil." However, greed is wealth's (Mammon's) engine, and power it's club. The club's damage is NOT limited to its victims; those who swing it, regardless of the rationale and justification, are damaged even if the ego believes otherwise! The Camel Quote has become a favorite. To his credit, Andre was by far the most "aware" of the affluent people I have associated, which isn't saying much. But, with a little reflection, I began to see why the above quotation, attributed to Jesus, is so powerful in its hostility toward wealth. I firmly believe that, on both a micro and macro level, wealth and enlightenment are diametrically opposed. The wealthy can argue and rationalize if they like. This fact will not change.

After I returned home from house-sitting, spurred on by the conversations with Chris in Port Townsend and the writing I had done at Katie's, I decided to actually open my unused Bible to see what the "presented version" of Jesus himself had to say about it. Using the familiar quote above as a starting point in Matthew, I expected a whole lot of ambiguity and interpretable "parable" to be the result based on the typical rhetoric I have hear endlessly emanating from "Christians." What I found literally astounded me. As I've said before, I'm (intentionally) no Biblical scholar, but dammit I CAN read! Just a few of innumerable examples; Jesus was far from "ambiguous" when it came to wealth:

-"Go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor... and come and follow me." Matthew19:21

-"No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon." Matthew 6:24

-"For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?" Matthew 16:26

-"But woe to you who are rich, for you are receiving your comfort in full." Luke 6:24

And, He seemed to despise hypocrites:

-"Beware of practicing your righteousness before men to be noticed by them; otherwise you have no reward with your Father who is in heaven." Matthew 6:1

-"So when you give to the poor, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be honored by men. Truly I say to you, they have their reward in full." Matthew 6:2

Like Dennis, Andre was inadvertently providing something priceless in his own way: a naked glimpse at the struggle wealth creates for a man on a spiritual quest. At some level, he deserves a degree pity for his financial success. In this culture, it's unheard of to term of wealth as an "anchor," but that's the potential and likely spiritual sacrifice for a life of comfort, security, and power. It usually comes standard with a closed, sheltered existence barren of true experience & struggle needed for genuine empathy, compassion, and concern for others, as demonstrated perfectly by the rationalistic "debt is a state of mind" comment.

I believe I just answered my own earlier question regarding why it requires the sudden impending threat of mortality for many, particularly the affluent, to begin to take an interest in something beyond a materialism. It's simple: Why the hell would they? When a man has few "real" friends, is surrounded by those driven by self-interest, and an ego addicted to Mammon's Power, why would he desire to reflect inward? Without critical thought or conversation, and when surrounded by "yes men," it's easy to convince ourselves of whatever narrative we choose to author! It's a self-delusion that reminds me of Huxley's Soma from Brave New World; an opiate that seems to numb the human core and intellect in all of us. We've all been programmed to function on a consumerist, egoistic plane and they have succeeded, perhaps without having been taught the intellectual and emotional tools to truly empathize. It's a hard-sell to tell an externalized "successful" man to give up his king sized bed in favor of a futon! And, even for those who have internalized due to an inkling that "something's wrong," there's another foreboding quote strewn throughout Matthew: "Many are called. Few are chosen." I don't believe these words are necessarily meant to be taken literally, but it doesn't take much talent for abstraction to see the implication. When you arrive at this point, I believe "The Fates" are an egoistic, escapist mirage. Free will, ego, and intellect come into play when, and long after, you're "called." I believe that your own capacity, and more importantly decision to look internally with clear-eyes and then your own chosen, ensuing actions determine rather or not you're ultimately "chosen," however you choose to define it. I have a very different concepts of "called" and "chosen" than Christians of course, but I've come to highly suspect that the "language" used is irrelevant and inadequate. When you think about the barriers, for the wealthy, the path to self-actualization seems nearly impassible and perhaps even cruelly unfair.

Obviously, I believe Andre is handicapped by his wealth, ego, and the bubble in which he lives. From the beginning of my stay at Andre's, I was keenly aware of the lair I inhabited, despite the fact I was greatly enjoying the benefits! Periodically, I would find myself observing how Andre interacted with people, and more importantly vice versa, looking for behavioral patterns. Several times, I witnessed people seemingly afraid to deal with him honestly, obviously afraid to anger him. Toward the end of our stay, there was even adolescent talk claiming someone close was "just using him." And, of course Andre's protective of what he has; everyone wants it! This could lead a person to believe they are in a position to judge another's "worthiness," or to believe they know what's "best" for another. I can understand that. However, wealth alone does not grant one the power to superficially judge with generalizations, and when judgment and power turn to control- as they ultimately must- that person is likely doomed.

I also believe Andre, even with his noble and (I believe) genuine ideas, still has an epic battle ahead of him. In the end, he's inadvertently stacked powerful cards against himself and, even though it's sacrilege in the "Age of Hope," I'm sadly pessimistic. If he's committed to succeeding, and I believe he is, he has in my opinion failed to see the obvious: That despite his best rhetoric and intentions, his identity is still completely anchored to his ego & assets. His ability to "work magic" is, literally, his ability to write a check. His ability to "be of maximum benefit" is tethered to his ability to write a check AND pointedly wrapped tightly within his ego. I find it ironic that rather than envy him, I PITY Andre. Not because of the spider bite or his uncertain future, but because I ask myself this: "If all of Andre's money were to vaporize tomorrow, who would he be? Who would he see himself as if he were unable to work Monetary Magic? How many "friends" would still be there?" Of course, this is a single perspective, and I'm sure that this last question will result in some other folks I met in Portland wondering, "Is that asshole talking about ME?!?!?" Please relax, and realize I am not interested in issuing petty judgment. But, I would counter that it may be useful to ask yourself, "Am I one of the circling vultures?"

In the event you've assumed this is arm-chair psychological conjecture, I know a bit about a ravaged "external identity." When the radio show ended in 2002, and I was no longer Todd "Thompson," most of my "friends" vanished like a fart in the wind leaving me sitting naked asking, "Why?" The answer was clear: the relationships I had built were mostly based on the vocational "radio persona" I had fabricated, and I was now forced to ask, "Now that I'm not Todd Thompson, who the fuck am I?" If you have to ask, then have trouble coming up with answers, you have a problem! The ones who remained unchanged remain treasured friends, and I can count them on one hand. These are not easy questions to ask, are even harder to answer, and impossible to investigate without a commitment to truth; that Inner Dialogue Andre has admitted so much trouble with. Andre, despite his wonderful complexities, is currently struggling as a confused personification of his wealth, with little clue of how to actually escape it. How to grow, free from the anchor.

