8/14/10: Massena, NY-Cracks

It took some time to understand, but Saturday morning’s frustration was less about Ahab, Ginger, or Bill than myself. Somehow that perfect Friday soured, and although I meant no harm other than being my oft-obnoxious self, something sinister and familiar crashed my little party via the radio conversation: what Chris likes to refer to as my negativity and judgment. Guilty: I have a track record as one aggressive, direct, cold, bitter son-of-a-bitch-- especially when someone tries to sell me on the value of conservatism or that shell-of-a-medium called radio! I suppose that’s because on some level, it still matters to me. The conversation ended, but I lugged the negative energy with me.

Setting off Saturday morning, I was motivated to put Alex Bay’s now-putrid energy behind me! But, with the heel it would clearly be impossible to walk in my boots. It was time to put the Crocs (an idea borrowed from Ray) to the test, and I was shocked to learn that they were fucking comfy, and sturdy! Even with the pack! There was nothing  rubbing on the heel, it could breathe, and while they took some getting used to the lone problem I saw was the holes in the front, and the rubber potentially rubbing parts of my feet raw. Socks solved that.

I hoped to catch a quick ride as far as Ogdensburg or all the way to Massena as I walked east, but nothing came-- giving me the time, atmosphere, and exercise to think optimally and over-analyze the night before! 

In my infinite idiocy, I hadn’t connected why I was so sensitive to the topic of radio with where I was going: Massena! I had done a night show there for a summer--recorded in my bedroom and sent via the Internet from Michigan. I’d never even glimpsed pictures of the place, and needed regular coaching from my program director to be sure I pronounced cities, streets, and area landmarks correctly! When I learned I was passing thru New York on my way to northern New England, I knew this was my chance to at least see, talk to, and pay respects to the little town I’d deceived way back then. I never felt completely right about that, although I was good at it. Still, I don’t think I realized how much it bothered me until that morning, waddling like a blistered duck down this tiny two-lane road next to the St. Lawrence. 

There’s more to this story. Most of it is a lingering, persistent idealism and perfect rant material. Maybe I’ll share it sometime, but today suffice it to say that my experience deceiving Massena subconsciously helps trigger an intense, adverse reaction when people profess radio’s nobility of purpose and its benefit to society-- as Bill did the night before. Horseshit. It’s surviving “purpose” is playing songs between commercials and providing thinly veiled, pathetically executed illusion of local, community involvement. Remember that the next time you hear “live and local!” Anyone telling you different is lying or selling something to you. Buy Sirius. Seriously.

There’s one final setup that will be helpful for the impending posts. My time at Brian’s over the summer wasn’t what I’d term a chapter in a new Heroic Epic, but is was quietly and deceptively productive even though the “product” will not resemble what I expected!

Eventually, I'll write things that will seem radically out of character, and this moment is these painful realizations nexus. August 14th was the birth and a baby step toward an overdue, month-long reconciliation of a year-long mental and emotional logic-induced stagnation. What was begun at Andre’s, followed me to Port Townsend, then Slab City, Cambria, Monterey, and Michigan; what’s haunted, anchored, and confounded me for the past year had finally begun breaking loose. 

However, all I knew then was that I was tired and pissed off that I was walking Route12 in Crocs! Profound. Inspiring. 

Six miles later, I was disturbed that my central New York luck had not appeared to follow me north when I needed it. Exhausted as much from thinking as walking, I squatted down on my pack across the road from a hair salon in the middle of nowhere. An hour later things started happening. Another single woman, Sue, took me to Chippewa Bay where I watched nearly every emergency vehicle in northern New York drive past on their way to a fire. My version of reality TV!

Ninety minutes later, I was picked up by a guy in his 30’s driving a pickup and offering to take me just a few miles, to Morristown. When I told him why I was going to Massena (radio), his face lit up as he claimed to recognize my voice from the station! I’m not sure I believe him, but after he heard that, he suddenly had free time and wanted to take me the rest of the way to Ogdensburg. 

Ogdensburg is the largest city in the immediate area-- not huge, but sizeable. It’s 30-miles southwest of Massena, and decrepit. It metaphorically reeked of drugs. It’s hard to articulate, but there is next to nothing there, despite it’s decent size. Houses are falling apart and many buildings stand abandoned and empty. Sadly, it reminded me of a whitebread Detroit..

My new ride/old fan said he would have taken me the final 30-miles to Massena, but didn’t have that much time. Unbelievably, he offered to do the next best thing: pay far the cab the rest of the way. He was concerned about me camping along the road in the impending rain and, despite my meager protests, insisted I call the taxi for an estimate. When Kermit quoted me $30 to Massena, he pounced on it. 

