Now that the road trip has been completed and there are no more posts to make, I reset the post order to be chronological. I hope you enjoy!
If you have any questions, please feel free to use the contact me form linked above.
First impression: Guy behind a dumpster. Is he an employee on break?
Second impression: If he is, I'm not shopping there.
I had no real way of avoiding him, as the "is a bum" conclusion was made far too late for easy avoidance manouvers. Eye contact had been made. I mentally checked to see if I had any readily available change that I could give him if necessary.
None. Crap.
He looked at me and opened his mouth. He had no teeth. I prepared myself for him to give me some lame story about how he needed a bus fare or something (all while standing behind a dumpster at a liquour wholesaler).
"How're ya doin today?" he asked brightly.
I was off guard. The only words I could think of were about how I was broke and how sorry I was. I even had a lame smile all ready for him.
"Uh, fine." I responded. I pretended to be in a hurry. I wasn't, really. I had about 4 hours to blow while I waited for my car be checked out. He really was pleasant though. Funky.
"What's your shirt say?" He seemed genuinely curious. The shirt doesn't say anything. Instead there is simply a picture. A picture of a pirate skull surfing a hot dog on a sea of cheerios with a rat on his shoulder. A remarkably tasteful affair, believe it or not.
"Nothing, it's just a picture." I helpfully moved the strap of my bag a few inches so he could see it, all without breaking stride.
I did consider slowing down and discussing with him the properties of the pipe the pirate skull thing was smoking while calmly performing his morning surf, but I had somewhere to be. Well, I had convinced myself of that. In truth, I was still swallowing my lame smile I never got a chance to use.
He mentioned he had never seen anything like the picture before. I believed him.
It was about this time that I was passing him. I noticed he wasn't wearing a shirt. One that covers all the things a shirt should, anyway. He was wearing this dirty pink button up shirt that barely covered his shoulders, and could probably only be buttoned on a man a few sizes smaller than him. This, in itself, wasn't really a problem.
The guy wasn't terribly hideous or anything and it was a 90 some odd degree day in California. The interesting part was the two tattoos he had on his chest. One of which was a succubus with wings and large bare breasts.
Really, what is going through your head when you get a woman's bare chest tattoed on yours? Do you think women are attracted to that?
I suppose women prefer men with teeth too, now that I think about it.
The guys then? Does it make you look hard-core to your buddies? Give you street cred? Why don't you just get some hardcore Pamela Anderson action goin on your ass while you're at it? Then at least you can walk into your local bar and say "I had Pamela all over my ass all night, and the some more in the mornin'." Good for a laugh, assuming you're in the right kind of joint.
Of course, his local bar is the dumpster, I'm sure he'd be the life of the party.
I wish I'd had my camera. He would have been a great interview. Oh well, there'll be more interesting people all across the country.
::Discuss
In a few minutes, I'm getting in my car and going on a road trip!
Perhaps it is because I drove through Yosemite Valley, but that was probably the quickest 10 hours of driving I've yet driven.
Yosemite is simply stunning. I got a lot of great footage and a lot of great photos. I didn't stop to talk to anyone though. It was labor day in the valley. Everyone seemed busy with kids and family and friends. I felt a little too alone to challenge anyone to wait and be interviewed. I hope to get over that soon.
I did make a few observations:
1. Don't go to Yosemite on labor day weekend unless you plan on leaving after labor day, leaving on the east side, or getting in line to leave on labor day and still leaving the next day.
I think I may have passed a couple hundred cars essentially parked trying to leave the valley. Luckily I left on the east side and had no delays whatsoever. Plus, I think the east side is looks better. You can avoid Yosemite’s ugly twin.
2. There is some park before you get to Yosemite Valley. I don't remember the name of it, just that the slogan was \"Land of a thousand uses\" or something like that. It really isn't important. The park was ugly.
The trees looked withered and crooked, but not in the interesting way that most east-central-California-valley trees do. They looked withered and crooked in a more, well, ugly way.
There was a nice valley on the other side of the trees, and valleys look good. Well, exception of this one. The far side of the valley looked like a giant slice of moldy jack cheese.
A national park can get away with being ugly. \"It has its charm,\" you can say. But when you take that same park and put it next to Yosemite Valley, you just get an ugly park that acts as a buffer zone to unabashed beauty much like the unattractive friend brought along so you can look better at a club.
3. There is a certain stench to the pass from the 120 down to the valley. It is rather sickening. It wafts away as you enter the valley, but it is still there contrasting the beautiful landscape with its stomach turning ranckness. Burning brake pads. Near 100 degree weather combined with steep twisting roads and other cars equals the horrid stench of burning brake pads. Drivers have no choice but to ride their brakes. The heat combined with this overuse of the instruments of negative acceleration produces a low hanging cloud that continues to emanate from our cars.
4. I still have no idea how to structure my videos. I’ve come up with a couple of ideas, but I usually end up changing my mind shortly after. I’ve interviewed a few great people at beaches near Bodega Bay, shot myself while driving, shot myself in some scenery and shot some scenery by itself for later narration.
I’ll probably go with the scenery+narration plan, but I’m not ready to put anything online until I get better ideas and more footage.
Also, I need a better tripod.
5. I’m staying tonight at fraternity brother’s house. I am quite impressed by the implicit trust that spans 40 years by simply being a brother of the same Fraternity. I only had to give him a call, tell him I was on a road trip, when I would be there, and he set up an air mattress, a room for me to stay, and told me to make myself at home. I’m sitting here now writing this post. (Note that I falsified the location by a few blocks so as to not point directly to his house).
Here is to a great first day road tripping, and to many more to come.
Carpe Diem.
1. Never piss into the wind.
2. Nevada is gusty.
::Discuss
I expected to spend a lot of time on this road trip sleeping in my car and on uncomfortable couches. While that still may happen, I spent last night on what may be the most comfortable bed I have ever had the pleasure of sleeping on. It was one of those Craftmatic adjustable posturepedic beds. It even vibrated. Pretty spiffy.
Not much to post about the drive from Nevada to Idaho other than the fact that there was a lot of desert. I kind of liked the drive, except for the bit in Oregon. Nothing like driving on a long flat road through the desert and having the speed limit be 55 miles per hour. Seriously Oregon. I can kind of understand the 55 mph in the northwest, but in the southeast? The DESERT? What am I going to hit? A particularly large piece of tumbleweed? I'd notice a jackrabbit that tried to cross the road 20 minutes before I got there.
Also, I think I may have a plan for how to make my first episode. I'll work on it today and tomorrow and hopefully have it up by tomorrow night.
So my Alma Mater, Pacific University, has this mascot. A 50 some odd pound metal dragon dog thing. I am bringing it with me and photographing it everywhere I go.
We call it Boxer.
I kind of wish we didn't, as that is rather ignorant. See, the original Boxer was made 500 years ago in China. It was a symbol of good fortune to the family of druggists that owned it, the luck of the dog reflected on the luck of the family.
The family ran low on money and sold it to an alumni of the university who donated it to Pacific. The students of pacific then stole it from the school and began a long tradition.
The students named it Boxer, after then ongoing rebellion in China, occurring centuries after the animal was created. They also began to get into huge brawls over the animal, often ripping off legs or the head. I'm sure that does wonders for the luck of the family who sold him.
The original animal was stolen by the black student union in 1969 during a fight to take him, except contrary to tradition, the union never returned the original animal. The one we have now is a bigger, heavier, recast of the original.
In any case, spirit for the animal has been at an all time low at Pacific and my Fraternity, Gamma Sigma, recently managed to gain possession of him. I'm bringing him along and photographing him where ever I go in the old tradition of Boxer.
Here is one of the most famous Boxer pictures. The Alpha Zeta fraternity, Boxer, and presidential candidate Richard Nixon:
What would you say if you were on vacation at a resort on a lake in Idaho and you saw some kid lugging a 50 pound metal... thing down the path?
"Throw it back!"
"I thought it was a real animal at first."
"Doesn't walk very well, does he?"
"Going swimming with your lizard?"
"Nice trophy."
I had originally feared that I would be able to find ways to get some exercise while driving. Carrying that heavy son-of-a a half mile down a hill in a forest to take a couple of pictures seems like a good way to do it.
So I lugged Boxer down to a rock all the cool Coeur d' Alene kids call "dickhead" rock. Apparently it looks like something from below. I can't imagine what.
I suppose a couple of images are a good idea.
A nice couple were walking the same direction as I was right as I got to said rock and they offered to take my picture with Boxer. I told them what I was doing and gave them a card. I hope they visit this site. If you guys are reading this, click discuss and say hi!
There is one thing you will notice if you are driving in Idaho. This quickie episode will start off the video series for the Roadtrip Life.
As I left Coeur d' Alene, I drove up above the lake and decided the views were worth a Boxer shot.
The drive today was rather uneventful. Montana is pretty. Lots of rolling hills dotted with trees. You're surrounded by them as you drive through. They're just.... the same rolling hills dotted with trees. I would be perfectly happy living in a little town nestled in these hills save for the other people that likely live in those towns. Driving through it was simply less eventful than previous days drives have been.
I wish I had been able to take a more scenic route, but I got started a little late (I had to fight with the website to get the Episode Quicklinks working correctly) and the straight through drive is about 8 hours. I did get a chance to stop a couple of times and take some interesting pictures of Boxer.
The sun was setting over the mesas in the distance behind me and I was driving into a lightning storm in front of me. I actually fretted for a little while that there would not be any place to stop and get off the freeway for a good Boxer pic. Lightning struck off to my right just as I came around a hill that had an exit. It was perfect.
Well, except a thunderstorm in Montana means the lighting doesn't strike terribly often, and there was this huge hill between me and the storm. But the sunset was great.
I really do hope I'll be able to set Boxer up in front of a video camera in order to get some good Boxer/lightning shots.
In any case, a Gamma alum of '86 hosted me last night. We spent much of the night drinking beers and swapping stories. I heard stories involving beach trips and university presidents (and university presidents at beach trips), the location of the bell that used to be in Old College Hall before it was moved. Sex tape scandals, master keys, and awesome methods of informing the student body of said scandal. I'll be informing the brothers about these things more specifically.
He was also there when the Boxer was recast. He gave me the location and phone number of the gal who got the thing made. She is down in Florida now, I hope to be able to stop and see her.
In other news, Boxer has lightened and greened considerably since being recast. On its way to being a regular Lady Liberty I suppose.
I'm embedding a few photos from the terrain I was driving through as I was thinking of this. Eventually I tired of getting out of my car and lugging Boxer around, so I stopped. Trust that these views are only a small portion of the many places I could have stopped.
I’ve found that being told who I am or what I am doing without my request, or even my permission, is the height of attraction. Those moments when something or someone tells me my most inner thoughts, confirms them, are the singular moments of clarity in this world.
My most recent host loaned me a couple of books on tape he thought I might enjoy. Charles Kuralt’s America and Travels with Charlie by John Steinbeck. I respect Steinbeck and I’d heard of Travels with Charlie before. I popped it in first. His first few lines spelled me, to steal a phrase. I had to stop listening because his words led me to so many other thought I found I was no longer following along.