The very first quote above also ties nicely to the question of Chris McCandless and what I believe was his Poverty Field Trip. Friar Chris has often taken exception to my McCandless critique because he closely identifies with McCandless's background, and has struggled with my indictment, often replying, "What's a rich kid supposed to do? Just give up?" My verbal answer had always been that I honestly don't know. Do what you can, and hope for the best. Subconsciously, however, there's always been a faint smell of hypocrisy to even asking that question, as though wealth is somehow entwined into your DNA and inseparable from your existence. I've always suspected that the philosophical answer was simplistic, and as stated above, would sound something like "Get the fuck rid of it or quit touting your fraudulent Pauper Papers."

Of course that IS simplistic, and very few of us are prepared to sell all of our worldly possessions and sacrifice the security they provide! And, I honestly see nothing wrong with openly half-assing it, or openly doing nothing! To my knowledge, none of us are Saints nor aspiring to be. However, my blood pressure tends to rise when people are portrayed, or prop themselves as something they're not. Someone please tell Mr. Penn, Mr. Krakour, and the rest of the McCandless Cultists that Chris McCandless burned his money knowing he was a phone call away from a "line of credit" if he ever decided to bless his parents with his forgiveness. Rather he used it or not is immaterial; he knew it was there. To me, the shallow image of renouncing wealth, while never intending to do so, is condescending and nicely articulated by:

-"Whenever you fast, do not put on a gloomy face as the hypocrites do, for they neglect their appearance so that they will be noticed by men when they are fasting. Truly I say to you, they have their reward in full." Matthew 6:16

Again, it takes abstract thought to comprehend that "gloomy face" can mean many different things, from countenance down to clothing and hygiene. If you're cleverly clinging the literal interpretation and employing it's companion rationalization, that could indicate something!

More often than not, I don't believe people use rationalization on a conscious level; I don't think they sit in their chairs at night creating clever, fictitious narratives to intentionally act as a comfortable, mental teet. I believe it's subconscious because, as The Sage pointed out later, it's challenging for nearly everyone to confront difficult things residing within themselves. That observation cut to the heart of my internal, "I feel like a dick" discomfort. I know full well how difficult it is, and I am not playing the role of the Encouraging Sympathetic Voice because from my experience I believe it's counterproductive. This simple train-of-thought demanded an investigation as to my evolving purpose; one long overdue.

It's answer was quite simple, and again, reinforced surprisingly from the Bible in quite an arrogant way! Somewhere, I seem to have successfully purged the need for personal approval, and no longer consider myself the protagonist in this presentation, therefore rather you "like" the messenger doesn't matter. I'm not trying to sell myself because, I don't matter much... and that's good! Besides, and here's the arrogant part, as I read thru Matthew, it became quite obvious that Jesus himself was sort of a... dick! His tone was that of a man obviously annoyed with the metaphorical blindness of people, intolerant of their rationale and hypocrisies, and I could completely identify with the man who entered the temple and violently overthrew the moneychangers table. Contrary to many descriptions of the "Price of Peace," tact and politeness seemed of little consequence to Him, even saying, "Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword." Perhaps that "sword" is to cut off the fat of doctrine, dogma, and self-deception. And, if blunt honesty is good enough for the Jeebus... it's good enough for me!

Overall, the impression that I got from my little mini-excursion into a small part of the Bible was that, if true, you Christians are in a whole lotta trouble when your Messiah returns! I repeatedly (and to Shalain's chagrin) asked, "Have Christians even read this fucking thing? Or, do they simply rely on someone else to tell them what's inside AND allow them to manipulate what it means? Ambiguity MY ASS!" I found very little resemblance between what little I managed to read, and the acts of Jesus Inc. I have 100 scripture examples I could share, but I'll spare you and close by simply saying that I've come to believe that the greatest blasphemy on Earth is that perpetrated by organized religion and what it and its followers have done to the concept of God. I would stand tall and say that to Yahweh's face, quite certain that he's agree.

How about you?

9/22-10/9: Santa Fe- "Unpacking"

After a quiet day at home on Tuesday, the house-sitting gig started Wednesday amid wild anticipation of spending the entire week on the computer or buried in my notebooks writing for hours on end. I knew damn well that I had much to process, and as always upon initially returning home, felt highly motivated to get it done immediately in supposed marathon sessions. But, as usual, it didn't quite happen that way. Rather than a narrative, the writing promptly displayed a tendency to create more questions; deeper layers than I had originally assumed were there. That's always a good sign for me personally, but not always pleasant. Especially when many of the hardest new questions revolve around... me.

As I started to get near the heart of Andre's story, I noticed an intense feeling of personal wariness, especially about that Sunday, 9/13. The apprehension's intensity was quite rare, but I understood that his was no ordinary story and I was forced by its content to take a microscopic look at both my own insights and, more painfully, who I have become over the last year and where I was going. I had expected the simple moral question about how much detail to share, but the demand for self-analysis was something that was unexpectedly bitch-slapping me at the same time! If I was going to offer acute criticism of others, I was going to be providing it to myself... like it or not. A handy, oft-inconvenient tool I've acquired somewhere.

As I started to puke into the computer and make connections to both past events and those that followed in Port Townsend, an interesting contrast developed; something that would ultimately lay the very foundation for the immediate future. Despite the persistent questions, the words flowed; again a good sign. Nothing was forced or contrived and after questioning, challenging, and examining my insights it was obvious that they were solid- if not pleasant. They themselves then began spawning other multi-layered ideas. Yet, the potentially toxic, uncomfortable nature of these observations set off warning signals through my entire psyche. Was this just my ego going nuts? I began seeking out other opinions and through conversations with Shalain, Chris and The Sage, my extensive vocabulary again went on display as I described these intense, nagging emotions as "feeling like a dick," even though I felt like I was dead-on, even after psychologically beating the Hell out of myself and beginning the process of asking myself "who the hell I thought I was" writing these things. It was then that I came to realize that I'd had the sense that "I" wasn't writing these things. It was Stream of Consciousness- despite of myself! More than once, I (again) thought back to Randleman, and Pastor Snake... which REALLY set off ego-alarms! Seeing this was encouraging of course, but created more turmoil than it relieved.

