Winter Sunsets

It has been one year, five months, three weeks, and four days, by my reckoning, since I departed for Western skies.  The date, in any event, was August 21, 2009.  That day I packed what I deemed to be essential into my green Saturn sedan, and merged onto Interstate 70, westbound.  For the next two weeks and six days I traveled this country's lifeblood, saw its wonders, ate canned and dried food and slept alongside truckers.  On September 10, 2009, I returned home, showered, sat in my familiar computer chair, and completed an important sojourn in the West.

It's kind of funny to reflect on what has happened since then.  After an exciting, raw, and life changing three weeks, I fell into an awful and life draining rut.  It was an unemployed winter for me.  Night was day, and day was a setting sun.  I toiled for hours on a project that to this day is unfinished, sickeningly fulfilling as it is.  But that is for another time.

In a lot of ways I fulfilled a good deal of my desires.  I am now living on my own.  I am employed at a bike shop as a bike mechanic.  I revisited my education, and once again spat in its face, this time more bitterly and forcefully.  While I feel I am currently sliding backwards into less-than-mature habits and thoughts, I was at one time after this trip "on my game."  It's only up from here.

My first destination was my only destination set in stone.  I was to visit my friend Joel who lives in Decatur, Illinois, before he left for his junior year of college.  I enjoyed some of the local food, played a lot of video games, and met his friends.  They were nice people, but different from the people I was used to being around.  When we were all together, they spontaneously decided to start cooking Chinese food.  This was something that would happen at Earlham, the very thing I was trying to distance myself from!  Regardless, they were good people all in all.  I was happy to have met them.

Joel and I left at the same time the morning I truly began my adventure.  We both headed north along Highway 51.  The song roaring from my car's speakers as I left Decatur was "Highway 51", sung by Bob Dylan on his debut album.

"Highway fifty ooooooone, runs right by my baby's door."

I followed Joel until I came to Highway 136, westbound.  From there I called out goodbye to my friend as he sped towards education, and I sped towards adventure.  I took 136 all the way to the Mississippi River.  I remember crossing it, trying to peer over the concrete barricade.  Despite my craning neck, I did not get to see it very well.

The Mississippi River, from behind a concrete wall...

My plan up until this point was to take the legendary River Road, the Devil's Highway, Highway 61, north until Interstate 90, which I would take across the northern Plains.  While I was briefly on the road where Robert Johnson met the Devil, I soon decided to shift my course.  I noticed on the map that the road veered East for about thirty miles north of where I was.  It seems my fervor to go West was so great that this at worse half hour was too much to bear.  And so I veered north and west along state roads, creeping through Iowa until I finally reached a small state park in the night.  And thus I enjoyed my first illegal sleep of my life.  I had rolled past the gate late at night, and slunk into the first parking lot I found.  Stretching my weary back on the two teeter-tottering wafer-boards where my passenger seat had been a week before, I slept.  I awoke early, crawled out of my car and locked eyes with a deer.  Rolling my way past the gate in this frosty morning I continued north into Minnesota.

My early rise was not without consequences though.  It was a dreary, rainy day (the only such day on my whole trip), and Minnesota was not kind to me.  Sleep dug its fingernails into my weary eyes, and I pulled off on the first exit I saw.  Parking in front of a surprisingly large and oddly-found Jolly Green Giant statue, I napped through mid-day, and then continued west.

Jolly Green Giant, making sure my nap was undisturbed.

Before I had left for my trip, my boss at the time had told me about an interesting spot he thought I should visit on my journey.  He said it was a place called Pipestone, in Minnesota, and it was interesting because it was a Native American quarry for the red stone that they used to make pipes.  Being interested in the Native Americans as I am, I took the short detour north and visited Pipestone.  It was indeed a cool place to visit, and a very unusual place on the otherwise bleak high Plains.  It was here I witnessed one of the first mystical landmarks on my trip.  It was not on any map, and I am, I imagine, part of the very small percentage of people on the planet to have seen this particular spectacle.  But it is none the less something I will never forget.

When walking along the trail circling the Pipestone quarry, I saw in the distance an odd and very alien figure on the horizon.  I stared for a while, wondering what on earth it was.  It was tall and slender, and had strange protrusions flying off of the center trunk halfway up.  It could not be natural and yet it was much more organic than anything I could expect.

The decorated cottonwood, standing as a reminder of past ways.

Perplexed, I moved on down the trail.  A little ways ahead I found a sign, explaining the mystery.  It was a Native American totem, a cottonwood decorated for ceremonial dances, a sort of "Sun Dance", if I remember correctly.  I was suddenly overcome with an acute sense of awe.  This was the stuff of movies to me.  Sure I had visited the Cherokee Reservation in North Carolina when I was young, but this seemed much more real.  There were no reenactors around, digging out canoes or making acorn meal.  This was a very real continuation of a culture I respected, yet knew very little about.  It would be my first brush with my ignorance on this trip.

I bathed in Pipestone's public pool.  No, I did not bust out the soap and shampoo among the floaties and kids enjoying summer.  I did slip into the pool for a few moments, but felt oddly out of place.  I soon retreated to the showers, where I took the first of my few showers for the next two weeks.  After a bowl of spaghetti-o's I headed west and south, to return to Interstate 90 to ride to the Black Hills.

But first I had a sacred stop to make.  I noticed on my map that I was very close to a little place in South Dakota called De Smet.  My young teenage years were dominated by reading and re-reading the Little House series of books by Laura Ingalls Wilder.  Those books were important to me, and I feel they helped shape the foundation of my world view to this day.  So I visited De Smet, South Dakota.  Unfortunately, due to my own blunder and well-placed road construction, I did not visit the actual homestead of the Ingalls family.  I was very upset about this, but I continued on.  My drive to go West overpowered even this.  I intend to return some day, and to take my time and visit the homestead.

The next day I entered the Badlands.  It was very hot, painfully hot, and I was quite exhausted by this.  But I made my rounds in the Badlands.  I hiked, I photographed, and I drove through the odd and indeed malicious seeming terrain.  My ticket into the Badlands, however, was the first to show me a problem I would have for the remainder of my journey.  I paid $15 for a week pass to the Badlands.  Now, a logical man would say I should stay in the Badlands for a week to get my money's worth.  Really soak up what the park had to offer, and enjoy one of America's natural landmarks.

Wrong!

