7/10/08: A Tale of Two Idahos

Impatience & Indecisiveness: My Achilles Heels.

I got up at about 8:45, saw that the Hippie had moved on and began to contemplate the day. Should I get in touch with the SOS Staffing people? Should I hold out for a ride with a truck? Should I hitchhike out of there today? I remembered all the warnings about eastern Idaho, and knew that if I were to hitch out of there, I should be fussy and wait for the right ride. My indecisiveness did not last long, and it went the same as it did in La Grande; I really was not interested in putting the trip on pause to work.

I headed out toward the on-ramp after lingering inside for a bit. All of my success from Wednesday, and the fact that I had gotten nearly 200-miles made me a bit cocky; at least overconfident. When I got to the ramp, I had only just set up shop when I saw a truck dropping off another hitcher and coming back onto I-84. Sure enough, he stopped. Remember the plan: Pocatello or Bust? Well, this chap was only going 10 miles up the road and I got in. Like a damn fool.

He was in his late 40's with a straggly beard and a very direct disposition, which of course I liked. The trip was quick, uneventful, and he dropped me at state highway 50, which goes toward Eden. “Eden my ass”, I thought. I would soon come to discover that there is no Eden in Eastern Idaho. Nevertheless, I did find an Oasis. The Travelers Oasis. A nice, if slightly cheesy, truck stop with all sorts of greenery hanging inside.

I grabbed some coffee, made up my very first sign, which said something like “Montana or Colorado” (indecisiveness) and cracked open a can of cheap Walmart salmon while sitting outside, again hoping to strike up a conversation with a driver to conveniently complete my odyssey to Pocatello. While I was sitting there a 20-something guy comes over and hands me a 6" Subway-type sandwich. Another example of a random act of kindness. That or I looked like a pathetic creature sitting on the steps eating canned food!

I found a nice shade tree to escape the sun as the day got hotter, propped up my pack with the sign on it, and continued the massive update of the journal. A nice way to spend a couple of hours.

A couple hours was long enough. Back to the coffee machine I went and then to the ramp. I was there quite a while, a sign of things to come. After a couple of hours, and many pictures of the thermometer across the road rising to 94, I finally got a ride sometime between 3 and 4:00.

Paul was another with a long straggly beard, his being snow white, and looked to be in his early 60's. I wondered if this was what Moses had looked like. Another nice guy; another guy going 10-miles. He offered to take me toward the Rupert exit but by now, the feel had definitely changed from the western part of Idaho.

You can see the reactions people have to you when you are sitting by the side of the road. In Oregon and western Idaho people were just friendly. They would wave; give you the thumbs up or peace sign, or just smile. Here the looks began to change to something akin to terror! I heard several doors lock when they would have to slow down to get on the freeway. Most were afraid to make eye contact! Those are the best.

“If I don’t acknowledge I see him then he’s not there!!!”

The disdainful looks I understand. They are probably muttering beneath their breath: "Get a job, freeloader! Praise Jesus.”

But the fear! Where does that COME from? I had A LOT of time to think on this!

I was reminded of the people I’d seen in Twin Falls who were riveted to Fox News and the ‘impending war with Iran!’. They had similar looks on their faces. Or “Easy Rider” when Nicholson’s character tells Fonda and Hopper that the Rednecks weren’t afraid of them but of what they represent: freedom. If you have not seen that movie in a while, and you can stomach the cheesy music, check it out again.

I can’t quite figure it out: Why are conservative areas also the most fearful?!? These big, tough, gun totin’, God fearin’ ‘publicans and their 1950's looking wives were literally scared of my scrawny butt sitting on an exit ramp! Why are liberals, or those in areas that are more liberal, more inclined to offer rides? Are conservatives just easier to control and manipulate with fear?

Fear da fags.
Fear da coloreds!
Fear da A-rabs...Mexicans...Muslims...WMD...Gay Marriage...Iran...Obama...

Fear of anyone who is NOT afraid? Perhaps they are just caged by this fear, and aren’t as free as they think. I know firsthand: Fear is its own prison. However, Nicholson’s character also said:

“Don’t go telling these people they aint free, or they’ll get busy killin’ & maimin’ to show you just how free they are.”

In case you self-righteous Libs are patting yourselves on the back, I have met Conservatives over the last couple of months that make more sense than ANY of you have. I have seen the same looks from the hybrids who drive by with the back window FILLED with the stupid “I’m a Hippie” bumper stickers usually highlighted by the now-ubiquitous “COEXIST”.