The Sage suggested something that I had considered a few times: keeping two journals. One: the run-of-the-mill, fluffy "travel journal" variety. Something easier to comprehend, accept, and escape within (my description). The Second: one presumably only written that would contain my actual thoughts... therefore not causing any immediate discomfort to the protagonist. I seriously considered it... but not for long, as I slowly came to realize that the self-doubt wasn't internally based. It was the "critic's" voice; the self- censor voicing the imagined criticism of others. Furthermore, as Shalain astutely and repeatedly pointed out, to "edit for comfort" would be selling out; doing the very thing that I swore not to do. Reading these passages is voluntary after all, and the notion of producing shallow "bathroom fodder," as Chris puts it, is repugnant. No, this is by its nature occasionally unpleasant and very difficult. It's the "hard" that makes it worthwhile, even though it's sometimes unflattering, even to myself. I knew coming in that it would periodically be difficult, but I HAVE made myself accountable by having the courage to present it for consumption. It seems cowardly (and suspicious) to consider yourself a man-of-purpose then hide in your journal; the foundation of critical thought is to test ideas by allowing them to stand up to scrutiny! To cower would be something I wouldn't be able to tolerate, and that I even considered it made me question my own motives and presented the entrance to yet another powerful investigation: the difference between being "clever" and being right, which can lead to the egoistic practice of protecting a point-of-view through rationalization. Later in October, this directly led to my humble, uncomfortable Don Quixote revelation (stay tuned... if you dare!). Good, organic stuff!

With the end of the house-sitting gig came the end of September. As October began and I returned home, my "internal motives" question persisted but I decided to push forward and allow people to react however they chose. Thinking back over the summer, I reflected on how I had likely severed the pathetic "relationship" with my own father and two of my sisters... through simple honesty. Considering that The Hens had chosen to "de-friended" me on Facebook, choosing their traditional method of conflict resolution, avoidance, it suddenly seemed absurd to offer this blatantly self-interest-driven courtesy to Andre; something I had denied much more significant people!

There was much more to come as I contemplated my time with Andre in Portland. As I finally wrote up The Vanity Plate, Now What?, and Navigating the Rubicon, more agitation and an accompanying flood of ideas that was the byproduct. Surprisingly, much if centered around, of all things, The Bible...

9/19-21: Portland, San Diego, Santa Fe

The ferry ride to Seattle was surreal. When I called Shalain and gave the all-clear to purchase the ticket, it finally hit me that this intense phase had ended, and it a couple days I'd be back in familiar surroundings, being mauled by my cats. Nagging regrets lingered, but I was OK with it. I was mentally spent, needed a break, and would see some interesting (and new) parts of the country on the way.

Wendie's predictions were in fact accurate. I got to see some of the city, albeit from the backseat of a cab, and was surprised at how much I actually liked it, reminding me a little of both San Francisco and Denver. The $8 cab got me to Seattle's shithole Greyhound terminal with 45-minutes to spare, and before I knew it I was nestling into a window seat on a nearly abandoned 1:15 bus and riding right back down I-5 toward Portland. I had honestly hoped that I would meet some interesting people, but all that was offered was another backpacker... with a demeanor that made me want to beat him. Rather than petty violence, I settled for my Mp3 player. Following stops in Tacoma and Olympia, I found myself back in Portland for a 90-minute service layover.

Portland felt much different from this vantage point! As I crossed the Willamette into the western section of downtown, I gazed at the river and laughed out loud at the realization that only a week ago, I was boating beneath this same bridge with Andre. Now, I was re-entering the city less a conquering vagabond- via the least glamorous mode of travel I could think of other than the back of a patrol car! It was quite odd! Despite my time there, this was the first I'd seen of the bus station, and was rather impressed: it was the Taj Mahal compared to Seattle! Clean. Modern. Didn't smell like pee. I considered calling some of my new friends while I was there, but it felt like overkill. What was we going to do with an hour? I settled for a short walk, a pack of cigarettes, and putting a charge on my phone. Leaving Portland on I-5 south took me within sight of the Oregon Yacht Club, and Andre's house. I hopped across the aisle to take one last look at the floating home, the Master Craft, and the spot that had held so much intensity the previous week. Believe it or not, it was more nostalgic than August when I retraced the route I had traveled in Idaho more than a year ago.

The sun sinks early out west, and soon enough I was sleeping the rest of the birthday away. Aside from a quick stop in Eugene, the rest of the night... and most of the trip to LA... was the standard Greyhound experience. We passed into California and I remember hearing an announcement for Redding but didn't bother to open my eyes, let alone get off the bus. Sacramento was my first transfer, early Sunday morning, and being spoiled by the empty vessel ended abruptly with this over packed Los Angeles express!

Central California is nothing to fawn over, however once you get near LA and begin crossing the mountains, it becomes quite gorgeous. The western side of the California mountains (the areas that will be swallowed by the Pacific) have always exceeded my curiously low expectations... with the exception of the Los Angeles cesspool. As we passed through Hollywood, I began to see familiar, iconic sights and signs... like the Capitol Records building and Melrose Place. Now, that's some culture!

The 3-hour LA layover was the part of this particular bus trip I was dreading! The last time I bused through LA was when I was 14. We had all of our luggage stolen from the downtown terminal during the layover. I naturally assumed (since it was Greyhound) that little had changed and we were headed back there. I was pleased when we bypassed downtown altogether and pulled into what can only be described as a "compound" on the south side of the city. The terminal is the most secure I have EVER seen, complete with cameras, fencing, razor wire, automated bus gates, and a security checkpoint that is closer to airports than Greyhound... which generally has NO security whatsoever. The LA station was quite nice after all!

The highlight of the ride same in San Diego and was a nice elixir for the mental upset I had experienced about ending this early. I finally got to meet my friend Amber. I had called after leaving LA, told her my bus was stopping for a short time, and that if she was free it would be great if she stopped in to the bus station so we could finally meet face-to-face. Amber happened to be downtown having dinner, and walked in shortly after the bus arrived. It was nice to see an actual face, and we quickly discussed possible, theoretical travel ideas down the road. I was curious to see if the vibe was the same in person as it had been via Couchsurfing and email. Indeed it was, and the possibilities of someday traveling with her seemed encouraging. San Diego and I seemed to agree with each other. It was one of the last cities that I had never seen, and wanted to. Although I didn't get a chance to explore, I liked what I saw and want to return... soon!