The burning fire to continue West was blazing as hot as that amazing heat, and I stayed in the Badlands for only a few hours.  I drove West through Rapid City, and into the Black Hills, the sacred lands of the Lakota.  I of course visited Mount Rushmore.  What an experience that was.  It was quite a battle between the cynic in me, and the awed little boy staring up at those granite faces.  I couldn't help but be impressed.  And yet, I saw what was no doubt once a beautiful mountain, laying in crushed boulders at it's foot as the faces of conquerors gazed out over their land.  I would have liked to have seen the mountain before the monument.

I continued along the winding roads of the Black Hills to a monument that will always mean much, much more to me than Mount Rushmore.  I parked my car in a parking lot, got out, and looked up at the sun setting on a strong face, peering out along the plains with an outstretched shelf of an unhewn arm.  I'll never forget Crazy Horse.

Crazy Horse, pointing to where his people lie buried.

Learning the story behind this monument was a moving experience.  Lakota elders in 1939 began working with a foreign sculptor to pay tribute to an important figure of the final days of the Plains Indians power in the region.  This sculptor rejected government grants, and to this day the project has been entirely funded privately.  Independence is a strong theme for the man who single handedly would climb this mountain everyday, with a box of dynamite on one shoulder, and a pressure drill slung across the other.  I donated some money, if I recall correctly.  The thought to stay and offer my help, whatever it may be, to the project, also entered my mind.  I hope to one day hear of it's completion.  I know there is some controversy, but I just can't help but love what is behind this undertaking.

I slept in a campground that night.  The next day I prowled around the Black Hills, and even road my mountain bike along a trail.  What an exhausting ordeal that was!  I settled in for the night in the high country, at a trail head.  It was here I learned a valuable lesson about the West.  Contrary to what one may think, Quaking Aspen groves are not a good place to camp for the night.  They are pretty, yes, but the way in which they reproduce (or perhaps just produce) does not lend itself to good camping.  The tightly packed trees, and rooty ground offered no good space for a tent or sleeping tarp.  And, of course, the grass was littered with cow pies of varying freshness.  Damnable cattle.

So I slept in my car that night, and the next day took another mountain bike ride (a much better experience this time) and made my way to Devil's Tower.  Choosing to not pay to get closer to a gargantuan granite monolith sitting on a relatively flat plain, I enjoyed the view from the gate, and read the amusing Native American legend behind the odd texture of the stone landmark.  It seems they held an enormous bear clawing at trapped hunters accountable for the scratch-mark like sides of the Tower.  And with that, I went on my way.

West of the Black Hills I drove through one of the most dreaded natural formations I would encounter on my entire journey... the awful, arid, sagebrush dotted land of a basin.  Boring, ugly, hot, and desolate land as far as the eye could see.  I hated it.  Sun baked scrap metal and barren ranch lands were the only sights to see for miles.

I drove through the Bighorn Mountains later that day.  Let it be said by me that the Bighorn Mountains are a very beautiful range, and deserve to be revisited.  They were a spectacular drive and the descending, winding stretch of road from this lengthy series of ridges was one of the most beautiful drives of my life.

Tensleep Canyon, one of the most beautiful passages in the West.

That night I slept in my first motel on the trip, Log Cabin Motel.  It was a small and sad establishment in a crossroads of a town called Tensleep, Wyoming.  It was called Tensleep because the location was considered to be "ten sleeps", or ten days, between two important Native American locations or meeting places.  The smoky, groggy lady who took my $50 for the room gave me a discount, no doubt for my disheveled look, and I enjoyed a hot shower.

Oh wait, no I didn't.  My $50 for a hot shower and soft bed only yielded me the bed, and a scream-inducing cold shower.  It seemed the water heater, politely crowding the small bathroom, was not working.  I showered none the less, figuring to at least use the water.  It was not very enjoyable though.

The wonderful accommodations at the lovely Log Cabin Motel.  Hot water optional.

I woke up the next morning and watched the beginning of Ted Kennedy's funeral.  A wonderful start to the day.  I resumed my travels and headed West towards the legendary Yellowstone.  But first, I took a little stop that I apparently did not record in my journal, and so recollection is restricted to my fogging memory.  But I can say this much, it was a place of meeting for local Native Americans for hundreds and perhaps thousands of years, a place with carvings, petroglyphs I believe, on the walls of a sandstone cliff.  Apart from the elderly and their ATV's, it was a very fun experience in the middle of nowhere.

I arrived in Cody, Wyoming midday.  The town reeked of sulfur, and while starring up at the Thermopylae-like stone gateway which the road slithered into, it occurred to me where I was:  Colter's Hell.  I had read about Colter's Hell!  The real Jeremiah Johnson, John Johnston, was said to have traveled here several times, as he was not afraid of the geothermal activity that frightened even the Native Americans.  I would later discover there was a statue of John Johnston in Cody, Wyoming.  I really wish I had discovered this on my trip.  It would have been wonderful.

I passed through Colter's Hell, jubilant that I was about to arrive in Yellowstone.  I had for several years wanted to visit Yellowstone.  What nature-loving young boy didn't!?  After a drive soured by overcast through beautiful country, I paid my way and entered perhaps the single most famous National Park in the country.  Boy was I disappointed.

What they don't tell you is that in the early '90's a massive forest fire pillaged the forest greens of Yellowstone of its vitality and life.  What it left were entire mountainsides of grey, ugly snags.  Sure, there are plenty of healthy trees now growing in the park, but there are still huge stretches of land studded by dead trees.  It was ugly.  It was depressing.  The overcast did not help.

What Yellowstone lacked in barked beauty it made up with bestial beauty.  Minutes within driving through the park, I saw buffalo lounging in the distance.  I of course was drop jawed as I snapped photos of the great beasts.  A few more minutes down the road, I see more buffalo!  A little bit after that, there's a buffalo on the road!

 The wildlife was astounding.  The signs that laced the park with warnings of buffalo gorings kept a real world check on the experience, but it was a fun one none the less.

I arrived at Yellowstone late enough that finding a place to sleep was the priority.  It didn't take me long to discover that "backcountry camping" required a permit, and cost money.  The alternative was campground camping.  Both of the free campgrounds were of course overflowing with patrons.  I was therefore forced to travel to the far southern edge of the park and sleep in a campground next to Lewis Lake.  It cost $13, and I did not have substantial bills for the cost, and there was of course no place for my card.  So I packed $13 worth of quarters in the envelope, and then tried sliding it through the pay slot.  The slip was too fat.  For the next few minutes I frantically shoved that bulging manila envelope of quarters into a slot, and finally got it through.  What hardships there are on the road.