We met the taxi-van at Walmart, I said goodbye to He-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless, and over the next hour watched as some amusing vocational drama played out. Kermit, the semi-elderly driver/ co-owner I'd spoken with on the phone, had overextended and needed another driver. But, the other co-owner refused to answer his phone! Driving me to Massena on a busy Saturday was a hassle!

Over the next hour, Kermit went off-duty, Mark took over, picked up & dropped off several people so  consequently I saw much more of Ogdensburg, literally AND figuratively, than I ever expected! When the other owner finally called back, I learned that the $30 fare Kermit quoted was in fact HALF; it was $30 each way. To their immense credit they were each adamant about honoring Kermit's quote. 

Eventually, we were finishing my final leg to Massena and Mark dropped me off at a gas station on the far-west end of town. I chatted with a some gas station customers while I ate, and had another of the “I thought I recognized your voice” moments. My hungry, piggly little ego loved it-- even if they were full of shit! Then again, maybe they weren't. In this case, I choose to believe the best in folks!

I was three miles south of town, it was late in the day, and the sky looked as though Hell were about to bust loose. I spied a woods directly behind the gas station that appeared to be on public land, found a perfect spot to nest completely concealed in-and-beneath thick vegetation, and finally sprawled out, exhausted, just before the rain began.

Before I dozed off, I got a text from my brother about his sudden, impulsive fact-finding mission via I-80 to Oregon. He’d be going past Lynette’s and offered me a ride. Caveat: needed to be near Michigan by the following Saturday!

Perfect Nest. 

There was no way I could process any of it effectively then, but it made for an interesting Sunday!

8/13/10: Alex Bay, NY-The Asscrack Incident

Wanting to avoid pesky park rangers and potential problems for Gus, I was packed and nearly ready by 7:30 when to my surprise Bill showed up and invited me to stay at his site for the day--or weekend --to relax and mend the blister. I was quite impressed with Keewaydin State Park and more than happy to accept!

Bill

Nearly every aspect of this Friday the 13th was ideal. It was sunny, hot, humid and with Keewaydin situated directly on the St. Lawrence River, the perfect place to swim! Bill insisted that we make an early afternoon trip into Alexandria Bay for food and beer before the weekend’s flood of tourists arrived for the Pirate Festival. The rest of the day was spent relaxing, wandering around the campground, and leaping from 12-foot cliffs into the St. Lawrence. It would be hard to improve on the scene or the vibe. It reminded me a great deal of seeing Andre’s Portland, Cambria & The Marin Headlands in California., and a few other places. Intense natural beauty often helps me to feel completely connected and present, but that's something I’m finding much less frequently this year.

We began drinking beer in the early afternoon and began learning more about each other. Bill was in his 50’s and had a razor sharp edge to him. He also had quite an elaborate campsite, living out of of a pop-up trailer with his dog and girlfriend. Set along side was a partially converted van for traveling and his job. From the outset, he let it be known that he was quite prosperous; that he had “made it” as the owner of a successful construction company and they were at the campground waiting on a job somewhere near the Adirondacks. Everyone  knew Bill and Liz because they apparently spent alot of time at Keewaydin every summer. This led to the staff looking the other way as he claimed a “staff” site -- for free! Bill was mindful and quite grateful for this and whenever he went to town was sure to go out of his way to bring something back for whomever happened to be staffing the gate.

Bill had been in the military (Special Forces, he claimed) and had a great deal of outdoorsy know-how and equipment. He offered solid advice about how to deal with the blister, suggesting I use foot powder and thinner socks even offering me some of his along with a t-shirt and a few MRE's.

While he too was well-off, his energy was anti-André. There was a distinct, omniscient bitterness oozing from Bill. His mother came into about $2 million when his father was killed in a car accident. Through some family drama, his mother and brother burned through it and were now requesting money from him-- after he'd seen none of his father’s insurance money! This obvious gnawed at his core. Beyond that, he would freely, almost constantly, point out how he “hated people” and would seriously like to kill some! While he was exaggerating on the second point--mostly--I suspect there were elements of truth in both.

Most tellingly, Bill's hostility carried over to his girlfriend. Liz was much younger than he and they had been dating for 12 or 13 years. She was for the most part a simple, gentle soul. Mousy, quiet, submissive, introspective, and appeared to be at least slightly impaired in some way. When it came to Liz, Bill had an ugly side. One recurring throughout the day. He would constantly remind Liz that he had somehow “rescued”her, was taking care of her and could and would get rid of her anytime he chose. From his perspective, she was the one who needed him and he clearly enjoyed the control. I gained no real background or perspective on their past or private relationship, but from my standpoint it seemed vicious. I felt sorry for her. And, I knew it was not in my interesest to make it my concern.