I began to note the things he said, thinking of quoting them around the site from time to time. Towards the end of the first chapter, I gave up: I’d mentally noted the whole damned thing.
“I set them down so that newcomers to bum-dom, like teenagers in new hatched, sin will not think they invented it.”
“A trip a safari, an exploration, is an entity, different from all other journeys. It has personality, temperament, individuality. uniqueness. A journey is a person in itself, no two are alike, and all plans policing and coersion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip, a trip takes us.”
I find this to be inexorably true. This trip, after only, 4 days, 5 days, lessee, my site says 5.35 days, oh I don’t care, some time, a few thousand miles, whatever, has very little in common with what I had planned.
1.I planned to pull off the road often to explore the nothings. I do this, but not when my fancy takes me. I have a different method. Two rules, actually. Rule one is drink a lot of water (I’m actually amazed at how dehydrated I’ve been). Rule two is avoid actual bathrooms whenever possible. This forces me to see some really cool things because I simply cannot put it off until later.
2.I planned to stop and talk to a lot of people, interview them on camera, and find out their stories. I find that I have no desire to do this. At first I thought it was because I was afraid, and I’m sure that is still there, but the first few people I talked to didn’t tell me anything interesting.
There is this temptation when a stranger walks up to you to simply clam up and give one or two word answers. The most interesting people will become lame in the face of a stranger.
Then you put a camera in front of these people? They clam up further. They don’t know where that camera is going or what you are doing with it. Then there are the legal issues of filming people that I’m not totally satisfied about.
Finally, I don’t want to have to worry about the camera, I want to talk to the people I meet, and I’ve been hosted by some wonderfully interesting and remarkably generous people.
3.I planned to film myself and upload these films onto the site. I am filming things, but editing takes time and it forces me to be alone. I simply don’t have the desire to do it. I can make the little quickies and will continue too, but nothing like I had planned.
4.I’m going to be alone.Oh being alone. I’ve got a lot to write about that, but I want to get back on the road. See, I’ve got to, erm, follow my first rule. There will be more.
Before I hit the road yesterday, I was treated to breakfast in a small diner in southern Montana. There was a live bluegrass band playing and most of the patrons were large guys in plaid shirts. It was a small town and it seemed everybody knew everybody, especially my host (the local optometrist).
I decided against picking up the band's CD.
The largest benefit of this was that I started on the road with a full stomach. The disadvantage is when the emptiness hit me.
My sweet spot for driving is about 8 or 9 hours. After that I start to get impatient and simply want to get to my destination.
The drive yesterday took me 14 hours. The views in the morning made it unquestionably worth it, but by the end of the day I found myself in a very strange mood.
I noticed this when I received an email cordially questioning where I was and where I was going. I didn't respond (I was driving, after all), but I found myself resenting the question.
I was doing what I was doing and I was putting things online, how dare anyone ask me questions?
Unsure of where these thoughts came from (Thus far, I've enjoyed all the communication I've received on the road), I began to question my mood. I found that I had withdrawn into Steinbecks book. Steinbeck got me. He new what I was doing. I listened as John Steinbeck told of many of the same troubles I was having as he traversed the country towards me. The Yellowstone conversation was particularly close to home.
"You went HOW close to Yellowstone without actually visiting?" John asked.
"17 miles John," I responded.
Well, not really. I haven't gone that mad.
He did ask the question on the tape before deciding to actually enter the park. He was shortly chased out when Charlie (his dog) decided to try to attack every bear he saw.
I did go within a 17 miles drive of the park, although I didn't go in. I still had another 11 hours of driving ahead of me. I'm pretty sure that Boxer could have taken any wayward bears had it been necessary though.
I stopped for a few minutes and wolfed down a burger, I'd just realized that I hadn't had anything but a can of chili since breakfast 12 hours prior. As I digested, I calmed down and the rest of the trip passed uneventfully.
I'm now in Greeley Colorado and I'll spend another day here, then I move on again. I'm not sure where I'm going tomorrow, I guess I should work that out.
While driving through South Dakota, on about my 11th hour, I got a phone call that my host had to run out. I had no place to stay.
it was already 8 pm.
There are 0 Gamma Alumni in South Dakota.
Did I mention I'm in central South Dakota?
God I'm tired.
Motel time.
Before I left, I feared that I would eventually find myself cold, lost, and alone, in the middle of nowhere, not knowing where I was going, or what I was doing.
Last night, I saw that happening.
I have all of the Gamma Alumni plotted on a map. I only have to click on a name to get an address and, with a little more work, a phone number. If you were to be stranded in the states, you need only to open up the map to find yourself surrounded by alumni, friends -brothers- who would help out a brother with little knowledge other than a couple of greek letters and the ideals of the brotherhood.
Anywhere in the states, save for South Dakota.
After struggling and failing to find nearby alumni, I decided to drink a Red Bull and get some food, then drive as far as I could.
Perhaps a decision would come to me.
I stopped to eat. As soon as I got out of the car, I started to relax, to lose that tenseness that allows me to drive tired. Then, 10 minutes later, I realized that I was eating McDonalds. Disgusted, I decided I was done. The tension that allowed me to drive was gone. I needed to sleep, now. I began to tense up again, my heart rate picked up, a combination of the Red Bull and the realization that I had no plan.
I stopped at a place that promised it was so cheap, imaginary friends could sleep free.
They say smells are one of the more powerful emotional triggers. My emotions were ready to be triggered. The previous inhabitants of the room clearly had ignored the no smoking sign on the door. That wasn’t the worst smell though. I don’t want to describe the worst smell. I want to pretend it wasn’t there, because then I don’t have to figure out what it was. Actually, that’s right, the smoking was the worst smell.
There I was. Lying on the predictably uncomfortable motel bed, exhausted, heart rate through the roof, facing what I had already established to be my greatest fear for the trip.
I did pass out, though not for long. I woke up again in the middle of the night with my heart still racing. I have a fraternity brother that will not speak to me, an issue about a girl. I’d had some dream that I was talking to him. In the dream, our conversation went well enough, though suitably awkward (I have no idea what it was about).
During the whole conversation there was this dragonfly buzzing off to my left, near my ear. I ignored it, the conversation was more important. The buzzing grew louder and louder. It was more and more irritating until I finally decided to do something about the damned thing. Without warning, only after I acknowledged it, it attached itself to my neck with all of its 8 legs and a sucker and a stinger and all kinds of other things dragonflies don’t have.
I woke up. I felt like I had only been asleep for minutes. My heart was beating as it had been when I passed out. I wasn’t going to sleep again any time soon.
I was, simply put, afraid.
All of my greatest fears, being alone mostly, hit me. It was now 3 am central, 1 am home.
I tried to sleep, to put my fears behind me.
It wasn’t going to happen.
I reached for my phone and text messaged a friend. I asked her to tell me I wasn’t alone.
Once she had, I felt silly. Of course I’m not alone.
I mentally went over the multitude of people I could have called who would have talked to me in the middle of the night as long as I needed, to chase away any fears of abandonment. As we continued our mid-night conversation, my heart slowed and I relaxed. I found an episode of X-files on TNT and the world seemed familiar.
I’m not alone in the middle of the night in central South Dakota. Not at all.
I’ve been more alone after work at home in the Grove. Even last night, I didn’t research the Alumni, a brother did. I called on short notice and he didn’t hesitate to do all of my research for me, to find numbers and send me to person after person, as I asked, as I needed.
I have a greater ability to communicate with people now than I know what to do with.
Now that the sun is up, my fears are gone. It is amazing how the light can chase away all of our fears, even those that have nothing to do with darkness.
I’m going to slow down. Apparently there is a gravestone of someone named Tollef Tollefson nearby. I’m going to go find it.
Maybe I’ll spend another night in South Dakota.
I’m behind on updates. I had a wonderful time in Greeley, and lots of comments to make of it, not to mention the first 11 hours of the drive yesterday. There are a few great pictures (including Mount Rushmore, and the experiences there).
I just needed to get this up, to explain my mood from last night.
One of the greatest disadvantages of being the only one in the car is the inability to do anything besides drive. At least, I shouldn’t do anything but drive. I can’t post and drive, and writing carefully takes time. Time spent not going anywhere.
The past few stops have been a long distance apart and I’ve spent far too much time driving as quickly as possible on split interstates. Split interstates are boring. They don’t follow the land. On interstates, you can’t pull off to explore random roads that look interesting; you have to take exits. I find myself calculating the exact minute I’ll get to my destination. Once I count down the minutes until I’m somewhere else, the journey is no longer the destination.
When that isn't the case. When the journey is the destination, and it has been for the vast majority of the trip, I am at peace. A full, overwhelming peace. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. Wherever I’m going, I’m there.
So I’m going to go find Tollef Tollefson. The great great great grandfather of a friend.
I’m here, I’m there, I’m not alone.
P.S. I know you’re reading this. Thank you. Thank you to any of you who would have gladly done anything possible to help me in need.
Tourist towns always have the local joint. The one with the rules that all the locals know and the visitors don't. That way, when the tourists come and ask for fries with their burger, the locals can all laugh at them. This episode will give you the "in" on at least one of these joints.
Oh yeah, the cheese is optional.
Greeley, Colorado. The first stop on this trip where the only way I knew the person was through the Internet.
I've been posting to Forumopolis for several years now. I simply posted a thread saying I was going on a road trip and I needed couches to crash on. Plenty of people, including MsFrisby (her username on the forum), responded.
I usually try to arrive at my hosts locations in the evening. No later than 8 or 9. To show up later is rude. Unfortunately, I did not expect the drive to take me so long and I didn't arrive at MsFrisby's place until after midnight.
In the morning, after she made breakfast, we packed her kids in the car and took a quick tour of Greeley, including the libraries where MsFrisby works. Greeley has the most impressive public library system I've seen.
Shortly after this quick tour, we headed to Estes park. I started off the trip with the kids addressing me as "sir," then "mr." then, simply and with all the familiarity in the world, "guest."
First order of business in Estes: silence the kids and our stomachs. We headed to the Smiling Elk restuarant.
I had a very tasty jalepeno and bell pepper burger served with "elk lumpies" (mashed potatoes). She had some nachos that were unsurprising save for the chicken, which had a strange sweet flavor.
The kids suggested we ask for the recipe. After laughing because the chef would never give us the recipe, we asked anyway. Sure enough, he told us the secret ingredient. Margarita mix. Good idea, really. Margarita mix, a little paprika and an herb or two and you'd have some delicious chicken for nachos.
Here was the strange part. It was me, MsFrisby, and two kids. A perfect little family to anyone who cared to guess. The waitress certainly did. She handed me the bill directly. I paid it.
The kids were wonderful. Well, annoying, but wonderful. I've never really spent much time with kids before, they were 7 and 9. The opportunities for missed sexual humor leads to endless moments of grownups being "weird."
Did I just describe myself as a grownup?
Oh shit.
Huh. Funky. Anyway...
While cooped up in the car, the kids got loud and played dumb games.
"Lets find a car!"
"yeah!"
We were on a highway, next to a car dealership.
"There's one. Another one. Anotherone. Anotherone. Anotherone. Anothernothnothernothernotherone!"
The suggestibility of kids is great too. How easy it is to make them think something is a good idea.