Sunday ended on an interesting note in Calexico, California which, as you can no doubt guess by the name, is ON the Mexican border. I assumed we would get within a mile or two, but the stop was literally within sight and a stone's throw of the checkpoint. Looking for ways to entertain myself, I took a small amount of joy in that I had essentially gone ocean-to-ocean and border-to-border since April. This little side trip was also practical & useful because it was quite close to the Salton Sea, Niland, CA... and Slab City. Chris and I have discussed The Slabs numerous times as a possible joint-destination over the winter and this gave me a chance to see the landscape first hand for the first time. I was also privy to numerous Border Patrol ID checks. Along I-8 and I-10 close to the border, Border Patrol will stop the bus, come aboard, and demand immigration papers/ ID. They also pull random luggage from beneath the bus and let their dogs go to work. In addition, the highway was blanketed with Border Patrol SUVs shining spotlights into the desert hunting illegals. It was a bizarre experience, but in retrospect should have been expected.

Soon after Tucson finally came New Mexico, and Las Cruces for my final transfer and the last 200-miles up I-25 to Albuquerque. I slept the entire way, but only after learning my father was nearby in Alamagordo on vacation with his RV. I found it richly ironic that someone I had never met before would meet up with me (Amber), but my own father wasn't approachable. It was a quick, bitter realization, but an important one. I believe that book finally closed for good when I came up with a new moniker for him: Ward. As in Cleaver. Daddy of the Year!

From Albuquerque, I caught the New Mexico Rail Runner commuter train for the last 60+ miles to Santa Fe. This was the first time I had ridden it and highly recommend it to anyone traveling from Albuquerque to Santa Fe. Greyhound had appeared to eliminate their stop in Santa Fe, but I was happy to wait the extra hour to take the train! We later discovered that the bus still stops here, but there are no schedules listed on their website. That's fine, maybe having to take the train to Albuquerque will keep me off Greyhound and out of Denver?

I finally arrived home at around 6:30pm on Monday, 52-hours and a world away from Seattle. What happens next was anyone's guess but along with quiet, yet frantic decompression, the preparation began almost immediately.

9/19: Turning 29... Again

When Chris and I finally fell asleep late Friday night, the weather was clear with a beautiful star-filled sky. I had grown used to the aridity of Idaho and eastern Oregon, and apparently forgotten how quickly weather changes on the coast, particularly Oregon and Washington. When I awoke on my birthday, Mother Nature immediately reminded me, with a soggy, frustrating "gift." I had fallen asleep with the waterproof, external zipper wide open. Because I had only closed the bivy's bug netting to enjoy the night air, when it began raining the inside commenced collecting water. In a fog of sleep and haze of laziness, I semi-consciously pulled the goretex forward without sealing it, and went back to sleep. The old college try would not quite cut it, however, and when I awoke around 6:30 I found my phone, sleeping bag, and camera lying in a puddle! My camera's waterproof, thank God, but the sleeping bag was about to be stashed in the backpack for 2-solid days on the bus. Yay, mildew! And, the phone... yes, the damn phone again... was not working. This had a familiar feel to it! Happy 29th birthday again, Todd! We're off to a fantabulous start!

Cursing the memory of Bobby's pool, I deduced that the battery had either gone dead or the phone was... phucked. To compound matters, I was the first one awake and, unsure if Wendie & Daniel were up, was afraid to open the noisy garage door- behind which, the rest of my belongings... including the charger and spare battery ... were stashed. There were things I could do to try to salvage it, but needed to have power. I paced around the front of the house in frustration until 7:30, when it was time to wake Chris.

The two of us were under the assumption the four of us were leaving at 8 or 8:30, so when I got the all-clear to enter the garage, I began something resembling hasty emergency surgery. I got signs of life and a signal with the other battery, but when I called Shalain she couldn't hear me! Also, there was a short somewhere, making sending texts impossible. Contrary to popular belief, wet electronics are remarkable resilient... as long as you don't plug them in to a socket when they're wet; let them dry completely. When I had returned home in July, to my horror, I actually washed AND dried my little mp3 player! Having gotten damp in Iowa, it was giving me fits before I washed it but, to my shocked delight, it has worked perfectly AFTER a cycle thru the washer & dryer! Remembering this, I borrowed Wendie's hair dryer and hoped for the best. I had limited success, and after a bit, I was able to at least make normal phone calls, but half of the phone's navigation buttons still were not functioning. This I was fine with. I dried the bivy and sleeping bag as best I could before packing them away for our supposed 8:30 departure. Then, it quickly became clear that I wasn't the only one having a shitty Saturday.

As Chris and I waited expectantly outside, there appeared the final, most dramatic manifestation of the now-famous tension within. Daniel and Wendy had disappeared, and it soon became apparent that we were not going to make the earlier Bainbridge Ferry as planned, and as I'd feared the day before. I was quite glad I had not yet bought the ticket! Daniel then appeared, surprisingly wished us well, and went to leave- separately. Next, came the flying backpack. Wendie was clearly not pleased, and stepped outside hurling her daypack half-way down the steps, which run the length of their two-story house. Again hearing past comments about "The Buddha" in my head, rather than feeling the uncomfortable, I myself was silently amused. "How very, very... Zen!" With visions of Don Quixote's windmills combining with Phone Debacle II, I was ready for Port Townsend and the rest of Washington to be behind me.. if I had to crawl all the way to Portland from where I stood.

Racing a Silent Clock to Seattle

Shortly after the daypack had skidded to a stop, Daniel was on his way and so were we. I sat silently in the back of the car, watching the clock as we drove toward the free- ferry from Bainbridge Island to Seattle. At this point, all I wanted to do was get on my bus, watch my scenery, and wait for my birthday to mercifully end! And, it wasn't even 10am! This definitely had begun as the least enjoyable of all my 29th birthdays. I called Shalain from the car, and again asked her to hold off on making the Internet purchase until Chris and I were on the ferry because, despite Wendie's proclamations, I was still far from certain I would make the Greyhound terminal in time. It was obvious that, even in a best-case scenario, I would need to hail a cab once I got across Puget Sound into downtown Seattle. Missing this bus would have far-reaching implications, and may have put my little house-sitting gig in jeopardy.