**Quick sidenote to the self-righteous couch-bound blowhards screaming about what they "would have" done: Perhaps put your shit talking to the test. I can help you gear-up and everything! I'd just LOVE to see how that sort of arrogant domestic interference works out for you! To quote Rush, "Show me. Don't tell me", fuckos!**

As the day went on, the sun shined, my shoulders scalded, and the beer and conversation flowed. Bill introduced me to the young woman who worked security at the campground overnights and explained how she was utterly useless as a supposed authority figure, which Gus (who had appeared periodically during the day while he worked) emphatically confirmed. Some of Bill's young friends repeated it later, recounting with heavy disdain as to how she had called the cops on an unsuspecting camper for simply gathering dead wood -- without confronting him first! She was also a morbidly obese redhead. All of this combined to earned her the affectionate behind-the-back title: "Fat Ginger Bitch". She just reminded me of Cartman.

"Ginger"

As the sun fell into the St. Lawrence, Gus vanished into town for the party while Bill and I, despite his domestic tension, continued forging a friendship. In fact, I was certain that this weekend would go down as a classic. I was right -- but not how I thought.

Long after another beer run, midnight approached and after drinking all day the conversation turned to, of all fucking things, radio! I had shared some of my experiences in the business with him a few times through the day and (at his repeated insistence...you don't say "no" to Bill) played him my demo reel from my phone. With that, he shared that his family business was -- wait for it -- radio. His family owns a small group of radio stations in upstate New York, and his brother runs it.

After a day full of PBR, neither of us were particularly effective communicators. Yet, I had no problem telling him what I now thought of his family business! Despite that, Bill was sure that I should run, or at least work for, his family's rock station! In fact, he tried to call his brother, well after midnight. to tell him all about me! While flattered, I really wanted no part of this. But, again, Bill is not used to being told “no”. The more I did-- the more he insisted. The enlightened, faithful reader will naturally see how such a conversation could get a little "louder" than normal. Not that we were yelling, we were just -- loud.

By early Saturday, Ginger Bitch had put on her mental uniform and was "on duty." Somewhere along the way, she'd gone from slurping and gulping Apple Pucker and talking about her supposed daylong "booty call" in Watertown to demanding that we "respect her authoritah" and quiet down. To be fair, we were a bit loud and honored her request. But the image of this ridiculous creature suddenly demanding respect and authority still makes me laugh. It was as though she’d been furloughed from a Jerry Springer Bootcamp and bellyflopped into this cake-gig ranking somewhere between mall cop and Walmart greeter. (No offense meant to either!) Yet, Ginger fancied herself as essential to securing The Homeland™. And protecting innocent, vulnerable dead wood from those who would do it harm.

With that, Bill and I chose to take a lap around the campground. We didn't get far. Ginger's Watertown booty call had shown up. Like moths to flames and rubbernecks to highway carnage, we simply had to have a look. Ahab was a loud, cocky, boisterously preppy young man in his early 20s who proudly (and repeatedly) announced that he had asked Ginger to marry him that day; presumably during post-coital pillow talk; and that she had turned him down. I was shocked. He was a handsome, mostly likable kid  with a seemingly good sense of humor.

Seemingly.

Now comes my moment of infamy. Perhaps these next few paragraphs are best read with the old Monty Python theme playing in your mind's ear.

I had just cracked a PBR when Ahab stepped in front of me and bent over irresistibly revealing what historians shall surely refer to as The Asscrack of Doom. First, I just chuckled. Then, without really thinking, poured a few small drips from my PBR into this perfectly presented asscrack. Despite my  proud look of mischievous pride, Ahab and Ginger were not entertained. Particularly Ahab. In fact, he was irate! Obnoxiously so. To be fair, perhaps Ginger had gifted him a new g-string prior to her harpooning? Maybe he had an asscrack infection of some sort? It could have been that assplay of any sort was traumatic and something for which he required a safety word? I have no idea. All I know is that his reaction was dramatic and bizarre!

As is often the case, the more buttons I can push the more I amuse myself. Especially with people who take themselves too seriosly. In fact, when I think about it to this day I still laugh. It was a minuscule amount of beer and no harm was done -- except to Ahab's pride in the presence of his precious Ginger. I had defiled his honor with PBR! And, he had to talk a world of redneck shit to get it back. It was middle school-cute, even by the juvenile standard I myself had just set! While he threw his tantrum and threatened to “kick ass” (without taking a step toward me), I apologized between hysterical laughs and the fact I obviously wasn't taking him seriously enraged him even more. Again, from a safe distance. Soon enough, he was screaming, emotionally convulsing really, and other campers were being disturbed. Ginger could not have that on her watch. Something had to be done, and since Ahab was her man, she informed me that I "had to go". And that she was calling the rangers.

