Bike Obituary

On June 26, 2012, one of my most valued possessions was taken from me, cut from it's steel tether opposite my front door and hauled off into the night.  My beloved mountain bike was stolen.  It pains me deeply, because while I still own two other bicycles, both road bikes, my mountain bike was my first full-sized bicycle and my first as an "adult", even if I got it while still a teenager.  It bears many memories, and has served me faithfully over the years.  It won't be forgotten.

My former mountain bike, picture taken in 2010

I got the bike for Christmas from my dad in 2002.  It was a Cannondale F500 mountain bike, essentially a lower-end middle-point in the mountain bike spectrum.  Equipped with all of the bells and whistles of a bike from its time--Cannondale's proprietary "Headshok", grip shifters, and large climbing bars--it was a good bike for me.  However, despite being brought up in a biking family I had no real grasp of what was what in the bicycle world outside of what I overheard from my parents, and one paradigm rang loud enough for me to internalize for years afterwards:  Cannondale was the best.

Of course I now know this simply isn't true, and I've even grown a slight grudge against Cannondale for their excessive use of proprietary parts and sizes.  But at the time I formed the idea in my head that my dad spent a few thousand bucks on this brand new Cannondale.  The truth is that it retailed for $600, a generous Christmas no doubt, but far less than the number I created in my head.  I was very grateful and appreciated the gift and rode it a few times in the coming spring but the sad truth is that a mountain bike is just not a terribly useful thing to have in Richmond Indiana.  There are no mountains to mountain bike on.  There are a handful of single-track trails for the enthusiast to ride, but they are few and far between and absolutely not an option for a car-less teenager.  So the bike sat under my dad's lean-to for a few years with very little use, save for the very, very occasional bike ride with friends.

A few brief anecdotes concerning my mountain bike from this time in my life revolve around women.  Being the lovesick and very confused adolescent that I was, I felt it was a good idea late one summer to ride my bike from my dad's house to the house of girl I was pining after.  The girl had no idea I was coming--in my mind, she would be outside tending to her horses and I would just so happen to be riding by--and she lived rather far away for someone whose idea of exercise at the time was walking from class to class.  Google Earth now tells me my ride was five and a half miles one way.  It certainly was a long and painful ride on my mountain bike, with it's fat, knobby tires and low gearing.  But I made the trip and discovered the girl was indeed not outside tending to her horses.  Not having the guts to knock on her door I turned around and pedaled home, defeated.  Luckily for me, the girl turned out to not be worth any further bike rides.

A few years later I found myself riding my bike to see another girl, this one much closer--she lived less than a mile from my dad.  Parking my bike next to her house, we commenced to talk the night away.  I had lied to my dad and told him I was at a friend's house who lived very close to where I was.  As the twilight faded to a deeper darkness, I grew afraid and called my friend's house.  When his mom answered the phone, I asked that if my dad called asking where I was, that she say I was playing video games and would be home shortly.  She reluctantly agreed, or at least pretended to agree, and I continued to pursue this fine young lady.  Finally, when it truly got too late for me to stick around, I fearfully rode home and completed the lie saying I was indeed playing video games.  Nearly five years later, that girl I visited would become my loving girlfriend and partner, and that first brave visit to her house was only possible because of my beloved bike.

Keri and I, on the night of my deceitful bike ride

For the most part, however, my mountain bike sat unused under my dad's shed until I graduated from high school and entered college.  Despite living about a mile away from the school I was to attend--Earlham College--I obviously wanted a faster means of conveyance than my feet.  I beckoned for my bike and it came to me, and served ever faithfully as it bore me daily to my place of higher learning.  Through rain, wind, snow, sleet and sunshine I rode my hardy little mountain bike, only walking or getting a ride from my mom in the most dire of circumstances.

Honestly this time in my life is when I used my mountain bike the most.  I remember one time, very early in my stay at Earlham College, when I was riding in the night with an acquaintance and my then-girlfriend.  My acquaintance, a roady from the East Coast, was annoyed with the slow pace maintained by the two mountain bikes following him.  In an energetic mood, I challenged him to a race.  The funny thing is that up until that point I had no idea that road bikes had a higher gearing than mountain bikes, and that it was virtually impossible for a mountain bike to keep up with a road bike on payment.  As my acquaintance zipped away from me, I learned then and there that maybe mountain bikes were not the only kind of bike to have.

Another memorable moment from that year of dedicated bike commuting happened over the winter.  I rode my bike to school even through the snow, most days, but one afternoon it began to sleet rather nastily while I was at school.  Ever persistent, I saddled my blue friend and slowly made my way towards the road via the grass.  This was smart, because the moment I touched the sidewalk, both tires flew out from under me and I landed on my side.  Hearing the ear-piercing "awww" of two girls behind me, I jumped to my feet with burning cheeks and got back on my bike.  The same thing happened just seconds later.  Defeated, I solemnly walked my bike home.

It was during the winter that year that I learned a very useful and fun trick on my mountain bike.  I learned to ride with no hands.  Now, I had received some jeering from friends for not being able to brandish this skill usually earned early in childhood.  In my defense, I grew up in a mountain biking world.  You simply don't remove your hands from the handlebars while mountain biking.  Also, my overly protective parents probably had a hand in that.  But, I learned to ride with no hands in a somewhat interesting way:  it was simply too cold to ride with my hands.  Not having gloves, I had taken to wearing wool socks over my hands.  This did an alright job of not absolutely freezing my fingers in the early wintery mornings, but I found it was hard to grip the handlebars and ride with socks on my hands.  So, I slowly began to take my hands off of the handlebars for longer and longer periods of time.  After about a week of experimenting with this, I finally got it down and by January I was riding most of the way to school with my socked hands in the pockets of my leather coat.

The most catastrophic thing to happen with my bike--excepting its ruinous theft--happened that year.  While riding on campus one day, I heard a very loud pop and clang, and looked down to see my largest chainring had horrifically bent itself out from the rest of the crank.  Completely confused as to what I had done, I called up my dad and he took the bike in to fix it.  Getting a new chainring from the local bike shop--which I would be employed by just two years later--he fixed it and his diagnosis was that one of the chainring bolts was not securely tightened.  My torque while pedaling then caused the chainring to pull out and mangle itself. While working at this bike shop later in life, I would discover a small collection of similarly damaged chainrings.  It always amused me to see these.

At the end of that year I finally got my first car, my hand-me-down green Saturn.  Driving to my summer job, my precious mountain bike found a new occupation: it bore me on the several nights of what me and my friends would come to call "rollerbikein."

"Rollerbikein", or more sensibly "roller biking" was the night time recreation me and my friends found ourselves doing nearly every night the summer after our first year out of high school.  Usually starting sometime between midnight and 2am, we would meet in the town of Centerville--where we went to school--and simply ride aimlessly around the town discussing everything from the ravings of Henry David Thoreau to events that transpired while we walked the halls of Centerville High School.  We went until we couldn't bear it any longer, sometimes heading home as late as 7am.  I was most definitely late to work more than once that summer.  It was a good time in my life, and those memories all happened on my mountain bike.  Rollerbikein, by the way, got its name from the fact that one of my friends would often roller blade instead of bike.  The German twist thrown on the end--say the word out loud with a gross German accent--came about from a typo one night while instant-messaging a group of girls we wished to join us.  They did not.