"How about this instead." I suggested, "Lets find the numbers on car license plates."
"No," they said.
"That sounds dumb," they said.
"I see a 1" I said.
"I see a 2" they cried, "and a 3!"
"Let's find a 4!"
Told you.
The trip to Estes complete, we ditched the kids with a sitter and headed to Boulder to meet another "forumite" and tour the bars.
Boulder has some awesome bars and restaurants. Apparently there is the highest ratio of restaurants per capita in the nation. 1 restaurant to 4 people or something like that. We started off at a microbrew that had floor seating. I mean literally, you could sit on the floor. It was quite the comfy carpet. Or you could stand at the bar, or sit at the long table with everyone else. Throughout the short time we were there, we took all of our options. When we were at the table, the waiter sat next to us, asked "what's up?" and chatted for a moment before asking what we were going to order. He did it like he was trying to decide what to order himself.
We were on a liquid diet. I had a couple of beers that used nitro in the tap instead of co2. It came out very smooth, kind of like Guinness.
After our beers, we headed to this loft place where the bartender actually admitted he didn't know how to make the drinks we ordered, but did an excellent job of mixing the ingredients once told.
We also ordered the basic nachos. What we got was a masterpiece only a college town with 1 restaurant for every 4 people could master. You'll have to forgive the cameraphone in a bar picture:
They were quite tasty. Since they were basic, there was no meat. We couldn't compare with the nachos from earlier that day.
We left the bar because there was a free Irish session playing at another bar, they were going to be done soon. They played some authentic music, though it was a practice session, so they were playing for themselves and we were just listening in. Apparently we could have bought them drinks if we wanted to. We didn't even buy ourselves drinks. We just sat and listened for a while.
Last, we went to a bar with a live band. It had the poorest whiskey selection I'd ever seen. I asked the bartender if he had any bourbon. He picked up a bottle of Irish Whiskey. I went with a 7 and 7.
I would describe the band, but I would fail. I think it was Indian pop rock or something. There was a guitar, a bass, and a few other instruments. At one point, the lead singer, dressed in a wifebeater and tie, was playing the triangle furiously. All the while some people were dancing in the middle of the bar which had no dance floor. They were quite talented. The ladies knew how to show off their assets and the guys, well, the guy, knew how to show off the ladies assets.
I was a little toasted by this point, and I was now realizing I would have to be up early to make it to Sioux Falls the next day (remember, this all happened before the "So Tired" and "Alone" posts). What better to do while slightly drunk and tired than take Boxer up to the town overlook and walk around the safety fence for a better shot. I didn't have a tripod and the battery on my phone (which I've used for every picture so far) died the minute I pressed the camera button. I borrowed MsFrisby's camera, asked her to hold my flashlight on Boxer, and took a million pictures. The low light meant a slow shutter speed and I only had my knee to steady the shot. I held my breath and tried to steady the camera. One of the shots actually came out.
We got in the car and headed home. I passed out minutes after leaving boulder, letting MsFrisby drive the hour back home.
::Note: This all happens before the events in this or this post.
What would you say if you were on vacation at a national monument in South Dakota and you saw some kid lugging a 50 pound metal... thing down the granite walkway?
"Looks Chunky."
"..."
"..."
"Hi"
"..."
Nothing else. A lot of people stared. A couple of people stared, realized they stared, glanced up, realized I saw them staring, and awkwardly said "hi."
I felt like a well endowed woman wearing a low cut shirt.
It is Mount Rushmore. The president's faces carved into the sheer rock. You've seen it before. You probably got a better look at it, actually. It is kind of small, way up there on the mountain side. Cary Grant wasn't even climbing down it. Also, the viewing area was nothing like in the movie.
Some old guy came up to me and pointed way down below at the base of the mountain and muttered something about a mountain goat. We're at one of the most impressive feats of stone carving ever performed, a piece of national pride, and he is pointing at a mountain goat that just ran behind a tree.
I guess he'd also seen the monument before.
On the way back from the viewing area, someone did find the courage to ask me something about my burden.
"What is it?"
"My school's mascot."
"...?"
The brave question asker was stunned, but the floodgate, the conversation, was open. A small crowd formed and they all asked me the same follow up question:
"Did you lose a bet?"
"Lost the coin toss eh?"
I probably looked like I'd lost a bet. It is a long quarter mile (up hill both ways, naturally). I tried to explain to them that it was an honor to have Boxer, that there was any number of people who are jealous of the fact that I've touched him much less driven him across the country.
They probably didn't care, they were just wondering what the hell was going on.
I'm sure they won't be the last.
I do have an annual parking permit for the Mt. Rushmore parking lot. Anyone driving a "Blue 4DR" with an "OR" license plate can save the $7 if they visit the park before the end of the year and want mine.
The drive to and through North Dakota was pretty quick. I got unintentionally lost for the first time. Navigating using a combination of the sun (I knew where west was), a GPS (I knew exactly where I was, though not where that or anything else was), and google maps on the iPhone (I knew where I was trying to get to and where everything else was, but it could only be updated when I was in a town and I didn't know where I was).
I drove north and south a few times, only to realize I was going the right way the first time. I had just guessed my mileage wrong. I suppose I should use my odometer too. After putting all of the information together and getting re-oriented, I got back on the road.
I passed Lost Springs, population: 1. The sign itself was worth a boxer shot. I pulled off into the town (a fair feat, I wasn't driving slowly and the turn was close). I considered briefly looking for the sole inhabitant of the town, but I didn't know where to look. He could have lived in any of the 10 or so houses, the farm on the other side of the hill or the one on this side. Either that, or he worked in the bar. Maybe the "Antiques and Stuff" store. Maybe he lived behind that huge billboard telling tourists to come visit Lost Springs.
Maybe "he" was a "she." More likely, "he" was a "them."
No, I decided it was just a tourist trap with oddly drawn town lines so it could have pop: 1. I pulled off by the side of the road and cooked myself lunch. This was quite the adventure, it will be the subject of an episode later.
Anyone who has driven through South Dakota will recognize this place:
A marvel of roadside advertising, Wall Drug makes itself a necessary stop. Imagine a carnie town that centers itself around a drug store in South Dakota. There are all kinds of buildings built to look old. There are lots of narrow streets with rotting looking wood sidewalks that are not actually rotting. In fact, rotting looking wood is the primary building material for the buildings. At least, thats what it is supposed to look like, I'm sure it is just faux rotting wood paneling or something. I mean, Wall Drug proudly proclaims has been there since 1931. The other buildings sell "Authentic Gold!" or are an "Old Miner's Bar!" I thought I saw a miner themed video arcade too.
An interesting stop, a marvel of advertising. I didn't go in.
Yesterday I decided I was going to stay nearby. I was going to hole up in a motel (one that was at least a little nicer, wifi was a must) and get some work done. I still had video to edit from Coeur d' Alene and I was in North Dakota.
This would also give me the chance to relax I had promised myself.
I spent most of the day finding Tollef Tollefson. I did find him in an adventure that included mystery, tragedy, and a kindly old man. Then that kindly old man again. It'll be in an episode. (Yeah, I've promised two now and I haven't started editing either yet. Maybe I'll do another motel in a few days to catch up again.)
Anyway, I finished my search and decided to plan ahead for my room. I remember all those awesome Priceline Negotiator ads and decided to give it a shot. I searched for hotels that would give me the same price as the "so cheap your imaginary friends can sleep free" joint.
It put me at a cushy Mariott that usually charges twice the price. I guess they aren't kidding about saving 50%.
So I stayed in Sioux City yesterday, just over the border into Iowa. All I remember from Sioux City is that the city itself smelled odd. I kept trying to decide what it reminded me of. Some kind of food. If it had been delicious home cooking, I would have said it smelled great. Instead, it was probably some mill on the river. I decided it was sickening.
I only had a short drive to make. 3 hours the fast way, 4 hours the long way. I naturally took the long way.
I expected Iowa to be horribly boring. I mean, it's Iowa. You never hear anything about Iowa. Just some big midwest corn state. That's why I was stunned by this hill. I really enjoyed the trees and the fields beyond. I drove down it before deciding it was worth a Boxer shot. I found an old motel to park at and carried him down the road for a bit. There were a million butterflies about. They kept lifting off the ground, flying a few feet further in front of me, landing, then repeating as I caught up a again. A fun little dance, distracted me from the weight of Boxer.
I don't think the picture captures the view at all. Now that I look at it, it just feels ugly. I think the clean clear air (even next to the highway), the sounds, the butterflies, and the feel of the trees just made the environment.
I got back on the road and drove for an hour before coming to the windmills.
I had been fighting the wind the whole drive. The entire time my car pulled to the left. The northerly wind was strong. The wind turbines were no surprise. I decided I had a great opportunity for some Boxer shots and turned on a dirt road to go find them.
I had hoped to get right up underneath them, but I eventually gave up. I figured I could get a pretty good shot and took this picture.
I went to turn around and pulled a few feet further ahead... into a little road that led right up underneath one of the turbines.
It is tough to capture how big these things are. I'd say they were.... really big. I'll print it here in about as big a picture as I can get in an attempt to show the size:
These things are also incredibly unnerving. I'm sure the size of them is part of it. They are so slender and tall. then there are those gigantic blades spinning about. They look so slow from a distance, but when you are standing underneath them it is impossible to avoid imagining what would happen if that thing came off, way up there, spinning like that.
Then there is the noise. I thought about recording it, but I figured no recording would do it justice.
Imagine this:
The wind is blowing hard. You can hear it whistle by your ears, a low howl. The corn is dry and rustling about. Crackling and brushing in its tight rows.
The windmill is overhead, towering over you like a giant, completely ignorant of your existence, devoid of caring for your plight.
The generator hums along inside the windmill, the beating heart, the high pitch oscillating just right to resonate with the wind in your ears. Thoughts of a UFO in a bad sci fi movie fill your mind.
Then, on top of all of it is the maddeningly repetitive, predictable yet uncontrollable, woosh, woosh, woosh, woosh, woosh, the blades make as they spin so perilously overhead.
All the while, you are standing in the middle of a field.
In Iowa.
“Hello.”
A pause.
“Hey man, I haven’t talked to you in forever, what are you up to?”
Another pause.
“Yeah? That’s great. Yeah.”
A much shorter pause.
“So I just called to tell you something. I was going to send you a picture in the email, but I figured you’d want to hear. I’ve got Boxer sitting on my dining room table.”
Ahh, that's satisfying. To hear an alumni brag to another about having Boxer on his table. I definitely means something to these ex-students.
Especially for Jeff Wilmes. He almost broke his neck for Boxer 15 years ago.
There was a Boxer toss on campus. The tosses were basically multi-hour scrums where loads of people fought as part of groups to try to gain possession of Boxer. While he was resting from the fight, a wrestler came up behind him and suplexed him (tossed him headfirst) onto the ground. He was pictured in the school newspaper:
He looks a lot better now:
I’m staying at his place in St. Louis for the next couple of nights before I head back north. I’ve finally reached the Mississippi River and some big cities. I’ll tour the city tomorrow and post about it, naturally.
I made some mistakes on the way here though.