I am concerned about the Agenda Dogs who lap up whatever fear Rush, O’Reilly, or Hannity happen to put in their bowl. The left has their own Agenda Dogs; they tend to go into multisyllabic verbal seizures whenever you ask them to elaborate on or dissect the Noam Chomsky quote they just regurgitated and just love to throw around the term “World Citizen”, complete with the upward inflection on cit-uh-ZENNN. These people piss me off more than the Neocons.

“Santa Fe, Hello!! You’re on the air!”

I’ll save the rest for another day and digress, but sheep are sheep; regardless of the herd.

That may have merited a Rant Alert, no?

Paul dropped me at the top of the exit leading to Hwy. 30 toward Rupert. I continued down the interstate hoping to catch a quick ride from someone coming up the other side.

Nope.

By 6:30 or so, the reality had set in that Todd screwed up. Todd should have held out for the ride to Pocatello and now Todd was going to pay! I wanted more coffee and a break from the frustration, so I made my way down toward the Love’s truckstop at the head of the ramp. On the way I saw that there was an irrigator overshooting the fencerow, and was almost spraying the pavement.

YES!!!!!

I hadn’t had a shower since Saturday, was sticky from being in the sun all day (I hope?) and before I’d really thought it through I was setting the pack down, pulling stuff from my pockets and aligning myself to be doused.

And doused I got!

I severely underestimated how much water these things put out! It was like standing beneath a waterfall. By the time I realized how much water I was being hit with, and not without great joy I might add, I realized that my boots were filling with water! I immediately thought about the beach in Santa Barbara, the creek in California, the blisters that had resulted from the wet boots/socks AND how long they took to dry! I was a bit concerned, and would be a bit more so after my little piece of irrigation-heaven finished. I even figured out that I could wash the nasty shirt I was wearing! I was now clean & fresh, and ready for Prom! Thanks Massengil!

It’s all relative, right?

I got to Love’s, and had long since realized that I was now spending more money on coffee than even cigarettes so I bought a 32oz mug to replace the 16oz Pojoaque mug I’d been carrying since the beginning wayyy back in Colorado. With this, I could get more coffee for less because of the ‘refill’ prices. A good buy it turned out. I also scavenged for cardboard and made four signs that I figured I would rotate. One said “Wont Kill You” from the cinematic classic ‘Joe Dirt’. Another said “Freshly Showered in an Irrigator!!”, the next: “Passed ID Checks in SIX States”... yeah a slight stretch; it was only one state, but a little white lie never hurt anyone, right Forrest? The other sign was more straightforward: “Helena, Denver, I-70, I-80, OR I-40" If I could have written “OUT of Utadaho”, I would have.

It didn’t help. Apparently, they did not find my humor to be innovative. My spirits were still remarkably high; I had just simply accepted the fact that this was about to get more difficult than I had grown accustomed to. I knew this day would come, and besides it was not THAT bad. My negativity was more directed at the perceived authors of my newfound plight: the Mormons!

Another hour or so went by, and I had finally had enough of this locale. I packed up my clever (to me) ‘Communication & Interaction Aides’ and started down the interstate toward...well, anywhere but there...with the defiant anger that has served me quite well in the past.

Once I tapped into that I had a remarkably good time, chatting with the dogs that frolicked along the fence with me, then the cows that followed as though I were their Messiah (Todd Joseph Smith? Brigham V?) staring at me strangely, even creepily, the whole time. I even got some excellent sunset pictures and scared the wildlife while singing along to “Friend of the Devil”. Enough to scare Satan himself.

It was almost completely dark when I came to an overpass, completely exhausted. I hadn’t been paying attention to how far I’d gone, or to eating. When I finally sat down, I discovered that I had lost some coordination. I was dropping things, stumbling, forgetting to do simple things, like unbutton my shirt before removing it. I had been here before. On my bike trip. This is affectionately known as ‘bonking’; when your body REALLY needs fuel, and lets you know. I ate a can of something--the ‘beef’ byproduct stew I believe--and immediately felt better. I began looking for places around the overpass to sleep, but finding none, feeling much better, AND urged on by the fact that it was so much cooler and easier to walk at night, especially with the moon, I kept going.

