The Fresno Inn was a nice place to spend election night. I knew it was over quickly, once it was evidence that Obama was ahead in early counting in Florida, and texted a few of my friends saying that Romney was fizzling early. It reminded me of Dukakis in '88.
I went out a couple times, to my car in the parking lot, and at least once after the election results were announced. To get into my trunk I have to unmount the bicycle rack and the bike. When I went in for the night, I decided to leave the bike in its harness alongside the car. In the morning I noticed it was gone. I texted a friend that my bike had been looted.
But I should have expected it. Like many hotels in Fresno, and in much of California, there are clumps of homeless people visible at any time nearby. I wished the appropriator of my property goodwill in my mind, and hoped the bike was being put to good use by its new possessor.
The bed at the Fresno Inn was extraordinary---this is a hallmark of Best Western as a whole, I've noticed. I felt like I was getting a calf massage as I slept. There were five ample pillows fluffed like clouds each afternoon after I came back inside.
Eggs at breakfast---that's probably one of the reasons it's a Best Western Plus..
A great location too. It's along a major thoroughfare between campus and the freeway.
No complaints. But in a way it felt too much like an apartment, like I wanted to settle in and not leave. It made me thirst for the road experience again.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Monday, November 5, 2012
Marvelous Trip Through the East Bay
After I left Oakland, I went up to Berkeley and checked into the Rodeway Inn on University Avenue, which had really good reviews online, and was a good price. The rooms were renovated and the parking lot was a nice enclosed courtyard that was like a little oasis along that stretch of University.
Overall I was surprised at how much Berkeley seemed more prosperous than it had when I first saw it.
After a couple nights there, I decided to push my luck, and stay in Berkeley a third night. I booked what I thought was another nice hotel near campus, but later realized the one I booked was a different hotel with a similar name down on San Pablo, in lower Berkeley. When I drove by the hotel, I realized it wasn't my type of place, so I canceled the reservation online and hastily booked a replacement at the Super 8 in El Cerrito.
I drove up San Pablo through plain vanilla Albany, and then checked into the Super 8, which was right by the freeway. In the morning I drove up through Richmond, and to the splendid little town of Port Richmond. I fulfilled my trip goal of seeing the great Standard Oil refinery there.
Overall I was surprised at how much Berkeley seemed more prosperous than it had when I first saw it.
After a couple nights there, I decided to push my luck, and stay in Berkeley a third night. I booked what I thought was another nice hotel near campus, but later realized the one I booked was a different hotel with a similar name down on San Pablo, in lower Berkeley. When I drove by the hotel, I realized it wasn't my type of place, so I canceled the reservation online and hastily booked a replacement at the Super 8 in El Cerrito.
I drove up San Pablo through plain vanilla Albany, and then checked into the Super 8, which was right by the freeway. In the morning I drove up through Richmond, and to the splendid little town of Port Richmond. I fulfilled my trip goal of seeing the great Standard Oil refinery there.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
8 Flavors Cafe
The Native Returns
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
To Kelle Re: Don't Go
Well I did ask, didn't? But you knew I probably had already made up my mind. I guess I just wanted to say thanks again for this year's Omaha Peak Experience.
So what should I have expected except those bikini-clad women in the sandstorm screaming at me? Sometimes I like to go with the flow. Sometimes I like to defy the scary skulls planted along the roadside, telling me turn back, traveler, herein your doom. Doom, schmoom. It will get to all of us in the end.
Thought of you vividly at one moment, of great reward, on the last night I was there. After the fabulous Aspenites had trickled mostly away, leaving a rump camp, and the raves had died down, and the both the man and the temple had been burned, I took the opportunity to politely ditch my friends and headed out onto the "deep playa" on the other side of the temple.
The pure dark of the night was cut by the full moon over the barren mountains. I had no problem navigating on my bike across the flat playa, out into the darkness, towards the distant lights of the art exhibits that been erected out there, and the floating headlamps of the other riders in group or solitary.
It was like going from planet to planet, a galactic explorer, into the deep of both space and the mind at once.
I picked my way more deeply onto the playa. At the third exhibit, I think, I came upon a startling piece, my favorite of the show.
It was the Sephirot, standing about twelve feet high, held by wires anchored in the desert floor. It must have been painted in colors, perhaps, but in the starkness of the full moon, it was bleached black, white and gray in the stark shadows that the moon cast. It was otherwordly, as if I could not have distinguished between the reality and a DiChirico painting right in front of my me. All around was the dark flatness of the empty playa.
I lingered for a while, soaking it all up. Two or three other people came and went while I was there, then biked away into the darkness. Otherwise it was just me and the sculpture.
There were more fun things, out deeper in the playa. If I go back, I plan to spend a lot more time out there, right from the first day.
You should go, by the way.
So what should I have expected except those bikini-clad women in the sandstorm screaming at me? Sometimes I like to go with the flow. Sometimes I like to defy the scary skulls planted along the roadside, telling me turn back, traveler, herein your doom. Doom, schmoom. It will get to all of us in the end.