I let myself get hungry. Being hungry lead to being impatient. Impatient and tired. This will come into play in a minute
As I drove south from Iowa, the terrain changed from the browning corn to the rolling green hills of Missouri. Steinbeck had mentioned that he considered himself to be halfway across the nation when the landscape changed from green to brown. He was going west, I’m going east. I guess I’m halfway across.
The hills and trees were beautiful, definitely worth a stop to get some Boxer shots. It ended up being the most frustrating stops I’ve yet made, so I’m going to post a bunch of images from it to try to make it seem a bit more worthwhile.
I figured since it was such a nice area, I would use it as my GPS coordinate point for this post. The batteries in my GPS unit were dead, so I replaced them and set it on top of my car. I usually do that because it takes a few minutes to get a good signal after powering on and it takes longer from inside my car. Usually the amount of time it take to take the pictures or fill my car with gas is perfect to get a good reading of my location.
I’m sure you can see where this is going.
After I took the pictures, I hurriedly loaded Boxer in my car. Remember, I was hungry. I had driven good 10 minutes off the highway to find a good spot to take the pictures. The point where I had pulled off the highway was 20 miles from the nearest large town. I wanted food, I knew it was only 30 minutes away.
Boxer loaded, I jumped in my car and took off down the road.
I had taken a few turns to try to find this spot, and I wasn’t exactly sure which way I needed to go. I reached to grab the GPS which I use primarily as a compass when I’m not making posts.
It wasn’t there.
I had left it on top of my car. It wasn’t still up there.
It was only a minute or two back behind me and a long narrow gravel road that I’m sure no one else had driven. The GPS was bright yellow, for this exact purpose I’m sure.
I drove up and down that road 3 times carefully looking for the thing. I even walked halfway down it. Nothing. Couldn’t find it. Far more than a half hour had passed and I was still a half hour from my planned food stop. Frustrated, I reached in my car for a can of soup.
I needed calories.
The can gave me trouble. It was one of those pull top things. I had to pull it hard to get it to come off. I didn’t think about the consequences, I was consumed in the battle. Me and the lid, a battle for the contents of that Cambell’s can.
I ignored that little voice in the back of my head telling me to stop, to pull out now. The voice told me it was already I losing battle. I didn't care, I had to stay the course. I was going to come out victorious.
I did.
The soup, liberated, didn’t stay in the can.
It splattered all over my hands, my shirt, my arms, my ego. Beef chunks, bits of potato, red sauce. Everywhere. My shirt was, previous to this explosion of freedom, white.
I reached in my car for some water to wash it off.
There wasn’t any.
No water. None. Four empty gallon jugs in various places throughout my car, two empty pint bottles, one empty knockoff Nalgene. All dry. I started this trip with so many gallon jugs of water that I didn’t think about the fact that I was going to run out. All I had was one napkin that already had a bit of food on it (I had used it to clean my spoon) and some hand sanitizer (that I had used in conjunction with the napkin to clean my spoon). I soiled the rest of the napkin and cleaned my arms as best I could with the sanitizer.
Finally, I grumpily ate my soup. It was really salty. Water would have been nice. Figures.
I slowly drove out, looking for one small glimpse of that damned GPS device I was now blaming for the whole incident.
Knowing myself, I probably managed to put it somewhere in my car and forgot I did it. Somewhere stupid, like my camera case. I’ll probably find it tomorrow. (hoping).
I was still hungry, and now it was quite apparent to me I was really tired. I downed a Red Bull (I have a Costco case of them in my trunk, by the way).
I finally got to the town I was planning to eat at. I stopped at some Northside Diner or something like that.
after pulling into the parking lot, I looked down at my now orange shirt. It was crusty. It had to be changed. I reached into my trunk for a new shirt and was removing my old crusty shirt in the parking lot when a bunch of young girls walked out into the parking lot. They were arguing over who was going to get shotgun as I frantically rebuttoned my shirt. I pretended to be doing something really cool and important in my trunk, hiding my stained and partially buttoned shirt from them as they got into the car next to me.
I’m not exactly sure why I cared.
I finally got my shirt changed and went into the restaurant. I think I was the only one there under 70. The waitress called me “hun” and set me down with a menu. Everything was really cheap.
One of the advantages of the Midwest, I suppose.
I ordered a burger. I’m a fan of them if you hadn’t noticed yet. There were both French and American Fries on the menu. I was going to ask what the difference was, but I simply avoided the issue by ordering curly fries. It all came out in the most picturesque American diner burger experience you could possibly have. I suppose a glass 5 cent bottle of coke would have been the finishing touch.
I wolfed that thing down (the meat was a little dry and the bun fell apart, though I’m sure it would have been delicious had I been in a better mood) and got on the road. Still tired. I chugged another Red Bull.
No dice. I was getting too weary to drive.
For the first time on this trip, I pulled over and passed out. I slept for a full hour sitting upright in my car.
I began to feel better as the food turned into energy and my mind began to work properly again.
Oh, this guy entertained me. He was driving a purple and gold Harley (A nice color choice if I don't say so myself) at speeds that matched mine. We drove for quite a distance with him in about that spot. He had his head so low on his shoulders I imagine it had to be painful. It was like he was trying to hide from the wind, but he was too man to get a windshield or a helmet. Instead, he just looked like was torturing himself.
I guess that’s pretty manly.
Early on in today's trip, I did accidentally end up in Des Moines. This building was awesome so I took a picture in front of it. I don’t know what it was. My guess is the Iowa capital building, but who knows.
P.S. I've been informed that contrary to my post about Iowa not being that bad, people do talk about Iowa. Iowa is the birthplace of many important things like the SAT and ACT exams, Maytag, and John Deere. I think we are all thankful for the SAT and ACT exams. (Thanks Steve)
With that in mind, I decided to make the location for this trip Macon Missouri, hometown of the Toastmaster. I know this because the town water tower proudly proclaims it so.
This isn’t right.
My hand is damp, cold: clammy.
I’m a little dizzy. Disoriented.
Clink. I heard that. Barely. My ears are ringing.
A dark stain appears. It runs down my shirt. My shirt… wait, that’s not my shirt.
I’m wearing it, but it’s not my shirt.
I step forward a bit. Ungraceful, not purposeful.
Crunch. I definitely heard that.
The floor is wet. Covered in glass.
I start to raise my hand towards my mouth.
That’s the problem. My hand is empty. It wasn’t a moment ago.
Oh.
I’m not that drunk. Am I?
It was a beautiful morning in St. Louis Missouri. On my car, dead bugs were begging to turn the front white. In the sky, the clouds were fast burning off and the temperature was steadily rising to a nice comfortable middling warmth.I had a short list of places to visit and take Boxer pictures, though I only really intended to go to one.
My first order of business was to get a camera. A nice, high quality, still camera. I would have started the trip with one had I accurately guessed the course the trip would take. If I knew I was going to have Boxer. If I knew how difficult it would be to film and edit while on the road.
I know now, so I got myself a nice camera. One that isn’t attached to my phone. One where I have manual options, a zoom, a focus ring, aperture, shutter speed, depth of field.
I decided it was necessary when I looked back over my favorite pictures so far from the trip. They look great on the phone, on the website. I’m incredibly proud of several of them.
Large size though? The full 2 megapixels? Terrible. Grainy, off color. This is the case even if well lit, especially distance. I couldn’t print them or do anything that required quality imagery. They don’t even look great as desktop pictures.
So I had my camera and I headed to the only St. Louis landmark I knew I had to get a picture at.
I enjoy taking pictures with Boxer. I love the added challenge. The first issue, naturally, is that Boxer is heavy. A pain to get on site.
The second issue that he is only a foot or so tall. Most things that are worth photographing are high in the air. This means I have to find a way to get Boxer off the ground (we return to the heavy issue) or I have to get low to the ground. I’ve spent a lot of time lying in the dirt, cameraphone in hand.
Then there is the issue of the fact that he is a metal Chinese dragon dog. I wonder if Boxer has ever been through an X-ray machine before. He has now.
It was rather fun convincing the guys at the Arch security to let me take Boxer up in the little trams (speaking of Campbell’s soup cans, those trams are NOT for claustrophobics…).
“What is it?”
“My school’s mascot”
“Why do you have it here?”
“I’m taking pictures of him across the nation.”
“So you want to take him to the top?”
“That’s it”
“Does your school know you have him?”
“They do.”
“Would you tell me they did, even if they didn’t?”
“I would lie to you, yes.”
“I guess I can trust you then. He’ll have to go through the X-Ray.”
They wouldn’t let me take a picture of Boxer in the machine.
“So I have to know. Really, it doesn’t matter, but I have to know. Does your school know you have him?”
“I’m not sure if they knew when I first took him, but given that there is now a huge banner about it on campus, I hope they know.”
Waiting in line with Boxer seemed to take forever. The conversations with people about this thing were actually quite entertaining. It didn’t take long for people to get it and start offering suggestions about places to go and pictures to take.
When our little car of 5 people got to the top, stepping out of the door with Boxer was great. Gasps, laughter, I think someone even clapped. I’m not exactly sure why, but they loved the fact that I had carried that thing up there.
Pictures were tough. I still wasn’t terribly familiar with the camera and the lighting was far from ideal. It was too bright outside for the little lighting inside to do anything. I ended up with a lot of Boxer silhouettes against the square window.
I got one that came out all right.
After loading Boxer into my car I got a phone call. Jeff had warned me that he might not be able to have a place for me to stay. He would give it a shot, but things might not work out.
They didn’t.
I was out of places to stay. I decided to leave my car in the parking lot of the Arch (I now have a collection of 3 parking passes) and walk to the nearest Starbucks for a net connection. I’ve yet to actually drink anything there, but the net connection is fast, the power is easy enough to get to, and the seats are comfortable.
I hit up couchsurfing.com. It was a desperate shot. 4 O’clock on a Friday. I sent out 10 emails with my plight. I finished a couple of other things up online and worked on my living arrangements for the next week. (I should be all set through next Wednesday night in Illinois, Michigan, and Indiana).
That done, I headed down to the sports bars across the street from the stadium to get a cheap bite to eat and a local microbrew.
I had just sat down when a local came in, sat down, and ordered his usual. He was so confident that I ordered the same, a sausage and pepperoni pizza. We chatted for a bit. He was a local guy, a programmer that had just moved to town from Illinois. He was a nice guy, said he usually gave his extra pizza to a homeless guy. A hard worker, also mentioned that he had no love for Muslims, all they know how to do is blow shit up.
He ordered us both shots of wild turkey, addressing the waitresses as babe, honey, or sexy. They were, but that’s beside the point.
He was right about the pizza. It was delicious. I’ve also got to give props to the bar for serving it on the oven pan it was cooked on.
By the way, St. Louis and Chicago have a bit of a rivalry thing going on.
I was just about to leave. To go find a Walmart parking lot in the middle of nowhere to sleep in when I got a phone call. It was a response to my couchsurfing request. This guy was going to let me crash on his couch, but we were going to go out on the town. It was Friday night after all.
I drove out to his place. It happened to be a few blocks away from the camera shop. It was a nice area of town, I had no problem leaving my car there overnight. We chatted for a bit before setting out for the bars, looking for all the hot babes, the sexy chicas.