Just ½ mile up the road, over a little hill, I spied lights! Another telltale sign of a truckstop! I had visions of the by now utopian-in-my-mind Flying J back in Jerome. I resolved to try my best to get there. I had no idea how far off the lights were and, remembering Fruitland, prepared for a haul. It was quite a ways up there, no doubt, but since my food and rest, I was feeling great except for the foot and middle back pain that’s a sure sign of poor packing. Probably from carrying the canned food. So I walked, passing a “Last Services” sign that read something like 29 and 42 miles, depending on which way you went on the upcoming I-84/ I-86 split. Now my truckstop had new significance.

I had no idea how far I had gone when I again came to the Snake River. Large river, that Snake. All along I-84, the shoulder had been at least 12 ft wide. When it came to bridges however, Idaho reclaimed its shoulder space. Maybe 3-ft. now, and it was dark. Not a good combination. The good news was the traffic was light since it was approaching midnight, so I dug the headlamp out of my pack, turned on the red night vision beam and waited for the traffic to break long enough to get across...at least a significant distance. The light must have worked. No one hit me. No one even blew their horn. The other good news at getting across The Snake was that now I was essentially at my destination. The flamboyantly gaudy sign advertising an RV park with "GRASS!" and a "STORE!" along with other precious goodies; I began to wonder if I had indeed found Eden in Idaho!

I bypassed the closer Shell station, which looked closed anyhow, for the surefire supplier of ALL my vagabond needs. And "GRASS!" With glee, I approached my second Oasis of the day to find...

It was closed.

Fuckers.

Why...in...the..HELL...would you have a sign that would attract people, or a bug the size of MOTHRA, to a place that was CLOSED!

Fuckers.

I wanted to defecate on their steps. But, finding that beneath me, I instead sat down, took my boots off, and relaxed. A car soon pulled in with Montana plates...also lured like bugs by the misleading Interstate Light Show. They were a nice couple, I chatted with the guy for a couple of minutes while his girl took care of business. They were headed west though, to JEROME. In my fatigue, I confused Rupert and Jerome or you can bet your butt I would have gone BACK there and taken my a day mulligan.

In addition, to make my night perfectly complete, the local Fifeian sheriff showed up. He rolled his window down, and with an obnoxiously stern look and an overly-dramatic tone meant to let us know he was on the ball said: “Ev’ry thing Awlraht?”

I wanted to defecate on him.

I just nodded; refusing to look over for fear that my frustration and annoyance with him would get the best of me. My new Montana-friend handled the verbal interaction quite nicely, however, and Sgt. Fife left to polish his metaphorical ‘Lone Bullet’. At least in my mind he did.

After the Montanans’ left for the true hospitality, and open stores, that is Jerome, I yet had to deal with one more piece of drama. Teenagers. A couple of carloads pulled in while I was sitting there, alone, and I believe they were quite curious about me. I was quite ornery, if you haven’t noticed, and was in no mood for any Redneck Juvenile Fun. I did everything I could to look menacing, even eyeballing them periodically while they sat there. That was probably stupid, but it worked. They left without bothering me, therefore, I must be ONE menacing mutha. That, or I was just playing the role of Paranoid Bitch again. Perhaps a new topic to vote on? You Read, YOU Decide! I am frightened of that, actually...

I left on a hunt for the night’s nest and settled on the space Rich and I had used in La Grande: between the highway and the ramp. It was down in a depression, had some smallish bushes to conceal me, and best of all, it was close to the Shell station and coffee when I woke up. I lay there for a while contemplating the day before dozing into an exhausted, deep sleep.

7/8/08: Idaho

Rich and I got up and around at about 8:45, packed up, and walked across the on-ramp to get some coffee while he continued to remind me of a dog; he would metaphorically howl at each train whistle. Rich also resumed yesterday’s indecisiveness as we headed toward the library, again getting on my nerves but I was getting a little help from the coffee and the ideas/ possibilities floating around in my head.

The ideas from the day before were still with me, and I began to consider ways to earn some money while I was in La Grande. The possibilities seemed limited due to the small size of the town, but I thought I’d at least sniff around... a little.

I stopped into what I thought was a staffing place that turned out to be training for displaced workers; mostly loggers in this area I was told.

I then stopped at the ‘local’ radio station. This had been an idea that had been stuck in my brain since Ft. Morgan. I knew EXACTLY how it would go but I was curious to see if there were ANY stations left in America that actually had a person, inside, who could discuss something without first having to go through ‘corporate’; outside of “Santa Fe Skippy” of course.

