Avatars and Cheese

Over the last two-years, there were numerous times I’ve caught myself making decisions so that the "story" would be better. The blog had become a bit of a hybrid creative-outlet/ego-feeder; something I too closely identified with. I liked the idea that I was doing something that others either couldn't do or were afraid to, and naturally that appealed to me! Telling the story has, at times, shadowed why I'm doing it. Nothing personal, but what I'm doing should have nothing to do with entertaining you!

Now, there is something potentially noble about allowing people to live vicariously through you. Maybe as a “what if” example; trying to share a vision of how to live a principle or trigger thoughts of how things could be “if only ‘X’ were different.” “X” can be anything you choose: marriage, kids, money, fear, or laziness. You’ll ALWAYS find an ‘X’ if you want to, and some folks count on that. "If only..." is often the crutch of the career victim.

Rather than taking actual steps ourselves, it’s safer to adopt avatars; to watch others do what we wish we could--while we, personally, risk nothing. How nice for the cowardly would-be adventurer to just ride along! Then, when that avatar inevitably stumbles, the couch-creature can then sing their own verses of disengaged brilliance! 

See how wise THEY were wise to remain safely rooted to the couch!

Or, perhaps when the avatar fails to meet their ever-increasing entertainment standards, the anonymous couch-creature can pretend he’s watching a reality show and, wallowing in the aforementioned cognitive dissonance, tell himself (with the benefit of hindsight) how HE surely would have done it differently--and much better! Chris tells of actually receiving hate-mail when he interrupted his cross-country walk! Hate-mail from a couch-creature who had attached their own personal meaning to his achievement!

I’ve encountered this vicarious mentality occasionally over the last 2 1/2 years, and even momentarily and disastrously fell into its trap last spring with Ray. In fact, I've adopted several avatars as hopeful mentors and standard bearers over the years. Those I've looked up to were either co-opted or became a huge disappointment under the weight of unfair expectations. Once people try move from idealism to implementation, standards and ideals often become secondary to convenience, convention, and self-preservation. People become captives of institution, slaves to doctrine, or simple mental masturbators.

I've traditionally elevated to a pedestal, sometimes unwittingly, those who show the courage to act on principle and accept the consequences rather than sit, speculate, wonder, then ask themselves a year later why life sucks and won't change. I've elevated those who question convention. I admire those that ask 'why?' and wont take "I said so' for a answer. However, it's been my experience that when I look up to someone either as an example or standard bearer, they, predictably, fail miserably in these roles because WE are the only ones who can legitimately set our own standards. We only do that effectively by living life in person.

Numerous people have told me how they would like to "do something like this” but, for numerous reasons, just can’t. At first, I was genuinely flattered and surprised at how some identified with what I was doing. Considering how long it took me to finally engage, I'd actually considered myself a coward!

"WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF YOU WEREN’T AFRAID?"

Only with the benefit of hindsight, I slowly realized that what I experienced in the years leading up to my hitting the road for the first time was something shared by everyone: fear.

I, myself, have had a habit of seeking out avatars to show myself that my ideas and visions were possible. Ironically, that’s how Chris and I originally met in 2004. I was living in Florida and he was in Denver at the time. In August of that year, I had rekindled the notion that the notion of life we’d been sold was maybe horseshit, and had a harebrained, cloudy, vision of setting out down the road with a backpack! I had yet to hear of McCandless or anyone else who had done it and, intimidated by the prospect, needed to see that it could be done, and that I wasn’t crazy! I did a web search about others who had done it, and found his website.

It’s no insignificant fact that it took 4-years for that vision to manifest. I tiptoed around the fringes, but never overcame the fears of “what if.” It was a long process, and made longer by my own laziness and refusal to accept full responsibility for who I was, where I was, and the future tenses of both. Chris initially served as a bit of an unwilling role model and inadvertent mentor; a guide as to the general direction I needed to take myself.

I intermittently battled fear (usually losing badly) from the day we moved from Taos to Denver early in ’05 to the day I stepped out in May ’08. It’s astounding for me to think back 5-years and recall the molehills I mistook for mountains! All along the way, fear was a constant companion and like everyone risking something, it remains my most tenacious sparring partner. The only thing separating myself was that I somehow stumbled from pretending fear shouldn’t be there--

• to recognition, acceptance, and meek confrontation
• to beating myself up, assuming its continued existence meant failure
• to realizing it never “goes away”
• then consciously working to act despite it.

The simple fact is that, despite all the rhetoric to the contrary, we’re all much more alike than we care to admit. Fear isn’t something ultimately “conquered.” Rather than a dragon to be slain, it’s closer to a game of Whack-a-Mole. With a ton of hard work and perseverance it can be befriended and controlled, but like the ego it never dies. Anyone who claims otherwise is a fucking liar. Tell ‘em I said so! When you reinforce one wall, fear simply sniffs out another one of our weakness and moves on.

With the right attitude, like many other things we prefer to avoid, fear can be our greatest self-investigative tool. For me, an enormous key was something I read shortly before leaving in ’08. It was a question asked in a cute little book called Who Moved My Cheese: “What would I do if I weren’t afraid?” That brilliantly simple little question shifts focus from "what if" to what we’re missing out on; from the unlikely negatives to the potential positives. Pursuing something you want is usually more effective (and far more enjoyable) than fleeing from the imaginary somethings you "think" are behind you the whole time!

Honesty & Courage: Alison & Brittany

I've said many times: Beware of those who offer quotations with nothing original to add to them. Unaccompanied by some sort of personal insight, it's an implication of intellectualism; usually a lazy attempt to replace original thought with dictation. It's easier to be told what to think than to figure it out for yourself; to let others speak for you rather than speak for yourself. But, since relying on others work appears to be en vogue this week....

On display below are what I consider pinnacles of internal honesty & courage. I had been trying to figure out how to present these after finding them over the weekend. Whether to re-post them as-is or at all. Chris has, unwittingly, provided my vehicle.

After reading these, ask yourselves how Alison and Brittany, two women suddenly ejected far from sheltered, privileged, hopeful lives, would react to the notion that the benevolent Universe provides exactly what we need, all the time. Actually, you won't need to ask Alison. She tells you outright, and with emphatic brevity!

I've decided to post two of these, in the order I found them. The first is from Alison's MySpace page:


Alison say's: It is what it is...The End. Oh, One more thing. F**K cancer!

Mood: grateful


General: I enjoy being alive. I'm grateful for every day that I wake up and see my son. I think the stupidest saying ever is "Every thing happens for a reason". That is absolute f**king bullshit. It is what it is and that is it. If you don't agree you can explain to my son why he's motherless... Of course I'm not dead yet, and don't feel like punching out yet either. My game is still on.

-Alison died from breast cancer on 9/13/09; the day I was having the "dramatic" conversations with Andre in Portland.

Brittany's will take much more effort on your part, it is actually a paper that she wrote at Colorado State (I believe). It's raw. It's honest. It's personal. Considering its context, it's some of the most courageous and powerful writing I've ever read. While eloquent, it displays beautifully the difference between having a "vocabulary" and having a "voice." I'll elaborate in the following post; I want these to stand nearly alone.