Thought of you vividly at one moment, of great reward, on the last night I was there. After the fabulous Aspenites had trickled mostly away, leaving a rump camp, and the raves had died down, and the both the man and the temple had been burned, I took the opportunity to politely ditch my friends and headed out onto the "deep playa" on the other side of the temple.
The pure dark of the night was cut by the full moon over the barren mountains. I had no problem navigating on my bike across the flat playa, out into the darkness, towards the distant lights of the art exhibits that been erected out there, and the floating headlamps of the other riders in group or solitary.
It was like going from planet to planet, a galactic explorer, into the deep of both space and the mind at once.
I picked my way more deeply onto the playa. At the third exhibit, I think, I came upon a startling piece, my favorite of the show.
It was the Sephirot, standing about twelve feet high, held by wires anchored in the desert floor. It must have been painted in colors, perhaps, but in the starkness of the full moon, it was bleached black, white and gray in the stark shadows that the moon cast. It was otherwordly, as if I could not have distinguished between the reality and a DiChirico painting right in front of my me. All around was the dark flatness of the empty playa.
I lingered for a while, soaking it all up. Two or three other people came and went while I was there, then biked away into the darkness. Otherwise it was just me and the sculpture.
There were more fun things, out deeper in the playa. If I go back, I plan to spend a lot more time out there, right from the first day.
You should go, by the way.
R.I.P. Ken
I think I finally got it, sitting on the beach at Point Reyes, the way to do zazen probably, on your knees. You have to be strong and straight in your torso, and in your feet. You have to bounce on your toes a bit for balance. At least that's what I discovered in the sand there. Can't believe you're gone.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Point Reyes National Seashore 10/21
California is a beautiful place. I've had the great fortune to have had my eyes opened to that, by locals here---Californios, to borrow an ancient phrase.
Along Tomales Bay, outside the oyster houses, cars were parked thickly, dozens side-by-side.
In Inverness I stopped for coffee mostly to take a peak inside the grocery. Then I drove up to the trailhead at Estero, figuring to finally sea that interesting body of water, but wound up approaching it instead from the trailhead at Bull Point, which leads right down to Creamery Bay---cow heaven. I crouched on a grassy clump of dry ground, almost at the waterline, and when I stood up a large flocks of birds took off from the water nearby.
In mid afternoon, I found North Beach, where the above picture was taken, as I walked along the shore, for over an hour. The only person I saw was right near the parking lot. Otherwise I was by myself the whole way below the small cliff.
After about a quarter of mile, one sees the first wooden sculpture. There were a few more as well. I fantasized that they might be continuously curated by anyone who passes by, and and who has the courage to alter the sculpture in some way. I thought about what I might add, then decided it was not any true artistic impulse, so I left the sculpture as it was.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
The Road to Burning Man MMXII (Part Four)
At the gate, and the dust still raging, I rolled down my window just long enough to the ticket Okki had given me in Boulder. The ticket itself ornate graphic with this year's theme: "Fertility 2.0."
The guy at the gate said you had to drive down another mile or so to the "Welcome Center" where I'd be given additional materials directed onward. I told him about my car, and if it be ok to pull over. He wasn't enthusiastic about it, but told me if I had to, it would ok.
The whole way down to the second gate, my eyes were half-glued on the temperature gauge and half looking all around me in the dust to make sure I wasn't about to hit anything, or that anything wasn't about to hit me. I had to pull over twice, off onto the playa, when I thought it might boil over again.
In the welcome gate, the wind was raging harder than ever. There were two women standing in my lane to greet me. They were wearing skimpy bikini outfits, with their faces covered with scarves and big yellow ski goggles. They looked like Venusian Amazon warriors.
Okki had said that "virgins" like me were supposed to get out at the gate, ring the bell next to it and scream "I AM NO LONGER A VIRGIN!!" I really wasn't looking forward to it, and fortunately in the raging storm, no such demand was presented to me by the women there.
Instead, after a few minutes, I was directed forward by one of the women, who motioned with her hand as she looked away from me. I started the car and moved forward through the gate and into the plaza. Just as I began moving, she turned to me and started screaming at me angrily at the top of her lungs, that I was moving too fast, and didn't I see that car in the plaza in front of me in the dust!?
This is going to be a long week, I thought to myself.
The guy at the gate said you had to drive down another mile or so to the "Welcome Center" where I'd be given additional materials directed onward. I told him about my car, and if it be ok to pull over. He wasn't enthusiastic about it, but told me if I had to, it would ok.
The whole way down to the second gate, my eyes were half-glued on the temperature gauge and half looking all around me in the dust to make sure I wasn't about to hit anything, or that anything wasn't about to hit me. I had to pull over twice, off onto the playa, when I thought it might boil over again.
In the welcome gate, the wind was raging harder than ever. There were two women standing in my lane to greet me. They were wearing skimpy bikini outfits, with their faces covered with scarves and big yellow ski goggles. They looked like Venusian Amazon warriors.
Okki had said that "virgins" like me were supposed to get out at the gate, ring the bell next to it and scream "I AM NO LONGER A VIRGIN!!" I really wasn't looking forward to it, and fortunately in the raging storm, no such demand was presented to me by the women there.