At the terminal, Wendie surprisingly gave me a hug, A strange embrace that reminded me of the Cody Hug! I was asking myself, "Really, Wendie?" and quickly thought how life would have been much simpler for everyone if had I just continued on to Astoria from Portland! At this point, the entire escapade into Washington seemed like my own foolish, ego-driven, "Attack on the Windmill" undertaken simply to eliminate a solitary state from some perverse, imaginary list. This was not too far from the truth, but would prove to be a bit simpleminded... eventually.

My mood lightened a little at the ferry terminal once I knew my fate was once again in my hands. The ferry's schedule seemed to give me ample time to get from the Seattle terminal to Greyhound, even if it would have to be by taxi. Our "plan" (ha!) was for Chris and I to take the Bainbridge Ferry into Seattle, where we would split off: me taxiing to Greyhound, and Chris meeting friends. But, shortly after we settled in for the short wait he learned that some of the bus/ ferry routes he intended to use the next day didn't run on Sundays. He quickly reconsidered everything and decided to forget Seattle and return to Port Townsend from here. He hung out long enough for the ferry to begin boarding, and knowing how I guzzle the stuff, Chris even offered to pick up some Birthday Mate' from the pier and send it to me. What a pal! I gave him $10 to get some extra and after a goofy man-hug, he was off and I was aboard the huge auto-ferry into the heart of Seattle. I sat there watching the rain and repeatedly shaking my head as I thought back over this odd few days in Port Townsend...

9/18: Port Townsend- "And... Scene"

Chris started his new temp- job at the coffee shop Friday, while Daniel and Wendy were both gone for the day. So, I was left alone with the computer and spent most of the day editing pictures, then scouring Craigslist's Rideshare, Amtrak, and Greyhound for destination ideas/ prices. Shalain let me know that the house-sitting job was a go, and with that I officially decided to return home since the heel still smarted, and there was no place beckoning anyhow.

This didn't sit well with me. I felt like I was quitting too soon after so much had happened in just the previous month. What was waiting for me along the Pacific Coast? What was I sacrificing? I thought back to similar times, such as San Francisco in June of '08 and Pocatello the following month where I had been tempted to cut things short. In both instances, I had reflected back and been VERY glad that I didn't. This was a bit different. Both of these examples had to do with money. This time, I was mentally tired and more significantly, preoccupied with something else. It reminded me a great deal of Omaha in July where I was overwhelmed and needed time to decompress. The house-sitting gig had come along at the perfect time to nudge me over decision's edge, and I began to wonder, aloud, if the heel pain was a sign of some kind, or even possibly psychosomatic! Every indicator pointed to a return to New Mexico, despite my ego's protests!

All that was left was, "When am I leaving?" An 11pm bus left Seattle that night and I had ample time to make it, but this would essentially return me to Billings and thru Denver... again! I couldn't stomach another bus ride from Denver to Santa Fe. If I was spending two days on a bus, I wanted to see something fresh. I found a different, albeit longer route that would take me back to Portland for a bit, then thru Sacramento, LA, all the way to San Diego before finally turning east via the extreme southern parts of Arizona and New Mexico. This appealed much more since I had never been to San Diego, yet this schedule departed at 1pm Saturday, meaning I would need to stay another night. However, this seemed to work. Wendie, Daniel, and Chris planned to cross the sound into Seattle the next morning, too. I could camp out another night, ride to the ferry with them early in the morning, then Chris and I could spend an hour or two futzing around Seattle until I checked in.

I detested the idea of spending my birthday on the bus, but I don't usually celebrate my birthday. Setting a goal to spend it on the coast would have been more of the exception than NOT celebrating it! I relayed my intentions to Shalain, but decided to wait until I was aboard the ferry to Seattle to purchase the ticket. The plan seemed fail-safe, but depended on pretty precise timing as far as catching ferries and such. There was a bit of urgency however. I needed to meet with the home owners Monday night after my bus arrived... on Monday afternoon. Missing this 1pm bus would cause a world of complications.

When Chris returned home, he had a fine idea. Since I was staying one last night then heading home, and since we had begun the western swing of this trip by stopping at a random drive-in in upstate New York, he thought it would be fitting to go see a Friday night double feature at the drive-in near Port Townsend. "Inglorious Basterds" and "District 9" were featured and it would also give Wendie and Daniel a night without Chris & Todd, which they would no-doubt appreciate. Late in the afternoon, we were off to Subway for my dinner, and on the way to the drive-in for some entertainment... but not without some Chris-induced comedy first.

He had originally suggested that we actually walk to the drive-in, saying it was just a few miles away but not remembering exactly where. In character, I didn't see the point of walking when we could use Wendie's car... but that's just Chris being Chris. However, his ambiguity about the drive-in's location set off warning bells in my head. I have been here before; Magellan Chris is NOT! I've learned to pay special attention when Chris is navigating... anywhere... and he hates that I often point this out. Thankfully, it took longer at Subway than expected causing us to run late and making the car our only viable option. I say thankfully, because not only did Chris fail to remember exactly how to get there, it was 10-15 miles down the road! Of course, being the great friend that I am, I took great joy in this and even more at the sign once we arrived that read, "No Walk- Ins!" I'm really glad I craved that 12" Subway tuna sub, and... may I suggest a battery powered GPS as Christopher Magellan's Christmas gift?

The movies were great, particularly "Inglorious Basterds," and the setting created very nice bookends for our westward odyssey that began just after Memorial Day in Springfield, Mass. This naturally put the two of us in a reflective mood. During intermission and on the ride home, I began to appreciate a bit more the grand scope of all that has happened since then. We got to reminiscing on how we had expected our "plans" (ha!) to look in February and particularly March. And, how little our expectations resembled the actual events! However, from a general overview we had done exactly what we said we would do. The East Coast, then Michigan to Seattle. My Adventure Ego didn't like the fact that I had taken 5-weeks off, and bused from Omaha to Santa Fe, but later on I realized that Leslie had dropped me off pretty much ON the Missouri River, in Sioux Falls, SD: nearly due north and on the same river as Omaha. I'm OK with that.