FROM http://www.brittanybarzee.org/

The first story posted below is a paper that the Britster wrote for one of her college classes. The second story is something I recently came across. I wanted to share both, and even felt strongly that she wanted them shared because in her own words – as the great writer she is –recreates moments that you may not have been able to be there for, puts your mind at ease about things that may have worried you, and straight up tells you how she feels about a lot of things. I hope you enjoy reading these from Brit herself and feel a little closer to her in doing so. -Jessica Barzee

Learning to Live
by Brittany Barzee

Going to the doctor will be the death of me. I can’t think of a time not getting a panic attack in those waiting rooms for a doctor I didn’t really know. When sitting in these exam rooms, I never looked forward to sitting on the crinkly paper that moved as I shifted uncomfortably and gazed around the room at the plain looking paintings. They all have the same sterile smell, the same strange looking instruments, and the same starched white coats. With this it only seemed to get exponentially worse after a couple of unexpected hospital stays, misdiagnoses, and wrongful lectures about my fertility. This was all in about the span of only a couple of months.

And after the countless times of sticking my legs in the air, the baffled look of doctor after doctor, they finally uttered the words I knew I was going to eventually hear. As I gradually learned the gravity of the word “cancer,” doctors confined me to a hospital, the only thing they seemed to know to do. The captors kept coming in and out of my giant hospital room, the same grave looks on their faces. They stood next to the balloons, glanced around at all the flowers I never kept, cookies I never ate, and they got the scrunched brow, the limited eye contact, and the ruffling through file papers to give results. I never thought I would be told to write out a will, or live my life for “quality not quantity.” But I refused to be given an expiration date on my life, and demanded doctors grant me good bedside manners. When they spoke, it was like I was trying to swim across a river and everyone around me kept giving me things to carry to the other side, pushing me this way and that way, and still yelling at me that I could never do it, I’ll never successfully get across.

How I came to loathe those reclining hospital beds, complete with scratchy blankets and flat pillows. My vulnerability and weaknesses were visible for all who saw my file, or even entered the room. And before knowing the gravity of my “sickness,” there was a particular concern for my fertility; this was me thinking about my future, ten years ahead of me, still a goal that could be feasible. Since my doctor seemed to refuse to talk to a young female such as myself, he decided that giving my diagnosis to my family behind the large, closed doors would be best. It was when he finally walked in to speak plainly to me, I seemed to emit my uncertainty to the man we’ll call Dr. Johnson.


“Dr. Johnson, I really want to talk to you about something,” I looked up at his mustache as he cocked his head to one side. “I really want to look into having my eggs saved to be frozen, for later.”

“Brittany, I don’t think you need to worry about that right now. That’s not what you should be thinking about.”

“Well, it’s a big deal to me, and I want to look into the future, no matter what happens right now.”

He shook his head, once again dismissed my thoughts and concerns, patted my hand as if I were a child asking for candy. “That’s not in the plans right now.”

There was a second of silence, as I regrouped in front of this doctor who had seemingly sealed my fate. I refused to not be taken seriously. “Okay, well I need to do this. I don’t care. My fertility is really important to me. You need to start taking me seriously and the things I’m asking for.” And finally, he broke.

“Brittany, you don’t have time to be doing that. You have six months to live. Why would you be wanting to do that?” His raised voice freaked me out. Heaven forbid I refused to accept that statistic. “You have Stage Four cancer,” he continued, his voice revealed nothing but facts and science, statistics that gave him his nice white lab coat. There was nothing for me to do but lie there, sobbing. “Do you have $10,000 to do this procedure? You don’t have time to do that, it’s not possible.”

“But I want to. I don’t care,” maybe I was wrong to keep arguing through each sob, squinting through my tears.

“You know, you asked me to start treating you like an adult, well you need to start acting like one.”

I attempted to gather myself, then reply, “I am. I am. Handing this. Very well. All things considered. You don’t know. How this is. So don’t tell me that.” I struggled for words and assertion, but I did my best. As if I didn’t feel alone and isolated enough in my world, this man had just made it much darker. Soon after that he left, probably unconcerned with anything I had said, unaware of the fact that my nurse promptly came in and pumped me full of anxiety meds to calm me down, and pain meds to numb me up.

But not soon enough to prevent me from freaking out. My one ultimate freak out with no one in the room to see me, notice that the bus had just hit me in the face. But I must not cry, I must remain strong, for everyone else. In those cold moments after learning the truth, I came to the conclusion there is no God, no God for me. Who would leave me so alone, ask me to look death in the face without warning, or rules as to what to do. They never teach you in school what the proper answer is to “You have cancer.” There is no real response. Only silence. And people staring at you, as if they expect to see you deteriorate before their eyes.

I’m a middle child out of six kids, and I learned quickly to not rock the boat, and to simply remain unnoticed, as to not cause more stress to my Mom. The information I had learned about days before, and took in stride, was staring me in the face. A bleak future, barely a future. A week ago, I was getting ready to start just another monotonous, uneventful year of school. What’s six months from now, June? Doctors and their sciences will be the death of me.

After the tears, the shouts, the arguments, and the denial, the reality lives. Words I never thought I would hear, let alone words said to my twenty one year old ears, still seemed like words from a dream. A dream I had to live with and endure each day, without any choice or control over any of it. Chemotherapy, fentanyl drugs, pre-med steroids, and platelet levels make me uncomfortable. Just like breezy hospital gowns, IV bruises, and losing my hair. I loathed sitting in the waiting rooms full of people three times my age, and had to learn to be comfortable with the fact that people assumed I had been promiscuous and gotten cervical cancer. But until they found out that I had done nothing to warrant or contract this, doctors told me it was a complete and utter fluke, I let them live in their judgment, it wasn’t worth my time.

All I really wanted to do was go to class, be a poor college student that works in a restaurant. I wanted to smile again, let my long blonde hair down and go out with friends. When would I be allowed to joke and laugh and live life like I always did? I had been doing all the things I needed to do, was supposed to do, and should do. I talked to my mom regularly, and called my siblings on birthdays. I went out on the weekends, and always went to work on time. I blasted music and sang in my red Pontiac, and kept in contact with people from high school. I rarely wore sweats or hoodies to class, and I went to the gym a few times a week. Will I ever get that back?

Thoughts overflowed my brain, and I was powerless to get out of that hospital bed. My best friend, Megan, who had slept in the hospital bed with me the first night, and then scrounged up covers and couches for every night after that, stayed by my side even when my family drove in from Missouri. She had been my taxi driver, my cook, my confidant. She stayed through the roller coaster of emotions, observing quietly, taking in all information, and filtering it out to various others, as if she were somehow my inadvertent publicist. But she did it with grace, asked nothing in return, and I will be forever indebted to her for that. My older sister, practically my twin, sat on my bed as we attempted to make sense of what we knew. But there really was no way to fully make sense of this, so we cried.

“Brittany, I just don’t know if I can do this without you. I mean if you’re supposed to go, then we have to be okay with that, I guess,” she said through the tears.

“I know, but I’m not gonna die. I can’t. This can’t really be happening.” I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t process this information, much less fight against what everyone was telling me. Of all people, I couldn’t have my stubborn sister succumb to this fate I had been set upon. Not yet at least; I needed a wingman, someone who would laugh in their faces as I had wanted to do. And even as I replay those events over and over, I should’ve done or said a million other things.

“So, I know you like the name Charlotte if you had a girl someday, but what about a boy?” My sister asked me.

“I always liked the name Gabrielle, remember?”

I replied, we had talked about this many times.“Would you ever want me to name one of my kids after those names? I would be honored to do that.”

After giving my consent, wanting to have some part of me to go on, even just a stupid name, I rested easier knowing my sister really would keep her promise to me no matter what happened. She had offered her blood for a transfusion to me, as well as kidneys, and after the potential of my not having children of my own, to be a surrogate, if that time ever came. I needed her strength, a plan of action to make it through this chaos.