Instead, after a few minutes, I was directed forward by one of the women, who motioned with her hand as she looked away from me. I started the car and moved forward through the gate and into the plaza. Just as I began moving, she turned to me and started screaming at me angrily at the top of her lungs, that I was moving too fast, and didn't I see that car in the plaza in front of me in the dust!?
This is going to be a long week, I thought to myself.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
California Cornucopia
My new friends at the Great Armenian Festival today in downtown Fresno.
Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6
The Road to Burning Man MMXII (Part Three)
The event had opened on Sunday night. Okki had dropped strong indications that it was good to arrive early in the week, to enjoy as much of the event as possible. I wanted to do it right.
On my relaxed pace, I arrived on Tuesday afternoon. It was in the midst of what would turn out to be the fiercest windstorm of the week. Driving on the playa, the dust was so thick that I could not see farther than one or two car length in front and behind of me, and hardly into the neighboring lanes of the dozen or so that snaked in parallel fashion towards the ticket booth, something out there in the thick of the brown swirling fog.
Fortunately there weren't many of us trying to get in at that unfortunate hour. I got within sighting distance of the entrance booths before I noticed immediately the strong smell of coolant. I looked down at my temperature gauge and saw it was pegged into the red.
There was no one behind me in my lane, so I cut the engine and just waited.
In the dust I couldn't see whether there was steam coming out of the hood of the car---indicating a boilover of the radiator.
There was nothing to do but let it cool down. At worst, I could nurse the car through the gates and towards the compound. I wouldn't be using it for a week in any case.
On my relaxed pace, I arrived on Tuesday afternoon. It was in the midst of what would turn out to be the fiercest windstorm of the week. Driving on the playa, the dust was so thick that I could not see farther than one or two car length in front and behind of me, and hardly into the neighboring lanes of the dozen or so that snaked in parallel fashion towards the ticket booth, something out there in the thick of the brown swirling fog.
Fortunately there weren't many of us trying to get in at that unfortunate hour. I got within sighting distance of the entrance booths before I noticed immediately the strong smell of coolant. I looked down at my temperature gauge and saw it was pegged into the red.
There was no one behind me in my lane, so I cut the engine and just waited.
In the dust I couldn't see whether there was steam coming out of the hood of the car---indicating a boilover of the radiator.
There was nothing to do but let it cool down. At worst, I could nurse the car through the gates and towards the compound. I wouldn't be using it for a week in any case.
The Road to Burning Man MMXII (Part Two)
Burning Man itself was an extraordinary experience. I was, of course, a "virgin," to use the parlance. But a couple month's solid of camping and road-tripping meant I was already half-prepared on three-day's notice.
Nevertheless I was obsessed that I would fail to bring something very obvious and necessary. On the way west on I-80, I stopped half a dozen times, at several Wal-Marts in Wyoming and Utah, as well as the REI in Salt Lake City, to cross items off my list.
Chief among my worries was water. I had left without filling up my six gallon jug that I keep usually filled. I found up filling it from the sink of the motel room where I stayed in Elko.
Nevertheless I was obsessed that I would fail to bring something very obvious and necessary. On the way west on I-80, I stopped half a dozen times, at several Wal-Marts in Wyoming and Utah, as well as the REI in Salt Lake City, to cross items off my list.
Chief among my worries was water. I had left without filling up my six gallon jug that I keep usually filled. I found up filling it from the sink of the motel room where I stayed in Elko.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
The Road to Burning Man MMXII (Part One)
A week before the start of Burning Man this year, the idea of my going there was not even remotely on my mind.
I had rolled back into Colorado in late July, just in time to surprise my twin nieces on their seventh birthday. After a few nights there, I spent the next few weeks extending my "Big Loop" around the country by treating Colorado as another state along the way---an "internal vacation," if you will. This gave me an excuse to toodle around in the mountains and see some places in my home state that I hadn't seen in a while, while taking advantage of the summer to camp and hike. I also saw some old friends up in Leadville---Charles B. and Tamera---who were in the state for a month, having come back temporarily from Hong Kong.
While in Boulder, I had attempted to look up several of my old colleagues from the summer before, when I worked in Flatiron Park. I was successful in two of the three cases, and had some fun learning about the demise of the company we worked for.
Finally I wound up back in Fort Collins, resting at my folks' place. While there, the third of my three colleagues finally got back in touch with me. Okki---he is Finnish by ethnicity and Swedish by nationality---invited me down to Boulder to hang out with him for a night.
It was then that he mentioned that he was about to head off to Burning Man. He'd gone two years before, but had missed last year because he had started a new job. He was planning to hang out and camp there with friends from Aspen. He said he had an extra ticket---did I want to go? Right there it occurred to me, given my predisposition to follow the advice of Kurt Vonnegut that "peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God," that I nearly made the decision to go right then and there, over the phone. After all, I was prepped for the road, and was waiting for my next destination---all I needed was bicycle. I had no real excuses at all. It seemed the perfect thing to do. The downside was that I would have only three days to prepare before leaving, at most. Moreover, I knew that I once I headed west, I would want to stay on the West Coast for a while, so in a sense, this was a sudden launching of the next phase of my trip this year.