We watched the end of the St. Louis/Chicago game at Bar Napoli, it got exciting. Two outs, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, St. Louis down by two. They didn’t win, but the bar was into it.
We headed to a swanky rooftop club. It was really nice. It was one of those joints with round doors and red mood lighting. Unfortunately it was dead. We chatted with a couple of people before we decided to head to “the” bar downtown.
It “happenin,” loaded to the brim with guys with popped collars and bleached blonde women.
Now, if it wasn’t apparent by now, this isn’t my scene. I don’t go clubbing. I’m a terrible dancer and it isn’t my game. I’ll play the part, at least I’ll try, but I simply don’t enjoy it.
I understand the appeal. Going home with someone new is a thrill. It’s succeeding in your goal. It’s winning in the battle of wits and attraction, to have all of your careful preparation and grooming pay off. Maybe, in the morning, you’ll find that not only is she attractive, you can even stand to talk to her. Well then it’s love.
To further explain why I don’t enjoy this game, lets examine this little conversation I had with a woman who decided to tell me what I needed to change to “win.” Step one, she said, “pop your collar.” She even did it for me, helpfully.
“No.” I put it down.
“Fine, unbutton another button.” Sure.
“Then pop your collar.”
The conversation was over. St Louis, the “lou.”
They had some swanky clubs and some sexy bleached blonde women (I prefer brunette). I dropped my drink and had some fun. It’s interesting town, far more interesting that I had predicted, actually. All I knew about it previously was something about the Spirit of, and it’s flight across the Atlantic.
Tonight I’ll be in Chicago.
The warm sun beats through the windshield.
The breeze filters through the windows.
The temperature, all told, is perfect.
The crickets are chirping in the corn field.
The air is clear and smooth.
I'm drowsy.
I think I'm going to nap for a while. There is nowhere I'd rather be.
Central Illinois.
I'm not sure what these plants are, but I really enjoyed them. They appear yellow when you look down on them from above and green from below. The middling range was as high up as I could get Boxer.
You'll notice that if you click on images, it will link to high res versions of the same, in case you want a desktop picture or to go get it printed at Kinko's or something.
I took way to many pictures of this, having fun with the camera. It is just so satisfying to feel that shutter click.
All told, today was tame compared to the past couple of days. Just a nice relaxing drive through central Illinois.
The first thing I noticed when I was driving through Springfield Illinois was the power plant. The second thing I noticed was that the power plant was not nuclear. The third thing I noticed was the nice lake next to it.
I had some more fun with the camera, experimenting with the wide angle lens and the expressiveness in the clouds.
The sun was probably about an hour from setting and I was feeling drowsy again. I decided to pull off the road so I could fade in and out of consciousness in the cornfields until it came time to take some pictures. Once again, I love how expressive the clouds are.
To be fair, I did some photoshop work on this one. I darkened the ground around Boxer's feet as the flash caught that as well as him and it is not the focus of the picture.
I kind of want to go to Coeur d' Alene again when I'm done with all of this, just to carry Boxer down to dickhead. It seemed so far, so ridiculous then. I carried him considerably further today, and my body aches from the effort. I really should weigh him so I know what I'm carrying.
I drove into Chicago today without much of a plan for what to do. I picked up lunch downtown, a matter which I didn't think through very well. I paid more for parking than lunch itself, even though I ate at the corner of Guess and Gap, in the same building as a fur coat shop. I did get this guy-who-paints-himself-silver to pose with Boxer though.
That done, I went to take Boxer to Wrigley field. I have a frat brother who is enamored with the Cubs. It seemed the least I could do to take a picture in front of the sign.
It turns out that today was the last day they were offering tours. With a little shmoozing, I convinced them to let me take Boxer down to the field for free. I'll just post a bunch of these images in a row.
And there is more. Lots more really (I shot 309 images today), but I'm exhausted. I'm going to sleep and post more tomorrow.
I’ve got it down pat now.
First people just stare awkwardly. Usually there is a period of about a minute where no one will say anything. After that time, people’s curiosity overrides their fear of asking a stranger a question. The same question, worded differently, begins the conversation.
“[what’s the story with/what is/why are you carrying] your [dragon/dog/lizard/lion/…/thing/it]”
“It’s my school’s mascot.”
The follow up is obvious enough.
“What school?”
“Pacific University in Oregon”
I’ve had two people recognize the school, one grew up in West Linn. Usually people nod blankly and move on. Sometimes they ask where in Oregon, that’s easy enough to explain.
“What is it?”
“A Chinese Dragon Dog.”
This is usually good enough. If people started off the conversation with a guess of what it was, I’ll just tell them they were right. I have no idea what it actually is.
“So why are you carrying it?”
“I’m going on a road trip around the country, taking pictures with him.”
If they’re still interested at this point, I’ll give them a card with this website. This usually involves an awkward shifting of Boxer’s weight as I reach for my wallet with the cards.
“Looks heavy.”
“Yeah, that’s a good description.”
“So is this a greek rush thing/do you have to carry him/did you lose a bet?”
This one is tough to answer. I’ve got about a sentence, maybe two, to explain the entire history of Boxer and why it is an honor to have him. I think I’ve found the answer that both gains their interest and explains a lot.
“No, we stole him, actually.”
Yep, interest gained.
“Does the University know you have him?”
“They didn’t at first, but they do now.”
Sometimes they want an explanation of this. I’ll briefly help them out.
“Can I hold him?”
“Sure.”
What are they going do, run off with him? I’ve run with Boxer, they won’t get far. Plus, they don’t actually want him.
“Ooof. He’s heavy.”
“Yeah, that he is.”
The conversation is basically over here. Maybe we’ll go over where I’ve been or where I’m going next.
Anyway, after I toured Wrigley, I headed to Lake Michigan. I had never seen any of the great lakes before. I finally found a place I could park for free and it happened to have an excellent view of the skyline of some city/cities. It isn’t Chicago. If anyone knows what we’re looking at here, email me or post in the discussion. The location for this post is where the images were taken from.
I was amazed by the color of the water. It was a very interesting turquoise color.
Next I headed to the Sears Tower. This was unquestionably the most tiring exercise I’ve yet endured. I lugged Boxer through the entire tour they force you to go on before you take the elevator to what you want to see.
Chicago from 103 floors up.
Once again I had trouble with lighting. I also had to deal with the smaller windows near the floor since I was unable to hold Boxer and photograph him. I tried to balance framing the foreground (Boxer), the midground (the window), and the background (Chicago).
It was only about half an hour till sunset by the time I got up the tower, so I decided to wait around for the show. That horizon is apparently 50 miles away.
After our trip to the top of Chicago, I unloaded Boxer in my car and looked up dinner. I had competing recommendations. There was the cheezborger cheezborger cheezborger (no pepsi..coke) place made famous by the likes of John Belushi and there was the original Chicago style pizza place. Since I’ve had Chicago style pizza before I went with the Cheezborgers at the Billy Goat Tavern.
It was about a mile away and I had no desire to park my car again at the extravagant Chicago rates. I decided to walk there. Walking without Boxer felt great. It did occur to me that I was alone and walking through Chicago at night. I was, however, walking through the financial district. I figured I was fine as long as the buildings were over 50 stories tall.
Anyway, I got my Cheezborger, met a couple of guys that were also tourists, and drank a quite tasty house lager.
Food eaten, I was about to head back to the place I was crashing, about a half hour outside town. I decided to take one last trip back to that place with the nice skyline view. It was worth it. The night skyline was beautiful.
I love how the light plays on Boxer in these long exposures. (I was using the ground as a tripod with the camera strap wadded up underneath the lens for a little angle.)
Vehicles collided on the freeway.
I wasn't directly involved. Very nearly, but I got through it.
I'm ok.
My car's ok.
In fact, everyone is ok. There was no injury save a bruised shoulder on one driver.
That is a miracle.
He thought he was going to die.
It involved a fucking tanker truck
Lets go back. I was not feeling terribly well. Not sick, just... blah. I was already down two energy drinks and, with about an hour's drive left, considering a third. I could feel the caffeine struggling to do its job as parts of my body felt the surge of energy while others simply wanted to stop concentrating on anything. I figured that next drink may win that little battle.
I am still listening to tales of Captain Nemo's fantastical adventures under the sea. It had finally arrived at one of the interesting points (It is a really long book). Nemo was describing how he was going to get from the Red Sea to the Mediterranean in two days without crossing where Moses had walked.
While the narrator and Nemo were arguing about the logistics of speed, the distance around the Cape of Good Hope, and how this might work, the large 80's van started changing lanes.
You know the type of van. Big unwieldy thing. Not a VW. Thin brown stripes painted along the length of it. Ladder on the back.
The problem with this simple lane change maneuver?
There was a Focus in that lane.
Why couldn't the Focus just swerve out of the way?
He was pinched in by a Semi.
I pulled myself away from the Nemo's improbable situation that was likely to be solved by electricity in an era where electric conductive power was still about as magical as ion propulsion is today.
At first it seemed like the situation was going to dissolve like it normally does: start to merge, honk, swerve, correct, fret a bit, drive on. The van looked like he was going to pull away from the-
Oh wow, the blue Focus is swerving a lot. Is he going to be able to correct?
Nope. There was impact.
The Focus fell back, swerving to the right. There must have been horns blaring and tires screeching and I do remember hearing it, but all I really remember is the slow methodical voice of the reader of my book. I stopped paying attention to the Focus. My attention was on the van in front of me. It was now facing perpendicular to the direction it was going - to the direction I was going.
The moon was really low in the sky. A crescent.
It's amazing the things you notice.
I had been slowing down as the situation escalated. It was now clear it wasn't going to diffuse with a few frayed nerves. I hit the brakes hard.
I could feel the anti-lock pressing back. Every time I feel that I get a rush of relief that I bought this car.
The van collided head first into the barrier between the freeways. I swerved to the right, across the debris that was now spread across the road. The tires held, the brakes did their job. I slowed down, pulled over to the left.
Stop.
Breathe.
Been here before.
Hit the emergency lights.
Get out.
Jump over the barrier. I don't know what is going on over there.
Find out if anyone is hurt. It doesn't look like it. He's breathing. No blood.
He's ok, but the van is sticking out into the road. I walked up the road a ways. I shined my flashlight at oncoming traffic, trying to get them to move over, to get out of this lane.
A few of them got it. A few of them damn near hit the van. Like really close. Some were wedged between the van and semis.
Finally the guy in the van managed to get it started to pull it off the road. We crossed the highway to go check on everyone else.
I got their stories. The guy in the focus was spun about at one point, he thought it was all over, wedged between a van and a semi, backwards. He needed a cigarette.
Apparently there were two semis involved. I only remember one. The Focus was black. I distinctly remember it being blue.
How the hell did I lose a semi?
The moon was orange. It looked like a giant peach wedge in the sky.
But I don't remember two semis.
You’ll have to forgive my indulgence here. I talked with one of my friends back home and found out that this opening isn’t as effective as I had hoped it would be. I’m going to mess with it a bit here. Is it clear what I’m trying to get across? Can you figure out what happened?
This isn’t right.
My hand is damp, cold: clammy.