When college started back up my bike saw less and less use.  I rode to school rarely, usually driving my newly obtained car.  One particular little adventure which stemmed from a bike ride that year caused me to wind up in an abandoned gravel pit.  A friend--the friend who often roller bladed while rollerbikein--discovered the abandoned gravel pit near his house.  We decided bikes would be the most sensible means of an approach, as it was illegal for us to be trespassing, and we could hide the bikes in the brush next to the road.  We dubbed this discovery "Utah", for its rocky terrain seemed very foreign to us and our agriculturally-tuned minds.  We only visited "Utah" a few times, as fear got the better of us.  "Utah"'s interesting qualities also waned rather quickly.

The alien world of "Utah", which was really just a gravel pit.

At the end of that year I decided to take a leave of absence from college.  Over the course of that summer I saved almost all of the money I made from my summer job and put it towards one of my most ambitious undertakings:  a self-imposed period of vagrancy in which I would travel westward across the country with no real aim other than to see what the land had to offer.  A decision I made early in this endeavor was to bring a bike with me:  half for fun, the other and more important half as insurance in the event my car would break down.  And it did.  But, that will come later.

Despite just getting my hands on a 1985 Cannondale road bike from my dad, I decided to take my mountain bike as I could also ride it on trails and it would still serve its purpose of being an alternate means of transportation in the event my car died.  With my bike perched on my bike rack, and my cable lock tethering it to the chassis of my car--the same cable lock which the thief cut to get to my bike just a week ago--I headed out across the country.

Taken on the grasslands of South Dakota.

Only a few days into the trek I removed the wheels from my bike and stowed them inside my car.  I was worried a thief would take them.  For most of my journey, my frame sat strapped to my rack, the chain dangling in the interstate's wind.

My mountain bike finally got to see some mountains, for the first time in its life, in the Black Hills of South Dakota.  One morning I awoke, inside my car, and decided I was going to mountain bike.  So, I climbed onto the saddle and set forth on what I can only assume was the Old Baldy Trail.  It was a very difficult ride for me.  I hadn't really been mountain biking since I was probably nine or ten years old, and you can bet I wasn't riding anything that technical or grueling then.  Truth be told, I believe the trail wasn't that bad of a trail, I was simply out of shape to a gross degree and had very little experience.  Despite this, I powered on, and eventually reached the final steep climb.  There was no way I could pedal up that, so I pushed my bike to the top.  Enjoying the view, I was still very proud.  On the ride back, I nearly ran into two much more serious cyclists.  I'm sure they thought little of me, as I was huffing and puffing up a very slight incline.  Still, I was mountain biking.

My success shot.  Note the very small water bottle.

My bike wouldn't see much action until I reached Oregon.  Wyoming was met with hiking and camping, and I only drove through Idaho.  By the time I reached the other side of Oregon, almost to the coast, I noticed the oil light on my car glaring up at me.  Panic struck as I pulled off on the next rest area.  Checking my oil, I discovered I had burned almost all of it away.  My negligence had finally caught up with me.  It was in that moment that my insurance came through for me.  Replacing the wheels to my trusty mountain bike, I set off in search of oil for my dry car.

I of course did not ride on the interstate directly, but took to the wide stretch of roughly cut grass running alongside the pavement.  What I soon found, however, was that briers and thorns laced this deceiving grass, and I frantically stopped riding for fear of getting a flat--the last thing I needed.  Luckily, I spied a road on the other side of a fence next to me, so tossing my bike over I made my way safely towards town on pavement.  I soon found a small gas station, where I bought as much oil as I could from a Chinese man who coyly asked if the oil was for my bike.  In no mood for fun, I returned to my bike with four quarts of oil, a whole gallon.  It was then I realized I may have gotten myself into another pickle.  I set off anyways, juggling the four quarts of oil as they shifted frustratingly inside of the plastic bag.  I was happy I could ride with no hands.  I ended up getting back to my car, and with some kind strangers help we got my car running.  My mountain bike really saved me then.  Otherwise, I would have been stuck on the other side of the country with nothing to help me but the soles of my shoes.

Its hard to see, but my bike is safely resting on the back
of my car, next to a truly majestic life-form.

My trip concluded with no other interesting bike stories.  When I finally returned home, I found myself chasing down my friends in Centerville on my mountain bike to let them know I was back.

My road bike understandably took over as my dominant bike, for as I said earlier, a mountain bike has little use in Richmond, Indiana.  During this time in my life, it was mostly ridden by one of my bike-lacking friends, who occasionally joined us in one of our bouts of rollerbikein.  I took it trail riding a few times in nearby places where one could pretend to mountain bike, but these places were too far away for me to do it often.  After a painful winter I found myself employed at the local bike shop and thus began my education in bicycles.

During my time at the bike shop, my friends and I ventured one evening to create a new sport:  a form of bicycle soccer which we called "boccer."  We didn't know it already existed, and in a much more extreme form, but we were still content with our idea.  Setting up a field in our old high school parking lot, we established a team of two bicycles versus two roller bladers.  Kicking and shoving a soccer ball with whatever we could, we had a ton of fun playing our crude game.  I manned my beloved mountain bike, for it was slower and easier to maneuver than my road bike.  My favorite memory of this game was when I slammed onto my front brakes--a no-no in the bike world--and went over the handlebars.  Or, at least, that is kind of what happened.  It all happened in a splendidly slowed state of time, as the back wheel arced up and I felt myself rise.  I swear I hopped very briefly on my front wheel as I tried to shove the back wheel down.  However, I did not have the dexterity to accomplish this, and went down as my bike crashed below me.  I came out with nothing more than a few scratches on my hand, and all my bike got was a scuff on its new saddle.  We quickly resumed playing.

A few years later I would be leaving Richmond, Indiana for Bullhead City, Arizona.  My bikes of course followed me, and I was anxious to ride my mountain bike in the desert.  However, when we came to the barren spit-stain that is Bullhead City, I discovered that the dirt floor of the Mohave Desert is far too loose and soft for aimless roaming, and there were no mountain biking trails I could discover in my vicinity.  And so my mountain bike sadly sat longer, until I quickly moved to Tucson, Arizona, where I am now.  At first I reluctantly decided to try and sell it.  It needed a lot of work to be the mountain bike I wanted, and I was frustrated with what I would have to do to get it running the way I wanted.  I posted it on Craiglist for $300 and got a hit, but he was slow to follow-up and in that time I decided I did not want to sell it.  The bike simply meant too much to me.  I figured if it was so hard for me to force myself to let it go, I shouldn't be getting rid of it.  So I kept it and began to happily plan for what I was going to do with it.

I wished to take it into the mountains, but put it off as my girlfriend Keri--yes, the girl I rode to woo earlier in my tale--does not have a mountain bike and I wanted to share that experience.  Already having my two road bikes and Keri's bike in our apartment, with little room for much else, I reluctantly locked it to the wooden railing in front of our third-floor apartment.  You couldn't see the bike from the ground.  It was locked with the same cable lock that secured it throughout college and across the country, and although I knew it was the least secure option, it was my only option due to the spacing in the wooden railing.  It stayed safe for a few months, but it was finally taken from me.

Goodbye, Yamamaru

The recalling of these memories, which don't even fulfill the whole spectrum of what I've experienced with this bike, have made me miss it even more.  I loved the bike.  I lovingly called it "Yamamaru" later in my time with it, giving it a Japanese name which could be translated to an affectionate name for a mountain.  It pains me to know that it was more than likely sold for drug money, and will probably never have a good home again.  It will likely never see the Arizona mountains I so wanted to take it to.  It may even be in pieces now, maliciously stripped apart and strewn about the world.  Evil men take bicycles.  A good bike can free our souls, and only the very cruel can take that from someone.