Mom tried to be just as strong, although I knew that when my eyes were closed, or she was in her hotel room, she secretly fell apart behind closed doors. As the quintessential definition of a good mother, she used to leave notes in our lunches, snacks after school, and never ending hugs. She devoted everything to me, even the simplest tasks of rubbing my back or putting lotion on my bloated legs. We all sat and watched television, read, colored, or did cross word puzzles, anything to distract and keep us busy in those long and tedious hours, trapped within the bland walls of the hospital. I learned to let my mother care and worry over me, if only to let her have the illusion of control over a small part of the disaster around me.

Eventually, I went home, back to Fort Collins which had become my home, and would remain my home through this semester. Perhaps it is because I’m stubborn, but I had to stay, had to go to school, keep some semblance of normalcy in a now unsure world. Criticism, concern, and condemnation filled my ears during every conversation, with every person in my life pointing to a road and saying “go home, one way or another, go home.” Apparently, I had to live defiant; to have control over a life that wouldn’t ever be the same. As I would sit myself upright in my hospital bed, I attempted to not reveal my shaky voice, for fear of someone who could take advantage of my uncertainty and drag me back to a place I had despised. No one had dealt with anything like this, but Megan I felt, had lived a particularly charmed life. Even my best friend, who was also consequently a roommate, disagreed. “Dude, it’s not that I don’t want you out here. Of course I want you to be out here.”

“Okay, well what do you mean?”

“I just, I don’t think you’ll have the best care out here, with us I guess.” She looked down at her hands, avoiding some eye contact, though not hard to do with the dim lights of the hospital room.

“Look, I want to stay. I need to stay. You know more than anyone how much I don’t want to go home. I mean, no I don’t think I’m a failure for going home or anything, but I just feel like staying here is where I need to be. It’s not like I won’t have doctors, and I really do have a good support group out here.” I felt like I had something to prove, once again defending my reasoning and rationale. After significant quarrels and questions, like a best friend only could reassure, Megan simply said, “Okay, I’ll respect that. And we will do our best.” We meaning her and Julie, my other roommate and a close friend, all of whom had taken on the burden of me. I guess it took me a while to realize that cancer hadn’t just struck me, just me physically, but everyone around me was also in this for the long haul. Each morning comes more realizations of the need to search for normalcy. Each morning comes trudging out of bed, feeling not just a day older, but wondering if the fight is being won. I had to get used to the mindset of needing Megan or Julie (both roommates still remained in our condo) to be there to make my food because I sure as hell couldn’t get off the couch to do it. Or they had to be there to help me rinse out my mouth, for fear of developing sores in my throat. But I didn’t know what to do when I started to seriously forget things, a sure side effect of chemo. They’d ask what I had watched on TV or what time my next doctor’s appointment was, and I honestly could not remember.

I felt foolish and elderly, helpless and burdensome. I was going outside of anything called a comfort zone, by having to give up serious amounts of pride, and learning to allow others take care of me. Mixed in with this was trying to prove to myself, and my roommates that this was the best choice to stay in Colorado. The deal remained that the day I could no longer get up the stairs to my room was the day I booked a ticket home. But I stayed kicking it in Fort Collins. I had been used to being ignored or blowing things off for fear that those around me would be annoyed with me, stop caring or basically cease to be there. No matter how childish these thoughts and ideas were, they still existed as clearly as having a time table for my life.

Perhaps it was the constant calls or text messages, or the promises of fun things to do when I was to come home, or the fact that she got jealous when my sister Jessica got to come see me, but I really missed my Mom. I wanted more than anything to curl up in her lap, as she would always allow me, no matter what age. She took such pride in being a mom, a good mom at that. But I knew that as crazy as it seemed to everyone else, I had to stay in Colorado for a while, I had to remain away, for whatever reason, perhaps just to be difficult like I knew I could be. The constant conversations with my Mom were just little reminders of how much she missed me, and also gave her more things to talk about and update the constantly questioning friends and neighbors. Sometimes, this was when I became more stoic, not wanting any detail to be spared to the always unsatisfied public. I once again closed up, even to my own Mother.

And then when the pain came back, as it inevitably does, I become even more vulnerable, powerless, and I imagined what exactly is going on inside. Maybe it’s spreading even further than my lymph nodes and abdomen and uterus. Maybe it’s dying. Maybe I am. I can never really know, and neither do the doctors. These were the days that it took everything in me to not scream and cry to the sky, and to that God that had promised me a long life, full of good things, and I had been portrayed. I wanted to just quit, check out, or take a lot of drugs to numb the pain and dull my senses. Of course, I never really followed through, but it’s more difficult than I had imagined to have virtually no choices in anything and everything. Nobody knew exactly what ran through my head, and it took many interventions for us roommates to get on the same page, learn to communicate about this messed up situation. Why would I want to share the dark dreams, the deep hurts, the deathly thoughts, when both of them already had plenty to deal with, I couldn’t keep the burden going. And especially for Megan I had to keep on a good face for her, despite our long talks at night, or the occasional crying fest, if only to protect her from the darkness that I battled.

So they’d talk about what would happen if I “kicked the can” or what would happen if I didn’t show any sign of improvement. Thankfully and not to my surprise, I did and I have made strides. Even so, I felt anxious as to not convey the depth of my pain, or the extent of my dependency on various drugs. My roommates started color coding my pill bottles to keep them straight, and served me hash browns and scrambled eggs on a regular basis, one of the few things that sounded good and didn’t make me puke. Conversations steered toward what I was able to eat and how I felt, as opposed to what we were doing that weekend or any new hot guys in classes. Instead, everything became completely and utterly predictable. It all became a prison to me. A person who had been so active, working and going to school taking 18 credits a semester, was now virtually confined, no control, no escape, no end. This was my sentence. And I had no idea what I had done to get this.

Inevitably, the calls start pouring in, the inbox fills up, and the mail man probably wonders why I’m getting tons of packages. The sympathy, the prayers, the concern, the dismay, all written on faces of people, and I still don’t know how to take it, accept it, or understand it. When I had scoffed or secretly judged people who sent me bible verses or small quotes probably taken from some desktop daily calendar, I now cried at them. Words I needed to live for, because without them, maybe I wouldn’t be able to be alive. Things I had taken for granted, no longer mattered. I cried at silly commercials, was touched when a friend sent me a text saying “I love you, and I miss you.” But always in the back of my mind was where I wondered “is it out of obligation, kindness, duty?” I could never tell.

So, I sat on the couch, memorized times for the daily shows I watched, attempted to attend classes, and shove certain thoughts out of my head. I put aside magazines, word searches, and seasons of ‘Friends’ and made sure my family knows I’m doing “just fine” each and every time I talk to any of them. But everyone reaches a breaking point, and in these long, winter days, I had finally reached some point of that. Where was God with all this? That omnipotent presence I had been searching for, for so long seemed further than ever, had ultimately abandoned me. I had already been mad at God for so long, turning my back on so many of my beliefs. This could only further broaden my divide from the divine, allow me to continue to be pissed off and silently scream at the sky to a God that affirmed how much He hated me. After being questioned and constantly interrogated about fatigue, nausea, and limping, I try to not think about how abnormal my life has become.