Through reminiscing over this 2009 Adventure, Chris and I began to look forward. We had both had a distinct "blind spot" after Seattle, and now after Seattle, it was as uncertain than ever! Portland's draw had proved accurate, but now there was... nothing. Nothing drawing me anywhere. I had done everything I had concretely set out to do. Even if I were to continue now, what would I be chasing? Accomplishment. If I continued on, I could tell myself and those reading the blog, "I slept on both oceans this year!" That's pure ego. On a subconscious level, I knew this and only later did I accept it fully. As we lie in the bivies chatting, I was still haunted by that persistent, nagging voice saying, "You can do more!" when in reality it was again time to sit down & shut the hell up... just as it had been in July.

9/17: Port Townsend- Limitations

Part of what separates the wise man from the fool is recognizing ones own limitations. Mine were now fast approaching, and it took some work to acknowledge the gorilla in the... bivy?

Chris was up with the sun on Thursday to meet with the owner of the coffee shop, so once I woke up I went in to say hello to Daniel, got a shower, then waited for him to return. Chris was quite pleased to announce that he had indeed been hired, and would in fact start to train the next morning. We had a neat, continuing discussion on how money seems to appear just when each of us need it and the biblical concept of Mammon: Rather than hoarding your money USE IT, let it flow through you, and trust it will make its way back when it's needed. This anti-capitalist philosophy retook its position front & center, and would be put into practice sooner than expected. I also found it curious and amusing that the Bible repeatedly came up!

From Wendie's it was back to town where Chris would continue canvassing. The heel was no better (as soon as I put the boot on it yelped), and since I was way behind on the updates I planted myself on a picnic table downtown next to the water and began a massive update on the blog. The weather and people watching was great, and before I knew it I had spent 5-hours regurgitating Portland into Pocketmail. It was the perfect way to spend the afternoon.

When Chris was finished, we stopped at one of the sporting goods stores where he replaced the hat he had lost in Denver, we played dress-up with display wigs (almost buying one!), then stopped off at the library for Internet before slowly making our way back to Wendie's. Chatting with Chris, the ideas from Portland were coming to life and this pesky topic of Mammon resonated loudly in my mind. I relied on Chris to explain the concept, having never wanted anything to do with the Bible, and it fit perfectly with what both he and I had personally experienced separately. Every time we each have needed an influx of cash, it's showed up- one way or another. Sometimes through our own efforts, and sometimes out of a clear blue sky.

Mammon dovetailed perfectly with other concepts I had come up with: Tuning in to and listening to the that Voice, taking care to sit down & shut up now and then remembering that you're not the center of the Universe, and trusting that things will work out, yet not simply the way you WANT them to, but the way they're supposed to. A fine philosophy indeed, and one that has yet to disappoint in any way. My frustration and impatience always springs from craving control, thus the foundation, to me, is to be aware of and try to reign in my ego in an effort (EFFORT I say!) to take care that I'm seeking truth rather than simple self-serving glory.

"Clever children in school base their egos on being clever and on being right all the time. They dislike group work because they cannot then show the rest of the class where the good idea originated. When the ego and thinking are treated as the same thing, there is a reluctance to be wrong and a need to defend a point if view rather than explore the situation." -Edgar de Bono

I think I can speak for Chris (I'm sure he'll correct me if I'm wrong) when I say that all the signs to date point in the same direction: there's something guiding us and when we make seemingly ignorant decisions, it's as though we are gently chastised by being cut off from the Flow and left sitting for a time alone to ponder what we did wrong! It's like a Spirituality for Dummies class... and we're the Dummies!

This concept is not without its reward system. I myself attribute meeting people like Dennis, Andre, Leslie, Ciel, Pat and others to tuning into and listening to this. Chris and I experienced this in tandem in Cape May, NJ in April, and to attribute everything to mindless coincidence, from where I sit after a year and a half, is infantile. As recently as that morning in The Dalles, I had plugged in and was immediately "rewarded" by that seemingly orchestrated chain-of-events that dropped me directly into Andre's Master Craft. Had I not listened to my instincts in any of the handful of mini-scenarios through the course of that day, I don't meet Andre. Of course, I would never know that and you can drive yourself batshit contemplating such things, but thankfully I've seen enough to quit the logic-driven contemplation. It's fun to retrospectively reflect and pointless to stew over obvious mistakes, even though I do. This Universe of ours has shown a way of compensating my frequent ignorance!

Chris and I also discussed something I found rather daunting. My lessons and insights borne from this odyssey have progressively intensified. 2009 has made 2008 seem like child's play. As Chris and I looked back over the past 5-months, I was dumbfounded in realizing that this winter and 2010 likely will make '09 seem rudimentary as well! How in the hell is that even possible?!? But, after thinking about it the Classroom Analogy fits. I could have never dealt with meeting and dealing with my estranged family in 2008. I couldn't have dealt properly with Dennis' demise, and the toolbox surely would have been a screwdriver short if I had dealt with Andre last year! '08 prepared me for '09. If 2009 is preparing me for 2010, I'm excited, a bit intimidated... and addicted! It's a good thing for one to be excited about ones future.

Back at the house, it was decision time. Wendie was making her final trip for the week to Port Angeles on Friday morning, and I needed to decide rather to leave with her, and if not... what? Typically, indecision roared. My birthday was now two days away, and it seemed like it would be great to spend it camped on the Pacific Ocean. Yet, I also knew it was likely foolish to put myself in an uncertain situation being already partially hobbled! "If a man can't recognize his own limitations... he deserves what he gets!" Remember, Todd? I've preached it 100 times; it was my own voice ringing in my head.

I began exploring other possibilities such as busing or training back to Portland, or on to Redding CA, but neither sat well after; not two-days earlier rejecting similar ideas. I was grasping for straws, but during an extended conversation with Shalain I learned that there was a possibility I could earn money house-sitting for a week back in Santa Fe, but she couldn't confirm that until the next day. In theory, this would more than cover the cost of the bus ticket, and provide me the needed decompression time to process everything.

Yes, returning to New Mexico appealed to me, even though I didn't WANT it to. I was mentally exhausted and knew that I had as of yet barely scratched the surface of a Rainier- sized Mental Mt. Andre. The more I thought about and discussed these new Andre-influenced ideas, rather than coming to conclusions, I would just find new valleys to descend into and explore. I had a mouthful, and it seemed obvious that I needed to chew, swallow, and digest it!

In the end, I concluded that it was best to let Shalain find out what she could, and base Friday's decision on that. There would be no Port Angeles, and if I got to the Pacific it would be elsewhere...