Concrete Cyclist

I think one of the most intriguing and essential life lessons I have learned lately--and am still learning--is that there is more than one way to do something.  This may seem obvious, but in a world where we are surrounded by self-proclaimed experts, whose way is the one and only right way, this fact can become cloudy or even invisible.

I am, by trade, a bicycle mechanic.  I currently have a little over a year and a half of experience working as a mechanic in a small, privately run shop.  Within the dirty, grimy walls of Ike's Bikes I developed a set of very specific skills to repair, diagnose and build bicycles.  Being in a tiny "closet-sized" shop in the middle of a place where bicycles are not revered and at best tolerated, I was taught with fire and malice, wielding it to subdue stupidity and misconceptions as they came at me almost constantly during the warmer months of the year.

The hell-fire I proudly consider home.

Now, living in Tucson Arizona, I find my weapons are blunted by a generally heightened sense of cyclery and I will not lie:  I find it disheveling.  However, as I hold fast onto what I hold dear I can't help but marvel at the diversity in opinions and approaches.  I also find it amusing how out of place I can be.  I take pride in my simple and affordable approach to nearly everything.  While so many of my new colleagues relish the technologically fresh and cutting edge, I confidently tighten my grip on decades old technology, keeping a keen eye open for relics from this bygone age of bicycling that are still in good condition.

Beautiful.

My girlfriend and I are the only ones who ride old lugged steel frames to work.  That also means we're the only ones who ride on 27" wheels.  Although this will soon change, I love it.  Where others look for two hundred dollar threadless stems I would love to get my hands on a thirty or forty year old quill stem from Italy.

A beautiful lugged steel frame; I'd take it over carbon fiber anyday.

It saddens me that a common misconception about people first meeting me is that I am some kind of die-hard cyclist.  The truth is that I reject the label "cyclist"; while I agree that in its essence I am a "cyclist", I feel the much more potent and visible connotation of a spandex clad, aggressive and narcissistic athlete couldn't be farther from the truth when it comes to my own disposition.

I don't own a bike that properly fits me.

I don't want to use--and have never used--clipless pedals.

I would never own anything made of carbon fiber on a bicycle.

My riding attire is what I wear at work, lounging in the house, or walking through the mall.

You'll never see me like this.

Not all "cyclists" are bad:  some are humble, self-aware, or just simply not dicks about it.  But I'd much more quickly and happily throw my lot in with the enthusiastic commuter.  I ride to work most days.  I enjoy going out for a joy ride.  I'm not an athlete at all.

Because of this, I can't really say a lot about riding stance or bike fitting.  My expertise extends to if a bike fits someone or not--and even then there are a lot of grey areas with my method--and that is about it.  I can help people get more or less length on a certain aspect of the bike, but if that is good for them I usually can't help that much.  Instead I get to listen to my coworkers and managers talk to customers about all of these abstract concepts that I both don't understand and don't care about personally.  I am, in most things, concrete.

At the end of the day, I've learned that just because I can't precisely fit someone to a bike doesn't mean I don't know what I'm talking about.  I can still fix most things on a bicycle, and keep my bicycles running for hundreds of dollars less than some people.  My natural feel for the mechanics involved in a bicycle still gives me an edge over people who rely on the books and manuals.  As far as I'm concerned, I learned in the best shop in the world, and I'm going to spread the methodology of that shop everywhere I go.

I Threw the I Ching

So I just threw the I Ching for the first time in my life.


It was difficult to maintain an optimistic mood while reading through the short introduction.  Words like "Venerable Reverend" immediately send off red flags in my head, especially when used in someone's title.  There was no small amount of what I would deem "hocus pocus" in the introduction, referencing cosmic energies collecting in my shaking hands as I mulled over the forward question.  Despite my affinity for the Tao, the truth is that I don't really buy the more mystical aspects of the ancient philosophy.  When I first read the Tao Te Ching a few years ago, I will not deny only retaining the more sensible bits, and forgetting the ones dealing with enlightening energies.

But, with Lincoln-adorned pennies in-hand, I completed the millennia old ritual.  The upper trigram came to Lake, and the lower trigram was Mountain, making my Canto number 31.  This particular Canto seems to be rooted in reflection and a forging of ideas through words.  The particular verse for this Canto is as follows:

     Scholars and poets
     Gather at mountain lakes
     To speak of words of making
     That uplifts the heartmind of humanity.

I can't quite make out how this affects my proposed question.  Perhaps it is referring to how I should come to my conclusion.  What is more interesting, however, is the Hidden Hexagram 44, associated with my Canto of 31.  The 44th Canto deals with my accessible notions of attraction and desire, giants I have grappled with for years now.  The verse for the Hidden Hexagram is as follows:

     Issuing from heaven
     A continuous wind blows across the land.
     Only a woman of stature and uncommon strength
     Can resist the tempest.

The "Musing Words" mostly deal with hidden desires, words like voluptuous and intercourse.  Yet the "Mystic Window" speaks about some kind of evil trying to enter my life, and how I and a small group of close friends must smite this evil.  How very epic.


I wonder how much of the I Ching is getting people to think through their problems, much like the simple probing questions of a modern psychiatrist.

Ten Enterprising Young Men and Women

A note about the following text.  It is the (nearly) complete journal kept by me during my first backpacking venture, a three week long trek through the Uinta Mountains of northern Utah.  The out-of-place formatting is kept true to the words' actual orientation on their original pages.  You cannot get more authentic with computer-generated text.  In keeping with the censure-less nature of this collection of writings, this will be the first time the entirety of the journal will be "published."  I apologize for any embarrassments sustained by others, I will remove offending passages if requested.  Finally, all spelling and grammatical errors are retained for the sake of authenticity, and to provide a window into my still young and immature mind in the later half of the year 2007.

--- 

July 22, 2007

Today is the first real day of the trip.

We’ve yet to leave Earlham, dabbling in the

pre-requisites to adventure. I will write about

what is on my mind foremost. There are

a handful of young women at my disposal.

Two are somewhat attractive, more interesting

than anything, and one in particular is

quite cute. Funny how Earlham draws in

cute girls, not the vixens and seductress’s

one usually encounters. She reminds me of

Jill. I’ve found myself staring at her

from time to time. I hope it does

not draw from my adventure.

The handful of fellow males in our

“brigade” are comical at best. One chap

is unusually tall and seems lost in

the ‘70’s. Another is almost as tall, and

almost jock-like. One is nearly a clone

of Paulo and another has hair like

Casey. This will be interesting.

July 23, 2007

Airports. The great nexus’s of the world,

the routers of the United States Network, the

T-pipes of the American pipedream. The

thousand gear machine in a sandbox. I hate

airports. Today I have seen braless women,

cowboys, a statue of Bush reminiscent of

a Greek hero and frightening old men.

Due to delay, we had to change our

plan. I am now part of a sort

of expeditionary team of 6, sent on a

different route to the same destination.

We are about to leave for Salt Lake City,

hopefully the final leg in our trip to our

adventure.

I am not with the cute Jill-like girl, who

is named Ashley. She seems fiercely independent,

much like Jill, and things do not look

well. None the less, we press on.

Where I Come From

Physically I come from the flat

fields of Indiana, riddled with nostalgic

memories and no adventures.

Mentally and socially, I hail from

the Blue Ridge Mountains of western

North Carolina. I grew up there,

and maintain the proper wit and

adventuresome spirit instilled in me there.