I still see people and think about what I wouldn’t give to be in their shoes, to have graduated from college, to live to be married and have children. How nice would it be to have a career, to be accomplished? I think of the things I had taken for granted, things I had assumed would always come my way and figured that because I’m alive I would just naturally come across these pleasures. I would give anything to look cute and well groomed, ready for a regular day, versus the no make up, rolled out of bed look I inevitably have to sport. And yet, I have to face everyday hoping I don’t get a blood clot, or try to be excited when I can get up and go to school for an hour. I still see people, and consciously try to not resent them because they aren’t supposed to go through certain things, or understand and value health, like me. I suppose this is what it took for me to learn to value my health. I’m young, I assumed I was invincible and obviously I’m not. I guess we all have to grow up sometime.

Each day, more and more leaves my body; pounds or hair, emotion or tears. Chemotherapy treatments find me sitting in lazy boy recliners, talking “shop” to other patients about shaving my head and having the right “shine” on my soon to be bald head. Along with getting to know certain nurses, I get to know what arm is best to get a blood draw, as well as trying to protest against having to take more medicines and supplements. Suddenly, the day comes where I realize I can’t keep pulling out clumps of my thick blonde hair. Everywhere I sit, a trail of hair follows, cascading down my back, though not in healthy waves but in broken up pieces, shriveled up because they couldn’t take it being attached to my head, couldn’t take the trauma. I decided to practically stop bathing, as it does virtually nothing but give me bald spots and clogs up my drain uncontrollably. I don’t do activities that cause sweat or any odor, so I get away with it fairly easily, although I could practically kill someone if only to give me the ability to run a couple miles. Fill my lungs to the fullest, and have sweat dripping from every pore and feeling like my legs would give out on me. But only if I could be normal, not the broken or damaged or defected body I have lived with. Then I realized my wardrobe consisted of sweatpants and t-shirts, and I’d have a good day if I can make it to the refrigerator by myself, despite how slumped over or how much limping is necessary.

Questions fill my head, continuously and without any real result. Maybe I should have gone back to Missouri and let my family take care of me, and perhaps my roommates really are talking bad about me behind my back, constantly analyzing my every move. Does everyone really think I’m going to die? Maybe some people have already buried me. Should I pick out a funeral playlist? Maybe it’s time to write out that will. Everyone dies. But not at twenty one. No, I can’t let myself think like that. I can’t freak out and leave everyone here because all they would do would be pissed off at me for leaving. I already know what it feels like to have that happen. I know how funerals go of those who left this life with an untimely death. Being involved in theatre and fine arts all through my life, I’d learned that family is not always blood related. And losing a member of that close knit family to a car wreck during an ice storm in January, not only put mortality in perspective, but also grieving. And even after it had been five years, there is still little closure for Jeremiah’s death since he had to be cremated; his body had been so mutilated by semi trucks after he was ejected from his car into oncoming traffic. I saw how much it hurt to lose a dear friend, I couldn’t become the next one, even over a slow period of having a deteriorating body. Is it bad that I sometimes worry that it could be me next? Is this all really mind over matter, or am I simply just stupidly optimistic, grasping at unattainable dreams and goals? I’m twenty one. Most kids my age are out having the best sex of their lives, getting wasted with trusted friends, and prepping for midterms. And while they all made plans for Spring Break, I planned for chemo treatments, and hoped that this week is more tolerable than the last.

You know, everyone says you learn to value things and learn to look at the “little things” in life when this happens. So, is that why I’m feeling nauseous with every good thing I eat and drink, or why I feel like I’m running a marathon when I try to go to Target with my roommate? Is this all to help me appreciate the leaves in my backyard, and the days when I’m feeling “normal?” Or value the art of meditation, and giving daily reports on my bodily functions? Each little thing becomes a battle to defeat, whether it’s getting out of a car, or making sure I’m not ever too far from a bathroom. I feel like I’m about seventy five years old.

The day came when I decided to shave my head. I vacationed in L.A. for a weekend with my sister and a couple of close friends. Everyone wanted to buy me things now, so the guy shaves it for free. It’s a good thing I don’t have big ears or huge lumps on my now vulnerable, but hairless melon, as my friends have come to call it. I decided I’m grateful for wigs, drugs, beaches, and not being the only one to have ever had cancer or something physically “wrong” with their body. Thank God not only for the person who invented the wheel, but the wheelchair. I may not have been able to go to the beach or even get out of an airport without it. I have to say that wheelchairs are the best kept secret to getting through long lines and security, but not without the hassle of strangers’ baffled looks wondering why the hell a girl my age, who looks well enough, should be in a wheelchair, let alone pass them in line. What they don’t see, is me trying to stand up straight, not have labored breathing and beads of sweat dripping down my forehead during my attempt to feel the same. The red purse full of medicines, masks, and other things to keep me looking foolish having a germ phobia doesn’t exactly help my case either.

As people keep calling me, checking on me to see if I’m alive, they pour in sympathy and the awkwardness of not knowing how to deal with this, not that I really blame them. I don’t need pity, I don’t need more self-help books. Normalcy is the only thing I crave because it’s the biggest thing I lack. I just lost thirty pounds on the “cancer diet,” as I call it, and I have a port sticking out of my chest that makes me look like Frankenstein. I have no use for razors anymore, as no hair grows, anywhere. My arms would say I could be a heroine addict based on all the scars and bruises that notoriously line each arm. And those people that continue to ask “what my opinion is about death” should probably go think about it for a while themselves, and then come back to me. In a world that seems to now be spinning twice as fast, it would be nice to let it slow down for a bit, not only to notice those leaves in my backyard, but for a good healthy laugh that makes my side hurt from happiness, and not pain.

-Brittany died from cervical cancer on the morning of August 7th, while I was writing about Dennis, and 10-days before I left for Devils Tower. From the Update page:

10 August 2009 - The family will receive friends tonight from 6-8pm at the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; 1416 SW 19th St. Blue Springs, MO. A celebration of Brittany's life will be Tuesday at the church at 11am. The obituary was in the KC Star Sunday, and can be viewed here. Thanks for all your prayers and support.

4 August 2009 - Brittany was recently placed in the ICU at KU Med... and she wasn't really a big fan of that. SO, she has made the decision to come home under hospice care so she can get back to her bed, take a hot bath, be with her family, and play with her kitty cat.


On Brittany's website, there is a Pay Pal link to a fund for Brittany's medical expenses. If you've even considered buying these pathetic excuses for photgraphy, please give the money to her family instead. Follow the "Walk for Our Sister" link. Not a bad "gift idea" for the holiday season, and I'd encourage you to spread the URL too.

These were, obviously, powerful, seemingly random middle-of-the-night finds that struck like lightning, holding high the metaphorical mirror in which I first saw myself, then others. They literally brought me to the brink of tears; that's not easy to do! I neither effort nor claim to prop myself upon a pedestal beside Alison or Brittany. Yet, I can tell you that I admire nearly no one. I admire and on some level now consider both of these women a personal voices of conscience. They've set a new standard for inner-courage and honesty, and provided a powerful antidote to our expected "sufferance" of selfish, comfortable rationalization. I'll save the rant 'til next time.

Notice, neither of these women were "professing" some personal doctrine or philosophy nor claimed answers of any kind. They were simply being honest: first with themselves, then by extension with whoever chose to read their stuff. Their examples have conjured up feelings of both shame, quiet anger, and the unavoidable, "If they can face and share truth, what the fuck are you afraid of?" screaming in my skull. I know it's "hard!" Yet, silently asking that question has emboldened me simply due to the harsh, honest introspection I myself have, and feel I continue to display. Declarations like that won't make many superficial friends, and will likely cost (more) frivolous acquaintances. I've quietly learned not to make the cowardly assumption that this will make me an "island." Hardly! It makes one a beacon to "men" rather than feeders of a meandering flock. It's simple: at some point I expect people to man-up, or shut up. When that point arrives is in direct relation to the amount of shit spewing from the jowls!