At 3 a.m.? Really?

Really.

Two Park Rangers arrived promptly and, chests thrusted forth, aggressively asked me if I was a registered camper. I told them no, and that I had been invited by Bill to stay with him. After running my ID (of course), I asked them in a terse, “don’t fuck with me, rent-a-cop” tone if I was going to jail. They conceded that I had broken no law. But, since I was unregistered. and security (Ginger) had reported me as a disturbance, I had to go.

Packing in amused amazement, I watched Bill's demeanor change out of pure, yet understandable, self-interest. He saddled up to Ginger and Ahab while throwing some of the hostility he had earlier directed toward his girlfriend my way! I don’t blame him. He had a sweet, extended hookup at the campground and, though Ginger was a preposterous excuse for “security”, she was in a position to ruin it for him. Why not throw the drifter under the bus?

I finished packing, minus the gifts Bill gave me earlier,  and asked the rangers to drive me out of town because of the obscenely ridiculous time-of-eviction. As I loaded into the cruiser, I heard Bill barking my name as though he had parting words. I ignored him, choosing instead to reply with an obnoxiously cheerful “Buhbye!”

The rangers chose to drop me off at a public fishing pond a few miles east of Alex Bay. To their credit, after the initial intimidation tactic, they were professional, courteous, and even helpful. I was half-drunk and exhausted, so simply found a semi-suitable spot and crashed. Even then, legitimate title or not, being bounced by Erica Cartman seemed both ridiculous & hilarious! I reminded myself of the “Rule of Agreement” and wasn't the least bit upset as I drifted off to sleep.

Amazingly, after drinking all day and getting to bed at 4, I was awake, and motivated, by 7. However, I was not nearly as philosophically zen as just a few short hours before. A persistent and intense Ginger-based anxiety triggered acute stomach discomfort exacerbated by my over-consumption of PBR and growing fatigue. Clinical diagnosis: the beer shits.

I admit that what follows is likely too much information, and quite unflattering. Normally I would seek out a secluded spot to bury nature's wrath. But, this morning all I could see was Ginger, Ahab, and Bill. All I could feel was a hangover and heel blister. And I knew that I had to walk. I was particularly vindictive; some have rightfully said immature. I chose to leave a little something special behind to show my appreciation. There was a well-used trailhead connecting the parking lot to the fishing pond. By the time I slid into my Crocs and hoisted the backpack, there was a large steaming piece of interpretive intestinal artwork adorning their trail-head.

Of course, my morning affliction was immediately cured. Treatment: effective! As your doctor if the Toddzilla Method is right for you!



No. I did not take a picture. You're all sick bastards.

8/12/10: Alex Bay, NY

Interstate Forest

Waking up, the first thing I noticed was that the heat and humidity had mercifully relented. Second: I was becoming efficient and streamlined! I'm not sure which I was happier with, but both combined for a good start to the day! Even so, matching Wednesday would prove difficult but early-on, Thursday felt like a old, comfortable pair of shoes. I was back with my old friend Interstate, this time I-81, and within 15 minutes of joining him I was northbound.

My first ride was, surprise, a single woman! A rarity indeed! Elaine was a no-nonsense Mennonite, continuing the religious theme, in her 30’s, and had absolutely no problem letting me know who she was or what she thought. She knew exactly where she was taking me... rather I liked it or not.... conveying in clear, concise terms that she knew best. I liked her! (In this limited dose!)


Elaine dropped me off 15 to 20 miles north on the far end of Pulaski, and after another remarkably short wait, I was on my way to Watertown Center with Steve, who is apparently a big deal in the ATV world. He’s president of the largest ATV club in New York State, courted by politicians actually seeking his endorsement, which he exploits knowing that his organization carries weight. I had no clue that off-roaders held sway in government, but he pointed out that a huge amount of New York land is “public”--supposedly forever. With that much land, providing off-road trails for ATV enthusiasts is a big deal. It was a fascinating, short conversation that also included how best to possibly utilize these “public lands” between Watertown and Massena!


And... Steve was huge! 6’ 5” & 350 pounds. Not much intimidates him -- physically, politically, or otherwise ! Beyond that, he also had an interesting story, including hitching around the country for a couple of years.

Steve’s Watertown Center exit sucked! Little traffic and hard for people to pull over. But, the friendliness of these upstate New Yorkers was further impressing me! After 90 minutes, I had another ride with another Steve through the rest of the largest town on my path not named Syracuse: Watertown. He took me to where highways 11 and 37 split, eventually to angle northeast along the St. Lawrence River toward my adopted destination: Massena.