I told Okki that I would think about it over night, and then tell him the next evening when I saw him in Boulder. For a couple hours I was sure that I was going to go. I went online and read as many web pages about Burning Man as possible, and all the things I would need. Nothing I saw convinced me it was impossible.
But before I went to bed that evening, I suffered a collapse of confidence and decided that it was too much too fast to prepare. I felt a sudden relief and a relaxation, and slept well that evening. When I woke up in the morning (Wednesday), I was sure that I would be disappointing Okki that evening when I saw him.
I drove down to Boulder in the late afternoon, got some dinner, and then drove to Okki's place, which as last year, was a really nice trailer that he rents in a mobile home park along Boulder Creek just off the corner of 55th and Valmont Road---only a few blocks from our old work location. I pulled into his driveway and knocked on his door.
He warmly welcomed me. It was good to see him after a year. He invited me and cracked open a beer for me. He was in the midst of full-blown packing for Burning Man. Within a few minutes I gave him the bad news, that I wouldn't be able to purchase his extra ticket.
We sat around chatting. He didn't pressure me at all to change my mind. Okki's not that kind of guy. He's too upbeat and buoyant.
I did all of the convincing myself, just watching him pack and talking about the excitement of going there. Within twenty minutes I had changed my mind.
"I'm going," I said. "I'll buy that ticket from you after all."
I had rolled back into Colorado in late July, just in time to surprise my twin nieces on their seventh birthday. After a few nights there, I spent the next few weeks extending my "Big Loop" around the country by treating Colorado as another state along the way---an "internal vacation," if you will. This gave me an excuse to toodle around in the mountains and see some places in my home state that I hadn't seen in a while, while taking advantage of the summer to camp and hike. I also saw some old friends up in Leadville---Charles B. and Tamera---who were in the state for a month, having come back temporarily from Hong Kong.
While in Boulder, I had attempted to look up several of my old colleagues from the summer before, when I worked in Flatiron Park. I was successful in two of the three cases, and had some fun learning about the demise of the company we worked for.
Finally I wound up back in Fort Collins, resting at my folks' place. While there, the third of my three colleagues finally got back in touch with me. Okki---he is Finnish by ethnicity and Swedish by nationality---invited me down to Boulder to hang out with him for a night.
It was then that he mentioned that he was about to head off to Burning Man. He'd gone two years before, but had missed last year because he had started a new job. He was planning to hang out and camp there with friends from Aspen. He said he had an extra ticket---did I want to go? Right there it occurred to me, given my predisposition to follow the advice of Kurt Vonnegut that "peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God," that I nearly made the decision to go right then and there, over the phone. After all, I was prepped for the road, and was waiting for my next destination---all I needed was bicycle. I had no real excuses at all. It seemed the perfect thing to do. The downside was that I would have only three days to prepare before leaving, at most. Moreover, I knew that I once I headed west, I would want to stay on the West Coast for a while, so in a sense, this was a sudden launching of the next phase of my trip this year.
I told Okki that I would think about it over night, and then tell him the next evening when I saw him in Boulder. For a couple hours I was sure that I was going to go. I went online and read as many web pages about Burning Man as possible, and all the things I would need. Nothing I saw convinced me it was impossible.
But before I went to bed that evening, I suffered a collapse of confidence and decided that it was too much too fast to prepare. I felt a sudden relief and a relaxation, and slept well that evening. When I woke up in the morning (Wednesday), I was sure that I would be disappointing Okki that evening when I saw him.
I drove down to Boulder in the late afternoon, got some dinner, and then drove to Okki's place, which as last year, was a really nice trailer that he rents in a mobile home park along Boulder Creek just off the corner of 55th and Valmont Road---only a few blocks from our old work location. I pulled into his driveway and knocked on his door.
He warmly welcomed me. It was good to see him after a year. He invited me and cracked open a beer for me. He was in the midst of full-blown packing for Burning Man. Within a few minutes I gave him the bad news, that I wouldn't be able to purchase his extra ticket.
We sat around chatting. He didn't pressure me at all to change my mind. Okki's not that kind of guy. He's too upbeat and buoyant.
I did all of the convincing myself, just watching him pack and talking about the excitement of going there. Within twenty minutes I had changed my mind.
"I'm going," I said. "I'll buy that ticket from you after all."
Friday, September 7, 2012
Broncos vs. Huskies
Bishop, California
It was late afternoon when I came down off the pass into the Owens Valley. I was marveling at the High Sierras backlit by the sun. Last year I'd driven up the western side of the mountains, and hardly seen any of the high peaks, but here, along US 395, they seemed to come up right out of the valley floor into the towering craggy sawtooth formations that made the Spanish give them that name.
It was the kind of perfect day of driving that I rarely have. Every mile was like breathing sweet fresh air. I could let my thoughts go and immerse myself into each moment that passed.