The alternative attitude reminds me, again, of the media's mass-appeal philosophy: "The masses are asses! Appeal to the lowest common denominator to get the most listeners (friends)!" I refused then, and I vehemently refuse now. Climbing mountains and crossing deserts is courage of a secondary nature; it takes real courage to climb within.

8/17-8/18/09: Denver to Gillette, WY

Following a couple of false starts and a Craigslist Misfire, Greyhound finally dumped me in Denver Monday evening. I had gotten an email from another Craiglister, but by the time Eric had picked Chris and I up, there was no more contact with him.

Stepping off, it seemed that this stay in Denver would last either 8-hours, or a full day until the next bus heading my way left. Chris had made arrangements for me to stay with him at Loreli's if the ride flaked out, so we went to hang out with Eric at the Candle Light Lounge for a few beers and 7-months of catch up. Eric had read about Dennis in the Denver Post prior to my write-ups, so much of our time was spent discussing each of our particular insights and what living his particular life must have been like. As always, we later began discussing society, politics, and governmental uselessness as the beer settled in.

I learned that Eric had nearly drowned while rafting the Colorado River over the summer, and the experience had quite an affect on him. It seemed to put the notion of fear into perspective; he pointed out that he's no longer "afraid of much." The most basic of human conditions is survival, and once you experience something like that, it can't help but snap priorities into focus. Funny how fear has bubbled to the surface as a recurring theme.

Eric had to work Tuesday morning, so Chris and I walked to the Alameda Denny's to chat over coffee and see where we were after 5-weeks. It turned out to be one of our more remarkable conversations. This supposed month of "doing nothing" had instead been an intense period of reflection and realignment for him as well. Much of the conversation centered on each of us boiling our evolving ideas down into something easier to convey. We also noted how we had been able to incorporate tangible experience to both alter and expand them. I wish I could easily explain that process, but I can only invite you to re-read about Randleman, Ciel, Pat, Kim, Mike, and others. Suffice it say that analog eyes work much better than the digital ones and, for insight, this beats the hell out of anything on CNN.

This condensed stopover in Denver was quite nice on many levels, and served a nice purpose as a place to reset and launch forward. I obviously never heard from Rideshare #2, thus Tuesday was spent chatting, being entertained by Loreli's daughter, Izzy, and waiting for the bus to leave at 6pm.

Before I knew it, Eric had dropped me off, and I was back on the bus riding thru Ft. Collins and then into Wyoming. Cheyenne and Casper came and went, and I was quickly learning that my hopes of a good night's rest were futile. That would play a significant role Wednesday.

The bus dropped me in a cold, wet Gillette, Wyoming a bit after 5am and I was thrilled to learn that the stop was actually a functioning station. I organized my now-disorganized pack and caught some precious sleep before stepping off into unfamiliar territory again at 8am, and for the first time since late May in upstate NY.

8/16/09: That Uppity Ego

Dennis has become a major catalyst for a sobering perspective shift and a stunning transition. This has been a vicious personal process, considering I knew him for five short hours 15-months ago. I often talk high-minded about “lessons,” and if there is a small positive that I may be able to take from this sad story of Dennis, maybe it’s the long- overdue, deep seeded acceptance of “give & take” and a significant reinforcement of the Big Two of 2009: “The Side Car” and “The Center of the Universe.” The last two weeks has also made me view the next few months much differently.

I have been forced to re-evaluate how I view myself and the connections I’ve made while traveling. I long ago stopped believing in random “coincidence,” and while I will not invoke the Celestine Prophecy and claim that every interaction is of some importance, oftentimes people arrive in your life, or you arrive in theirs, at just that right time. What is hard for the ego to grasp is that it is not always for you. But, it is the height of arrogance to assume that every person is a bit player in each of our own personal dramas; that “fate” has only our particular interests in mind: Center of the Universe. Yet, each of us periodically falls into this bear trap, and it is difficult to observe while in its jaws.

People much more articulate than I have written it, but it seems that sometimes we need to resign ourselves to servitude; the Brush rather than the Artisan. I have concluded that was my role with Dennis, but while I wrote at the time that I knew I was of some potential use to him, my primary focus was on the egoistic thought that, “Hey! Maybe I’m fucking right about all of this!” Pathetic, yet understandable. On the other hand, I could have done nothing to “save” him. The ultimate responsibility to reclaim his life and identity WAS his. Conveyed words and ideas are useless to he who is blind and deaf. Staying with him that night was pointless, and considering the vibe and his ultimate fate, out of the question. My instincts were solid; what else could I have done? Nothing. You can extend a hand to the man lying in the gutter but what if he refuses to pull himself up? We are always given the black and white metaphorical choice: Fate v. Freewill. Maybe Forest Gump had it right and it’s both. I am also rapidly coming to believe Rush’s notion that blaming venomous fate is victimist thinking. Fate can influence and provide us opportunity, but our decisions define us. Or, perhaps fate is influenced by our decisions? I’ll let someone else crawl into that paradox. My regret resides not in my actions, but in my ignorance as to its significance.

Days of thinking about all of this and a couple other events have caused me to step back, relax and, to borrow A.A.’s term, take a bit of an inventory. I have asked questions that have resulted in frightening and intimidating answers. Ones that require relinquishing a degree of control. I am not entirely sure at this point that I want, or even know how to accept that entirely. Then again, it’s too late to have any choice in the matter, isn’t it? That time has long past. Fighting it only prolongs and complicates the inevitable.

I have fought individual and collective battles with Uppity Egos over the months, and I believe I have begun to see where mine has been dragging me. It is also becoming clear where the good half of that duality has been not so gently nudging me with that oft-mentioned “irritation.” My purpose has little to do with developing technical schematics for the secrets of the universe. They are secret for a reason and it is laughable to think that I (or anyone) is that clever. Even if I were to come to conclusions and decided to share it, how would I then be any different from Mormon Missionaries? How would I be different from the Christians who trade charity only in exchange for the chance to impose their doctrine? I believe mine is a process of learning how to remain “awake,” or tuned- in while returning to 2008’s mindset of riding the wave; seeing what characters take the stage, but also with a keen focus on when I am playing the role of the bit player. Staying tapped into what Brian called Flow; the unseen but tangible energy of life that we can touch, feel, and use to guide us; the source of Joy. Those of you familiar with Joseph Campbell will probably recognize it as “Bliss.” For the record, I have yet to read or watch any of his material except for a few excerpts but here is one:

“But if a person has had the sense of the Call -- the feeling that there's an adventure for him -- and if he doesn't follow that, but remains in the society because it's safe and secure, then life dries up. And then he comes to that condition in late middle age: he's gotten to the top of the ladder, and found that it's against the wrong wall.

If you have the guts to follow the risk, however, life opens, opens, opens up all along the line. I'm not superstitious, but I do believe in spiritual magic, you might say. I feel that if one follows what I call one's "bliss" -- the thing that really gets you deep in your gut and that you feel is your life -- doors will open up. They do! They have in my life and they have in many lives that I know of.