It was now 4pm and I needed real food. A cheap diner's double cheese burger later I filled my water and joined Highway 37 to supposedly hitch. However, the food had done its job and, against my better judgment, I felt ready to walk again. Unfortunately, my heel was plotting a vicious ambush. Within 2-miles the useless pad had slipped and my previously pesky blister went nuclear. It was clear: this was going to emulate Maryland’s and be a significant problem. By now I was out in the countryside so easily found a place to sleep but, once again,  moments before disappearing to camp, along came a ride. One that started the old familiar falling dominoes of amusing, frustrating events that would write the next couple of days and provide one of my more--unique--tales.

Jamie was yet another single woman. I was amazed, until I realized that she was in the Army and stationed at Ft. Drums. Jamie made it instantly clear that she wasn't afraid of hitchers telling me in a matter-of-fact tone, “I know how to kill you with my bare hands if I need to.” I liked her immediately. She was in her mid/late 20’s, originally from Tucson, had recently rotated back from Afghanistan, and on her way to Alexandria Bay where she chose to live rather than on base.


Alexandria Bay is a small-yet-busy tourist town along the shores of the St. Lawrence River and this particular weekend was The Pirate Festival. Pirates? On the St. Lawrence? Really? From where? Cannuckistan? Did they steal booty for the Quebec Liberation Front? Whatever. It sounded like fun and Jamie was quite accommodating, offering to give me a quick tour of town and the party. Alex Bay reminded me of some of the towns along the East Coast and in the Northwest, and more than a little of some towns on the Gulf Coast. The party looked like fun, and under normal conditions I may have snooped around. Unfortunately, I had my backpack and Blister McBastard to tend to.

I'd previously noticed Keewaydin State Park on my map. It's situated near where I’d turn northeast and thought it may be a great place to camp. If I could do it for free. But, Mr. McBastard made a place to rehabilitate more important than a few dollars so I gagged my inner-miser for the moment.
Jamie dropped me off at Keewaydin’s gate and before she had time to turn around I had met Gus, a young, hefty, freakishly friendly park worker puttering around in the park’s pickup. He went FAR out of his way to greet me and with such enthusiasm I assumed he was selling something. But, when I told him I was going to camp and asked how much it was he said, "Well, no one's there, so fuck it. I guess you get a free site!" He then drove me to my campsite in the state’s vehicle!

I liked that Gus immediately!

As I was setting up the Origami, Gus returned. This time with  friends. Bill and Liz. We had a nice chat at my campsite and they invited me to walk down to the river to watch people and the sunset. In desperate need of a shower, I declined but assured them I would look them up when I was done. I looked, but after a complete loop of the campground I saw none of them and figured they were lost to history.

 

As I dozed off in this remarkable setting beneath the stars, my spirits were soaring despite my now-massive blister. I felt "connected", as though I had recaptured some of '08 & '09's magic. All of this set the stage for an enigmatic and phenomenal Friday.

Journal excerpt: "good things are happening, especially with that "Law/Rule of Agreement". I never intended to come to Alex Bay but this place is a gem! I love the park...and am finding a new stride. Love walking, but these [heel] blisters! Ugh! Hope to get out early to avoid the rangers again."

**Footnote: the Rule of Agreement is a concept similar to the Sidecar and Sit Down and Shut Up. It is essentially the first rule of improv -- never disagree or attempt to change the "script/storyline" that's "handed" to you. Adapt. Relinquish control and the illusion that you're writing and performing the script solo.

8/10/10: Trumansburg-Moscow, NY

Monday night’s deluge gave way to Tuesday’s sun and its accompanying humidity! For most of the morning, I organized, repacked, and lingered in the woods trying to recall how to function out of a backpack and contemplating my route north. I could either follow the more scenic, but rural/touristy, road along the shores of Lake Cayuga, or turn west toward Trumansburg and Route 96.

Wanting a library (and to avoid tourists), I decided on the latter. With that, I crossed the road to the campground for water--much,to the chagrin of some of the paying campers--and was off.

It was a mile or so to the Taughannock Falls upper vista point, all uphill--nearly killing me, but the views made it worth it. As I finally began descending down hill and towards Trumansburg, I noticed that I hadn't noticed the shoes; they seemed to be functioning quite well with no sign of heel-blisters nor any other discomfort besides sweat. If I was going to walk more, as planned, avoiding blisters was critical!

A few miles to the west lies Route 96 where I turned north into Trumansburg, a quiet, quaint, typical little upstate New York town. After a quick break at an ice cream shop, I found the library, uploaded pictures and checked e-mail.

Unfortunately, on the other side of town I began to feel the familiar signs of an embryonic heel blister! I had forgotten to put antiperspirant on that problematic left heel that morning- hoping it would help prevent these- and now I was left to simply pray it wouldn't worsen. Thanks to a well-placed Dollar General outside of town, I picked up some V8 and canned food, set up shop on a picnic table, and spent the next couple of hours writing, drying my feet and the Origami, and cursing humidity!

