8/16/10: Tioga Center, NY- A Nymphomaniac, Abortion, and End of an Era

Monday morning's alarm never had a chance to ring, deferring instead to the ominous chimes of thunder at 5:45. The skies offered a temporary reprieve, so I hustled to pack and sprint out of the woods to the truck stop hoping to ride out Mother Nature's drama. Thus began one of my most bizarre days!

Two hours, three pots of coffee, and a steak-and-eggs breakfast later, the storms had passed Central Square, the camera, cell phone and I had a full bellies, and all were prepared for a day-long push toward Binghamton then east toward Erie & Cleveland. My hope was to find a cannonball thru Syracuse right away. When Liz pulled over (another single woman!) 10-minutes later in what appeared to be her combination commuter/farm vehicle, it seemed to be a modest uneventful 10-mile start to the day. Ninety-minutes later I was disembarking from, aside from Dennis, what may be the strangest, most uncomfortable ride I’ve had since beginning these travels in 2008! 

Liz was married, in her early or mid-20’s, quite round, and already had a large flock: five kids. Once she felt assured I wasn’t a freak she relaxed, bypassed her original 10-minutes and just kept driving. And driving. Once thru Syracuse, I learned firsthand how women must often feel! Liz steadily, and without subtlety, manipulated the conversation to share that she was a "raging nymphomaniac", "addicted to pornography and the male form”, and that her husband was as "insatiable" as she. Oh, also that I should consider seeking out "work" on the Internet because, “with all the walking you do, I’m sure you’re in really good shape!” I regularly felt as though I should remind her that my eyes were “up here”. I didn't, and request that you remember that next time I'm accused of having no filter.

Liz repeatedly asked if I was uncomfortable with her steadily intensifying advances and, wanting to get as close to Binghamton as I could, I just rolled with it answering questions like, “what do you do about, you know, sex while you’re on the road? Do you just jerk off?” "Ya ever get a lot-lizard?"I laughed because, while it sounded bizarre coming from this critter, it wasn’t the first time I’d been asked that question. I  braced myself for what I assumed was the inevitable demand to watch in exchange for the ride! A demand that, thankfully, never came! But, with that question, all I could think of was Ahab and Ginger's daylong Cirque du Soleil coital-harpooning ceremony in Watertown! Some things you just cannot un-see.

When she finally figured out she was being stiff-armed, Liz quickly bored of me. In Binghamton, she took a spontaneous exit, and unceremoniously dumped me out in a Lowe’s parking lot next to US-11. I felt dirty. Used. Like was being shoved out of the car after being taken to Red Lobster and refusing to put out ! I'm a human being, goddammit. Not a wandering sex toy. Hold me.

I must admit I got a few laughs imagining the signs I could write up if I took Liz's "work" advice: "Will whack for ride." "Erect 'til Erie." "Let's bone to Boise!' Feel free to come up with your own.

Despite all that, I could care less. It was barely 10:30 and I had made it thru Syracuse all the way to Binghamton while rebuffing the advances of a would-be BBW porn star! I could now pivot east and making it to Ohio by Friday was looking good! 

One of my fatal-flaws is laziness. It always has been, and while I try very hard to fight it, I have colossal lapses that occasionally create comical scenarios. Allow me to present Exhibit #562. 

After fending off my voracious sexual predator, I was rather disoriented and misjudged the layout of Binghamton. I also underestimated its size. We had just left I-81, I was looking for I-86, and saw a sign for I-88. That’s a whole lotta 8’s! Rather than simply pulling out my map, I relied on my hazy recollections from the ride thru in 2009, lazily assumed I’d mistaken I-86 for I-88 and confidently pranced onward-- to the north then east-- following the signs to the interstate. 

Ooops...

When I’d arrived at I-88 forty-five minutes later, there was no place to hitch and only after walking another 20-minutes down an industrial service road did I finally decide to look at my fucking map. My discovery? I had not only mistaken the interstates, but this one ended in Binghamton! It did NOT connect with I-86. In fact, I-86 (despite what Google Maps said) did NOT pass thru or even touch Binghamton. I-86 in Binghamton was a trasportational phantom! The road I needed was NY-17. The question: how the hell was I supposed to get there from here! 

Blister McBastard, which had been doing well, was no longer doing well. It now paired painfully perfect with this little navigational abortion. And the weather was deteriorating! Downpours began as I cursed everything Binghamton and put my head down resolving to simply escape Binghamton one way or another. A couple of hours and several miles later, I had my bearings and set the proper course to my new obsession: Route 17. Incidentally, all I had needed to do at the outset was turn left instead of right when Liz let me out. It would have been obvious had I just USED the fucking map I was hauling around! That’ll piss a guy off. 