I went inside and was greeted by the friendly receptionist, whom I’m sure was wondering what this dude in the backpack wanted. I explained to her what I was doing with the trip, that I was trying to figure out ways to make some money while on the road and that I was interested in doing some production and voice work while I was in town. I then asked her about their ownership situation, and she went into the typical diatribe about how they owned ‘several local stations in Eastern Oregon’. That phrase reeked of familiarity. I pressed on and asked if the owner actually lived in La Grande, since the sign outside said ‘local’. She conceded that the owner was actually based in Pendleton and was only in town a day or two a week. A- HA! I asked if there was even a Program Director: he too was mysteriously unavailable. I deduced from my experience, and her vagueness, that this station was likely programmed from Pendleton too.

Now I was really curious.

There was no other activity in the building, so I asked if the station was live or voice- tracked. Voice tracking means they record the ‘shows’ prior to their airing; sometimes days ahead of time and even occasionally from different cities. She answered that they have ‘live local news and sports every morning!”. HA! Now I knew. She was leery of disclosing the secret that the ‘live and local’ station definitely was NOT ‘live’ and probably wasn’t ‘local’! I pressed on and asked again if they were voice tracked, and she finally relented, admitting that all of their programming outside of the morning newscast is piped in by satellite. Probably Jones Networks out of Denver. Their ‘local’ station in La Grande probably consisted of nothing more than a sales staff and some equipment to feed the transmitter. The sales swine were probably out hocking commercials, which explained the lack of personnel. The receptionist was only there to answer phones, give the impression that there was actual ‘life’ to the station and, of course, in case anyone came in wanting to buy advertising. I just laughed. From there it was a game of cat and mouse, with me asking questions I knew she would not want to answer, but I decided to cut her some slack. It was not her fault. I gave her the link to my audio webpage and left quite satisfied that everything I have ever said about my old business was correct. Radio is now truly obsolete.

*RANT ALERT!*

I feel bad for the good people who hang on hoping it gets better; like a man hoping his wife will recover from terminal cancer. The sales staff will soon enough be the only people working locally, still trying to convince businesses (that know better) that someone, ANYONE, is still listening to their canned, sterile, ‘product’, and that the listeners are stupid enough not to just ‘punch out’ when the music stops, despite the fact that common sense and radio’s OWN studies say otherwise!

How do they expect you to listen to some generic, pre- packaged ‘product’ that has no REAL local angle, no immediacy, no interaction AND have to deal with the horrendous commercials screaming at you to buy another new car?!? Christ, you cannot even get traffic or weather information during a tornado warning anymore because there is NO ONE in the building! Google: Clear Channel’s Minot fiasco. I’ve asked radio ‘professionals’ that EXACT question, and have NEVER gotten a real answer! I was fed some pre-practiced pep- talk, or as is the case with my last gig, told I should ‘get on board’!

Seriously!

No. However, feel free to stay aboard the Titanic if you choose; I’ll take my chances with the sharks. No real solutions. No real innovations. Just recycled buzz phrases and sales pitches.
I’ve also asked “Why listen to this crap, when you can just get a satellite radio, or better yet plug in your Mp3 player and listen to what you want?” Christ, that’s what I did when I worked there!

I’ll tell you how they ‘expect’ that.

Ever see “American Beauty”? Annette Benning’s character, we’ll call her Vera, sells real estate and behind closed doors has to listen to motivational tapes and repeat Stuart Smiley mantras (I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, I WILL sell this house today!) in the mirror, brainwashing herself into believing that she’s doing something honorable and worthwhile, and that money's mythological powers will reanimate a dead soul. Sounds like religion!

Radio folk are the same. I can just see the sales staff being led by the owner or GM in some cult- like chant beginning their day trying to brainwash themselves into believing that they’re not merely whores, and ‘motivate’ themselves into believing that everything’s going to be all right when they “hit that goal”.

Sounds like something Heaven’s Gate would have done.

In fact, I have seen these cultist rally sessions in real life and no, not in Nuremberg. They call them ‘staff meetings’. I’m quite certain that a lot of these uber, disturbingly positive people- while at work- go home and kick the dog, smack the kid, and guzzle Popov to restore some sense of peace & balance.

*END RANT*

Rich went ahead to the library so he wouldn’t have to wait, but I also wanted to rediscover what it felt like not to hear his incessant bitching. It was gooood.

I got to the library, checked in with the librarian to get a computer and find out how long I’d have. She said 30 minutes, but sort of with a wink. That reminded me of what I had hated about other places. Santa Fe, Cambria: The ‘Internet Nazis’ who kick you off after your 30-60 minutes... even if the place is empty.