I debated hitching but food, rest, and the antiperspirant trick helped! I walked a few more miles until Ed picked me up--unsolicited--on the other side of a tiny unmapped town just as I began considering looking for a place to camp. He attended college in Ithaca, stayed at what he described as a "communal" house, and was now on his way home to Rochester. He and I talked about civilization, and Net Neutrality's likely demise at the hand of Google & Verizon. It reminded and reinforced to me that as a general rule, there is absolutely nothing of higher importance and priority to the people inhabiting this planet than wealth.

45-minutes later, Ed literally dropped me off at the New York Thruway; a truck stop at I-90 and Route 14 near Waterloo. I found a place to camp in a woods close to the Thruway and elected to wait until Wednesday to decide rather to hitch the toll road (illegal) or continue north along Route 14. I knew that I wanted no part of Syracuse. In fact, I was willing to go all the way around it if I needed to!

Setting up my little camp was MUCH more efficient this time, despite the fact I needed to be much more stealthy. The repeated packing/ unpacking/ organizing had beaten me back into my routine... and I was happy for it! Packing in the living room is fun, but I always end up figuring out the best way to organize by doing it! There’s a lesson or a proverb in there somewhere...

6/27/08: Muir Beach-Olema, CA, Eric & Marine

One of the more significant days of the trip. One that would determine the time frame of the entire West Coast.

I woke up beneath by bushes rather early to the sounds of hikers chatting as they passed by me, not realizing that I was nestled in there. It's funny what people say when they think no one's there. Reminds me of that philosophy that 'no one's normal'; we all have goofy quirks we try to hide when people are around!

I had a couple cups of cold instant coffee-- the usual-- packed up and decided today I'd get on down Hwy. 1. Part of the reason I crossed the Marin Headlands via the trail was that it deposited me at Muir Beach, which is where my now favorite road comes close to shore after separating from the 101.

I was still short on water after accidentally dumping the Camelback the day before, so my first mission was stocking up on water, then #2 was getting to the next town for FOOD! I was running a bit low, not really getting any since Cambria, before Florian picked me up, and Muir Beach isn't a town as much as a place rich people build palaces overlooking the coast. No stores. I found a neat little Inn just as I picked up the 1, went in to fill up the water and was off... back on the road.

The first thing I noticed was how narrow the shoulders were, and how many curves this stretch had... and more hills. There were times where I'd have to cross the road to get wider shoulder space and to be able to see as traffic was coming. The smoke from the wildfires that had been raging in California still held overhead too... I wouldn't see much sun for DAYS from here on out... and it mixed with fog coming off the Pacific. It's hard to tell the difference in the two, except for the faint smell of smoke and the BLAZING red sunsets. The effect of the smoke- fog and the terrain gave everything an almost creepy beauty! As though I were walking thru a Stephen King or Alfred Hitchcock movie...

And so it went... Walking, resting, hitchhiking. My feet were much better with the new inserts, but I began to develop a blister in the worst place for me: my right heel. That bugged me because these are always a big problem for me, and they never seem to callous. It was obviously from all the hills, but something that needed to be kept on top of.

I'd decided to hitch it to Stinson Beach because of that and my food shortage, and resolved to completely prepare there for the upcoming 300+ miles to Oregon. Eventually I got a ride with Richard, a 40- something guy on his way to Stinson. He told me a disturbing story about a beating/ stabbing that had just taken place in the next town up from Stinson. Apparently some kids beat a guy to the brink of death on the beach. The part that creeped me out was that he was a drifter- type... homeless by choice... vagabond.... whatever. I could be seen that way too. I quickly figured on getting thru that area ASAP.

I got to Stinson Beach and Richard dropped me at the "shitty expensive" grocery store (his words; they rang true). I went in and loaded up on tortillas, Raman, instant Oatmeal, and even bought some Tillamook cheese: my new favorite. With the lithium batteries and Clif Bars, the bill came to an ungodly $38! Are yo u kidding me?!?!

When I came out, a middle age guy spied the backpack and struck up a conversation. I wasn't exactly in the mood to socialize because of the image of the beaten/ stabbed guy floating in my paranoid imagination. He said he was camping in the hills above Stinson, and that I was welcome to join him up there if I liked. Perhaps I should have been more open to that, but for whatever reason, I just wasn't interested in staying there. It was still relatively early... 3:30 or so, and I wanted to get out of town, and past the now infamous Bolinas. He did however point me toward the library, and I was thrilled to find out it was open until 6!