I slept in my car that night.  I of course started to prepare a campsite, but to be honest, the site I chose was an awful, tiny, gravely square perched onto the side of a hill.  It was drizzling, and there were several signs around the campground warning of proper bear procedures.  I opted to sleep in my safe, comfy, pre-prepared car.

The next day I went and saw the sights of the glorious Yellowstone.  Old Faithful was of course the first landmark I visited.  I was able to actually watch it erupt twice, once after I arrived at the geyser fields, and again just as I was leaving.  The geysers were very interesting to watch.  There was one, perched high on a hill away from the sea of others below it, that was very regular in it's eruption, every few minutes I believe.

It did not take long, however, before they all began to meld into one another.  Sadly when you've seen a few geysers, you've seen them all.  Some of my favorites were the hot springs, beautiful super heated pools of spectrum spanning algae.  I was sad to learn that in the past visitors have thrown trash and pennies into the hot springs, partially closing off the heat source and therefore dulling the vivid colors in the pools.  There was a man at each one, warning tourists of such actions.

Hot spring in Yellowstone National Park.  You can just barely see the deep turquoise at the bottom.

I enjoyed a burger and soda at the lodge near these geothermal wonders, and decided to travel north in the park.  The only road north went over a high pass, and when I was cresting this pass, I was very amused to see a lone buffalo trotting along the pavement.  Being on a high pass, there was a vertical wall to the right and a steep drop off to the left.  So I slowly followed this buffalo until it came to a long enough stretch of straight road for me to maneuver around him.  I waved as I passed my care free friend.

As I was winding my way down the mountain to get to the, unbeknownst to me, unexciting northern part of Yellowstone, I saw in the distance a lightning storm bringing the sky to life.  Being a good deal away (the clouds over me were a boring grey) I decided to hop out of my car and try to take some pictures.  While standing there, eye through the peep hole and trying to catch a crackling string of lightning, a voice went off in my head.  It was a far away, long ago voice.

"When you're in a lightning storm, get below the tree line.  If you're above the tree line, you'll probably get hit with lightning.  Oh, and even if you think you're far enough away from it, if you can see lightning you're probably not safe."

The wise words of Nathan Jones caused me to pull my eyes from the camera and look about.  There was no tree to be seen.  A bright streak of the static light arced across the sky a little closer to me.  I jumped into my car and headed on down the mountain.  As I was returning to the southern part of the park, after discovering nothing exciting up north, I passed my buffalo friend still making his way down the road.  I waved again.

I left the depressing magma lined graveyard of Yellowstone for one of the most enriching and awe-inspiring sessions of my trip:  the Grand Tetons.  Luckily, the $30 I spent to enter Yellowstone also counted towards the Tetons, and so I drove south to reach them unhindered.  When I broke through the tree line, and saw that magnificent range standing bare and real against the pale blue sky, I don't think I can find words for how I felt.  Every powerful, positive, emotionally-packed descriptive is worthy of being used on the Grand Tetons.  Nothing compares.  Those are God's finest sculpturings.  Not even my beloved Appalachia could stand up to these mountains, not in the same way at least.  And they called out to me.

The Devil's Mountains, across Jackson Lake.

Sitting in the only laundry mat I visited for my trip (thank god for the kind soul to think of putting a laundry mat in a national park!), I stared up at those dark, rocky crags.  I felt something welling up in me.  I had to go to them.  Deep in the root of those mountains, an ancient siren was sending out a song I could only hear too well.  It was in those snow capped peaks that I could find what I was secretly looking for on this trip.  I had to take it.

I visited the first Ranger's Station I found.  In there I picked up my introduction to the wonderful man we know as John Muir, a little book filled with his "best" excerpts.  What a man.  But anyways, I asked the people at the Ranger Station what a good route would be for a relatively inexperienced backpacker.  I was afraid of those mountains.  I had grown up in rounded "knobs", and crossed smooth "gaps."  I climbed on top of giant, sloping faces of granite, and walked old, steady trails.  What I found in the Tetons looked like Hell itself had tore its way to the surface and shouted to the world "Come see if you can take it!"  I knew I had to travel through those peaks.

The people at the desk pointed me towards the lady in charge of handing out permits.  She was a very kind, helpful woman, up in age but not low in spirit.  She reminded me of one of my favorite professors back home, both in appearance and demeanor.  It was very calming.  She helped me figure out just what kind of hiking I was wanting to do, and put me in a spot by Phelp's Lake, right below the ominously named Death Canyon.  I thanked her (After she asked me about Earlham College, for I was wearing my Earlham shirt.  She wished me luck in my pursuit of options not involving higher education.), called my mom to tell her I was about to head into the Grand Tetons, and made my way to the trail head.

It was a relatively short hike to the campsite, around five miles if I remember correctly.  It was a steady uphill followed by a steep downhill.  I met an elderly couple about halfway along the trail.  I had just gotten off the phone again with my mom, and the old man asked me if I was skipping out on work.  I replied with a smile that no, I wasn't.

Phelp's Lake was beautiful.  Again, I feel I can't accurately describe the beauty I slept beside that night.  It was a oval shaped lake, of decent size, and sitting right below the deep and narrow Death Canyon.  The camp site was a very short walk from shore (you could still see the water through the trees) and it was a good site.  I set up camp, snacked, and wrote that night.  Later in the evening, I grew lonely, and so I went out to the shore and called my mom.  I was surprised to find that I got really good reception.  My only theory is that the canyon sort of funneled the waves to me.  I talked with my mom for a long time that night, next to the gentle lapping waves of the mountain lake.  It was a good conversation.  Soon after the lengthy talk I stuffed my pack into the bear box (a large, metal box for you to store potential items of bear-interest) and crawled into my sleeping bag.  It was an uneasy night of sleep, for weasels and other critters bounded around me, keeping me awake.  A fear of bears did not help either.

Phelp's Lake, a morning mirror.

I awoke to an amazingly still mirror of a lake.  I'll let the picture do the talking, because I can't.  I ate a quick breakfast, grabbed my faithful Nalgenes filled with water, and started on my day hike up Death Canyon.  What a fun hike that was!  Just a good, fulfilling hike up a beautiful canyon.  About halfway up I noticed a strange berry growing near the trail.  Looking closer, I realized it looked like a raspberry...  almost.  It was a little different.  And I knew the foliage did not match that of the raspberry's back east.  Huge, star-like leaves grew from these stems, instead of the small jagged toothed and silver bottomed ones I grew up with.  Opting on the safe route, I didn't eat any of these.  If I had, I would have had a feast, for the mountainsides were covered in them!  To this day I don't know what they are, but I've decided that not eating them was probably the intelligent route.