…When you are at a certain age…and look back over your life, it seems to be almost as orderly as a composed novel. And just as in Dickens' novels, little accidental meetings and so forth turn out to be main features in the plot, so in your life. And what seem to have been mistakes at the time, turn out to be directive crises…

Life seems as though it were planned; and there is something in us that's causing what you hear of as being accident-prone: it's something in ourselves. There is a mystery here… Can anything happen to you for which you're not ready? I look back now on certain things that at the time seemed to be real disasters, but the results turned out to be the structuring of a really great aspect of my life and career. So what can you say?

And the other point is, if you follow your bliss, you'll have your bliss, whether you have money or not. If you follow money, you may lose money, and then you don't have even that. The secure way is really the insecure way and the way in which the richness of the quest accumulates is the right way.” –Joseph Campbell “An Open Life”

You will either sense a familiarity with that, or have no clue what the hell we’re talking about! It’s useless to attempt explaining it; you get it or you don’t, but it is the foundation of everything. It’s your “Voice.” The one that so many artists have tried to capture. Unfortunately, I don’t believe everyone is capable of acquiring that frequency or maybe they’re so lost in ego and corrupted identity that they simply can’t hear it. Many more can hear it, but have no idea what it is and are incapable of articulating it beyond a feeling. A “Splinter in the Mind.”

I am a Spiritual Anarchist. Each person’s beliefs are his or her own; to find on his or her own. That thing I term the Voice, Campbell calls Bliss, and some refer to as Consciousness, is not be dictated by, confused with, or confounded by any doctrine. I believe that was what I was trying to convey with the “Dragon Parable.” That basic, ancient concept of self-discovery IS the essence of spirituality and the Voice’s vocal cords. The “spirit” in spirituality refers to yours, and only you speak its language. It is tuning in to your sixth sense. The Voice, Frequency, Bliss, call it Broccoli if you want; terminology is meaningless. Snake and other Christians refer to it as a “calling.” Eastern religion describes it as God Within, using meditation (Sit Down & Shut Up?) to engage it and become that Sidecar. Of course, none of this philosophy is anything new. What are new is where it is taking me, and how the course has been altered.

It’s easy, when discovering something you think will help others, to become excited and want to give it away. Brian’s insight has resonated well: mirroring is the way to inspire people, by offering them the opportunity to quietly and privately inspire themselves thru introspection. In my opinion, “Peace Pilgrim” is a hypocritical nut job, and I do not buy her self-righteous claims about “finding total peace.” No one finds total peace, unless they’re named Buddha or Jesus, but there is one wonderful quote in her little pamphlet: “You cannot change anyone but yourself. After you have become an example, you can inspire others to change themselves.” I have noticed that at work several times from surprising sources when I have not spoken or written a word. It usually begins through a series of serious, heartfelt questions usually in an attempt to understand and fight fear. It’s remarkable and humbling, but I personally do not aspire to be The Great Sage of the West, nor some self- appointed Leader of Men. Beware of those assuming or preparing for that particular title. Our past is littered with these egomaniacs: Manson thought and convinced others that God put him on earth to lead following Helter Skelter. Hitler "knew the path" to domination for the Aryan Race. I am sure there are more than a couple “vacuum fillers” embedded in the various militias around the country waiting for the collapse. The best leaders do not have to campaign; they are just followed.

Looking Forward

Over the last week, I have decided to abandon the Seattle plan, and perhaps Oregon & California. Such is not my path. While Chris and I share many of the same beliefs, our focus now lie in significantly different directions. Over the past month, whenever I would discuss the plan to ride with Chris, Penney & Robert to Washington, I would notice that it was quickly followed by that same annoyance that’s been plaguing me in various degrees since New Jersey, and it had gotten more intense since Dennis. It became obvious that my path needs to be solo, and look more similar to 2008. The difference being that I have an acute awareness of the Ying & Yang of alternating roles, as well as taking the Big Two of 2009, and practicing them on a more consistent basis. It’s not hard to get back there. All I have to do is remember the people from the last 15-months: Snake, Will, Ciel, Pat, Nick, Ken, Cesar, Jo, Florian, Eric & Marine, Kim, Gus, Trent, Shelly, Steve, Brian, Dave, Inga, and more. These people and more have left significant traces.

Fear

Since Michigan, this is a topic I seem to be contemplating and discussing quite frequently. Fear is a never-ending fight and if we cower too often, it can cripple and make us a prisoner of our own mind.

I find it hilarious that people often tell me that they find me "courageous." Someone famous wrote, “None but a coward dares to boast that he has never known fear.” Well, I have known more than most! It has had a history of paralyzing me. I have made a mistake in not publishing the back-story from 2004- 2008, before Running with the Wind. I will correct that eventually, but it literally took me those 4- years to hit the road, primarily due to fear. The “what ifs” consumed me. I was never prepared enough, never had the right equipment, or the destination was not right because too much “might happen.” Much of that was due to a lack of confidence, a major source of fear. In the weeks leading up to my departure in May 2008 I repeatedly shredded myself in my journal about the fact that I KNEW I was an obvious coward with nothing but big talk and bigger ideas, and I was sick of feeling powerless to do anything about it. This is from April 20, 2008, exactly one month before I began this little adventure:

“Same old story. I thrive when it’s concept and planning but when it comes time to execute [and] put my ass on the line I hesitate, procrastinate, and try to avoid the hard fought experience I need to answer questions, identify weaknesses and conquer my pathetic fears. Fear doesn’t reside in the heart of the adversary or [in the] prospect of failure; it resides in the heart of the coward… In many ways, I am indeed a coward. How else can I identify or define it? That’s the hard truth, but I hold out hope that I’ll still be able to change that…. I’m obviously afraid to find and redefine these old boundaries and [create] new ones…. I can ‘pontificate’ to the end of the world, but it’s... simple. I’m a coward. I’m only dipping my little toe into the ocean of ideas I’ve created. It’s as though I’ve built a bridge and am afraid to cross it on my own., waiting for someone else to try it out because I’m not sure I trust my own craftsmanship… While it helps to explain the “whys” and the details of these fears, let’s not lose sight of what it really is. Call it by its real name: Cowardice… From here on, I won’t be delicate about that, and need to be conscious of attacking these things in whatever way I can... This phase is about attacking fears. Cowardice. I don’t like using that term: Coward. Yet I believe it’s an important admission… Admitting to fear, something common to all of us, is somehow gentle, and open to rationalization and easy acceptance of failings. Cowardice, however, is a character flaw. Unforgivable for a man who’s critical of the status quo and systemic life.”

Fear is a motherfucker because it is a terrifying, loud ghost. It’s usually not based on anything tangible in the moment; danger in the moment is confronted with action and instinct. Either fear is rooted in the future (what if) or on the past (what was). I decided to post this self-loathing little entry as an example because, with the benefit of hindsight and experience, I see how silly it was. I was in the business of creating my own worst- case scenarios. “What if” was the phrase most commonly running through my mind. Luckily, I was able to remember the effects of this toxic thinking after I left and this helped combat the nagging fears that remained present, but steadily and quickly faded as time went by. The “Vern Moment” in Wyoming was a watershed because, once through it, I was finally able to laugh at these previously terrifying fears.

“The ability to feel fear and keep moving forward distinguishes the living from the merely breathing.” is one of my favorite quotes. You will never completely eliminate fear, but you have a choice of how to handle it. Be crippled by irrational fears and be the equivalent of a brain in the vat, or confront them. In my experience, the more you confront them, the more confidence you gain from the realization that they usually are based on… nothing. A good starting point: Ask yourself, “What would I do if I were not afraid?”