I figured I'd go in and upload a few pictures and update the now lagging Trip Diary, but when I got in there I discovered that this library had the FASTEST upload speeds I believe I'd ever seen. So, I did a mass upload of pictures covering the time between Santa Cruz and there, and delayed the update. I also got a few free maps from the very friendly librarian, and more details on the beating, which seemed to be on the tips of everyone's tongue. That settled me a bit because since it was obviously BIG news, it wasn't something that happened very often. Plus, I learned that the people who did it... which included a 16 year- old, were in jail.

I uploaded until 6:00, then made my way out of Stinson Beach catching a ride with a 40- something woman in a VW Bug to the road that leads to Bolinas. I continued on up the road toward dusk, thru Dogtown and into Pt. Reyes Natl. Seashore where I began to hunt places to bed down for the night. Again, I almost stopped but figured I'd continue on a bit to see if I could either find better spots or catch a ride.

Did I ever!

Out of nowhere a burgundy Mazda 6 pulled over, and inside were a young couple in their 20's who spoke with THICK accents. I laughed out loud... much to their surprise I'm sure. I asked them, in my fatigue, if they were German by any chance and the said no... French. They said they were on holiday heading up the coast and could at least get me to the next town or maybe State Park. I liked them immediately.

I hopped in and we started chatting as we drove toward Olema. When it became apparent we would get along nicely, and they said they were looking to camp I suggested we just split a site and hang out for the night. They were cool with that, so we asked an elderly couple in Olema about the nearest campground. They said there was one a couple of blocks further up Hwy. 1, and that they were staying there, REALLY liked it, and more importantly there were vacancies. Good enough for us ...

The campsite was privately operated and thus expensive. $37 for three of us! Remember the scene in Vacation when the Griswold's get to the camp in Colorado? I did:

"$37 for THREE tents?"

Plus, a little bundle of firewood was $9!

So, yeah... almost half of my weekly budget on a campsite. I looked at it as an investment though. I thought it was likely that we'd get along very well, and since we were going the same way, I may have found the perfect ride, so I didn't stress about the money too much. Plus the place had showers and a laundromat... woohoo!! Needed both... badly.

We set up camp, and began chatting. The place was overcrowded and had entirely too many kids. I wondered if there was such thing as an adult- only campground that didn't involve nudists or swingers. I still wonder that...

Through the course of conversation I learned that Eric and Marine were traveling with much the same philosophy as I. No concrete plans or time frame. I loved that. PLUS... they were Couchsurfing it!! YES!!! It was about then that I realized how big Couchsurfing is becoming. They told me that they too had problems finding a host in San Francisco, but had already found one in Portland.

We chatted around the fire for quite awhile and got to bed pretty late. I still wasn't sure how things were going to go the next day, but figured either way was fine with me. I could continue on my own, or ride with these guys if they liked. I figured I'd get up, shower, do some laundry, and take it from there. Again though, I thought, the solution may have presented itself.

5/29/08: Definitely NOT west- Rawlins to Denver

Day #10
Denver, CO

I left the library and started walking toward the T/A truck stop and I-80. On the way I ran in to Jeanette again, She gave me a hug and said she was praying for me. She seemed a bit down about something, but I couldn't really tell for sure. I retraced our steps from the day before and, like clockwork, the Wyoming Wind began to howl, pushing me and the pack around a bit. My right foot was beginning to blister-just the right one for whatever reason-and I started to notice some tightness in my right shin, calf, and thigh. Only the right side though! What the hell?

I had noticed some weather starting to push in consisting of heavy, dark clouds with a little thunder. The storm looked more like a winter storm than anything, but it didn’t surprise me. The weather forecast the day before had said it was supposed to be sunny and 70, but it was far from either! While I was crossing over I-80 on the overpass, the winds REALLY kicked up. I even had to hold onto the guardrail to keep from being pushed into traffic, and then the temperature must have dropped 15 degrees almost immediately. I was glad I was walking in when I was, although for all menacing tones, the weather ultimately did next to nothing.

I went in and bought some cigarettes, a coke, and 2 half-priced candy bars and sat down in the same place I had been with Doug on Tuesday night. I was still thinking the weather was going to do something, so I scoped out the truck stop and had thoughts of sitting down in the trucker’s lounge and taking a nap. I REALLY had gotten next to no sleep the night before and was really feeling it by now. The adrenaline from earlier in the day was fading fast, and I was really fighting to stay lucid. I concluded that I needed to stay inside for awhile, before I went out to the I-80 west on-ramp to try to get west, and thought that maybe some real food would help me to feel better. If that didn’t, a bunch of coffee surely would.