At the top of the canyon a three way pass crowned a beautiful little wooded patch of land.  I was lured farther in by the stunning scenery, but did not follow my eyes.  I knew it was not wise to prowl so deep in land I didn't know, especially with nothing but two water bottles, of course growing lighter as the day wore on.  So I soaked in the view, and bounded down the trail back to camp.  Packing up my supplies, I said a sad farewell to Phelp's Lake and the Grand Tetons, vowed I would return, and made my way off towards Jackson, Wyoming.

 I enjoyed a call from my friend Kevin while in Jackson.  As I drove through the town, I was amazed at the level of cycling I saw.  I passed an elementary school as it was letting out, and was deeply amused to see dozens of kids pedal off in all directions on their bikes!  Now there is a community I can get along with, I thought.

I drove through most of Idaho that day.  Southern Idaho is nothing special in my opinion.  It honestly reminded me of home; flat farmland and depreciating towns.  My understanding is northern Idaho, the "chimney", as I always saw it, is where the real natural beauty of Idaho is.  I'd like to visit it some day.

I slept in a truck stop right outside of Boise that night.  When I woke up the next morning, I opened my eyes to the sun just coming up over some far away mountains.  It was quite a sight.  I will always have a deep desire to watch a sunrise.  They have happened every single day this Earth has existed, but I have only seen a few.

Sunrise to the east of Boise, Idaho.

I proceeded through almost all of Oregon the next day.  It was this day that disaster almost struck.  But first, the good of the day.  Another thing they don't tell you is that eastern Oregon is a rather arid place.  It is, after all, sharing a border with Nevada to the south.  There were signs on the interstate warning of dirt and dust in the air obscuring visibility.  I'd never had to deal with that before.  Thankfully, the wind must have been down because there was no such problem.  There were huge blocks of planted trees along the road, nurseries of several different species.  That was neat.  After a while, I found myself following the great Columbia River.  What a river.  On the opposite side of this waterway, which was the state of Washington most of the time, I saw great wind turbines perched on the cliffs.

"Roll on, Columbia, roll on!"

I didn't know of these words at the time, but looking back, Woody helps me remember that great river.  I arrived in Portland, and discovered that you can't pump your own gas in Oregon.  What a weird law.  Now, not too long into the trek across Oregon I noticed a sound in my engine.  A rapid, faint clicking sound.  It worried me, but I calmed my worries by telling myself that I've heard lots of cars make this sound.  Must just be the miles catching up with me, I told myself.  I turned up the music, and continued down the road.

Just as I was leaving Portland, I happened to look down at my dashboard.  The little dull red oil lamp is glowing.  A quick note about my car; the electronics are faulty, and several warning lights flash from time to time.  False warnings like check the coolant temperature and levels.  But I had never seen this oil lamp before.  I decided it's best to play it safe, and I pulled my clicking car over into the next rest area I found.  Popping the hood, I pulled the dip stick out of the engine.  Bone dry.  With a furrowed brow, I noticed my car is on a slight incline... forward.  I released the parking break, and pushed it up the parking lot a little ways until it's level.  Still bone dry.  I began to panic.  Eventually I decided to eat, rest a little (I had been driving the entire day) and to call my dad.  My dad's question (one he asks to this day) is if I had checked my oil often.  Of course I hadn't.  I'd never driven this much before.  He tells me to go get oil and fill it up.  If it hadn't seized yet, I was lucky, and could still be alright.  So, I pulled my beloved mountain bike off of the rack, and set off for the one real reason I brought that bike; to get help in the event my car broke down.

I started riding down the grass beside the interstate, but soon found it's laced with briars.  Not needing a flat, (I was not yet a bicycle mechanic!) I got off and carefully pushed it.  After a short ways, I noticed a road directly to my right, beyond a rusty barbed wire fence.  Tossing my bike over the fence, I crawled through, and headed down the road.  Taking careful note of where I was going, I navigated through a few peach orchards, passed a small airport, and eventually found a gas station run by a middle aged Chinese man.  Sweaty, smelly, breathing heavily and no doubt frightening, I bought the last four quarts of 10W-40.  As I was paying for the oil, the Chinese man asked me "For your bike?"  What a smart ass.

With my thin plastic bag holding a gallon of motor oil, I pushed off and pedaled down the road.  After a while I discovered the easiest way to ride is with my hands cradling the shifting bundle of oil containers in front of my chest, and I can't help but liken it to me carrying a precious infant back to its mother.  So there I was, in the middle of Oregon, during that splendid time of day where the sun is just beginning to sink, and long shadows cut up the bright, warming orange light, riding my bike with hands preoccupied with juggling slippering oil containers, the very lifeblood of my broken down car.  It's a good thing I learned to ride with no hands during the winter.

I returned to my car, and poured in a whole quart of oil before checking it again.  Still nothing.  My past experience with oil-work on a car was not a good one (I put in way too much oil and a good quart had to be drained) and so I was nervous and very unsure of what I was doing.  The rest stop I was at was a very nice and pretty little spot of green grass, shielded on three sides by massive conifers.  There was a couple by the bathrooms, talking to passing strangers about how they had their homes taken and they were on the street.  I knew we were sort of in the same boat, both stranded here, and worried about what was to come.  I came very close to offering a can of soup if the guy would help me get my car oiled up, as I hoped he knew a thing or two about cars.  It was then that The Boss showed up.

I call this man The Boss because in my memory he looks like Bruce Springsteen.  He and his buddy stopped by me, the dirty, smelly kid with a popped hood, four quarts of oil, and no doubt looking insane and ignorant of what he was doing, and asked if I wanted help.  I of course accepted.  I told them what I knew, and they checked the oil and saw how empty it was.  We poured in all four quarts, and eventually got the oil level back up to what it needed to be.  His buddy noted the oil burned onto the bottom of my oil cap, which is caked on there to this day.  As it's running, the loud clicking slowly vanishes.

"Oh man, that's what that sound was.  Your lifters were dry and smashing into the engine block.  This thing was about to go!  You were running it close, kid."

 For normal folks, just take that as un-lubricated metal smashing into itself, getting hot and on the cusp of ruining the entire engine.  I offered The Boss ten bucks as thanks for helping me, but he rejected my money.  I put it forward again, and he, somewhat forcefully, told me he didn't help for the money.  I thanked him a few more times, and got back on the interstate.  Catastrophe averted.