Eventually, I found a place to set myself up with a sign at a busy entrance ramp back on to I-81. Busy ramps are deceiving. One would think it would be easier to catch a ride at a place like this, but that’s usually not the case--especially in cities. Three hours later, the midday rain was replaced by a blazing mid-afternoon sun, heat, and humidity, and I felt as though I’d begun to grow roots from my ass to my backpack. I needed some positive energy. I found it in the form of a couple of great kids.

"The Kids are Alright"

Casey & Julia were both 19, just out of school, lived a bit west of Binghamton, and heading home after signing up for community college classes. They had originally passed me then decided to return, which happens frequently and , as I’ve said before, always amazes me. I was further astonished by their spirit and hospitality. They helped me get the pack into their trunk, loaded me up with water they had on-hand in the car, and vigorously tried to determine the best spot to drop me off without taking me all the way to Elmira! 

Neither Casey nor Julia seemed sure about what they wanted to do with their lives and expressed an untapped desire to “see what’s out there” despite their parents insistence that they get busy and “make something of this life.” I’m pretty sure that’s what led them to stop, and thinking of both myself and conversations I’d recently had with my contemporaries, I encouraged them to tell mom and dad to stuff it; to take their time before getting obsessed with becoming a cog in the machine. Julia, in particular, seemed fascinated by my method and philosophy of traveling, particularly after the story of Dennis and, comparing favorably to Leslie (which is tough), she reminded me once again why I love the Youth's attraction to the mystery, excitement and the possibility of life! I’m slowly accepting that, while it’s often accompanied by unavoidable ignorance--the kids have most of it right. What’s interwoven within the synthesis of mystery, excitement, and possibility is the fountain that streams what each of us need: hope. We old fucks bitterly know it on some level, but too many have let the practical “business of life” smother the very spirit that, in my not-so-humble opinion, makes life meaningful. Then, we wonder why we can’t relate to Youth and suddenly feel empty. I was happy to spend 20-minutes immersed in and reminded of that.

Route 17 finally turned into I-86 and shortly thereafter Casey and Julia dropped me off at a truck stop just west of Owego assuring me that the people out here were "stand-up" and that I’d have little trouble finding a ride. The truck stop seemed promising with lots of traffic and an adjacent Best Buy distribution center. I wasn’t too concerned as watched the sun fall from the nearby exit ramp and found a spot to bed down chuckling at the course of this day!

I had no idea, but this would be the last time I'd stealth camp for a VERY long time. If I had, I would have taken a picture of the nest!

8/15/10: Central Square, NY-About Face

I’d first heard about Oregon on Friday. It wasn’t until I knew their departure date that I seriously considered trying to making it happen. If I wanted to, I had a week to turn tail and get from extreme northern New York to Ohio, where I hoped Michelle would pick me up and help me to catch my stage west.

Subconsciously, I knew what I was going to do all along. I have the short-bus habit of quietly making quick, rash, often foolish decisions, then acting out the drama to appear as though I’m anguishing with the already completed process. Often, I even Don Quixote myself into believing I’m still trying to decide. I really hate this tendency!


I wanted to take the opportunity to possibly spend 10-days traveling with my brother. I wanted to spend time with he and Lynette in Idaho. Besides, Lynette and the clan were part of the plan from the very beginning so though I’d miss Maine, I’d get to spend time with family. Right?

Right?

The problem was admitting, after all the talk and thought about getting to Maine, that I’d get this close and not finish! After all the high-minded talk about visiting Massena to “make something right in my head”, I’d finally get there, then turn around and leave! Then there was my bike-tour buddy Bruno, who was maybe two hours away in Montreal. I’d hoped to reconnect with him while I was up here, too.

I knew all that would go by the wayside. Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont were going nowhere, unless Bruno’s feeble Quebecois invade! I’d been unable to contact him and besides, my energy was fleeting. I hadn't felt positive about much since Friday. I wasn’t thrilled with my own behavior or, particularly how I reacted to their results and needed something positive to happen. Family time on the road might provide the scene change I needed. Right?

Right?

It seemed like a dark cloud of negativity had emerged in Alex Bay and was now stalking me. I’d been given a reprieve, even recaptured some of the old connectivity that I’d been lacking all year but with the radio conversation, I’d opened a door...and poof! Gone.

This articulation only served to worsen things. I was forced to peer back at Andre, Friar, and Ray then quietly re-assess my own complicity, yet again.