I started updating the journal, uploading pictures, and sent a couple Couchsurf requests to Boise. I kept going... and going... and was never asked to leave. I was unsure as to when I would have internet again; I wanted to get as much done as I could. Rich had been online too, but finished up shortly after I’d gotten there. He resumed the ‘dog in a cage’ routine again... running to and fro... occasionally stopping by to chat, ask silly questions, and look over my shoulder; obviously annoyed that his annoyance had no effect on me.

In time, he had had enough. He said he was heading off to try to catch another train, and if that didn’t work he would then get in touch with some girl he’d dated at one time... who just "happened" to live in La Grande. I found that to be an odd coincidence. Like the 13 y/o who “gets laid over the summer”: “She’s from Niagara Falls, you wouldn’t know her”.

I didn’t care. Carry on Wayward Son.

Unceremoniously that was it. We did the obligatory ‘keep in touch’ stuff, each knowing that would not happen. I half expected a repeat of the day before when he’d suddenly reappeared, but I’ve neither seen or heard from him since. The Lesson of Rich? Choose your travel partners carefully, AND be prepared to go your own way when they get to be too much. He was a decent guy, and in all honesty I got pretty lucky with him. He wasn’t ripping me off, breaking into houses, trying to shoplift etc. I actually felt comfortable with him around. We just had different ideas of how to travel, different goals, and definitely different ways of going about things. Moreover, he howled at trains. I hope he got to Telluride ok.

After about three hours, I left the library, got some coffee, and aimed myself back toward I-84, still pondering whether to stop into the McDonalds next to last- night’s nest to see about work, or just start hitching. I walked right past McDonalds, got MORE coffee, and planted myself on the ramp. I guess I was ready to leave the hospitality of La Grande behind me. I had no luck for about an hour, so I started walking toward the next exit and a truck stop I had learned was there. Just as I got to the top of the ramp, a pickup pulled over and I had my first ride.

Earl was going as far as North Powder, 20-40 miles up I-84. I thoroughly enjoyed this ride! He was a VERY pleasant guy, probably 65 or 70, who had spent his life driving Caterpillars until he tipped one over and had broken his hip & back. He was now involved in logging and drove perhaps the dustiest pickup I had ever seen.

Earl dropped me off at a tiny café/ general store in North Powder so I went inside to try Rich’s idea of canned food; buying it in small quantities to last a day or two and take advantage of carrying less water- weight while hitchhiking. Canned food is definitely cheaper. I grabbed a few cans of Pork & Beans, and Beef  byproduct Stew and began chatting up a guy who was standing in line and was interested in my backpack. As I went out the door, another guy who had overheard the conversation asked where I was going, and then offered me a ride to Ontario, 80 miles up the road and on the Idaho border. I was thrilled and thought how much easier this was without Rich!

Jordan Dimick was a bee farmer; the first I’d ever met. It was a kind of family business, and he had a wonderful pride in that family and its place in Oregon history. I-84 roughly follows the Oregon Trail, which I hadn’t realized until very recently. That greatly appealed to my sense of history, and so did his numerous tidbits of trivia about the old trail. He also told me an interesting story about how his great- grandfather was a sheriff and had thwarted the last attempted train robbery in the West. Another entirely enjoyable ride that I thought ended too soon. He had offered to take me to the first exit across the Idaho border, but I asked him to drop me at the last Ontario exit, so I could actually walk across the Snake River and get my silly picture.

There happened to be a truck stop, so I got an Idaho map, replaced my little earbuds that were falling apart, then sat down in the grass out by the road to repack and prepare for my walk across The Snake. An interesting mullet- bound character sheepishly walked up to me and asked if I was from around there. I thought that was a stupid question, with me sitting in the grass next to a backpack, so I said laughingly “Does it LOOK like it?” assuming he was panhandling. He slinked into the truck stop, and I continued what I was doing. By the time he would come back out toward the road, looking quite disoriented, I was feeling like an ass. I hollered at him to come over and asked what he was looking for.

Walt told me he’d just gotten out of prison and all he was given was a bus ticket to Albuquerque... they’d sent all the money he went in with to his Parole Officer as “insurance that he’d show up”. So, here was a guy who’d just paid his “debt to society”, left broke and trying to find a way to get some food. Not the first time I have heard this story. I immediately remembered the person in La Grande unexpectedly handing me $5. While I could not spare the money, I had food. I dug out a can of Pork & Beans (later to be to the chagrin of his fellow Greyhounders!) and let him have at it.