There in the western half of Oregon, I decided to shoot straight west for the Pacific Ocean.  So on the next valid exit, I got off the interstate and took a winding road through the night to the ocean.  It's funny how little patches of country can remind you of places far away and in a lot of ways unexpectedly similar.  I'll always liken that drive to rural Kentucky.  Winding roads, small shacks, and just an overall familiar tone, brought back memories of my family's roots.  Finally, I noticed a steady drop in elevation.  Tall, dark conifers, undetectable in the night, walled my sides as I sped down the road.  Suddenly, the trees broke, and I saw a small town of lights below me.  And I knew I'd reached the ocean.

I pulled into the parking lot of a La Quinta Inn.  I decided after my ordeal a nice bed was worth the money.  However, it was not worth whatever it cost.  I did not record it, but I think it was well over $100 a night.  So I returned to my car, crawled onto my familiar teeter tottering wafer-board bed, and slept in their parking lot for free.

The following day I started my trek down the Pacific Highway.  What a beautiful drive that is!  As soon as I could, I stopped at a beach head, and ran down to the pounding waves.  Overcast skies did not deter my excitement.  I was at the Pacific Ocean!  I put my feet into the frigid waters, and quickly withdrew them.  That was a different sensation for me.  I had grown up visiting oceans that people played in, not ones that froze your toes!  While on the windy beach, I noticed a log floating in a little pool bulging into the sand.  I kept an eye on the log, and lo and behold, it turned out to be a sea lion!  Excited, I get as close as I felt comfortable, and photographed the goofy animal.

The sea lion who was a log.

 Back on the road, I stumbled upon a tourist trap worthy of stopping.  The sign claimed it was the world's largest sea cave.  So I paid $11, and rode down a narrow elevator reminiscent of the elevator running through Chimney Rock, North Carolina, and get a look at the world's largest sea cave.  It was indeed a fun sight, but I'm not sure if $11 was quite a fair price.  On the other hand, it was a private enterprise.

Farther down the road, sleep gripped me again, so I pulled off at another beach head, and napped in my car briefly.  When I awoke, I had no idea where I was!  I was in the middle of a thick fog, a cloud skidding across the surface.  I couldn't see ten feet in front of me!  It was clear and normal when I had went to sleep!  Starting my car, I ease my way out of the parking lot, and realize that a massive wall of fog had settled maybe a mile out from shore.  This wall of fog stood even in the bright sunlight, and extended high enough to block any view of the ocean.  It was a very weird, and bothersome sight.

In the distance you can see the dense wall of fog coming off the ocean, like a besieging army.

The north Pacific Coast was a beautiful sight, and introduced a new and foreign idea to me:  natural beaches!  To me, beaches were merely extensions of towering hotels, places of tourism with a miniature sea of swimsuit wearing people crashing against the watery waves of the ocean.  I had never really liked the ocean.  I always considered myself to prefer the mountains.  But on the north Pacific Coast, the water was too cold for anyone to enjoy, so instead of sun bathing women in bikinis there were blubbery sea lions sun bathing on smooth black rocks.  I think I prefer it!  They were wonderful places, and I think I could spend a lengthy time enjoying it.

That day I crossed into California.  For a long time, I had been anticipating this.  For much of my life, I had wanted to see the great Redwoods of California, even more-so than Yellowstone.  When I first learned about trees that large, I knew I had to see them.  And there I was, on the very coast that those splendid, holy trees grew.  In a town, I stop into a visitor's center and asked the lady on duty where the best place to see the Redwoods and Giant Sequoias were.  She explained that the Redwoods grow here, but to find the Sequoias my best bet was Yosemite.  She told me about a rural gravel road that runs through, in her opinion, the prettiest Redwood grove around.  It had been a stagecoach trail before, and nowadays was kept up to the barest minimums for a legal road.  She explained it was windy and narrow at spots, but that she drove it everyday in her brand new sedan, so it was no off-roading by any reasonable account.  She wished me luck, and I found the road.  Switchbacking its way up a short hill, the road wound its way into the treeline.  I saw big trees, trees much larger than the usual ones I'd seen.  I got out to take pictures of them.  They were pretty in the light filtering through the canopy.  I drove a little bit more, and then my breath left me.  Two massive wooden pillars narrowed the road to a single, skinny path for a car.  My minuscule vehicle inched by these mammoth life forms.  I barely watched the road as I peered up.  Once again, no words.

God's Trees, standing over my insignificant vehicle.

 It is my opinion that everyone should experience the Redwoods of California at least once in their life.  It means a lot to be humbled by something so wonderfully simple in purpose, and so much mightier than yourself.  I called the Grand Tetons the Devil's Mountains.  I had just stepped into a grove of God's Trees.  I'll give a moment of silence for these nobles of the forest.



I inched my way along that little road as it wound through the Redwoods.  It was one of the best drives of my life.  It had been a while since I was that excited.  The gravel path eventually merged into a paved road.  After a brief discussion with a kind lady employed by the Park Service, I headed off for a place to camp.  It was a "primitive campground" practically on the coast, free of course.  Needless to say, I did not find it very primitive, as it had toilets, but it was a welcomed piece of civilization.  The small parking lot for the campground was perched at the top of a sheer cliff overlooking the western ocean.  After I set up camp, I returned to my car to watch the sun begin to set.  There were two other cars in the parking lot.  One was a nice, modern sedan owned by a young couple that was, I believe, camping near me.  They were cooking out as the sun dropped.  The other car was an older, muddy black SUV.  A surfboard was strapped to the top.  The two people who were with it were grimy, dirty young people.  They made me look tame with their mat of dreadlocks and sun bronzed skin.  I had found my first example of California.  The dude, as I remember, was unexciting, but his assumed ladyfriend was something to remember.  Despite her hair that had no doubt been unwashed for weeks, she had a wild beauty to her.  To complete the picture, she was strumming an acoustic guitar with winding and crazy strings growing from the head stock, humming more sounds than words in a throaty and powerful voice.  She was something else.

Sunset on the Pacific.