I’m a little dizzy. Disoriented.
Clink. I heard that. Barely. My ears are ringing.
A dark stain appears. It runs down my shirt. My shirt… wait, that’s not my shirt.
I’m wearing it, but it’s not my shirt.
I step forward a bit. Ungraceful, not purposeful.
Crunch. I definitely heard that.
The deep bass ripples through the air again.
I step, slightly after the beat.
Crunch.
The floor is wet. Covered in glass.
I start to raise my hand towards my mouth, to take a drink.
That’s the problem. My hand is empty. It wasn’t a moment ago.
Oh.
I’m not that drunk. Am I?
Yesterday I thought I was in danger. There were other vehicles moving unpredictably all around me. Just to add to the excitement, one was loaded with hundreds of gallons of gasoline. We were all headed at nearly 80 miles an hour on the freeway, at least at first.
Today was different.
Today there was a moral dilemma. Today I was in a situation that I will likely be imagining myself in again and again for years to come: standing there, on the other side of the fence, with my shirt and shoes off. Debating. Should I jump?
I was downtown Detroit with a forumite, Eloisa. There is a very nice park with a nice view of everything nearby. I snapped a bunch of great pictures of Boxer.
Downtown Detroit.
The Renaissance Center.
The park is right next to the Detroit river. I started snapping pictures downriver, towards the nice tourist boat and the bridge. Click, click, click. Different angle. Click. Readjust Boxer, Click.
Some guy jumped over the railing right in my shot. Annoyed, I turned and started snapping pictures in the other direction. It’s still a nice view, I thought.
Click. Click. Adjust Boxer. Click. Click. Splash.
“Huh?”
“Help!”
“Oh shit.”
The guy fell in. Or he jumped in. Whatever it was, he was in. He was in the Detroit river.
The river does not move slowly.
He could not swim.
I could, I can.
I swam competitively for 14 years.
I used to be a lifeguard.
I jumped over the railing. Eloisa grabbed my camera and Boxer. I handed her my phone, keys, and wallet. I kicked off my shoes. People were running everywhere. I pulled off my shirt.
Wait.
Stop.
Think a minute.
Should I jump?
The internal monologue was fast, powerful, frantic.
No: “This guy is panicked. He could pull me under. They warned about that in life guarding class. I don’t know the river. I don’t know what is going on. I don’t know why he is in the river. Did he fall or jump? Is he drugged out?”
Yes: “He is barely keeping his head above water and he is starting to get near that boat, further from a ladder. I don’t have much time.”
No: “I’m still wearing jeans, I know how hard it is swim in jeans. I don’t have anything inflatable to help keep him above water, no life guard tube.”
Yes: “I know how to save his life. No one else here does. It doesn’t matter if anyone else here does. I know how to save his life.”
“I can save this man’s life. If I don’t, he may die. He will die.”
No: “I can die.”
Do you risk your life to save another? A stranger? A stranger who may have just tried to kill himself?
Do you?
No really. Do you?
When the situation is in front of you? Now. You’ve got seconds. People running and screaming, yelling for someone to help.
Yes. Yes you do. A good person does.
A good person does not stand by and watch another person drown.
Yes: “I’m going to do it. Alright, behind him. Get behind him so he can’t get a hold of you. Jump in upriver… There.”
I stepped forward to jump and heard something. Wait.
“Grab a hold of this.”
The boat. There were life buoys on the boat. I didn’t think of that. Someone ran and grabbed a life buoy. Those round things. Lifesavers. I didn’t have to jump in.
One toss.
The drowning guy didn’t see it.
A second toss.
He saw it. A flail. A thrash. He got it. He’s going to be ok.
I’m going to be ok.
…
…
…
…
My heart is beating again just writing about it.
Was I going to do it?
Would I have really jumped in?
I told myself to. I decided it was the time, it was the place. It was now or never. It was the right thing to do.
Doesn’t mean I was actually going to do it.
I don’t even know if I should have done it.
It will be a long time before I stop asking myself that question.
Do you risk your life to save another?
Do you?
&I wasn’t sure what to do next.
For about a week, my stories just kept getting better and better. Without trying I was able to top myself time after time. There was the arch, clubbing, Chicago, Wrigley Field, The Sears tower, all these great stories. Then there was the accident and the Detroit River. How do I top that?
How do I keep improving?
I keep writing.
Well that’s obvious, but about what?
In two days, the only somewhat exciting picture I took was of corn in Ohio.
Well that’s not true, that isn’t being fair. There are quite a few interesting things that happened in the past couple days. Back in Detroit, for instance:
“Don’t stop.”
“I said don’t stop. If the car in front of you stops, go around him. If you are at a light, run it.”
“GO!”
“I told you not to stop.”
“If someone gets near the car, step on the gas. This is the ghetto of Detroit. We’re inside 8 mile. DO NOT STOP.”
Then, about 5 or 6 blocks later.
“Excuse me, do you have a permit? This is a PRIVATE park.”
“We just want to take a couple of pictures.”
“mmmmhmmm, well be quick.”
While we were in the ghetto, a few blocks previously, the only houses without broken windows and spraypaint tagged plywood doors were the ones that obviously belonged to the old ladies.
Then you cross the line.
Then the houses are nice brick affairs with fancy windows and big ornate front doors. Each successive block the houses get bigger, fewer of them on the block. After the 5th block, there is one house per block. Bonafide mansions with gates and curved driveways. It was clear that we (I was still with Eloisa, remember) were ruffian kids trying to get into that park to cause mayhem and mischief.
One of the more surprising things about Detroit was how the extremely rich and the extremely poor butt right up against each other so commonly. In most places there is a long gradual change between one and the other. In Detroit, you can take a wrong turn around a mansion and end up in the wrong part of town. Then you don’t stop until you are at a mansion again.
After Detroit I went to meet up with another forumite (who goes by the handle Paramour) in Fort Wayne Indiana I stopped once to take a picture in a nice long tree lined drive in southern Michigan, but I found that I had never turned my camera off after the Detroit river affair and the battery was dead.
Paramour was an extremely nice guy who made me a delicious dish for dinner. I can’t remember what he called it, but it had an informative history. He was an extraordinarily intelligent guy and I wish I could have stayed up longer talking to him, but I passed out shortly after arriving.
The next day I drove through Ohio. I’ve been to Ohio once before. I was not impressed. This time I was considerably more relaxed (last time I was coming down with mono, ugh) and I enjoyed myself some more, but I was still not impressed.
I do enjoy Stewarts brand root beer from time to time (nice stuff, you find it in bottles occasionally. There is also cream soda and I think an orange soda). Anyway, I found the original Stewarts root beer stand in central Ohio. It wasn’t the tourist trap I expected. In fact, it was pretty much your standard grease pit. Tasty, greasy burgers, a quality root beer float. They had tray service to your car, but I got out to get some fresh air.
I was the only one there the entire time and according to their signs, they were closing for the season in a week. A little research showed that they had sold the root beer to some big plant in New York.;/p>
Oh well, Boxer has been to the home of Stewarts Root Beer.
I got quite lost trying to take a shortcut back to the freeway and found myself stuck behind this Amish guy. I don’t think I will ever get over the strange dichotomy of these carriages in big cities.
I stayed the night in a hotel in Ohio. Priceline set me up very well again. I sat down and tried to edit the movies I had promised, but I couldn’t get the creativeness going. No matter what I tried, it did not work.
I tried to write a post. To get something online. I stared at my online form for a while, daunted by the fields I usually had no trouble with.
I opened up Word. My standby for writing longer posts.
The blank page was worse. Nothing. I could write anything. Create any worlds. Tell my story any way I wished. Nothing came to me. Nothing that could even compare to Detroit.
I tried to create another film. I had a brief moment of inspiration, an epiphany about the way my films work, but the feeling and inspiration fled me before I could edit it. I stared at the screen for a while longer.
What has happened? Am I out? Am I done? Steinbeck lost his good stuff after his first time across the nation. He had one traumatic great story in Oregon, then he lost it. He described everything that happened to him as he drove back, but it was clear that his story ended in Oregon.
Did my story end in Detroit? After two and a half weeks?
I hope not.
I did find this letter from Ms.Frisby’s daughter back in Colorado. It cheered me up a bit. (I blurred the name out).
I fell asleep while discussing my laments with a friend back home. In fact, I was out before the conversation was even over.
Next step, Buffalo, New York.
I did feel a little better in the morning. I looked forward to New York. I’ve only been to the east coast once before. That was when I was on my 8th grade Washington DC trip. It was fun, but I was young and we moved fast through all the attractions. I want to get a chance to feel the east coast like I’ve experienced the Midwest so far.
I realized that I hadn’t even thought of Niagara Falls and I booked a hotel there. Priceline wouldn’t give me a place for my usual price, but a few more bucks landed me in a 3 star place. That’s a whole extra star.
I drove directly there to see what the star and couple extra bucks were worth. It had a swankier lounge, a workout room (I planned on using this later), an indoor AND outdoor pool, and a more expensive restaurant attached. The room had more expensive looking furniture, more pillows, and the complimentary bathroom stuff was nicer. Not only was there was separate shampoo and conditioner (I can’t stand the two in one crap), but it was bath and body works orange ginger energizing aromatherapy shampoo and conditioner. I plan on stuffing that in my bag on the way out.
All this stuff was nice, but the Internet wasn’t free. Go figure.
The room scouted, I headed to the falls. Here I took the pictures that brought me back into the trip.
There is still fun to be had, pictures to be taken, people to meet, and distances to lug Boxer. I hauled him almost 3 miles. I decided against using the weight room after all.
By the time I got to the falls, the sun was setting. Excellent. I do believe this is my favorite picture so far. In fact, previously I had my desktop picture rotating through all the pictures I’ve taken so far. Now it is solid on this one. Feel free to click it for a high-resolution version if you would like to do the same.
Even the Canadian knockoff space needle looked cool in the sunset without the falls.
I was about to walk back when I remembered that there was still another half of the falls to see and a walking bridge over to it.
I wasn’t sure how far it was, but I wasn’t going to drive this far to miss a view. Plus it was right over there. It didn’t look that far.
I later found out it was a mile around to that point. Nice picture though. It was a bit better of a view of the falls, sans sunset though (sorry about the blur, I didn’t think of bringing my tripod).
I was still not to the other half of the falls though. That was a quarter mile away down a hill. It is really tough to slow down while carrying Boxer down a hill. People kept walking really slowly, cutting back and forth horizontally.
It was as if you could see them thinking:
“I’m going to stop and take a picture right…NOW.”
Barely missed that guy.
“Oh, let me move this stroller right in front of that kid trying desperately to slow down. That’ll be a great idea!”
I’ve never shouted excuse me with such… need.
She moved it.
Exhausted, I put Boxer down at the bottom of the hill. I was standing only a few feet away but some ladies who didn’t speak English (I have no idea where they were from, I didn’t recognize the language) sat and had their pictures taken with Boxer. I, with permission gained through gestures and smiles, took the opportunity to take their picture. Astute viewers may notice that the framing on this picture is horrible.
Hmmmmmm…
There was a lot of steam here and it was getting dark. I still didn’t have a tripod so I couldn’t get any nice pictures (Though I really wish I did. Long exposures of water look great). I do kind of like this one.