I come with pride, eagerness and general

yearning to see the American range

which dwarfs my beloved Appalachia.

For too long I’ve piddled on the

unexciting flatland of Indiana. I’ve neglected

opportunities to expand myself, and now

I’m going to take it all back. I’m

going to the god’s finest sculpturings,

to see what I am really made of

and to experience something the legends of

old reveled in. I am hoping to become

enlightened on the spirit of nature.

July 24, 2007

We arrived in the wilderness today.

I once again feel the vigor of the

mountains. It is truly splendid. I have

been put in a sleeping/cooking group with

Ashley, who reveals more and more

Jill-like traits everyday. She is quiet,

arrogant and strong. Truly strong,

on the level of mental integrity.

And at times I find her

more attractive. How strange this

is. She is Jill as far as I’m

concerned.

We are sleeping under an old

fashioned tarp. I prefer my tents

but we’ll see. We had spaghetti

tonight and it was decent. Breakfast

is going to kill me but we’ll see.

I love the mountains.

July 25, 2007

I do not believe I will ever

again purposely wear so much weight

on my back. I am a weak

group member and this saddens

me. Oh well.

It rained again today. We

managed to make some bean

salsa and cheese tortilla. I am

eating things I hate. Oh

well. Trail mix is also horrid.

Today we also stole a water

bladder from another group. It

is bad and immoral, but necessary.

Minutes before making camp a thunderstorm

rolled into the valley, truthfully

chasing us up the trail. It was

quite ominous, with booming thunder

heralding demoralizing rain.

July 26, 2007

Today we saw two moose. It was

a spectacular moment, and moose

are indeed majestic creatures. Lumbering

giants of the alpine world, feeding

on quaint grass and other greens.

Truly the whales of the mountains.

I finally proved my usefulness to

the group today. I whittled a spoon-like

ladle to scoop out the butter, and

later showed my true worth by

carving our own wooden trowel. I

am happy to finally be an

important part of the team.

We ate macaroni and cheese today.

It was pretty good, even if it

was mostly buttery milk in noodles.

Up to this point I’ve neglected

any detailed descriptions of our surroundings

so I’ll do that now:

The mountains are like great craggy

mounds, showing the stratified rock

of prehistoric times. They are

somewhat rounded at times, but

are nowhere near the graceful

Appalachians.

The forests are reminiscent of

those in the Adirondacks, rocky

and filled with conifers. Weak,

brown grass covers the floor,

also with an abundance of poo.

The strange thing to me are

the sprawling meadows in the middle

of the great expanse of trees.

Laden with quaint wildflowers, and

lush grass, they contrast greatly with

the decaying forest nearby. Hundreds of

trifling streams also flow through

the meadows, in a bed of

rocks almost laid specifically for it.

They are gushing, babbling and serene,

quite a nice addition.

Today we entered an immense bowl.

Carved by a primordial glacier,

we stood surrounded by breathtaking

mountains and peaks. It was

simply beautiful.

July 27, 2007

The moon is out and full on

a clear night. It is somewhat

eerie to see the moon with

so much of its natural light.

I am looking at the stars

but not recognizing any constellations.

This would be the perfect night

to go star gazing with Cassandra.

Today we saw a pika. Funny

little thing, it got about 5 feet

away from the nearest person.

It did not rain today!

I had a very nostalgic moment

today. We made jelly turnovers, and

it tasted just like mommy’s homemade

bread. It was spectacular.

*Here I drew a strange carving I found in the side of a tree.*

I found this carved into a

tree far off the trail. It appears

to be cut via chainsaw, but the

perfect curves are baffling.

The tree is dead but sturdy,

with the insignia on a very

large patch of exposed wood. There

are faint axe marks on the various

areas, insinuating the patch is artificial.

July 28, 2007

Today we went to a very

nostalgic place for me. We

took a short hike down

our valley and came out onto

a long, slightly sloping expanse

of smooth rock lined with

a rushing stream. Everyone was

so excited and amazed by this

feature, this Rocky Mtn. version

of Sliding Rock. All I could

do was smile brightly. Everyone

got in the water but me,

although I did allow my feet

to revisit a mountain stream. It

was very nice and welcome.

We got about ¾ back up the

trail when Ashley realized she

forgot her whistle, so I went

back down with her to fetch it.

July 29, 2007

Today was a bit easier on the

trail. We hiked around 5 miles,

but my pack was unusually light.

The day of rest also helped.

We are camped on a sort

of mini-plateau, among horses

owned by an anonymous shepherd.

They were poorly picketed, and

have mostly broke free.

Now I am sitting by a small

pond, inhabited by these tiny

strange birds who circle the

shore on long slender legs.

It is very serene.

I believe Ashley has shown strange

signs of interest in me. I am

not sure, but we will see.

My Sense of Place

I suppose I interpret that

as who I am compared to

the land and history. And to

that I answer, “No one.” I have

no significant role in these ancient

mountains, and I am nothing

more than a passerby, a wanderer

in search of something the flats

couldn’t give me down below.

If anything I am a trespasser,

someone in a place where I cannot

truly comprehend what has transpired.

I am not able to fathom the

great processes of the Earth which

made these mountains, nor the

abundance of great deeds, both

wonderful and horrible, that have

been committed here. I am

a stranger, someone who the mountains

have seen, and will see for a long

time. I am man; my goal

should be to live with the

mountains, not to conquer them.

July 30, 2007

I am not completely sure why

but I am quite bitter tonight.

These fools are wearing thin on me.

Loud, disrespectful fools, the whole

obnoxious lot of them. I was

an ass at the time of leader

evaluation but I don’t care.

I am being me, nothing else

can be said.

On a lighter note, today was

somewhat interesting. We went down

a vicious downhill, or three, and

encountered a herd of sheep.

We also saw some old fences

made of ancient logs. It

was quite cool.

Our permanent environment has already

been described, but I feel I

should describe something that

has caught my eye in recent days; wildflowers.

There are an abundance of truly

pretty wildflowers here. Blues,

purples, yellows and even reds

dot the mountainsides. The darkest

blue flowers are like little trumpets,

barely off the ground and staring

up into the sky.

A more purple variation grows among

the rocky slopes. It is much

taller though, with the blossom drooping

towards the earth.

Yellow daisies shower the land,

bringing brightness to the dull

rocks. The most interesting though

are the red, spiky flowers

which appear on the crags.

*Here I attempted to draw an example of the flowers I just described.* 

“Do you play those war games?

Like Mario Kart?”

-Zoey

“I’m ok, my positive energy

bubble protected me.”

-Nathan

July 31, 2007

Today was an intense day. We

hiked up a vicious pass without

a trail, and then engaged in

a gender based discussion. We did,

however have an excellent dinner.

Hash browns with awesome pancakes

and honey really made my day.

It finally stormed today, ironically

after we passed back into the

North Uinta’s.

Tomorrow we attempt Tomahama ----,

or something Peak. It is best                 \

I go to sleep now.                                 v

                                                     Tokowana

August 1, 2007

Today I accomplished a major

feat in the Warner Family. I

climbed Tokowana Peak. Not that

that means much, but still. I

am the first Warner to

ascend a peak in the Uinta’s.

It was a frightening climb,

I was honestly scared sometimes.

The rocks were loose and easy

to tumble. It was also a

very high climb, coming in at

around 13,000 feet.

We also saw another moose today,

as well as a very far away

elk, and 4 mule deer who

bounded into the meadow.

I miss meat.