Part of it was that I was in no hurry---at least not anymore. The night before in my motel room in South Lake Tahoe, via a garbled phone call, I had somewhat pledged to rendezvous some of the new friends I had met at Burning Man. They were going to be in Las Vegas tonight before heading to their houseboat on Lake Powell, and then back to Aspen. I had said that I didn't want to go to Lake Powell, since I was now out of the west coast and didn't want to return back that way right away, but the idea of spending more time with my new friends had me agreeing to Las Vegas.
But I didn't get on the road this morning until nearly checkout time. I had spent most of the evening shuttling my possessions into my room, and showering my gear off to try to rid my things of the notorious coat of "playa dust" that is one of the downsides of spending the week at Black Rock City.
By early afternoon, it was clear that Las Vegas was not in the cards. I was way behind schedule, and moreover, I simply wanted to move more slowly than it would take to get there in time to meet my friends. I wanted to lose myself in the road, after so much hectic activity. I wanted to let the miles just go by.
At Mammoth Lakes, when I got into cell phone range, I sent a text to my friends, sending my regrets and suggesting I would see them in Aspen when I got back that way. It was a weight off my shoulders to suddenly free myself from all commitments. I looked at the map and decided that I could push on to Bishop, where the prospect of a nice soft bed in a motel room---without having to do any cleaning of dust for a night---seemed like a bit of heaven at the end of the day.
As I approached town, it hit me all of a sudden that I knew someone from Bishop, someone who had grown up there---Randy J. He and I had gone to Willamette together. Among other things, he was a race walker. As I drove into town, the mountains looming high around me, I tried to fit my experience of his hometown into my remembrance and image of him.
He was an English major and we took a few classes together, I think. We both aspired towards creative writing, and he was one of the people most supportive of me in those efforts, back when I was capable of producing the most juvenile prose. It was fun to remember a time when my main ambition was to be a writer.
Bishop is a small town, but is a decent-sized population center for this side of the Sierras in California. It felt bustling with business activity, and with plenty of motels. In the middle of town, I parked at a McDonalds and used their wi-fi to look up motel rates on my laptop. I selected what appeared to be a modestly priced one on the edge of town that was not the cheapest one, but still a good rate.
I tried to book the room online, but the page wouldn't come up, so I drove over to the motel, which looked decent enough. The woman at the desk gave me the same rate as online for a king-sized bed.
Once in the room, I flipped on the AC and, as usual, turned on the television to see if they had Turner Classic Movies, which is pretty much the only channel I like to watch. It turns out they had it, but tonight they were showing a whole slate of "prison biography" movies---not quite the genre I was hoping for.
After the first feature, I decided I had enough of prison and went out for a walk in the dark looking for a bite to eat. As I came out of the room, I noticed from that across the street there appeared to be a high school football game in progress, lit by giant lights. When I couldn't find a place to eat, I looped back around I decided on a whim to go to the football game. I walked along the fence of the stadium until I got to the entrance, where I bought a ticket for five bucks.
Inside the gates, I bought a cheeseburger and chips with a drink for five more bucks and took a seat at the top of the very-crowded metal stands with the home team, right in back of the home team band.
I had arrived right as halftime began. The cheerleaders took to the field and performed several dance numbers. All of them were the typical lewd spectacles of gyrating hips, hypersexualized come-ons, performed to lyrics of female singers that were angrily demanding to their would-be lovers that they had better be-this or do-this if they "want to get with me."
It was not much revolting as tiring. Here was the prospective flower of American womanhood performing and dancing as if they were angry prostitutes. It seemed yet another worn-out symptom of just how much in decay our country and culture is. How much much more can this go on? How could everyone be clapping for this horrible spectacle?
It occurred to me, of course, how much I shared in that moment with Sayid Qutb, who famously in 1948 was revolted by the cheerleaders at a football game in Greeley, Colorado---at a school that was a rival to my own high school.
After the cheerleaders left the field, the home team mascot---a blue Bronco wearing a rainbow speedo---came out onto the field. To the delight of the crowd, the mascot did another gryating dance, thrusting its crotch back and forth to a song about "being sexy." So this is high school in America in 2012.
I was relieved at the end of halftime when the cheerleaders lapsed into a normal traditional cheer---no gyrating hooker-hips.
I watched most of the third quarter before heading home. The home team was up by six touchdowns by the time I left. The other team---the Huskies---couldn't even move the ball at all.
As I left I looked into the crowd of students and I tried to picture my friend Randy in there, as a teenager, with all his college experience in Salem ahead of him. How did he wind up there anyway, from a place like this?
Of course I was really just projecting my own self into him. But I wonder what became of him.
It was late afternoon when I came down off the pass into the Owens Valley. I was marveling at the High Sierras backlit by the sun. Last year I'd driven up the western side of the mountains, and hardly seen any of the high peaks, but here, along US 395, they seemed to come up right out of the valley floor into the towering craggy sawtooth formations that made the Spanish give them that name.
It was the kind of perfect day of driving that I rarely have. Every mile was like breathing sweet fresh air. I could let my thoughts go and immerse myself into each moment that passed.