As a young boy, my family visited the beach of Hilton Head, South Carolina.  We road our bikes on the sand as a family, and it was a memory I'll never forget.  And so, I wanted to ride my bike on a beach of the Pacific Ocean as well.  I pushed my bike out across the loose, completely unsuitable sand.  When I got close to the water, I hopped on and tried to pedal along.  My wheels slid out from under me.  I shifted my course down closer to the water and tried again.  The same thing happened.  So I got down to just where the water pulls back to the ocean and started again.  I was able to ride for a short stretch, but it didn't take long for the soft sand to betray my tires.  Defeated, I got off my bike and looked at the thick-grained sand caking my bike.  Knowing this was no good, I retreated farther up the beach to a huge boulder.  What no one had told me was that Hilton Head was a unique beach in that it was packed well enough for bicycle wheels to roll over.  Go figure.  I watched the sun disappear behind the wall of fog on that beach.

It was a very wet night.  No rain fell, but the moisture from the ocean condensed and left a very, very hefty dew on everything.  I emerged the next morning to find the young couple and the pair of hippies still there.  Packing up, I silently said farewell to the kind couple and beautiful hippie minstrel, and went on down the road.  After a short while, I decided that I simply needed to spend more time in the Redwoods, so I stopped at a trail head, and rode my bike along a mountain bike trail.  Before long the trail started to head down a steep hillside.  I walked my bike down the steep incline, and eventually the trail leveled out.  Hopping back on, I pedaled out and suddenly found myself in one of the most surreal environments of my trip.  From the majestic Redwood forest I had descended into a fog encircled beach that stretched in all directions with no water in sight.  Carefully heading out, I eventually found the ocean.  I sat there, and mused on the strange world I had stumbled upon.  It was like a high altitude mountainside slid down, clouds and all, to a grand beach.  Finally deciding I had stayed long enough, I pushed my bike back up the trail and rolled on down the road.  Back at the trailhead I noticed a sign warning of elk on the beach.  On what beach do elk prance about!?

The apparently elk traveled beach.

 I decided to say goodbye to the amazing Pacific Ocean, and headed inland.  I cut into the central valley of California along a pretty but winding mountain road.  It was along this road that I began to see what most of California is; golden kindling waiting to be ignited at any chance.  The hills were like golden wheat, only their crop was not food but destruction.  What a strange tinderbox California is.

I stayed in a Motel 6 that night.  Billboards along the interstate enticed me with low rates, and I was growing very weary of my teeter totter bed.  The room was more expensive than the signs had indicated, due to upcoming Labor Day.  The next day I headed off for the fabled Yosemite Valley, to see what John Muir had seen so long before me.  I sought to enter Yosemite from the north, as I was naturally coming from that direction.  As I climbed the rolling, golden hills to descend towards the park, the several detour signs I had seen caused me to stop and assess the situation.  Indeed, it seemed that the northern entrance had been closed off.  All visitors were to enter via the southern entrance.  And so I turned my car around, and wound my way down the curviest road I'd ever driven on.  Inching my way along the traffic jam that was Yosemite's only entrance on a Labor Day weekend, I slowly entered John Muir's cathedral.

Half Dome, not too far where Ansel Adams must have stood.

It was somewhat appropriate, reading about John Muir for the first time the week or so before going to Yosemite.  It helped develop this image in my head of what Yosemite could mean to someone.  I actually had no idea what to expect; I had only heard the name Yosemite, and never knew anything about the Valley or the high country surrounding it.  It was far into the afternoon when I entered Yosemite Valley.  Darkness was beginning to creep along the edges of those sheer cliffs.  I slowly circled the drive through the floor of the Valley before deciding it was not an appropriate time to appreciate Yosemite.  Planning to revisit the sights the next day, after being well rested, I set out looking for a place to sleep.  The camping accommodations of the park were overflowing with Asian and Indian-Americans, and so I was forced to prowl the roads up into the night.  My plan was to slink into the parking lot of a large hotel right outside the gate to the Park.  There I would sleep, amidst the sea of friendly cars, and not be bothered.  But as I cruised through the several parking lots (It was a very large complex), I became uncomfortable.  For one, the parking lot was very, very well lit.  While this didn't bother me a whole lot, I was more concerned with the difficulty of sleeping.  The second, and more potent deterrent, was the activity in the hotel's area.  It was after 9pm, I remember, and there were several people walking around.  This was no dirty motel with a handful of shady men and old ladies.  People were on vacation here, and the night was not going to keep them quiet.  Finally, the parking lot was simply packed.  It was difficult to find an out-of-the-way spot.  So I pulled out of the hotel, and went down the road.  Sleep was tugging at my shirt, wanting to pull me into her bed, so I stopped at the first overlook I found.  Parking my car, I stretched out my back to go to sleep.  It was that night that I listened to Robert Johnson for the first time; the first time that I really listened to him.  I had listened to some of his songs about a year earlier, but did not enjoy them.  That night, however, I heard what everyone else heard in that young man's voice.


"I went to the crossroad, baby, I looked east and west.  Lord, I didn't have no sweet woman, ooh well, babe, in my distress."


It was an uneasy night as I feared a policeman's knock on my window.  But I woke up the next morning, and made a hasty retreat from my sleeping spot.  I returned to the Yosemite Valley, and enjoyed what it had to offer.  Sadly, as I've mentioned, it was Labor Day weekend, and so I imagine a large chunk of California was sitting in the Valley that day.  It was very crowded, so crowded that I felt more like I was at a ball game than a natural wonder.  It was easy to enjoy nature's beauty, but it was also hard to feel distant from society.  I wish to someday go back to Yosemite, when there are far fewer people.  I also intend to climb into the high country around the Valley, and live like John Muir, if only for a few days.

The Grizzly Giant, one of the more spectacular Giant Sequoias.

Now that I was in Yosemite, my next goal was to see the Giant Sequoias.  I parked near the terminal for the bus to take me to the Mariposa Grove, and rode along to the famous stand of Sequoias.  Let it be known now that between the Coastal Redwoods and Giant Sequoias, I prefer the Redwoods.  The sequoias are indeed much broader than the Redwoods, but they do not grow as tall.  Also, I noticed that while the Redwoods grow in dense clumps among a lush, green undergrowth, the Sequoias grew far apart from each other, and in burned out, bare forests where brown and red dominate the view, and green hugs the sky above.  Don't get me wrong, the Sequoias were great.  But if I had to choose, I would rather stand among the noble Redwoods than the regal Sequoias.

Waiting for the bus to return, I decided to buy a soda to relax, and while paying at the small hut selling treats, the lady ranger taking my card commented on my name.

"Oh wow, like Brock Sampson!  Do you know the Venture Brothers?"
"Yeah, it's a pretty good show."