It turns out that Walt had spent three years in prison for running drugs from Arizona to Oregon. He was up front about it, so I said “So, you’re not one of the ‘I didn’t do it’ guys then?” He said, “Oh hell no. Guilty as hell.”

I love honesty.

He told me about the bust and that the cops had seized $20,000 in cash and a cache of guns in the process. He then told me how NONE of the guns and only $600 made it into the arrest report! Beneficial for him, no doubt. But it makes one wonder where all that money goes, AND the guns! To protect and serve, eh? The chat ended with me wishing him luck and wishing I had had some money to spare. He seemed like a very decent person in a trip filled with very decent people.

I got back on I-84 and to the mile walk toward the Snake River, and out of Oregon. The bridge spanning The Snake was having construction work done, and was down to one lane... with a shoulder that was about 18- 24" wide. That was a hairy crossing. In retrospect, I could have walked unmolested through the construction itself, but didn’t realize that until it was too late. After what seemed like an hour, and 1000 car horns angrily letting me know what they thought of my presence, I got to the other side. Idaho. I got my silly picture, and felt damn good about the fact that I had finally walked into another state.

I began to think about how much I loved being in Oregon, and there was a twinge of regret that I had only spent a week there. The people were just as incredible as the landscape and in the same way that California’s natural beauty had exceeded all expectations; EVERYTHING in Oregon seemed to do the same. I don’t think I’ve seen the last of it.

Idaho, eh?

I had NO idea what to expect. The state intrigued me, but had mostly been just a stretch of land that bordered Oregon. I kept an open mind, but actually felt sorry for any state that had to follow the one I had just left. I walked up a bit, getting some pictures of the now- setting sun, then sat down and “enjoyed” a can of Pork & Beans now realizing that a little variety in diet... if it can be called that... was nice!

Since the sun was setting and I had no urge to walk I-84 at night, I began to spy places to nest. There was a closed rest area right next to me, but when I got to the other side; I was shocked to see that there was a HOUSE next to it, complete with barking dog and curious resident. Who the HELL lives next to a rest area ON the interstate! I decided not to ask and moved on.

As it got darker, I began to try hitching again, to no avail. After a mile or two, I saw the telltale lights of a gas station on the horizon, which probably would have a decent place to bed down. I figured I would try to get there and kept going hoping for the ride that never came. I began to wonder if the exit would EVER get there, and was getting pretty tired. This was where Jordan had offered to take me.

The exit did eventually come of course, and I staggered into a Shell/A & W combo that was next to an RV park. I decided to find a place to sleep near there, hiding from the RVers. I wanted to just collapse, but went inside to use the restroom to clean up a bit, and to try the “write off” trick. Some places, when they have food that they don’t sell... usually hot dogs etc. ... will throw the stuff out at a certain time. If you are there, they will sometimes let you have it rather than just waste it. Worked like a charm. I loaded up on corn dogs, mozzarella sticks, and tornadoes, said thanks and sat down to feast.

At the counter chatting with the girl working the register, was an older biker- type guy who obviously LOVED to talk! He told me that I should abandon my original plan to stealth camp behind the RV Park and just sleep in the grass in front of it and right behind the store; no one would say a thing. I said I would give it a look and the guy proceeded to join me at my table.

He was 69 years old and REALLY LOVED to talk! While I was eating, he told me all about his life. His 11 kids. Indian heritage. Two stints in different branches of the military. He reminded me in some ways of Pat; still not sure why. It was the perfect dinner conversation because I did not have to say a thing!

Eventually my new friend left, and I walked out back to see my accommodations. I picked a spot behind a rather large metal box that contained what I envisioned to be electrical things of some sort. It was actually perfect. It was 2-3 ft. high, and about 7 ft. long thus hiding me, a little, from people driving thru– although I cared little about that at this point! What a difference from Ft. Morgan and Cambria I thought to myself! There were also truckers pulling off the interstate to sleep for the night, so that made me a bit more comfortable. I figured no one looking to cause me trouble would with a lot full of truck drivers. Truckers are my friends.

The weather had been in the mid/upper 80's so I didn’t even bother with the sleeping bag, although I should have. It got chilly, but I REALLY did not want to repack it in the morning! Still wound up sleeping quite nicely- between shivers.