9/16: Port Townsend- Insights & Cliches

Wednesday's plan was to vacate Wendie's place so Daniel could work without being distracted by us. Chris was working with Wendie's non-profit, and part of his appointed/ assumed duties were to post fliers off at various businesses around Port Townsend. This was perfect. He and I could spend the day touring the town, and in the process do what we do best: jabber.

We were up, out of the bivies, and walking in typical Pacific Northwest weather pretty early. Almost immediately I noticed that the pinching in my left Achilles still hadn't gone away, and was quickly getting worse. I had felt something similar while walking through the Marin Headlands north of San Francisco last summer, but that had involved carrying 55-pounds up- and- down steep trails. This was different. I was carrying nothing, and it had been lingering since my walk into La Grande the week before. I had felt nothing the entire weekend at Andre's, but had not been wearing the new boots either. Soon after I put them on and started up a hill, pow! I had naturally assumed that it was due to the boots being new, and with time, it would go away. Either that, or I had a peculiar case of temperamental tendinitis. Regardless, I figured I would man-up and deal with it.

Chris and I meandered rather lazily around Port Townsend most of the day. There was no hurry of course, and our conversations were quite productive. Chris is great for unique insights and while sitting on the Sound, he pointed out that the Andre experience reminded him of a test. Being tempted with sacrificing my chosen course for some sort of material reward. I hadn't even considered it, but it made a degree of sense. The conflict of how I was going to present Portland 2009 was already agitating my mind; was I going to sugar coat everything in some hope that I would benefit later on? The instinctual answer seemed obvious, but was far from it in practice... as you've already read.

I both needed and appreciated the feedback, and was reminded of how we got to where we were. Then, through the day and periodically throughout the course of my stay in Port Townsend, Chris and I reflected back over the past 5-months and gushed at how things had both gone according to our rough "plan" and looked nothing like it at the same time! We marveled at how the actual experience had by far exceeded even our highest expectations. Everything from the Veggie Bus, to Massachusetts, Michigan, Devils Tower, to Leslie. Everything from Carthage through North Dakota all the way through Montana to Lynette's in Boise had exceeded my wildest visions and... after all this... I was coming off what I knew was something on par with Dennis and likely the most powerful experience to date. As the reality set in, I was literally humbled and becoming a bit overwhelmed at the same time. All of this... from walking out the front door? Wow.

The Achilles became progressively worse as the day wore on, and it quickly became clear that I had a potential problem. I had intended my stay in Port Townsend to be a quick one, and had discussed with Wendie riding down 101 with her to Port Angeles either Thursday or Friday. From there I could use public transit to get as far as Forks. This would put me close to the Pacific Ocean, where I would camp for a day or three... spending my birthday there. However, the heel posed a problem. Remember, it's illegal to hitch in Washington. That would mean there was a possibility I would have to walk the short, but now-painful distance to either Cape Alava or Cape Flattery (the northwestern most point of the lower 48). Then, what if the heel refused to improve? Limp the entire Washington coast to Oregon? Yes, this tendon was causing me ill-timed grief. I checked Port Townsend's local outdoor stores to see if they may have some clue as to what would cause such an odd problem, but they knew nothing other than that they'd earn a commission if I bought their boots. What was obvious was that the heel needed rest and the boots needed more break-in time to isolate the problem. When Chris and I returned to Wendie's, the pinch immediately vanished- as soon as I removed the boot. This was going to be tricky.

The day was eventful for Chris as well. When on a whim he decided to ask about a temporary job at a coffee shop, I suggested the tactic that to date had NEVER worked for me, but made sense: explain what you're doing and offer to fill the position until they found permanent help. The girl behind the counter suggested he take an application home, and return it early the next morning when the owner was in. Those seemingly "random" events again...

Once back at Wendie's, we had dinner and just hung out before retiring to the bivies and chatting some more rather early. Chris had to get back to the coffee shop early, and besides, he had fallen into a nice routine. I told Wendie that I may indeed take the ride to Port Angeles on Friday if it was OK, but wanted to have another day to test the Achilles and think through other options... just in case.

Overall, despite its beautiful setting I wasn't impressed with Port Townsend at all and was over it after a half hour. It had its charms, but to me had the telltale smells of a white-bread Santa Fe or Taos with white-bread architecture, and the same foul breed of Progressive, Stealth Capitalists that pollute Taos's Plaza and litter Santa Fe's Canyon Rd. All condemning Capitalism while hocking their special brand of overpriced, "Alternative Spiritual Artistry" to doe-eyed, naive tourists with too much money to spend. And, everywhere in Port Townsend were generic Hippie status symbols, like VW buses and other worn out, cliche' proclamations that "Here's yet another Hippie Expressing their Individuality!" Expressing their individuality just like the rest of the herd:

9/15: Port Townsend, WA

Leaving Andre & Cody at the supermarket, it was nice to feel as though I were traveling again. Northwest Washington was definitely new territory for me, having only gone as far as Tillamook and Portland, the weather was sunny and in the 70's, and so far the people of Washington seemed quite friendly. The last fact for some reason surprised me. Even the bus driver smiled and said, "Welcome to Mukilteo!" as I climbed aboard. The bus took the scenic route all around the little town, and seeing my backpack, one particular gentleman took a personal interest in making sure I arrived where I was going. He offered ferry schedules and pointed out that once I got to Clinton there would be a free bus that would carry me all the way across Whidbey Is., confirming the information I had gotten from Shalain a couple hours earlier. He said that the bus was coordinated to meet my ferry, so as long as I immediately got off the boat when it arrived and went straight there, I would be sure to catch it. Since it was already 3pm, I was slightly concerned about having to camp for the night, but all indications were pointing to arriving in Port Townsend that night.

Andre knew what he was talking about. The bus did in fact literally drop me at the Clinton Ferry ticket window, and after a short wait I found myself on the auto ferry, sailing to Whidbey Island.I knew beforehand that this part of the country would be impressive to see, but once actually on Puget Sound it was breathtaking, reminding me of what I imagined the Alaska coast to look like. With the combination of mountains and sea, I was surprisingly mesmerized and thinking that this would be an incredible place to explore.