*Here I drew an odd and mostly incoherent doodle of what I can only describe as "pauldrons".*

August 2, 2007

I hate people. I am

suddenly thrust back into the

world, out of my bubble of

natural harmony and silent bliss.

Loud, obnoxious fools. At least me

brigade is more calm than the

other.

I was Leader of the Day

today, Whitney and I. It went

fairly well, although Rebekah almost

got dehydrated.

Something is being forged between

Ashley and I. I am not sure

if it is just time, a compatible

match up, or even if she is attracted

to me as well, but it is

something.

We will see.

Assignments.

-Letter to Self

Topic- Where am I now

-Observation exercise

-30 minutes observe 1x1 foot

plot of ground

-30 minutes observe 10x10 foot

plot of ground

-Sketch and write observations

-Pick Contemplative Readings, respond

via poetry

-Read Conservative Aesthetic

August 5, 2007

I missed 2 days in this

journal, so it shall be especially

long.

Much has transpired since

the last entry, and potentially

wonderful things are taking fold.

The night before last, Ashley

and I were laying in a meadow

stargazing. We talked a little, and

I decided to tell her I liked

her. She then replied she liked me

too. We snuggled close to each other,

and held hands in the night.

The following night, we once

again lay in the open stargazing.

She laid her head on my shoulder,

and confessed some deep secrets.

The only dilemma is that she

is not sure if she wants

to start anything back at Earlham.

I only have 2 options, both

of which I will do. I can

only continue to spend time with

her, to have her like me

enough to do something, and

wait for her. I hate

waiting, but we will see.

I am doing solo now. It

blows. I have been deprived

of my precious knife, and

given a small tarp with

just 2 ropes. My “shelter”

is a disgrace, and food is

meager. Let us hope I survive

the night.

August 6, 2007 Morning

It really is rewarding to

wake up to a sunny morning

after a night of rainy misery.

A major thunderstorm rolled through

at twilight last night, with some

lightning strikes being only 7 seconds

away. It was a little scary,

and very miserable, but I feel

quite accomplished after waking up

okay.

My shelter is better since last

time I wrote in here. It still

has a design flaw I intend to

fix though

*Here I drew a doodle of the state of disarray that my shelter was in.*

Blueberry bagel with honey is

a very welcome breakfast.

At least I can eat all

of my lunch today and not

ration it.

I have come to a realization.

I love my computer, technology,

and video games, but I don’t

really need them. I am occupied,

and enjoying myself, out here in

the wilderness. My games are

simply a quick fix for being

bored. It is a shame Indiana

has nothing better to do.

I miss Ashley. Just sleeping

by her is comforting. I cannot

wait until our next night together.

Hopefully she can’t either.

1x1

Spruce needles of all ages cover

the ground, from the newly

departed orange needle to the

broken grey needle of ancient

times. Small twigs bleached white

by the relentless sun accompany

the needles. Single vibrant green

leaflets thrust themselves up through

the matrix of fallen needles, beginning

a new member to the forest

family. A berry-baring plant dominates

the sparse ground. Small, elliptical

leaves adorn the stems, hiding the

few tiny, green berries each plant

harnesses. The berries are reminiscent

of blueberries, although smaller and

varying in color from green to

burgundy. One particular anonymous

berry plant is a sort of

magenta, my guess being that it

is nearly dead.

Small cays of grass dot

the sea of needles, with

an occasional spired stalk

of seeds shooting towards

the sky. Old, brown cones

lay on the ground, forgotten

by the mother tree which

bore them.

10x10

Three middle-aged spruce dictate

the three corners of my square,

myself being the fourth. Their

lower third branches are like

skeletal fingers, deathly grey and

wisping around anything the ventures

near. A host of small spruce

trees cling to the base of the

southern tree, as a group of frightened

children would a parent.

Two archaic trees lay rotting

between the southern and

western trees. Slender and

straight, these old trunks are

knotted with the broken fragments

of former branches, much like the

spines of forgotten giants.

A single chute of daisy stands

crippled between the rotting spruces.

Slouching greatly, it appears to be

ready to collapse. Its golden disks

are encircled by crumpled white petals,

half of which are missing.

A platoon of half-buried rocks

crown the tips of the broken

trees. A miniature forest of the

unknown berry bushes stand among

the rocks, adding life to an otherwise

dreary graveyard.

An angled rotten stump juts from

the ground next to the dead

trees. Small leafy green plants

encircle it, whereas clumps of

the fallen needles lay in its

hollow.

Two child-trees make up the

border between the western and

northern trees. A circle of rocks

guard the base of the

northern tree, with an old, rotting

stick serving as a gate to

a grove of the berry plants.

My Inspiration

A childhood spent among trees,

Turning over rocks in the Davidson River.

Clambering up mountains on my knees,

Never thinking it would change, ever.

Visits to Indiana’s beech groves,

Grandpa’s unforgettable Jeep rides.

Simple happiness coming in droves,

My love for nature growing before it bides.

Ancient heroes of fact and lore,

Tolkien’s most majestic and Japan’s strongest.

The great swords and feats they bore,

Making saga’s and books the longest.

My failed endeavors with womenfolk,

Hours spent depressed and brooding.

Deception and betrayal of fellow menfolk,

Withdrawal into myself as a selfish hooding.

All of this is my inspiration,

The pathway of my road of words.

Sometimes easy, other times from desperation,

Allowing my soul to take flight with the birds.

August 6, 2007 Afternoon

The sun indeed moves slow in

its arc through the heavens. I

had to eat my banick, I was

hungry and bored. I gave in

and ate my breakfast too

though, so now I will not

eat until lunch tomorrow. Please

let it be a swift coming.

I rested today, for the

most part. It is rather boring

now. I wish to see Ashley

again.

My banick was good and

hearty. I am going to have

to make it, along with

the butter/onion/green pepper pasta

back home.

August 6, 2007 Sunset

I shouldn’t have eaten the

oatmeal. Karma is certainly a bitch.

I’ve read almost everything

entertaining in the reader, and

it is still not time for bed.

This solo has been boring

and unexciting. At least I

was able to dry my

socks today. It’s rambling

time.

I wonder how everything is back

home. I hope everyone is still

together, even Vince and Danika.

I can’t wait until GW:EN

comes out. I’ve gotta beat

NF first though >_<

Omg, SCII… it’s going to

be awesome.

Spaghetti

Lee’s Chicken

Clara’s

El Rodeo

BK

Cubed Steak

Mash tatoes

Mac and cheese

Biscuits

Ham sandwhich

Chips

Pretzels

Oats

Pop tarts

Swiss cakes

Mt. Dew

Orange Soda

Coke

Bacon

I want to play AoK

now, and some SC as well.

And Pokemon… gotta level up

team and Rhyperior. I need to

finish Gundam 0079 too.

Man, I miss Harrison. And

Franke. Only had 2 years

with both. Such a shame.

I wonder what Harrison would

think of this. I can just

imagine it.

*What follows is a few pages of random doodles, ranging from cartoons of my Art Teacher to X-wings blowing up pizzas.*

August 9, 2007

Once again I am lacking

persistence on this journal. Yesterday

was our first day of Supervised

Independent Travel. We hiked

over Dead Horse Pass and

then went about 7 miles after

that. We made good time

but were all exhausted. The

day before we hiked to

Dead Horse Lake, supposedly

about 4 miles but tiring

none the less.

Developments have been made

with Ashley. Every night we’ve spent

alone looking up at the stars.

Last night was very intimate, for we

were very close and rubbed our

cheeks, necks, and noses together in

a very tingling and thrilling way.