An important distinction is the difference between irrational fear and hubris. If you put yourself in ridiculously dangerous situations, for which you are ill- prepared and do not know it, you deserve your fate. Find your boundaries and know your limitations. Chris McCandless of Into the Wild fame has attained cult status amongst many misguided hippie- youth because they believe he died “nobly” living his ideals. Horseshit. He starved to death, and stupidly. The kid thought that he could commune with nature, despite the fact that he had grossly inadequate skills to survive in Alaska.

There was a similar story just this past month in Colorado. He set off into the back-country, eventually mailed much of his gear home, and then quit receiving his supplies. They found his body near Lake City in July, after spending the winter buried beneath 20’ of snow. They found him next to a cabin that may have saved his life, but was unable to get inside because he was ill- equipped. Like McCandless, this person had noble ideals but was either arrogant, or "inadequately common sensed." This hiker was, by all accounts, highly intelligent, had well- developed ideas and kept a meticulous journal. However, he failed to protect it, so not only was HE lost… so was his essence. In the end, what did he die for? To become an anecdote?

Some fear is good; the kind that occasionally protects you from yourself and prevents you from stumbling into legitimately dangerous situations. A little courage coupled with a cup of common sense and a dash of realistic humility will take one a long way.

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.

7/9/08: Fruitland-Twin Falls, ID-Jack

I got up early again, seemingly falling back into the routine of rising between 8:15 and 8:45. I packed up to the curiosity of the many onlookers who were passing through the driveway between the Shell station and I. Then it was off for the morning ritual of coffee, and to get a feel for where I was, and GOING, in Idaho. I knew next to nothing about the state; did not even realize how close I was to Boise.

A significant thing had happened between when I'd gone to bed and gotten up in the morning. I realized that I was now OUT of Oregon, which posed a slight problem. Remember Wyoming? Destinations? Just where the hell was I going anyhow?!?! Time to try to figure that out.

I sat down in the same booth as the night before, began drinking the coffee, borrowed the Rand McNally Atlas off the rack and began looking ahead. I saw two very foreboding sights: Wyoming and, in particular, Utah.

Let me be very clear: I hate Utah.

Utah is the place where thought goes to die. I’ve heard only horror stories about Utah from those who’ve tried to get thru it, either backpacking (desert) or hitching (cops & Mormons). They, to a man, have told me to go around it, rather than set even a foot inside Utah, thereby risking being kidnapped to 1850. You risk being harassed incessantly. There is even a law on the books in some town where it is illegal to speak ill of the Mormon Church! Really? In 2008? Let’s just say it would be an act of utter desperation for me to even consider navigating Utah’s theocracy.

With this in mind, I began considering different routes. To avoid Utah and Wyoming:

* South immediately into Nevada via highway 93 toward Vegas and Bullhead City
* North immediately via 93 toward the Bitterroots into Montana & I-90 or US-12.
* Continue up 84 to I-15 into Montana, OR
* Continue up 84 to Pocatello then pick up US-30 to I-80 thru Wyoming (ugh!)

I liked the idea of US-12 because it goes all the way to Michigan through my hometown of Jonesville. Laina is returning to Michigan at the end of July to see family, and I also noticed that it crosses both the Dakotas then Minnesota and Wisconsin, before turning south to Chicago. I had put Montana, and both Dakotas on my places to go, but after realizing how much I despise being cold, I wondered how wise it would be to cross the Bitterroots and the REAL Rocky Mountains. The road south appealed a bit because it would take me to through Winnemucca (Mac) to Vegas, then I could go toward Bullhead City and Lake Meade in Arizona and hop on I-40 toward Albuquerque & Santa Fe to see Laina, bypassing the Michigan portion and heading toward the east from there. So many options.

I went round and round for a couple of hours. Money, again, reared its ugly head. I began to picture going into Montana and having something come up leaving me broke and stranded up there with the wolves and cows. (Are there cows in Montana?) A common psychological theme that would haunt me the rest of my time in Idaho. Despite the fact that every time I had needed something it would pop up, as long as I put forth the effort, I was beginning to let fear take hold.

In the end, I decided that going through the Nevada desert was a bit foolhardy, and heading north into the Bitterroots, at least at that point, did not make a lot of sense either. I ultimately concluded I was going to Montana via Pocatello. I would continue the course I was on, and set Pocatello as my destination & point of no return. I could either pick up US-12 further east in Helena, off I-15, or go back to Denver (again!) to try to make some money. I should have just rolled the dice then...

This posed some troubling questions for me. I had now opened Denver as an option, and in the interest of being honest with myself, that could potentially be a cop out and lead me back to the safety and security of Santa Fe. There were times that I felt road weary, as though I could use a break.

The troubling notion also began to sink in that, since Olema, I had become The Happy Hitchhiker. I was no more sustainable than when I left, and had lost sight of much of the philosophy and adventurous aspect (save the train) behind this. Was this just reality setting in? I had been gone nearly a month, traveled in the neighborhood of 1500 miles, and had gained a sense of method, for lack of a better term. I missed the idea of hiking across the Marin Headlands, not knowing what was ahead of me. The idea of setting off down Highway 1-- just walking. I needed perspective. Time for some self- examination.

However, not today.

I got out of the gas station and up toward I-84 at about 10:00, and it was already HOT! Scorching. The coming 100-degree heat was all the rage with everyone, so I was prepared. I’d even decided to dig out the sun screen; something I despise. I didn’t know what to expect when I sat down on the ramp and threw the thumb up. I felt cautiously optimistic considering the luck I’d had the day before after not starting until 4:00! I had sat there in the sun listening to music for about 30 minutes when the theme for the day presented itself. Ride #1.

Chris too was 37 and sold gas detectors to chemical companies. He was on his way toward Nampa, near Boise, to drop something off and said I could ride along. He seemed very intrigued not only in the physical aspect of my trip, but the "why". He is another in the string of people who said they wished they could do something like this, but had responsibilities. Chris has three kids and a wife, so gets his adventuring fix boating, camping, and drinking beer. He is a guy who has a distinct edge to him. We are disgusted by many of the same things; materialism etc.; but he doesn’t see what he can do about it.

He pointed out something I had not thought of or had many discussions about: being afraid to pick up a hitchhiker is somewhat ridiculous. The hiker is taking more of a risk than YOU are! For example, if he tried to rob you; all you have to do is punch the accelerator to about 90 mph. What’s he gonna do? Jump? That thought would fuel my disgust later on in the week...

Chris dropped me off at a gas station in Nampa, where I briefly walked around inside then set up on the ramp again. It was getting hotter, but I was sitting in the heat for less than 5 minutes when along came ride #2.

Inside were two black guys, I believe the ONLY two black guys in Idaho, so I felt privileged to meet them. Actually, when they pulled over I felt my upbringing kick in. Apprehension. The sounds of gangsta rap were coming from the car, and they seemed to fit every stereotype Whitey has been taught to fear about blacks. In addition, he wanted me to put the pack in the trunk, which even I know is a no no.

They asked where I was going and I asked if they could get me to the other side of Boise, and since both of my Couchsurf requests had come back negative, I wanted to get thru the city. The driver, who I had seen at the truck stop moments earlier, answered that it shouldn’t matter how far if they were offering a ride. He had a point. I decided to ignore the second thinking and hopped in the back seat-- keeping my pack on my lap.

I was immediately treated to a wonderful Gangsta Rap Sing Along. I will not lie and tell you I felt completely comfortable in that car, but they just left me alone as they just rapped along to the music. I understood none of what they were saying other than the frequently used “nigga” and either “tap dat ass” or “put a cap in dat ass”. Perhaps it was both? I was laughing quietly to myself thinking of the stereotypical display before me.