After all this I hauled Boxer back to my car. Stealing one of the little golf carts zipping around crossed my mind more than once.
I had hoped they would put all the nice colored lights on the falls like in the postcards, but they didn’t. There were lights, but they weren’t colored and they cast strange shadows I didn’t like. It wasn’t worth hauling Boxer back out of my car.
Back at my hotel I decided to mitigate the extra costs of the 3 star by using the coffee maker to brew hot water to make some ramen (with canned chicken breasts and canned whole kernel corn, that is a very tasty and filling meal. Warning, not low in sodium).
To Albany today, Vermont tomorrow.
The drive through New York was beautiful, boring, and efficient.
The trees on the sides of I 90 turn colors sooner than the trees elsewhere, no doubt due to the cars on the highway. This leads to a beautiful array of colors ranging from green to yellow and orange. I thought of stopping to get a picture, but didn’t want to pay the toll to pull off the tollway. That, and I’m really enjoying the new book I’m listening to, The Count of Monte Carlo. It is about 55 hours long, so I’ll be listening to it for a while.
From one side of the state until the other, 260 miles or so of straight, neat, tollway. There was a $10 fee for the drive. As a benefit, the road was flat and the speed limit was 65 miles per hour, a number that the frequent cops ensured was enforced. This led to great gas mileage. I approached 30 miles per gallon for the first time ever in this car. I figure the extra miles per gallon saved me $5 in gas, mitigating the cost of the drive a bit.
Speaking of calculations, I am approaching 70 degrees longitude, 45 degrees from where I left. That is roughly an eighth of the distance around the world by degrees. Since the circumference of the earth at 45 degrees latitude is cos(45)*25,000, or 17,000 miles, I’ve gone about 2,100 miles as the crow flies. According to my gas logs, I’ve driven about 7,500 miles.
With those numbers, I could have driven here, back home, then almost all the way back again were I going directly.
I got to Albany in the evening. My host was another forumite, Caleddin. He and a friend were sitting on the porch when I arrived, perhaps the least awkward greeting I’ve had so far.
During our conversations I found out he has quite a few similarities to me. He had just graduated college with degrees in philosophy and biology. My degrees are in philosophy and film. He had just finished a 2 month counter-clockwise road trip around the nation. I’m almost a month into my clockwise roadtrip around the nation.
We compared notes and methods of road tripping while we hit downtown Albany. Our first stop was a burrito joint. At first, I was reticent to get a burrito in New York. I’m from California after all.
I decided I’d like to see the New York opinion of a burrito. It turns out that I didn’t even really notice the burrito by the time it came, my taste buds had been so thoroughly destroyed.
We arrived at the place that was entirely different from any burrito joint I’ve yet been to. In California (and, to a lesser extent, Oregon), the Mexican restaurants are actually owned by Mexican families. There are the whole in a wall burrito joints and the nice taquerias. The former will only serve beer and the later may have a cantina, but it is primarily there to make margaritas.
This place was clearly American. It was loud, packed, and oriented around the bar. The bar made a lot of margaritas, but they weren’t the specialty. I know this because the specialties were interesting and intriguing and printed clearly on the wall.
I started off with a “hard cider.” It was Woodford Reserve Bourbon and fresh New York apple cider. Woodford is my favorite bourbon and the drink sounded interesting. Frankly, Woodford and New York apple cider are both better enjoyed in separate glasses.
While I was drinking this concoction, I tried in vain not to order the “old fashioned classic.”
Now let me first note that I believe a whiskey old fashioned to be the ultimate in drinks. It is simply the best way to bring out the complex flavors of the whiskey.
This was nothing like that drink.
It was a “40 oz Colt 45 served in a champagne bucket.”
I would never order this unless, well, ok, I would order this once no matter the circumstance. It is the ultimate in contradiction. Take the least classy method of getting drunk and serve it as you would the classiest method of doing the same.
Here it is, a 40 in a champagne bucket.
After dinner, (The burrito was unsurprising. It was not as large as I had been promised, kind of cold, and I don’t really remember how it tasted as I was drinking some of the worst beer ever brewed) we headed to the most genius bar I’ve ever been to. The guy who owns this place is a marketing guru.
First, it is a place with tons of different kind of beer on tap and in bottles. There was a huge range from tons of different countries. The place is clearly a beer drinker’s bar.
That, in itself, is not amazing. I’ve been to places like that before.
What was amazing was the computer in the back. There was a beer drinkers club. You put in your number and it prints out a list of all the beers you haven’t tried yet. It also prints the number of beers you have had to drink at the bar. After 40, you get a free T-shirt. After 125, you get a free mug on the wall to drink your beer out of and a discount on beer.
The opportunities in a system like this are amazing. You’ve actually made it productive to drink more beer. The next step is to add an Amazon style “you tried this, you may like…” suggestion system. The possibilities are endless.
The next morning I headed north to Vermont, to visit some of my mother’s friends. This is a wonderful place that I plan on staying at for a few days.
Shortly after arriving I got a phone call from a frat brother I had hoped to stay with in Chicago. While I was trying to get a hold of him, I was lost trying to figure out why his name sounded so familiar to me. It was in my head, something important, but I couldn’t figure out what. I wasn’t able to get a hold of him then, so I gave up and stopped worrying about it.
He called today and explained why I wasn’t able to contact him earlier, he had been at his cabin in Minnesota. I lamented missing the connection and told him I would give him a call if I ever came back through. It wasn’t likely, but you leave such things open.
Then it hit me.
He wrote “Over a Century of Brotherhood.” The history of the Gamma Sigma Fraternity. It is the canon that all the brothers memorize.
I called him back. He explained a couple of things that I was confused about and began to tell me stories from his pledging and his fraternity times. I decided that I could not miss the opportunity to meet this man. I will be driving back to Chicago after Washington DC. Such alumni are too important; such stories are too amazing to pass up. That is the opportunity of a lifetime.
So, I’ve still got this in my head. If you were to add a points system to the beer list, you could give away beers. Make the less selling beers worth more points and you can get rid of those while the regulars know to avoid them.
Why hasn’t this been done more often? It seems so simple and easy.
Since day 1, I have only had one CD in my car. The Red Hot Chili Peppers' newest album, Stadium Arcadium, disk 1. I only listened to it when I was first leaving a place or getting to it, and only then if I hadn't found a radio station when doing the same.
See, the iPhone likes to crash if you are listening to music, navigating, and downloading maps at the same time. At crucial turn making or music enjoying moments, having your map and music disappear can be very frustrating. Murphy is always present in electronics and if the maps and music are going to disappear, they are going to do it at a crucial turn making or music enjoying moment.
So I avoid this by hitting the CD button. I usually only end up hearing a couple songs in the short time it is on and I'm distracted anyway: driving and turning crucially and stuff.
Well, I finally got tired of the Peppers, so I switched the disk out. I put in Tool's 10,000 Days. A CD that never fails to make me think of a frat brother. One of the guys who is unendingly successful at getting on my nerves.
The story is set on the way back from a frat event. I was driving as usual, being one of the few guys with a working car. Throughout the event, he had insisted like a small child that we listen to this damned CD on repeat. The way back was no different. He whined until we put in much like I used to whine until mom put in the Sesame Street Oscar's Rotten Birthday tape, on repeat, for the 40th time in a row.
Fine, I do enjoy it, 10,000 Days is a pretty good album.
Then he insisted that we turn it up. I already had it pretty loud, but I relented. I also enjoy a really loud blaring (while driving down the freeway with the windows down and the wind in your hair) once in a while. It feels good to have someone else ask for it, to relieve me of the guilt of doing something so...unrestricted.
Towards the end of the first song, I glanced in my mirror to see if he was done, if I could turn it down.
I noticed he was tapping his leg and nodding his head, but entirely off beat. He was even mouthing the wrong words. This was between songs, there wasn't a beat to be off, no words to sing.
I had to take my eyes off him to pay attention to the road(imagine that). When I got a chance to look back, the next song had started, still loud.
I saw him adjusting his iPod.
He had his earphones in. He was still tapping and mouthing words.
The music we were listening to was loud, but apparently he had decided he was bored with it. Rather than telling us, or complaining until we turned it down, he had just put in his headphones and turned them up loud enough to hear over the music in the car.
*Sigh*
Oh brother.
The memory brought a smile to mind as I listened to the first song again. He can piss me off, but he is still a brother.
On another note, I'm still in Vermont with an extraordinarily nice family that is doing a wonderful job of taking care of me. (And they are reading this. I'm not above sucking up publicly). My car is in the shop, getting checked out to ensure that it doesn't blow up in the next couple of thousand miles. I'll still be in Vermont for at least two more days before I head around Maine and back down to Boston, NYC, and DC. The amount spent on gas should drop precipitously during this time, thankfully enough.
Vermont is stunning.
Hot, humid, muggy, and visually stunning.
When you sweat here, the sweat doesn’t just disappear in the wonderful cooling fashion it should. Instead, it drips.
It soaks your shirt and makes all your clothing stick to you. It requires a rag to keep it out of your eyes. In the humidity, sweat becomes a miserable salty bath rather than a refreshing cooling mechanism.
I got a patent lesson in this yesterday on the record-breaking hike my host took me on.
It was 3 and a half miles round trip with a 900 foot elevation change. The hike is the furthest recorded distance Boxer (this version) has ever been hauled by one person. I’m really hoping someone decides to shatter this record. A record of only 3 and half miles isn’t very impressive (although it appears to be much further with an almost exactly 50 pound pointy brass dog).
Hiking in the Green Mountains is considerably different from hiking the Sierra Nevadas, as I have always done.
Other than the humidity, the trees and the terrain are much different. The towering Ponderosa Pines and redwoods of the west have given way to the much wider, leafier maples and oaks in the east. Rather than be awed by the awesome height of the softwoods of the west, the darkness created by so many layers of thin canopy, the hardwood trees of the east provide a comforting, embracing, almost claustrophobic shade. The muted colors that adorn these trees, the hues of green, yellow, and orange provide proof that the seasons are indeed beginning to change. It’s a good thing too; the weather certainly wasn’t an indicator.
So here's Boxer, sitting on the top of the Snake Mountain, looking over the Champlain Valley, Lake Champlain, and the Adirondacks in upstate New York.
“Is that Champ?”
Champ, like Nessie, is a monster of the deep. The locals like to pretend he is as important as the legend. I doubt it. Champ kind of lacks the long-standing Irish legend aspect that Nessie has. In any case, a strange looking beast like Boxer getting his pictures taken at lake Champlain will bring joking questions like that.
In fact, if you were to tack that question on to the previous conversation that I kept having, it would be the same thing over again.
I likely sounded really tired and dismissive when this nice lady started the same conversation with me.
“You could say that,” I responded to her.
Sure, I’ll roll with the joke.
“What is it really?” She pressed further.
“My school’s mascot.”
“Oh? What school.”
I’ve been over this before. I’ve been over it enough times that it has become tough not to blow people off and be rude.
“Be a people person, Dean.” She had told me back in Oregon, before I left. She was right. I responded cordially:
“Pacific University, in Oregon.”