She went on to, somewhat embarrassingly, quote lines from the pirate episode of season 1.  I enjoyed the exchange, as awkward as it was, and eventually found myself back in my car, heading south.  I unsurprisingly saw a few signs indicating the direction to Los Angeles and San Francisco.  Something on the outer levels of my brain was curious, and wanted to go investigate these cities.  But deeper down, I knew I wouldn't like it.  This was a pilgrimage, not to find people but to find places.  There was no place for me in either of these towns, not now.  And so I sped off towards the Mojave Desert.

No driver wants Sleep in his bed, tugging at his shoulders, trying to lure him to lay next to her.  The barren hills of the Mojave lulled me to weariness.  Thankfully, I had a secret weapon.  It started with a kick drum, and has been echoing through speakers for four decades.

"Once upon a time you dressed so fine, you threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn’t you?"

That electrifying music kept me going through the Mojave.

"Mama’s in the fact’ry, she ain’t got no shoes.  Daddy’s in the alley, he’s lookin’ for food.  I’m in the kitchen, with the tombstone blues!"

My body was rocking as that little Saturn sped through the desert that night.  Bob Dylan's iconic music got my blood pumping, and allowed me to push farther through the desert.  As I was driving behind a very large hill, I saw a great light coming from the other side.  The light was so great that I felt it had to be artificial.  But what could it be?  I was nowhere near a large city, just driving through the dull and uninhabited desert.  When the highway turned and hugged the side of that hill, and I came out on the other end, I saw it was the moon.  Boy did I feel silly.  The moon!  O tsuki!  Not long after this, I noticed I was getting low on gas.  Not a good thing to notice in the middle of a desert.  But I still had about an eighth of a tank, and felt I could surely find a gas station before I ran out.  I pulled off on the first exit I found, but was met with no sign of civilization.  Veering about a mile from the interstate, I finally found a small town.  Or at least, it was something that resembled a small town.  A single crossroads, bathed in the ominous yellow light of a street lamp, with no sign of life to be found.  Boarded up windows, no cars, just vacant buildings.  Certainly no gas station.  I promptly turned around, and got back onto the interstate.

Ten miles passed.  Twenty miles, then thirty miles.  I was beginning to truly worry.  The little arm on the gauge bobbed with every bump in the road, worrying me as it dipped closer and closer towards the red.  No sign of civilization for miles.  My mind raced as I tried to decide if the desert would be better to ride my bike across in the night or day.  Surely the night, but Sleep was beckoning again.

"They’re selling postcards of the hanging, they’re painting the passports brown.  The beauty parlor is filled with sailors, the circus is in town."

Resolved to deal with the situation when it came, I continued down that long, lonesome road.  Then, in the distance, I saw my savior.  Light!  And this was no trick of the moon, this was an honest to god bastion of civilization in that land void of gas stations!  Passing a sign reading "Boron", I pulled into my favorite truck stop in the world.  After fueling up, I parked my car under a light post and decided I had enough excitement for that day.  Hungry, I picked through my dwindling supplies.  A man can only eat so many oatmeal squares, so many crackers, so many strips of jerky, before higher dining beckons.  Looking towards the building for the truck stop, I noticed a Subway attached to the side.  Now, there's a meal I can get behind!  With an relief-fueled energetic step, I walked into a Subway I'll never forget.

I remember a loud air conditioning unit stood over the doorway.  The door itself crashed loudly behind me, pulling my attention away from the counter.  When I turned back towards the counter, time briefly stopped as I stood dumbfounded.  She was by no counts "beautiful" by "societal standards."  But something about that girl made me stand still for a moment, and absorb what I was seeing.  When time promptly returned to normal, her attention was on me.

"What can I get you?"

She had a pretty smile.  A real pretty smile.  I stepped up and proceeded with my usual order at Subway; Philly Cheesesteak on Italian bread.  I nervously continued along, asking for my usuals of green peppers and onions, with marinara sauce.  She then asked me if I wanted bacon on my sandwich.  This unexpected question tripped my already muddled mind.  Would it taste good?  Probably, but it might not.  Would I risk it?  Maybe, but I was so hungry, I wanted something nice.  A serious debate flamed on in my head when a giggle interrupted it.

"You don't have to get the bacon."

Real cute eyes.  Pretty smile.  I declined the bacon, and she finished the sandwich.  When I handed her my card to pay for it, she read my name out loud under her breath.  I heard her whisper to herself.

"Brock... wow, what a cool name."

I lightly chuckled as my heart began to race.  What in the world was I thinking.  I was in the middle of the Mojave Desert, in a spit stain on the map called Boron, California, standing in a Subway where the cutest girl for two thousand miles just said I had a cool name.  I took my sandwich, smiled, and returned to my car.  Eating my delicious meal on the hood, I ran a lot of scenarios through my head.  Not a lot kept me from wadding up my sandwich wrapping, walking back into that Subway, and saying to Tristi (I caught her name tag) "Hey, when do you get off?"  Not a lot.

I wasn't even intending on anything happening.  I was just a very lonely, homesick twenty year old boy two thousand miles away from home.  I wanted to talk to someone, wanted to get to know someone.  Old, old feelings, locked away deep in the well of my person began to rumble.  Chains rattled, and the lid strained against those bindings as a lot of emotions came over me.  I hate how my brain associates unrelated things so easily.  Old memories were revived, and it didn't take long before I was very confused.  I of course took the easy route, and crawled into my car.  I wrote a good deal that night.

The next day I continued through the desert.  As I neared Las Vegas, I pulled into a rest area to empty my cooler.  Now, I had taken with me a large, family-sized cooler.  It was the only cooler we had when I left.  That cooler was a blight on my journey.  It was massive, and so required vast amounts of ice to keep cool.  At any one time, I had two things I needed cold, if any.  I bought two half gallons of milk throughout my trip, and two packages of ham lunch meat.  It was large, bulky, and sat where my bed was throughout the day, and where I drove during the night.  At that rest area near Las Vegas, I lugged the big bulky thing out of my car and opened the lid.

Good lord!  What a monster I had brewed in that cooler.  I had of course not kept up on the expensive ice, and submitted to reality of soured milk and bad ham.  What I did not count on, were these two mixing.  Through the substantial elevation changes I was experiencing lately, the lid on the milk container had popped off, spilling its soured contents into the water.  Who knows how many days ago this happened by the time I discovered it.  Needless to say, what was once milk was now some sort of primordial cheese.  Clumpy, white, and disgusting, it floated in a strange yellowish water.