The problem was, as I looked back, I couldn’t see where I had necessarily been WRONG in any of my insights! Was it wrong to expect a person to want an answer to his, “how can I be of greatest assistance?” If he were going to answer his own question, wouldn’t it be more authentic to state, “this is how I want to help you”? After all, "words ARE important"!

Was it unfair to scrutinize a public, supposed “reborn man of scripture” who’d renounced wealth, and ask why he was hocking corporate camping gear? Why he was soliciting donations (wealth) for the Sierra Club? How did he reconcile abandoning gluttony for dependence on handouts and charity? And, what would Jesus say to giving interviews subtly touting his righteousness and carrying the articles around as Sierra Club marketing material?

Don't get me wrong: Relatively speaking and by typical standards, Ray’s quest was noble until it ended a couple months ago. But, by utilizing the print media and invoking scripture, he set the bar pretty high, and thus these were (and are) fair questions. Fair questions, but still... something bothered me about the venom I spewed while asking them along with my failure to accept humanity; that, as Ray said, “we’re all flawed human beings.” 

Andre, in particular, haunted me and I had to chuckle as I felt the onset of a forced humility brought on by a difficult personal inventory, and more significantly a clarifying, empty sensation of something lost! Yes, sitting in the rain trying to figure out how to tell myself I’d come all this way only to turn around, yesterday’s cracks grew and I descended a few more steps into a deepening, dark psychological cellar. 

Exhausted and nestled away in this secluded spot, I’d slept for 15-hours finally waking at noon Sunday to the sound of light rain and occasional thunder. The rain would come and go all day, so I spent much of the afternoon in the bivy and chatting on the phone until I had all but decided to take the Greyhound to Ohio. The bus stop was a mile down the road, it left at 10 Monday morning, and would cost way too much! But it seemed the safe, logical thing to do considering my location and new schedule.

It couldn't hurt to at least try to get a ride back toward Watertown to save as much money as I could. Who knows? Maybe I’d get lucky and slingshot far enough so not to need a ticket at all. There were tangible, nagging pangs of regret with the realization that I’d come to the outskirts of Massena just to see a woods and a Stewart’s gas station! In all likelihood, I’d not get up this way again so this was a significant opportunity wasted.

Something deep down grumbled that this had become much too common.

That all went silent shortly after I arrived at the Stewart’s. I struck up a quick conversation with George, and within 30-seconds, somehow, had a ride toward Watertown with this 40-something guy who’d claimed to have been arrested 32-times for everything from assault to armed robbery.

As he turned south west, in his company’s van, it quickly became clear that here was a guy who knew how to read people, ask direct questions, and would tell you the truth simply because what you thought didn’t fucking matter! George went on to tell how he’d since reformed himself, had a beautiful wife who’d stuck by him, was a relatively new father, and learned how to “get respect” in a better way. Along the way, he let me know that I was “fuckin’ nuts. Ballsy. But, fuckin’ nuts!”

George dropped me at I-81 about 15-miles north of Watertown and quite close to the scene of the Asscrack Incident. 10-minutes later I was stumbling into the messy van of a character known as "Corny". Another interesting cat, this ornery Corny. The perfect ride when you’re tired or preoccupied: in love with the sound of his own voice, and wanted someone to talk TO--- rather than converse with! He was around 60, talked non-stop about “that crazy fuckin' bitch ex-wife”, being disabled during his time in Viet Nam, his loser son (who sounded like he was doing fine), and how the VA was “fucking him like a $10 whore day and night.” I can’t think of who, but with his receding hairline exposing a round forehead, round nose, peculiar animated mannerisms, and thick New York City accent, he reminded me of someone quite famous.

Corny was going all the way down to Syracuse, but it was getting late and wanting to avoid the sprawl I asked to be dropped 20-miles north at a truck stop in Central Square. It looked as though it was going to downpour, so I quickly found a spot in a woods well past the parked semi’s, set my alarm, and snuggled into the bivy at dusk.

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.

8/11/10: Mexico, NY

Dave

Rather than risk the toll road, I decided to just go around Syracuse, first via Route 14. Initially, I thought this was a mistake because of the odd vibe sitting on the side of the road! But my first (nameless) ride came quickly, took me the eight to 10 miles up the road in Lyons, and after that I was fine and this interesting day was underway.


It was again quite warm and humid and, no longer used to the humidity, I spent a couple of hours enjoying Lyons Library’s air conditioning! Despite the heat and out of sheer laziness, I left Lyons without getting water and although I never ran out, I nearly did and the combination of forced-conservation and the afternoon heat zapped me.