I have noticed that the further east I travel, the more surprised people seem that I’ve been this far.
“Ohh, I’ve been to Oregon before.”
I almost responded with the answer to the usual next question. The follow up is always, “What is it?” while they gesture at Boxer. The response that that question is, “a Chinese dragon dog.” I stopped myself before opening my mouth. Telling her that Boxer is a dragon dog had little to do with her statement that she had been to Oregon. Now that I think about it, she hadn’t even asked me a question.
“Oh really?” I asked. I figured a question should be asked. Of course, I didn’t really care, I was just trying to be a people person. We were off the usual conversation track and I was winging it. Sometimes people respond to the standard conversation with complete non-sequiters, to keep me on my toes.
For instance, One lady in Detroit asked if Boxer was a goat. “Sure,” I told her. She then proceeded to tell me that she had seen two goats that very day.
“Live ones.” she assured me.
How so very relevant, Detroit lady. This lady, the one currently blazing a new conversational path, wasn’t nearly as bad as the random goat comment lady. We were talking about Oregon and we are now physically far enough from the state that to have simply seen it is an object of discussion.
“Yeah,” she went on “I have a family member who lives in Portland. He makes movies.”
“Portland is a beautiful city.” I responded, still uninterested. In most cases I would be more responsive to someone who appeared to actually want to talk, rather than just fulfill their curiosity and move on. In this case, it was still hot and muggy, I was tired and a little grumpy. Frankly I was feeling sorry for myself. It took a moment, but I caught up with the entirety of what she had said.
Wait a minute.
What did she just say he did?
A filmmaker in Portland?
“Does he find enough work there? I know several filmmakers that find themselves bartending in Portland.”
“He must, he just bought himself a house. He does freelance work, an assistant camera operator for most every commercial shot in Portland. There are only three people that do what he does in Portland.”
Now I was interested.
Just the day before, my host in Middlebury had told me, “You never know when you will need that one person you met while hiking in the middle of nowhere to help you network and find a job. Use your assets.”
The conversation progressed, the lady told me more about this 28-year-old guy doing what I would love to do. I mean, I don’t want to go to Southern California, I really don’t.
I want to stay in Oregon.
I gave her my card, she gave me her card. She took my picture and promised to send it to him. I’ve already emailed her, thanking her for the conversation. I suppose she may load up this site and read this post. I hope she finds that the conversation has been at least somewhat faithfully represented.
Our little talk ended and I finished up with my pictures and loaded Boxer back into my car.
It was time to take a walk and explore the shops near the waterfront. I needed cash to pay for parking (which I never ended up needing to pay) and I decided I could really use a sweetened drink.
I was in a really funky mood now. See, my hosts in Middlebury Vermont were good friends of my parents from 30 years ago. They have two daughters roughly similar to mine. These people love to parent.
God bless mothers and fathers like this, people who will take in any wayward soul in need of some food and a place to stay. They will advise and comfort, feed and provide, and in some cases they can provide all of the above with the right smile or kind word. All they ask in return is the simple promise that such gifts are helpful and needed.
They are, oh they are.
But, like all parents, it comes time to leave. I crossed the state of Vermont (in an hour) to go visit their daughter at the University of Vermont in Burlington.
Burlington is the classic college town. Lots of old slightly run down houses lining slightly worn down streets next to a huge bustling eclectic downtown scene.
The whole town is obviously a college town atmosphere. While I was on the waterfront today I walked by a young guy sleeping upright on a park bench, head back, dopey smile on his face, joint (or possibly a hand rolled cigarette) gripped firmly in his lips. A person like that is only found in a college town. Unfortunately I didn’t have my camera with me, I was still scouting where I wanted to take my pictures.
My new host is definitely a college student. She is busy with lots of homework to do, pretend to do, to put off, or simply not do. She lives with four other girls that are all awesome, but busy. Everyone is coming in and out, running to this obligation or that. All day things change as people run around, busy.
“I have to go volunteer.” She told me. It is a class assignment. Last night she ran out to play broomball, a form of hockey played with a broom instead of a stick and tennis shoes instead of skates.
She woke up early this morning to go to class, though she lamented that she strongly considered just not going. She could miss one day.
Yep, that’s college.
I miss it.
I miss the obligations and the frustrations, the assignments and the guidelines, the politics and the parties. Mostly though, I miss the people.
I mentioned earlier that I want to stay in Oregon.
I’m not sure if that’s the case though. I want to stay in school. Unfortunately, school won’t stay around for me. If I go back to Oregon, all the people that I would want to go back for will leave, eventually.
I suppose I have a couple of years of friends there. I could work in Portland for a couple of years, getting some job experience in my actual field. I could hang out with those people still in school while getting a little more prepared to leave, because it is obvious to me that I’m not prepared to leave.
I mean, I was standing on the waterfront in Vermont, on a nationwide road trip, seeing the country and having fun doing it, wishing I was in Oregon.
That guy made it. He is a filmmaker in Oregon.
To say I was in a funky mood is definitely the best I could describe it.
I finally found that sweetened drink I had been looking for. It was in a “market and deli” that was more of a deli then a market. In fact, it was entirely a deli, without a market of any sort. They did sell specialty sodas to go with the sandwiches, including a Vermont Tangerine Cream Twister Soda. A brief glanced proved that it was, indeed, a hippie soda. It promised it had no artificial flavorings or colors. The ingredients list was short and everything was pronounceable, so I believed the natural claim. The soda was clear, so I believed the coloring claim.
It tasted simply delicious. It was just smooth enough to savor the orange flavor, just sweet enough to be a soda, and had next to no salt, so it was refreshing. Not to mention the bottle matched the color of the fallen leaves.
We’re going to Maine tomorrow. Boxer is going to see the Atlantic Ocean, at last.
I'll admit, I was a little apprehensive approaching last nights host. It was the longest stretch of a relationship I could possibly imagine without the comforts of simply being able to admit, "this person is a complete stranger that I met online a few minutes ago."
On my way to Maine, I crossed through New Hampshire where I drove around trying to find a good spot to take a picture of the trees. This is magnificently difficult. To try to capture the feeling of the changing trees in a picture is likely to be as insignificant as a "what I did this summer" essay is to be as to describe a summer vacation.
After New Hampshire I first came to realize that the apprehension I felt towards meeting these new people was greater than the apprehension I've felt towards anyone yet. Since I was here through an actual connection, it mattered what they thought of me and what I thought of them. If they had been strangers, a bad match would leave me to only either dealing with it for a night or simply getting in my car and leaving.
I first resolved to put off the issue by driving straight past their house, headed instead to the beach. At first I feared the beach may be some distance, but it turned out to only be half an hour. I may have seen the Atlantic ocean before, but if I did, I certainly didn't care.
This time I cared. The salt air that filtered in through my open windows as I approached felt great. I parked and ran up the little pathway over the dune to the beach with all the exuberance I used to have as a kid on weekend trips to the beach.
Thousands of miles (The mile counter hasn't gone up in a while because it has been several days since I put gas in my car.) later, I finally crossed the country.
The beach itself was nice. I noticed the sand was yellower than I was used to. Also, the waves were slightly larger than the ones on some of the lakes I've passed. In other words, they were pretty lame. Still, it was the beach.
For the first time in my life, I stood looking out over the ocean while the sun was setting at my back. I've seen the sun set over the ocean countless times, considering I lived on the west coast my entire life.
The difference was quite beautiful. The sunset behind me gave the clouds a range of soft purple hues that beautifully blended with the soft blues above them in the sky and below them in the sea. The lone seagull nicely offset Boxer to help balance the image. The resulting rainbow of freezing hues was a complete contrast to the sky that appeared to be lit aflame behind me.
Before I left, I turned and snapped a couple shots of the sunset up the beach. The result turned out to be one of my favorite pictures so far (I love sunsets, if it wasn't apparent).
Just in case anyone is curious what kind of tracks Boxer leaves:
I packed up everything and got back in my car, ready to meet this family. It wasn't long before she asked the question that had worried me so.
"So how do you know our family, again?"
"Well, see, your brother's wife."
"Rose."
"That's right, she lived in the same house as my mother 30 years ago."
"Wow, well we're not strangers to coincidences. I wouldn't have met my husband if we hadn't been at the same auto shop getting our pumps changed at the same time."
"Whoah."
They turned out to be wonderful people. I had a great time chatting with them and their son. She made dinner while we played pool. I was handily beaten three times before I decided to show them a favorite pool game of mine. There is only enough competition to make it interesting for everyone involved, but it is so difficult that I have yet to see anyone actually complete the game (though my hosts got incredibly close).
Dinner was fantastic and they assured me that I could stay as long as I wished (though a year might be pushing it, came the caveat). I was tempted, I really enjoyed staying with them, and I'm sure there is a lot to explore in Maine. I already had all my plans set for the next day though. I have a place to stay right outside Boston and I am ready to start hitting the big eastern cities I've heard so much about.
I'm currently writing this from right outside Brown University in Providence Rhode Island.
Driving into Rhode Island was interesting. First, because it is one of the few New England states with the good sense to actually use mile markers as a basis for exit numbers. Second, because I was supposed to take exit "27" from the freeway. I feared that this was 27 miles into the state. Instead, I turned out that, no, 27 is the second exit in RI. Highway 95 runs diagonally through the state - and that distance is only 27 miles. Got to love Rhode Island.
It is high time to have another interesting bum post.
These guys are clearly not homeless, but they were trying to get my money so I guess it counts.
Their sign read, "Family slain by ninjas...need $ for Karate lessons."
I've heard the joke before, but I've never seen it. Plus, the guy with the guitar was playing Johnny Cash in a hardcore death metal fashion.
I laughed, took a picture and gave them a couple bucks.
I haven't been out of the school for 4 full months and I got a call from a disinterested student asking me to donate back to my alma mater.
Seriously Pacific. 4 months.
He asked if I had put my media/philosophy degree to use yet.
Well, I suppose I have. I'm on a road trip writing about what is going on and I made a couple films about it, but I'm in no position to donate cash to the institution that has received more of my money than any other business.
I've heard the school calls recent alumni asking for money, but 4 months?
At this rate, they'll piss me off far sooner than I'll have money to give them.
I wonder if I should make this an "interesting bum" post, given that my criteria for a bum is someone trying to get money for nothing...
Where do we come from? What are we? Where are we going?
I had heard the question before. I assumed it was from a philosopher. After all, I first read it in Calvin and Hobbes. Calvin replied with something along the lines of, “I came from my room, I’m a kid with big plans, and I’m going outside.”
I was wrong. Paul Gauguin was a painter. Well, I suppose he was probably a philosopher too, but his medium was not a book, but a painting. I saw it today at the Museum of Fine Art in Boston. It was next to four original Monet paintings.
Previously, I have never been a fan of Monet. This is the case for impressionism in general. It just didn’t really do it for me. Pictured in a book, a poster, or even a slide on a wall, it didn’t have the impact that so many other awesome paintings did.
In a gallery though, the original paintings are breathtaking. They have such magnificent use of light that they seem to glow on their own. Then the textures of the paintings capture the gallery lights in such a fashion that as you walk across the room, the light shifts and highlights different parts of the subject.