Part of it was that I was in no hurry---at least not anymore. The night before in my motel room in South Lake Tahoe, via a garbled phone call, I had somewhat pledged to rendezvous some of the new friends I had met at Burning Man. They were going to be in Las Vegas tonight before heading to their houseboat on Lake Powell, and then back to Aspen. I had said that I didn't want to go to Lake Powell, since I was now out of the west coast and didn't want to return back that way right away, but the idea of spending more time with my new friends had me agreeing to Las Vegas.
But I didn't get on the road this morning until nearly checkout time. I had spent most of the evening shuttling my possessions into my room, and showering my gear off to try to rid my things of the notorious coat of "playa dust" that is one of the downsides of spending the week at Black Rock City.
By early afternoon, it was clear that Las Vegas was not in the cards. I was way behind schedule, and moreover, I simply wanted to move more slowly than it would take to get there in time to meet my friends. I wanted to lose myself in the road, after so much hectic activity. I wanted to let the miles just go by.
At Mammoth Lakes, when I got into cell phone range, I sent a text to my friends, sending my regrets and suggesting I would see them in Aspen when I got back that way. It was a weight off my shoulders to suddenly free myself from all commitments. I looked at the map and decided that I could push on to Bishop, where the prospect of a nice soft bed in a motel room---without having to do any cleaning of dust for a night---seemed like a bit of heaven at the end of the day.
As I approached town, it hit me all of a sudden that I knew someone from Bishop, someone who had grown up there---Randy J. He and I had gone to Willamette together. Among other things, he was a race walker. As I drove into town, the mountains looming high around me, I tried to fit my experience of his hometown into my remembrance and image of him.
He was an English major and we took a few classes together, I think. We both aspired towards creative writing, and he was one of the people most supportive of me in those efforts, back when I was capable of producing the most juvenile prose. It was fun to remember a time when my main ambition was to be a writer.
Bishop is a small town, but is a decent-sized population center for this side of the Sierras in California. It felt bustling with business activity, and with plenty of motels. In the middle of town, I parked at a McDonalds and used their wi-fi to look up motel rates on my laptop. I selected what appeared to be a modestly priced one on the edge of town that was not the cheapest one, but still a good rate.
I tried to book the room online, but the page wouldn't come up, so I drove over to the motel, which looked decent enough. The woman at the desk gave me the same rate as online for a king-sized bed.
Once in the room, I flipped on the AC and, as usual, turned on the television to see if they had Turner Classic Movies, which is pretty much the only channel I like to watch. It turns out they had it, but tonight they were showing a whole slate of "prison biography" movies---not quite the genre I was hoping for.
After the first feature, I decided I had enough of prison and went out for a walk in the dark looking for a bite to eat. As I came out of the room, I noticed from that across the street there appeared to be a high school football game in progress, lit by giant lights. When I couldn't find a place to eat, I looped back around I decided on a whim to go to the football game. I walked along the fence of the stadium until I got to the entrance, where I bought a ticket for five bucks.
Inside the gates, I bought a cheeseburger and chips with a drink for five more bucks and took a seat at the top of the very-crowded metal stands with the home team, right in back of the home team band.
I had arrived right as halftime began. The cheerleaders took to the field and performed several dance numbers. All of them were the typical lewd spectacles of gyrating hips, hypersexualized come-ons, performed to lyrics of female singers that were angrily demanding to their would-be lovers that they had better be-this or do-this if they "want to get with me."
It was not much revolting as tiring. Here was the prospective flower of American womanhood performing and dancing as if they were angry prostitutes. It seemed yet another worn-out symptom of just how much in decay our country and culture is. How much much more can this go on? How could everyone be clapping for this horrible spectacle?
It occurred to me, of course, how much I shared in that moment with Sayid Qutb, who famously in 1948 was revolted by the cheerleaders at a football game in Greeley, Colorado---at a school that was a rival to my own high school.
After the cheerleaders left the field, the home team mascot---a blue Bronco wearing a rainbow speedo---came out onto the field. To the delight of the crowd, the mascot did another gryating dance, thrusting its crotch back and forth to a song about "being sexy." So this is high school in America in 2012.
I was relieved at the end of halftime when the cheerleaders lapsed into a normal traditional cheer---no gyrating hooker-hips.
I watched most of the third quarter before heading home. The home team was up by six touchdowns by the time I left. The other team---the Huskies---couldn't even move the ball at all.
As I left I looked into the crowd of students and I tried to picture my friend Randy in there, as a teenager, with all his college experience in Salem ahead of him. How did he wind up there anyway, from a place like this?
Of course I was really just projecting my own self into him. But I wonder what became of him.
Monday, July 30, 2012
The Big Loop (95 Days)
Ft.Collins--Greeley (facsimilie of Book of Isaiah)---Colorado Eastern Plains---Rocky Ford. Hiking in Comanche National Grasslands---Oklahoma Panhandle---Amarillo cowboy motel---Austin---Ron Paul Rally at LBJ Library---Physics Dept. retirement banquet---Arjendu---to the top of Enchanted Rock finally!---James(!!)---Casey's house and family---Half Price Books to shop for language books like old times---My how Austin has grown.