When I finally found shade along the side of the road to rest I was thrilled, but only there for a minute when John pulled over. I was quite happy to see him stop-- knowing full well that he had likely relieved me from the task of fully confronting my own troubling laziness! John took me the rest of the way to Highway 104 and after stopping for gas (where I filled up with too much water) deposited me at a crossroad a bit east of Walcott, 20-some miles from Oswego.

I didn't know it at that time, but John was beginning a temporary mini-theme. He was open about his Christianity, but struck me as someone who did more than just “talk” it and unlike those multitudes who solely practice on Sundays, presumably when God's watching!

Many (most?) Christians I've run into seem to wear their Holy Costumes so that all may see their supposed “righteousness” they are; displaying their Christianity--advertising it to the extent that memorized, externalized scripture allows. When it comes time to act and actually show Christ’s love & compassion for the downtrodden, they typically morph right before my eyes into something less than Christlike and much more self-righteous. Again, I'm no theologian but there's a word for it in the Bible: Hypocrite. We all know how The Jesus felt about hypocrites!

"Hey, hypocrites!"

Although my exposure was limited, this was NOT John. Through our short conversation, he struck me as a man who lived his adopted principles, and I respect that. If only more people would!

John

  

After this, I felt like I was hitting my stride. I was more efficient and had learned the lesson of laziness...again! As I set off on foot east down Highway 104, the blister was getting worse, but I just felt like walking; like I was doing what I intended to do despite the pain. I passed through the little hamlet of Martville, a little town I liked alot, stopping to wander through the old cemetery situated next to a clockmaker’s place. Some of the stones in the cemetery date back to the civil war, and the fact that there was a clockmaker’s shop right next to the cemetery added to this little town’s warm, antiquated feel.

After Martville, I was fading. The blister was at the point where it was nearly unbearable up hills, yet I kept going even though I knew better.

As with Ed the day before, when I started looking for a place to sleep a ride came. The sun was dropping as I climbed into Dick's van while learning that he had passed me a few hours earlier and, rather than just go home, had chosen to come find me because he felt "guilty". I found that astounding. Astounding that someone would put forth the unprovoked effort to find a perfect stranger just to give them a ride when no one would know better if they didn't. Let alone after two hours! It seemed clear that, like John, Dick was yet another person who lived his principles when no one was looking. For me, that's near the pinnacle of character.

Dick was a classic. A no-nonsense, straightforward, no-words-wasted man who looked to be in his early-to-mid 70’s. And, by the way, the clockmaker whose place I noticed in Martville! We had an interesting conversation about his trade, and when I exited the van, Dick reminded me a whole hell of a lot of Jack from my trip through Idaho in 2008. I also had the distinct feeling that perhaps I would be surprised with the people of New York by the time I left.

Dick suggested I avoid Oswego and instead go to Fulton and take Route 3 through Mexico to I-81. With the blister worsening I thought it a good idea to hitch I-81 toward Watertown and Massena, where I had once been on the air... but never seen! (explanation coming) In addition, US-11 runs parallel to the interstate so if I changed my mind walking would be figuratively painless. All this made sense, so when Dick offered to take me clear to Fulton, I agreed.

Dick dropped me in a less than ideal spot, and although I needed to walk a ways to find seclusion, I was reasonably sure Wednesday was nearly through for me and it was imperative that I find a place to sleep.

Inexplicably, I passed several more-than-suitable spots in order to find that ever-elusive "better one." Had things ended differently, I would have attributed that to my troublesome indecision. However, things worked out perfectly when Dave pulled over, unsolicited, said he was on his way to band practice, offered me a beer, and a 10 or 15 mile ride toward Mexico.

Had we had more time to hang out, Dave would've likely turned into one of the more interesting people I've met. As I chugged the cold beer, I listened to his views on society, culture, economics, politics, and where he believed things were going. This near-monologue reminded me a great deal of my conversations with Chris, and select few others.

Although I am now on the alert for what I term Anarchist Theorists & Intellectuals, I was impressed when I learned that Dave actually owned land nearby, was learning to farm it, and had contemplated a barter system in the area. He seemed to have an abhorrence for politics, but was yet another upstate New Yorker I had met that day who lived their principles at least as much as talking about them. Fascinating indeed.

Dave's initial offer to take me to Mexico turned into a ride a few extra miles to the interstate: I-81. As I jumped out of his car and snapped a picture at the truck stop, I had an odd yet distinct feeling of loss and hoped I would hear from him again via the website.

The sun was nearly down at this point, but there was nearly a full woods between the on ramp and the interstate so camping was a breeze. In fact I probably could have stayed undetected for a month had I wanted to! 

R.I.P.