The bus was indeed waiting in Clinton, and was indeed free. I settled in and enjoyed the hour ride nearly all the way across the large island to Coupeville. Whidbey Island is beautiful. It's sparsely populated and forested, with quaint little towns that reminded me of an episode of Father Knows Best. "Wholesome" was the word continually in my mind; something from a slower, calmer time. I thought about the Twilight Zone episode Willoughby in which a stressed out New York ad executive is transported by a magical train back to the late 1800's and the slow paced, wholesome town of Willoughby. He initially fails to get off the train to investigate, but becomes obsessed with it. At the end of the show, he musters the courage to exit at the Willoughby stop... and in the next scene it's good ol' 1955 again, where rail workers find his body assuming it was a suicide. Willoughby. Whidbey. You Devil, Rod Serling!

My Coupeville connection was painless, and the next stop was Keystone Harbor where the Keystone Ferry would sail me to Port Townsend on the northeast shore of Washington's Olympic Peninsula. Just missing one, I spent about 90-minutes waiting for the next ferry as the afternoon began to fade to early evening. As we sailed toward Port Townsend and yet another meet up with Chris, I snapped dozens of pictures. It was incredibly beautiful. I had long since nearly lost my bearings and had no idea what I was looking at, but I loved it! I called Chris via Wendie's phone as we approached Port Townsend let him know I was there, set up a place to meet, and marveled at the scene before me. Port Townsend in an incredible setting. There were sailboats glistening in the sunset, and I felt like I had been transported to another country. That wouldn't last, but it was nice while it did!

Soon enough, Chris and I were jabbering as usual, catching up on the events of the last couple of weeks. We had parted ways in Idaho something like 10-days earlier, but it felt like a year due to the events crammed into those 10-days! He had met me near the ferry terminal, and we walked to a co-op to meet his sister, Wendie, and before I knew it we were dropping my pack into her garage and having dinner. Since meeting Wendie in New York City back in May, I had wanted to meet her boyfriend, Daniel. By all accounts, he sounded like an interesting cat. He was a unique person, having along the way combined survivalism with environmentalism while working with the government and other organizations in somehow maintaining hiking trails.

Through the course of the night, the conversation took an amusing turn as the three of them began discussing a "feeling" they had that there may possibly be a "devastating, apocalyptic earthquake" in the next few days- particularly on that Friday, the 18th. Since my birthday is the 19th, I made it quite clear that I would not tolerate Armageddon striking on this particular weekend. It would have to wait. As fun as the conversation was, there was one particular point of quiet contention; one that will have a familiar ring to you the seasoned reader.

Wendie has always struck me as a strange yet familiar breed: the most intense "Buddhist" I know. She also seems to me to possess a similar type of anger boiling just beneath the surface that I sensed in Lynette, and that I am sensitive too. I have always wanted to ask her how Buddhism, the religion of peace, enlightenment, contentment, and acceptance of where one "is," was working out for her, but after a week with Andre, I was in no mood to challenge anyone. Especially not in their home- where I was not particularly welcome in the first place! However, During our Apocolypto discussion I did ask if the earthquake and ensuing devastation did actually happen, would be a good idea to have guns to go along with a garden, oatmeal, and goodwill toward man? She replied in her familiar, forceful tone that she believed "the Port Townsend community" would rally together supporting each other, and there would be no need for firearms to protect anything. "Apparently a drum circle followed by a chorus of Kumbaya conquers all evil." I thought. "Again, let me know how that works out."

I, of course, found this laughable and not wanting a confrontation, worked very hard to contain myself in the tenuous setting! Perhaps this would be the case if, like on Little House on the Prairie, an orphanage caught fire or there was a barn razing. But this was not the context of the conversation. We were discussing a Katrina-like, cataclysmic disaster, where the unprepared become desperate for survival and either anarchy or martial law reigns. In such a situation, when those who don't have inevitably become desperate they will just "take" without any concern for morality or harming the supposedly "evolved" of our precious species. This is fundamental human nature, survival instinct, and you need look no further than the inner-cities or other poverty stricken parts of the world. Would you carry prime rib thru streets in Ethiopia, counting on the conveyance of your philosophy and the moral deference of desperate men? If so, you deserve to lose it. Again, with all due respect, and much is due, this seems to be the case of a separation from "An Inconvenient Truth." Unless Port Townsend, Washington is the one place on earth where human nature is subjugated to Progressive Ideology, I suspect that once word of their Haven of Bounty spread... Well, I'm reminded of a line from V for Vendetta: "What usually happens when people without guns confront people with guns?"

I've heard this worldview also manifested by those hippies who call for "bloodless 'social' revolution." Che Guevara understood this perfectly well: First and foremost, people will NOT revolt to change when they're fat, comfortable, and content; there needs to be a real sense of anger and desperation for people to even adjust their asses on the metaphorical couch. And, that desperation had better be accompanied by something more than a willingness to blog, mindlessly chant angry slogans with a mob, and espouse philosophy because, when sufficiently annoyed, The Establishment will gleefully "Kent State" them. Google the rhetoric of Ohio's governor in the days leading up to the Kent State shootings; and these protests were mild by many standards. I would love to be wrong in this case, but the 60's proved that simple "hope" and noble-want for human evolution and togetherness doesn't quite equate to Utopia on the Hill. Worse, in a real post-apocalyptic world it would be suicide.

I surprisingly quoted our beloved Musty to Chris later on: "Evil has the advantage over good because evil doesn't care if it kills you." Sobering. Annoying. An Inconvenient Truth. What's worse, is that once the Ideological Idiocracy has worn off, they will likely realize that they are just as much at the mercy of nature as those who have lost the ability to organically provide food for themselves. The Primary Natural Law is Survival of the Fittest, not Survival of the Wittiest. If the world ever returns to that point, please surround me with them gun-totin' rednecks in Michigan, North Dakota, and Montana. We've walked Hippie Road before, and it's a dead end. Literally.


As for the expected "tension," it was indeed present, despite well-intentioned efforts to contain it. Chris had thankfully prepared me for this, and in the meantime heightened my senses to where I was now curious to see where it manifested itself! I was initially expecting to camp in a local public park, where Chris would presumably join me and we'd relive old times. However, this plan was inexplicably altered and I joined Chris, who had been for a week sleeping in the yard next to his sister's house.

As Tuesday came to a close, I had a laugh at the day; waking up in Portland, falling asleep inside the bivy in Port Townsend. Chris and I spent a good deal of time chatting about Andre and Chris' own trek through Oregon. I was quite eager to get a fresh perspective on my week in Portland and begin the process of mentally sifting, a process that what was sure to take some time.