San Antonio---south Texas---Mexican border--Brownsville. Mouth of the Rio Grande. Palo Alto Battlefield. Corpus Christi (after all these years again---so much the same). Beach camping. Meandering up the Gulf Coast obsessively. Hotel where Rita Hayworth stayed. Galveston (after all these years again---so different!). Port Arthur. Sightseeing amidst the oil refineries. Sabine Pass. The Louisiana coast. Touring many houses on stilts until it seemed normal. Cutting inland into Cajun country. Historical plaques in French and English. The Cathedral in Lafayette. Revisiting Highway 61 (which has been widened, I think). Natchez (again). The Natchez Trace. Finding the speed limit has been raised. Jackson. The state capitol. Vicksburg Battlefield. Taking a business conference call while walking the Confederate lines. Back into Louisiana. Splurging for a Best Western in Monroeville and embarassing myself regarding the tv remote. Visiting (at last) the 4000 year old Indian mounds at Poverty Point (!!!). Up the river in the flat Delta region.
Memphis (!!!!). Harbortown. Seeing Grey, Nate, and Ben again. Dogsitting for Lou for a glorious relaxing week. Miss Cordelia's for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Lunch with good old Martin. Almost winning at Trivia. Hamlet as performed by junior high school students in the basement of an Episcopal cathedral.
Nashville (again). A big new tent. A mad dash through the night across the Great Smoky Mountains. Sleeping in a rest area in Virginia. Manassas. Chantilly. Bilderberg. Living in my new tent. Alex Jones on the bullhorn. Confronting the world's elite. A glorious victory.
Over into Maryland. Two wonderful weeks in Silver Spring with Howard and Mia. Seeing Promethesus and hating it. Watching John Carter and liking it. Learning "I Can See Clearly Now" with Howard (playing guitar) over three hours (in honor of our mutual friend Kelle) and then performing it that very evening in an old farmhouse in rural Maryland with other amateur musicians. Actually having the courage to pick up a guitar, finding I could do barre chords well enough without much practice, and leading the entire group in "The Ballad of John and Yoko" for which I remembered most of the words.
Driving into D.C. at last. Walking around my old campus. Sneaking into my old dorm after almost thirty years and finding in completely changed and unrecognizable.
Father's Day in Baltimore with an air show featuring the Blue Angels. Riding the Baltimore subway for kicks. Camping in Delaware and being awakened by a state trooper for not having put up my tent at my campsite. Meandering along the Delaware river. Getting lost on the backroads in far southern New Jersey (easy to do). Cape May (again, after all these years). Watching the waves of the ocean crash on the beach. Atlantic City. The Boardwalk (which made me feel like I was in NYC again at last). Losing 10 bucks at the Trump Taj Mahal on purpose. Finding the eastern end of U.S. Highway 30. Eating at a real Jersey diner in Egg Harbor City. Hunting the Jersey Devil in the Pine Barrens. Driving crazy on sand roads to find the Carranza Memorial.
Meandering up through Jersey on the Turnpike. An evening from hell trying to find a campsite in northern New Jersey. Revisiting my old neighborhood in Staten Island for the first time in eight years. Having a slice of pizza in the old neighborhood pizza parlor and asking for "Sicilian" like the old days. Over the Verrazano. A night in Brooklyn with my old friends Adam and Marie from Portland who have since become New Yorkers.
Trying to get out of New York. Getting stuck in traffic in the Bronx. Car overheating. On and off the freeway all afternoon. Getting helped by a friendly Galician with coolant on hand. Spending hours in Younkers waiting for car to cool down. Blowing a tire and having to change it as the sun set. Giving up and spending a night in a Younkers motel to find hard core porn on the tv as I flipped it on.
Trying to get across the Tappan Zee to the west side of the Hudson. Realizing something seriously wrong with the car. Giving up in rural New Jersey. Calling around to get my car looked at in a small lake resort town on a Friday afternoon. Finding out I need a new radiator. Enjoying three nights in comfort at a Day's Inn watching classic movies and eating at the diner right next door. Almost wishing that they needed another day to fix my car.
Finally getting out of New Jersey. Revisiting the Poconos. Across Pennsylvania. Checking in late to a private campground in the Wilds and leaving twenty bucks with a note in the morning when I left. Looking unsuccessfully for my great granfather's grave in Drums, Pa. Getting stopped by a Pa. state trooper for nothing at all and then being let go (?). Into Ohio. Wishing I could tour the car factory near Youngstown but being in a hurry. Getting stuck on the Ohio turnpike and detouring up to sit in the shade along Lake Erie. Scrambling to find wifi in Toledo. Crossing southern Michigan then down into Indiana. Thinking I lost my camera in Fort Wayne but then finding it under my water container.
Finally visiting Hartford City and seeing where my grandfather grew up. Spending an incredible afternoon with Great Uncle Clayton and hearing stories about my great-grandmother and my great-great grandparents, and seeing the houses where they lived. Seeing my great-grandfather's grave (a different one). Seeing all the memento's of my astronaut cousin on Clayton's wall.