We decided to be more

casual and get to know

each other more before anything

serious is started. We are

both about to transition to

college and it is probably for

the best. I just hope

this all comes out in my

favor. I definitely feel something

about her. Our time together

is the best, and I’m going

to miss it.

There are two woodpeckers in

the huge, dead spruce next to

me. They are very high up,

and doing their usual drilling duties.

Today we pass through Rocky Sea

Pass, hike about 2-3 miles,

and set up camp. Thankfully

it’ll be easy.

August 10, 2007

I am making pancakes. The

light is fading so this

won’t be long.

People aggravate me. It’s

as simple as that. Most

of the group is playing

some foolish card game

inches away from me as

I slave over our puny

little stove. I am the

scourge of men. Oh well.

I have been committing

a dire mistake. Talking about

Cassandra with Ashley has

been a major mistake. Let

us hope it does not

jeopardize my campaign.

Today we hiked through

a deep gorge that reminded

me of DuPont. It was great.

August 11, 2007

My vision is becoming distorted.

Tonight the brigade decided

to cook and eat all the

food. So much food. I

am on the verge of

vomiting so I won’t

repeat the list now.

Most of today was crap.

I awoke with a sore

throat and in a bitter mood.

It wasn’t until the evening

when Ashley asked what was

wrong that I felt better.

The campaign seems fine.

Let us hope it is.

Tomorrows the last

day of hiking, and it

is our longest day, coming

in at about 11 miles. Let

us hope it goes fine.

Well I just threw up.

Not too much, but

enough. First time in

my life that I’ve eaten

so much I had to

vomit. So here goes…

Thick cinnamon bread

Thick vegetable/lintels/noodles/

mash potato soup x 5 scoops

Rice w/marinara sauce

Half bowl of thick

mash potatoes

One large slice of

cinnamon bread and

other half of mash

potatoes saved.

Vomit on the ground.

*Here I doodled the side of a hill across the lake from me, its image something I can recall to this day.*

August 13, 2007

The mountains stand crowning us,

totems of feats of endurance,

cooperation, and aspiration.

Yesterday was our last day

of hiking. The slight downhill and

easy terrain made it an easy

day. We arrived in camp about

10 minutes before the Other Brigade.

Nathan arrived with bags of

spaghetti noodles and cans of

Prego, and it was splendid. 4

hefty scoops of pasta beat most

people.

I showered last night. It

was a very welcomed experience.

I lacked soap, but still got

efficiently clean.

The campaign is sufficient.

More time is needed.

This morning we had cereal.

Two percent milk! Lucky Charms

off-brand! Jubilations! Lunch

will probably be lunch meat,

and dinner is a bloody COOKOUT!

Huzzah!

Where I am Going

I’m going to college. Moreso,

I’m going nowhere. I am staying

home, maintaining my way of

life, adding that of “higher

learning.” I am a scholar. A

scholar who just hiked like

63.8 miles or something over

the span of 3 weeks with

a 70 lb. pack on my back.

I suppose I am on the

last leg of the first third

of my life. After this session

of scheduled learning I am

going to transition to a life

that I fully control. Eerie

as it is, it is somewhat

exciting.

The blade is cleansed in

holy water, arcing in the

sky to punish not the man,

but the evil which resides within him.

*What follows is a series of statements from everyone in my group, written on our final day together.*

Brock

His spirit; even when he’s in a bad

mood, he won’t let it show or spread

You had pretty interesting

stories with the tree

cutting experience

You always make good points when

you talk, and always are willing

to inspire a discussion.

Brock - It was really nice to

have someone to talk to about

North Carolina. Your leadership skills

are a hidden gem that should be

used more often!

You are very quiet, but when you speak

your point is always worth listening to.

At first you were very

reserved but once you opened up

you were great fun. You were

definitely a staple to the group.

I appreciate your growth and development

on the trip. You have a lot to say…

Keep saying it.

I like your quiet sense of

patience and your insightful

perceptions.

I liked that your another person whose a

little shy but unwilling to put up with

a lot of the bullshit. Your very much

your own person which I think is

great.

I’m glad another somewhat out-of-shape, lanky

gamer went on this trip. It helped

to know someone else was in the same

boat as me.

Hey Brock,

You were a pleasure

to have on this trip. Even though

at times you may have thought you were

being negative and pessimistic I could see

you having a great time and really taking in all

the Uintas have to offer. I hope you enjoy

Earlham and take advantage of all it has to

offer to! P.S. – thanks for making me smile : )

Thanks for stepping

up – you’re a good

leader when you give

yourself the chance, and

I hope you continue to

take those chances.

This Train!

     There are two good things about the Midwest:  it's a hell of a lot greener than the far West, and the sunsets are more often than not beautiful.  Perched on the slick metal roof of the creaking boxcar, I watched as golden-green fields passed beneath me.  The beautiful red-pink that comes off of low clouds when the sun sinks lit up the western sky as the train rumbled eastward, rolling along hard old, barely used rails set decades before me.  Across my lap sat a weathered and beaten old guitar that I picked up a long time ago.  Keeping the damned thing strung and playable was almost more of a chore than it was worth, but the determination it gave me to keep going was more valuable to me than most things.  Picking it up, I gently fingered the strings.  I wasn't much of a player, but I could strum out some simple melodies.
     "This train is bound for glory, this train!"  I shouted as the cars bumped over a crossing.
     "This train is bound for glory, this train!"