These were a couple of cool people. They had just stopped off to grab a 40oz bottle of Coors. In the end, I felt like the stereotype for feeling the twinges of judgment purely at the sight of these people. I was neither beaten nor robbed, and they even shook hands and wished me well when they dropped me off. Not my best moment.

I never got their names but they did indeed drop me off on the other side of Boise, at exit 52 or 53. I went into the truck stop to use the rest room and fill up the water bottle with ice to combat the heat.

Chris had warned me early in the day to get ALL THE WAY to Mountain Home from Boise because there was next to nothing in between. That was exactly my plan when I sat down on the ramp and waited for ride #3, which showed up 20 minutes later.

Corey reminded me a bit of my friend Joey. Very flamboyant. Gay. Personable. We exchanged stories, and I believe I caught him eyeballing my ‘nether regions’ a few times. Whatever. He was a perfect gentleman (never used that phrase pertaining to MY experience), and it was blazing hot in the high desert, so I was just happy to be in the A/C getting a ride to Mountain Home. Another perfectly enjoyable ride! Corey is also the one who warned me about eastern Idaho when I mentioned I was going toward Pocatello. He described it as having as high, if not higher, LDS concentration as Utah. Great. He predicted I would have trouble finding rides out that way. He dropped me off at yet another truck stop, continuing the theme that would stay with me the rest of the way.

It was here in Mountain Home that I ALMOST hit hitchhiking's mother lode. A cross country ride. I met a kid who was moving back to Canton, Ohio that day and had been looking for someone to ride along. He had no luck, so his mother flew out to Idaho to ride back with him. He was on the way to the airport to pick her up then. That was only slightly disappointing though, I was having a good day!

After again doing a non-spending tour of the truck stop, I went to the on-ramp again and through the familiar routine. This time I was there for about 30 minutes when ride #4 came along. One of the most interesting rides, and favorite people of the entire trip.

Jack picked me up at about 2:40, saying he was going to Twin Falls to pick up parts for his farm equipment and I could ride along. He was a farmer from Grand View who looked to be 60-65, and was very soft spoken. Almost too soft! I could understand only about half of what he said at first, but he smiled when he said it, and had a great sense of humor. I settled in for what I figured would be a nice steady, albeit slow, ride to Twin Falls: he rarely topped 55 mph.

By now, we were in the true heat of the day. It was about 100, and the temperature would begin to have its effect. Not on me, but Jack’s truck began to overheat. He pulled off at a rest stop to check the water and acknowledged that he had checked everything BUT the water before he left Grand View, and that there was NO coolant mixed with what water there was. The radiator was almost bone dry, so he filled it up and we let it cool for 20-30 minutes while we talked and watched a biplane crop duster fly overhead. I was struck by odd feelings of nostalgia; this reminded me of my childhood for some reason, and I was growing very fond of this old coot. He had such a calm demeanor and handled everything that came along the same way. He just dealt with it, I believe I was taking mental notes, and respected that about him. I would have been closer to Rich’s end of things than Jack’s!

When we got back on the highway, we discovered that our overheating ordeal was just beginning. It got to where the truck just refused to go any further and he had to pull off to the shoulder to let it cool. This happened a few times; the truck would eventually start, and then go MAYBE 100 yards before it would stall. I was just fine with this. I had gone somewhere between 125 and 175 miles thus far, and was happy to be in the company of someone I enjoyed. At one point, when the truck died next to a small stream, I hopped over the barbed wire fence, climbed down and doused my head and bandana with the cool water. It felt incredible. There is nothing better than a well placed river on a hot day. I remembered Rich and I thinking how great it would have been to be able to jump in one of the many streams we saw from the train, so I felt like I was making up for missed opportunities.

This went on for quite awhile. Start-stop. Start-stop. Finally, we got to Jerome, which is a little town to the north of Twin Falls. Jack stopped at a gas station to let the truck cool, refill the radiator, and douse the engine block with water to assist the cooling. The sun was now much lower in the sky and we were finally getting some relief from the heat. About now happened one of the weirdest events of the trip, although I would not realize it at the time, at least not past the sense of a lost opportunity.

A minivan pulled in overheating. Inside were a mother and two kids, one of which looked to be 19 or 20. They seemed friendly, if a bit annoyed by their car’s issues. Through conversation, I had learned that they were going to Pocatello on their way back from Washington. The perfect chance to finish this stretch of Idaho in ONE day! However, I did not bother to ask for the ride. Why? They seemed friendly enough, had enough room . . .and I had Jack standing right there as a hitcher’s reference! I just could not do it. I don’t know why—to this day. I should have. I would be reminded, starkly, in just a few days.

Jack’s truck eventually cooled enough and he had decided to go to Walmart for coolant. I was quite happy with that since that meant I could grab some more cheap canned goods. I rode along, got my stuff, and we arranged where he would drop me off: a Flying J near the interstate and well north of the city.

Jack seemed sorry to end this little adventure, and I was too. He was a terrific man. He even seemed to feel bad that it had taken so long to get there, and wondered aloud what I would say about it in the journal. I told him I would say this: A genuinely nice man stopped, picked me up and we had a perfectly enjoyable afternoon getting to Twin Falls despite his truck overheating. It is telling about Jack that the afternoon was so enjoyable despite all of that; the comparison to Rich and his whining did not escape me! We finally got to the Flying J at something like 8:00, shook hands, and I again told him how much I had enjoyed the day. By now, I think the compliments were making him uncomfortable!

From the Jerome Flying J, I had visions of catching a truck, so I sat on a bench out back where the drivers fueled and went inside. No luck with the ride, but I did find out from an employee that there was a staffing service in Jerome, SOS Staffing that was desperate for english speaking temp help. That sounded appealing; the same way La Grande sounded appealing. I wrote down the directions and figured I would try to call them the next day. I also chatted up the restaurant manager discovering a place to sleep for the night, in a picnic area next to the building out in the open, much like the place in Fruitland.

Another event of note: the stupid looking sunglasses that I had bought in Ft. Morgan finally died. They had been through a lot, so I gave them a decent ashtray burial.

With all that settled, I went inside and began a massive update in my written journal. I spent 3-4 hours in the café writing and drinking the free coffee refills while being forced to listen to Fox News. It occurred to me at that point, when I began to not-so-quietly tell Sean Hannity what I thought of him, that I had watched next to NO TV since I left, and that my tolerance was now zero for the fabricated, prepackaged selling of bullshit. I will mercifully spare you that rant. For now.

I headed out to my little nesting area, and on the way ran into the first fellow backpacker I had seen on the trip. I forget his name, but he was coming from the east, from the Rainbow Gathering at Medicine Bow in Wyoming. He told me a dramatic horror story about walking 25 miles through eastern Idaho completely unable to get ANYONE to stop, echoing what Corey had told me earlier. He had finally stumbled across a trucker at a rest area who had brought him, and his dog, to Twin Falls.

He told me to be sure that I got ALL THE WAY THROUGH TO AT LEAST POCATELLO! I heeded the warning and told him about the picnic area. He said he had gotten his second wind and wanted to keep going so we parted ways. I set up my humble little nest, put on some music and dozed off. I woke up in the middle of the night to "eliminate" excess coffee  and, to my surprise, saw him and Norma Jean curled up in his sleeping bag nearby. I guess he didn’t get out of there. I never did talk to him again; he was gone before I got up.