Wait, yellow water?  That's right, the "zip-lock" seal on my package of barely eaten ham was apparently not water proof, and so the ham-soaked "juice" from the packaging had oozed into the cheese water.  Add a few days of fermenting, and I had a top notch batch of cheesy ham soup.  Delicious.

Holding back from gagging, I emptied the contents onto the sun baked dirt, and continued driving, if not a little nauseated.  Soon I came to Las Vegas.  That's right, I was in Las Vegas, Sin City.  Drove straight through on the interstate!  The large concrete walls on either side of the highway didn't let me get a good look into the city, and I'm okay with that.  All I can really say about Las Vegas was that I was surprised at the amount of sex-oriented billboards along the interstate.  But I'm kind of not surprised, it was Las Vegas after all.

The Mojave, somewhere around Las Vegas.

The next stop on the road for me was the Grand Canyon.  By this point in the trip, I was beginning to grow weary of the road.  I longed for home, for a soft bed, and familiar people.  I think Yosemite was the turning point in this.  Fresh from the ocean, which was in a lot of ways a major goal of the trip, I was heading east now, sightseeing or not.  Sunsets were to my back, and I was heading home.  But first I had a few stops.

I crossed into Arizona and then quickly came to Utah.  Shortly after entering Utah, I became confused.  I had not seen any large green signs pointing me towards the Grand Canyon.  In fact I hadn't seen anything about it, and I had just passed right through the state!  Granted it was, at most, half an hour of driving, but I knew something was wrong.  A man in a visitor's center directed me towards the Grand Canyon, and so I headed out along the state roads towards one of the world's most famous landmarks.

What they don't tell you is that from the north, a great high altitude forest guards the North Rim of the Grand Canyon.  After a short climb to a wide plateau, you drive through beautiful pine trees and small green meadows.  What happened to the desert that's supposed to be around the Grand Canyon!?  I soon reached the Canyon itself, and it was certainly humbling.  Looking across the extraordinary chasm, I could see the South Rim.  Desert indeed!  A nicely accommodated lodge sat on this North Rim, and for a few moments I enjoyed a soft and cushioned seat.  The thing about the Grand Canyon, I think, is that it is really a place worthy of a lengthy stay.  There is the sight seeing, the hiking, and if you're adventurous, the rafting on the Colorado River.  A simple, Griswold-esque brush against the landmark is just not fulfilling.  And definitely not worth the $30.

The Grand Canyon from the North Rim.

After my one hour or so visit of the Grand Canyon, I darted north briefly.  I did not get far before night set in.  This was perhaps the most mystical night of sleeping for the whole trip.  Stopping on the side of this desert road, I simply made sure I was safely off the road, pulled tight on the parking brake, and curled onto my wafer-board.  The desert at night is undoubtedly an amazing experience.  The dark sky was very clear, and the moon enormous and full.  Cacti and sagebrush created a jagged horizon, and as I gave way to Sleep's pull, I couldn't help but think of how very still and quiet it was.

The next, and final full "stop" of my trip, was an appropriate conclusion to my almost three weeks of rambling.  Bryce Canyon, the namesake of my brother, is an amazing, unique, and thought-provoking place.  Named for Ebenezer Bryce, the first white man to settle the area (roads labeled by signs with the single word "Bryce" ran through the "canyon"), I discovered it was not a canyon at all.  It was more of a bowl, I suppose.  But the main attraction of Bryce Canyon are the hoodoos.  Now I guess I should say, I think hoodoos are very cool formations.  Formed by erosion, hoodoos can create stunning landscapes.  Bryce Canyon itself is unique in that it's a place of tremendous temperature range.  Despite being in the desert, weather patterns guarantee heavy snowfall in the winter.  This constant freezing and thawing formed the several hundred, perhaps thousand, hoodoos.

The lost souls of Bryce Canyon, standing punished as columns of rock.

 I read that the Native Americans had a legend that the hoodoos were in fact bad people, thieves and dishonest folk, who were turned to stone when they died.  It is definitely a sight to behold.  I had to of course buy a souvenir for my brother, and so I bought him a rather large poster of a splendid vista of the hoodoos of his namesake.  I hiked along a short trail running through part of the area.  It was a fun hike, at times running through beds of several little cairns, no doubt left by children or bored adults in the past.

But even Bryce Canyon had to be left behind, and from there I left truly intent for home.  Perhaps thirty or forty miles north, I merged onto Interstate 70, the very highway I began my journey on, exactly where it begins (or ends) in the West, butting into and flanging from a cliff.  I road Interstate 70 just into Colorado that night, where I slept at a truck stop.  The next day I covered all of Colorado and most of Kansas.

Colorado was, in the western half of course, a beautiful drive.  Green mountains, flowers on hillsides and wonderful rocking outcroppings enticed me from the road.  I mostly regret my single-track mindset of the time, which was to get home at all costs.  I should have spent more time in Colorado, but that is for another time in my life.  I descended from the Rockies, and shot across the Great Plains as fast as I could.  I settled in Kansas City at a rest stop that night, and the next day crossed the Mississippi again, driving past the Gateway to the West, and sped all the way home.  Driving from the far West to the mid West in two days really makes you appreciate greenery.  Dirt, rock, and the occasional sagebrush is what you see out West.  Even Kansas, which always gets the butt-end of criticisms, was a welcome sight with its green grasslands and rows of healthy crops.  The last 6 miles outside of Centerville, Indiana were some of the longest miles of the whole trip!  I got off on the Centerville exit, and followed familiar crop-lined roads to my house.  I promptly showered, and talked briefly with my mom.

"It's good to have you back, Brocky."

I was soon riding my bike on the streets of Centerville, alongside my friends, telling them excitedly of the highlights of my trip.  I assured Mike that California was indeed a nice place.  We later retired to Clara's so that I could enjoy a delicious pizza, and when all was said and done I was back in my room.

The following winter was a very hard time for me.  Spring was a salvation, drawing me back towards the day.  Me and Kevin briefly scrapped metal for money, before I got my current job at Ike's Bikes as a bicycle mechanic.  Funny what a few broken spokes can get you sometimes.  And here I am today.

I want to go back out.  The road calls to me sometimes.  I'll merge onto the interstate, to get to the other side of town, and I'll want to keep going.  Turn up the music, and see where I end up.  At times, I have done this, before turning around to go back home.

"As I was walking that ribbon of highway, I saw above me that endless skyway:  I saw below me that golden valley:  This land was made for you and me."

P.S.  For all of the pictures from my trip, visit the three galleries it took to show them all!

Gallery 1

Gallery 2

Gallery 3