     A nasty bump in the rails sent a bounce through me and my belongings on top of the boxcar.  The dirty gallon jug of water I've hauled all across this country shifted and began to slide off the roof.  Reaching out, I grabbed onto the ragged twine tied around the neck of the jug and pulled it up.  Placing it safely behind me, I rested my back on the jug, and laid my small canvas sack in my lap.  All I had was in this tiny sack.  A pocketknife, a few grimy harmonicas, and at the moment a couple of apples past their prime.  From time to time, I was able to stow some spare food in it.  My stomach grumbled quietly as I watched the last of the sun sink below the distant tree line.
     'I'm going to have to get off on the next stop,' I thought, rubbing my stomach.
     Twilight gradually settled in as we bumped along down the line.  Craning my neck around, I looked eastward and saw dim lights in the distance.  Coming up to a town.  The train abruptly cut left, as we shifted onto a receiving stretch of rail.  The ear splitting squeal of metal on metal sounded as the brakes gradually slowed the colossal snake of steel.  Stepping up, I steadied myself before slinging the guitar over my back.  Hauling up my canvas sack and jug of water, I slipped down the ladder on the side of the car, and jumped off.  Bolting into some trees, I watched as the cars crept into a train yard.  Bidding farewell to my carrier, I slunk back into the underbrush, and made my way for the closest road.
     Crickets and cicadas heralded my march along a small road stretching through a pair of soybean fields.  My dirty, worn boots padded my feet against the gravely pavement as I plodded along.  Squinting ahead, I saw a strange figure on the road.  After a few more moments, I realized it was someone on a bicycle.  As they neared I saw it was a young girl, probably around my age, on a bicycle.  The closer she got, the more I tried to not stare.  She was pretty!  When she got close to passing me, I looked up, and smiled as I waved.  A wide grin greeted me as she waved with her hand on the handlebar, and she whipped by me.  Gone.
     'The pretty ones are always the ones going the other way,' I thought to myself with a sigh.
     Continuing along, I became weary.  I had gotten off too early.  It was hard to judge sometimes how close a train yard was to any real civilization.  It was definitely always way too risky to try riding the train straight into the yard.  I'd been beaten too many times to repeat that mistake.  Still, my feet were beginning to hurt, and it was getting dark.  The last splashes of light on the western horizon were ebbing from view as lightning bugs began to ignite around me.  A few minutes later, I heard the familiar sound of rolling rubber directly behind me.
     "So where ya going?"
     Jumping from surprise, I looked back to see the bicycle girl smiling brightly as she casually coasted behind me.  A small, white plastic bag hung from the side of the handlebars.  She had a nice smile.
     "Nowhere in particular," I answered.  My mind began to muddle as it raced nervously.  "What about you?"
     "I'm just heading back home.  Had to get something at the store."  She stepped off the bike and started pushing it next to her.  "Where ya from?"
     "Nowhere in particular," I said, smiling.  She giggled and looked up at me with a grin in her eyes.  Something about this girl...  "Okay, you got me.  I'm from down south, a little town in Tennessee that you've never heard of."
     "Really?  You don't have much of an accent."
     "I grew up in a lot of places.  I guess none of the accents ever really stuck."
     "Or maybe they all combined into what you have now."  She was funny.
     "Yeah, maybe," I laughed.
     "So seriously, where are you going?" she asked.  She shifted to just one hand on the bike.
     "Trying to find some food I guess.  I'll be getting real hungry soon.  And a dry place to sleep.  Hopefully warm.  Hopefully soft," I replied in a serious tone.  My eyes settled onto the crummy pavement beneath my feet.  After a few moments I looked up and back at her.  She grinned briefly, and her eyes flashed.  Even in the dim light I could tell they were a warm brown.
     "Um, well," she began, "If you want, you can get something to eat at my house.  I was just about to make something for dinner."
     I didn't say anything immediately.  I had been offered my fair share of free meals from people, pretty young girls or not.  Most of the pretty young girl meals did not start well.  More did not even start.  I smiled quickly, and stopped.
     "I don't really want to, uh... interfere with your family or anything."
     "Oh, it's just me," she said with a cute smile.  Her eyes darted around until they finally settled on me.  "I live by myself."
     "Oh.  Well then, I guess I can't say no!"

     About another mile down the road we came to where she lived.  It was a small, white house nestled between two large fields of tall corn.  There was no car in the weed-filled driveway.  As my boots crunched on the white gravel, I looked at the overgrown yard.
     "Don't mow much?"
     "No, I don't really believe in it.  I think it's dumb to keep cutting the grass, instead of just letting it grow.  I think it's prettier that way."
     I let a faint smile creep to my lips.  I'd always begrudgingly held the same sentiment, when I was still at home and was asked to mow the yard.  I looked down and noticed she wasn't wearing any shoes.
     "You ride your bike barefoot?"
     "Yeah, it feels better that way.  It hurts a little, but I like the feeling of the air on my toes."
     She opened the aged wooden door, and led her bike inside, the handlebars brushing against some of the chipping white paint.  I stepped inside after her.  The doorway led to a very small kitchen, the pale yellow walls lined by the entirety of a small stove and a sink.  The dank kitchen opened into a small living room, which opened to three other rooms, doors ajar.  A bathroom, and two bedrooms from the looks of it.  Two bicycles leaned against the walls of the living room, old road bikes, much like the bike she was now laying against the wall.  She spun around, and clapped her hands with an embarrassed giggle.
     "Sorry, it's a little messy.  You can put your stuff down on the couch if you want," she said, motioning to an old, lime green couch.  I nodded, and placed my guitar and sack on the couch.  Dropping my water jug on the floor next to the couch, I untied my boots, and stepped onto the dingy brown shag carpet.
     "Man, talk about the seventies, huh," I joked.
     "Yeah, I know it's awful."  She smiled again.  That smile was growing on me.
     "It's fine, I like old stuff."
     "Uh, you can shower if you'd like.  It looks like it's been a while since your last bath."
     "Yeah, there was a thunderstorm in Iowa a few days ago."  It was a weak, short-lived storm, a swiftly moving line of rain that doused me from atop another boxcar.  Can't say the top of a boxcar was my favorite place to be in a thunderstorm.
     "Well, I'll start on the food then."
     Stepping into the bathroom, the strangeness of the situation I found myself in finally hit me.  An hour ago, I was walking along a lonely road with not a thought concerning another person in my head.  Now, I was about to shower in a strange girl's bathroom as she cooked me dinner.  A cute, strange girl of course.  I peeled off my thinning tee-shirt, and the dirt-infused blue jeans.  I just had to remember to keep my distance, no matter how adorable she seems.  I had no intention of getting involved with any girl, not yet anyways.
      The soothing water of a hot shower is always a welcomed experience.  Sweat encased dirt ran down my legs, and swirled down the drain.  I savored the opportunity, running my fingers through my greasy hair.  A heated bath was hard to come by riding freight trains.
      Turning off the water after an adequate cleansing, I drew the shower curtain back.  Where my traveling clothes had lain on the floor were clean, neatly folded, unfamiliar clothes.  Picking them up, I saw they were similar to what I had, but were clearly not mine.  Slipping them on, I was surprised to find they fit.  I walked out into the living room, drying off my hair, and trying to not look too awkward to my gracious host.
     "I hope you don't mind, I slipped some clean clothes in while you were showering," she said, looking up from the stove.
     "I didn't hear you come in.  Thanks though," I said, adjusting the collar to the shirt.  "I'm surprised you had clothes to fit me."
     "You looked about the same size as my brother, and some of his old clothes were lying around."
     "Convenient.  So what's on the spit?"
     "I hope you don't mind hamburgers."
     "Sounds and smells a lot better than dumpster burgers."  She made a face.
     "You eat out of dumpsters?"
     "You'd be surprised what super markets throw away.  A lot of it is still good to eat," I explained.  The look of growing disgust did not leave her face.  "Can't say I've ever eaten meat out of a dumpster though."
     "Well, this may not be the best meat, but it should be pretty good."
     I walked over to the small dining table on the edge of the kitchen's linoleum and sat down.  In a few moments the burgers were done, and I was able to once again enjoy hot, juicy meat.  It tasted good, real good.  We ate in silence, as I ravenously devoured the three small hamburgers, and downed the can of Coke she offered me.  She slowly and somewhat timidly ate her meal, her eyes occasionally darting up to spy on me.  When I finished, I excused myself and went to sit on the couch, letting the dinner settle.  I looked around the small living room, noting the lack of any real decoration.  My scanning eyes finally fell on an unassuming cabinet, set into the far corner of the room.
     "What's that?" I asked, pointing.
     "Oh, that's the record player.  The vinyl's in the bottom.  You can look through them if you want," she said between bites.
     "You have a turntable?  That's cool," I muttered as I got up and walked over to the cabinet.  Opening the door, I pulled out a large stack of LPs.  I didn't recognize the top few, but after a short while I uncovered a picture of a young man in a blue and pink jacket, staring up at me with folded sunglasses in his hand.
     "Sweet!  You have Highway 61 Revisited?" I exclaimed.  I heard her laugh as she stood up from the table.
     "Yeah, you like Dylan?"
     "Heck yeah I do.  It's been so long since I've heard him.  Do you mind?" I asked, motioning to the turntable.
     "Not at all, please do."  She put the dishes into the small sink and turned on the water to wash them.
     "Oh crap, I'm sorry.  I'll get my dishes, it's not often I eat with others," I said quickly, standing up.  I had been a poor guest!
     "No it's fine, you're tired."  I reluctantly sat back down, weary of my rudeness, but obeying none the less.
     I slid the record onto the table, and turned it on.  Carefully placing the needle on the edge, the hiss and crack of the grooves sounded as I went back to the couch and sat down.  The kick drum hit, and the song began.