I went over to the restaurant, sat down and ordered the buffet and proceeded to gorge myself. I’m not sure I was supposed to raid the salad bar too, but I did. The service was pretty pathetic, so I wasn’t getting quite as much coffee as I had hoped and after I ate, the fatigue began to take hold. I could have, and thought about, just lying back and dozing and started to eyeball the big field behind the truck stop as a place to just throw down the tent and rest. I figured it was too early to do that just yet, only 1:30-ish, so since the weather had calmed itself I went to pay the bill, figuring I’d head out to the on-ramp to see what would happen.

While I was paying my bill, a trucker who was sitting a few seats away from me was in line chatting with someone and since he seemed pretty laid back and friendly I off-handedly asked him which way he was going. He said Laredo, Texas. Before I knew what I was saying I asked if he was going thru Denver, he said yes, and I said, “Think I could get a ride?” He checked me out for a split second and just nodded and said “Yeah” in a matter-of- fact sort of way.

I was getting out of Wyoming! AND in a truck!

I had wanted to get at least ONE ride in a truck on this trip to see how it went, and this guy, Cesar, was it. I was really surprised at how easy it was to hook up with him, and as we walked out to the truck my energy level began to soar. Maybe it was the food, but more than likely it was the adrenaline of being on the move again. I hadn’t even considered heading east, let alone southeast, but sort of chuckled when I saw the parallel between Rawlins and Ft. Morgan. Plans? HA! The Vagabond Gods shit on my ‘plans’!

Cesar’s truck was a brand new Volvo; beautiful. Cushy. Plush. As I was climbing in and getting the backpack situated the excitement was almost comical. I was doing one of the prime things I wanted to do on this trip, and was happy with the way I was able to improvise. We got on I-80 and began heading toward Laramie and Cheyenne.

What a fun ride. Cesar is in his late 40's I believe, and came to the US from Mexico 20+ years ago. He looks almost exactly like Al Pacino in “Scarface”. I would chuckle every time he said “Montana”, hearing lines from the movie. He was good natured about it; obviously hearing that comparison a million times. His impression was dead-on: “You cocaroach!”

He told me stories about how he used to pick up hitchers all the time, and since he’s Mexican would try to help out the illegals from time to time, giving them rides, food, and even money; then finding out some of his stuff had disappeared with them. That reminded me of a few of the people I had crossed paths with. The ones who brand everyone on the road as a thief, bum, or criminal. Really pissed me off, but I understand it. Hopefully I thought I could change a bit of that stereotype.

The rest of the ride to Denver was great. We chatted, checked out all the antelope that were hanging out along the way and enjoyed the scenery. He took 287 from Laramie to Ft. Collins, then I-25 to the city.

I called Chris and Eric, and made arrangements for Chris to drop his keys off at Barracuda’s, and to meet Eric at his baseball game in Wheat Ridge, just off of I-70. Cesar took me all the way there, we exchanged phone numbers and conceptualized a plan to keep track of each other in case we end up in the same area. Then I could hitch a ride with him…wherever. What a good guy he was. Yet another example, eh?

I got to Anderson Park at about 8:30 or so, and came bounding in looking like something out of a Kerouac novel, and smelling like campfire. Quite the sight. There was something odd in the air Thursday night; everyone seemed riled up over something. Chris, Me, Eric…the two teams that were playing the game were at each others throat the whole time! Normally I’d blow that off, but I’ve seen brawls in these rec. league games! Too many baseball heroes with shattered dreams of glory I guess, but I wasn’t exactly helping calm things!

I was struck at the contrast that the day had held. Waking up in on a Wyoming prairie with the elk, then the truck stop, then walking up to the baseball field in familiar territory with friends. That still boggles my mind.

The game ended and Eric and I went straight to Barracuda’s in Capital Hill, a place becoming familiar again. We had a pitcher of PBR, and Chris and his friend showed up almost immediately. I was curious to see how Chris and Eric got along because while their VERY different in a lot of ways, including age, they’re VERY similar too. The synergy was great, and the conversations were cool, except for all the grief I got for being in Denver again so soon!

“Oh yeah, big world traveler!”

I couldn’t quite get the concept across that there are NO RULES here! Improvisation. I was in Denver; make it work! Later on it occurred to me that this was actually going to work out quite well. I had decided on the way back to take the car back to Santa Fe so Laina wouldn’t have to worry about picking it up. It would save a lot of money, AND I could get rid of more gear and relax for a few days. It really did work out for the best. They just seemed convinced I was going to STAY there! No way.

The drinking commenced, and I made the mistake of letting Angela buy me a Jager shot, then had some of Chris’ Jim Beam when we got back to his house. Ugh!! I don’t drink much anymore, and when I finally got to sleep, after trying to convince Chris to come join me, I was flopping around on the couch like a fish!

Quite the day Thursday. Again, not what I expected when I awoke!

Wyoming

Denver