          Once upon a time you dressed so fine
          You threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn’t you? 
          People’d call, say, “Beware doll, you’re bound to fall” 
          You thought they were all kiddin’ you
          You used to laugh about
          Everybody that was hangin’ out
          Now you don’t talk so loud 
          Now you don’t seem so proud
          About having to be scrounging for your next meal.

     I closed my eyes as the music filled my mind, my head slightly nodding to the beat.  I relished this stuff.  Suddenly I felt the couch move, and opened my eyes as the girl sat down next to me.  My heart rate quickened.
     "So what's your name anyways?"
     "My name's Lake.  Lake Williams."  Her eyes lit up.
     "Oh my gosh, that is such a cool name!  Lake?  Was there a reason your parents gave you that name?" she asked excitedly.
     "It's an old family name.  My great grandfather's name was Lake, and his father's middle name was Lake.  I guess when my mom found that out, she just had to name her first kid Lake."
     "Wow, that is so cool.  My name's Johanna.  I guess my mom just liked it when I was born."
     "Johanna?" I repeated the name and grinned.  "I like it.  Well, I'm glad to have met you Johanna.  And thank you for the delicious meal."  She smiled sheepishly.
     "It's no problem.  Thanks for eating it with me," she said quietly.

          You never turned around to see the frowns on the jugglers and the clowns
          When they all come down and did tricks for you.

     "So, seriously, what are you doing?  Why were you just walking down the road?" she asked.
     "Just trying to get into town."  She eyed me with a growing smile.
     "I think there's more to it than that.  I've never seen you before, and I think I'd recognize a guitar carrying hobo."
     "Whoa now!  I'm not a hobo.  Hobos travel for work!"  I retorted jokingly.  She laughed.  I sat quietly for a few moments contemplating if I should tell her or not.  Her smile slowly faded as her eyes studied me more intensely.
     "Are you alright?" I asked.  She laughed nervously.
     I guess I should go for it.
     "I rode a train into town, and hopped off right before it got into the trainyard," I explained.  Her smile came back.
     "Oh, I didn't know we still had passenger trains coming in."  I stopped her with a wave of my hand.
     "No, I rode a freight train in.  Stowed away, on the roof.  I guess you can call me a hobo if you want, but I honestly don't fall into the exact definition.  I've been riding the rails across this country, back and forth, a few times now."  She was silent.
     "I just go from town to town, eating when I can, sleeping when I need to, drinking when I'm dry and seeing the countryside."
     "Are you homeless?"  I got this question a lot.
     "Yes and no.  I'm homeless in how I'm living my life, but I have a home to go back to.  I think."
     "You think?"
     "I left home after a few years of college.  I packed some clothes and food into a backpack and just walked down the street and away from it all.  College pissed me off.  My life was pissing me off.  Something in me just said to go live my life the way I wanted to.  And I did."  She looked down at her hands for a while.  I knew I had overwhelmed her.  Not many were comfortable when they heard that.  It shook them up.


          How does it feel
          How does it feel
          To be on your own
          With no direction home
          Like a complete unknown
          Like a rolling stone?

     I shifted my weight to get up, but I felt her hand fall on mine.
     "I think it's really cool."  I was a bit taken aback.  Like I said, not many liked it when I told them that.
     "What?"
     "Doing what you want, taking charge of your life," she paused, "even when it's scary.  I really respect that."  She smiled.  I didn't know what to say.
     "Um, thanks.  I wasn't really expecting that.  A lot of people tell me I'm a fool when I tell them that."
     "Ah, fuck 'em!"  We both laughed.
     "Sometimes I wish I could do that," she mumbled as she looked off into the distance, out the window.  Her hand stayed on mine.  I flexed the muscles in my hand.
     "Not to be rude, but I'm really tired.  I'd better head out to find a place to sleep."  She looked back at me.
     "You can sleep here!  I'd be happy to let you sleep here, for as long as you'd like.  Consider me your host."  I grinned and nodded my head.
     "Well, I thank you for that.  That takes a load off my shoulders."
     We talked a little bit more, and eventually just sat and listened to side one of the album to finish.  The eerie "Ballad of a Thin Man" finished, and the needle hissed and cracked one last time before the turntable switched off.  She gave me a light blanket and a pillow, and I stretched out on the couch.  It was a comfortable change from boxcar roofs and damp wood.  I drifted into sleep and dreamt that night.  They were good dreams, but I can't remember what they were.

*** 

     Late that night, a door creaked open and Johanna quietly padded out into the living room.  She was wearing a faded blue night gown, which fluttered in the soft breeze from the open window.  Stopping in front of Lake, she knelt down to her knees next to him and looked at his face in the sparse light.  He had strong features.  He seemed strong.  She raised her hand to stroke his hair, but stopped.  She remembered who she was, and who he was.  Stepping up, she slipped back into her room just as quietly as she'd entered, and closed the door.

*** 

     The sun was still drying the nightly dew from the grass and leaves when I slipped out the door of Johanna's house.  I was wearing my old clothes, leaving her generous offerings neatly folded on the couch, next to the pillow and blanket.  It was harder than I expected, walking down the white graveled driveway.  A tremenduous tugging on my chest made each step more difficult than the last.  It's not easy walking away from a smiling and laughing girl, especially one so...  free-spirited.  I could tell deep down my story of restlessness stirred her, made parts of her wake up and look around questioningly.
     But I couldn't do that to her.  This was a tough life, a road of hard traveling.  She wouldn't like it after a day or so.  Right?
     Birds flitted from branch to branch in the small woods stretching alongside the road next to me.  Their chirps brought life to the morning.  Insects swarmed under the leaves, drifting around my face and landing on my head.  I swatted as them as I stepped more quickly.
     She'd miss her house.
     "Where do you think you're going!"
     I spun around to see Johanna speeding up to me on her bike.  Stretching her left leg over the back wheel, she coasted up to me before hopping off the bike, skidding to a stop right in front of me.  Breathing heavily she looked up at me with questions in her eyes.
     "Why'd you leave?" she asked between breathes.  My heart about split in half right there.  Her eyes weighed heavily on me.  I looked away.
     "I, uh..." I searched for words I didn't really have.  I closed my mouth, and just looked down at her.
     "It's har--" I started.
     "I want to come with you," she said.  Something deep in me clicked open, a small bit of the weight lifting off my chest.  It was a guilty relief.
     "It's not easy.  Vagrancy isn't exactly thought highly of among people," I explained.  I had to let her know first.  She had to know what she was getting into.
     "I don't care.  I want to come with you," she repeated, stepping forward.  She reached out with her hand and placed it on my arm.  "There's something different about you.  I want to see what it is."
     I stood quietly as my mind raced.  It would be nice to have a companion, especially such a... likeable one.  But it'd be twice as hard to hide, would take twice as much food and water.  But, she can carry her own weight.  If she couldn't take it, I'll make sure to get her back home.  I owe her that much.  We'll hoof it on foot at first, so we don't get too far away.  It's rougher that way too.  If she can take that, she'll be fine.
     "You're going to have to wear shoes," I said with a smile.  Her face ignited into her biggest grin yet, and she leapt forward, thrusting her arms out around my neck as she hugged me tightly.
     She was warm.