Driving across Indiana on a very, very, very hot afternoon. Touring Purdue in West Lafayette. Cooking camp meal in Illinois state forest in Danville. A morning spent touring Univ. of Illinois campus. Seeing the buildings where the web browser and web server where invented. Passing pleasantly through Peoria. An impromptu visit to Carl Sandburg's house in Galesburg in 100 degree heat. Finding Sandburg's current neighbors are not impressed by living next to his old house. Crossing the Mississippi. Finally visiting the University of Iowa campus. Taking refuge from the oppressive heat in the air conditioned buildings on a campus. Driving across Iowa without stopping. Rushing to get to Omaha in time for dinner. Finding the restaurant just in time for a beer and a meal with my friends.
Four nights in a motel in the incredible heat. Watching fireworks right above our heads while Huey Lewis played nearby. An awesome wedding. Seeing old friends and making new ones. Staring up at the Union Pacific Building on the 150th birthday of the old railroad (as it happens). Seeing the aforementioned Kelle again after a year and getting an awesome pep talk about life in the Cheesecake Factory next to the Westroads Mall.
Leaving Omaha and driving up the Missouri. Rediscovering my love of historic sites while following the Lewis and Clark signs. Buying water in a pathetic convenience store on an Indian reservation. Camping along Lake Lewis and Clark on the night before the Fourth and being invited to partake of beer and brats by my neighbors while watching the fireworks across the river.
Crossing up into South Dakota. Yankton. Vermillion. Sioux Falls. Incredible heat. The falls of Sioux Falls. Trying to find a campsite. Finding a cool air conditioned motel in Madison. Mitchell. The Corn Palace. Huron. Laura Ingalls' hometown. Brookings, where I tourned the SDSU campus and ate delicious ice cream at the campus dairy bar next to the dairy science building. A street fair in downtown Watertown where I bought a gyros and listened to a medley of pop songs. Sunset as I drove into the lakes region on the Coteau des Prairies. Lakes that looked like a sea coast. Beautiful rolling hills. The taste of water at Fort Sisseton State Park.
Crossing into Minnesota along the Laurentian divide. Following the Minnesota River from its headwaters downstream on backroads. Taking refuge from the heat in New Ulm watching the new Spiderman movie. Swimming by myself at sunset in the pool below the falls at Minneola State Park near Mankato. Visiting the Maud Hart Lovelace house in honor of my sister who is a huge Betsy-Tacy fan. Continuing down the Minnesota. Walking the entire Mall of America and spending only fifty one cents (on a souvenir smashed penny for my collection). Finding the mouth of the Minnesota and watching the sun on the sparkling water of the fast-flowing Mississippi.
Racing down the Mississippi at sunset to find a campsite. Lake Pepin (!). Across the Mississippi. Up the Chippewa River in Wisconsin. A night at Moose Lake in Chequamegon National Forest. Returning to the tiny town of Moose Junction after four decades. Pattison State Park. Being devoured by mosquitoes there. Into Duluth. Seeing Lake Superior again. Up Highway 61 along the north shore of the lake for the first time since 1972. The magic coming back. A night (again) at Gooseberry Falls State Park at a campsite shared with two lesbian college students. Grand Marais (!). Meeting an awesome group of canoers from the the Twin Cities who were traveling down the lake. Hiking up to the highest point in Minnesota in the Boundary Waters camping area. Grand Portage. Camping in the Indian Reservation. A three hour ferry ride. Isle Royale (!!!!!!!!!!). Incredible hiking. Incredible experience. Intense wilderness experience. Discovering the strengths and weaknesses of my current gear. Making some friends from Kentucky. Wishing I could stay longer.
Inland through the Superior National Forest. Ely by night. Stopped by the cops for not having headlights on. Finally finding a campground that evening along Lake Vermillion. Virginia in the morning. The Mesabi Range. Up to International Falls. The Canadian border. Down to Bemidji, where I had an awesome time (as previously mentioned).
Up to the Red River. Crossing at Grand Forks and being in North Dakota for the first time ever. Splurging for a motel. Hearing about theater massacre in the morning on my smartphone. Touring U of ND campus. Camping on island in the middle of Devil's Lake and watching Japanese guys trying to fish there. On Highway 2 westward, just like old times from 2004. Having an omelette at the geographical center of North America in Rugby. Arriving in Minot to find myself in the midst of the parade for the state fair. Buying a ticket and touring the livestock barns. Watching a horse shoe in the air conditioned pavilion.
An intense experience at the North Unit of Theodore Roosevelt National Park. Getting lost on buffalo trails in the badlands. Sliding down a mountain where I reached a dead end. Wading across the Little Missouri River twice with the aid of my trusty trekking poles. Impressing the park ranger with my adventure.
Crossing down into South Dakota on the high plains. Three nights in the Black Hills. Camping next to Mount Rushmore. Commuting into Rapid City to work with the wifi. Sneaking into Mount Rushmore the back way so that I was nearly even with the faces. Deadwood. Lead. Keystone. Custer. Hunting souvenir shops for gifts for my family. Getting crappy service at biker-themed restaurants and learning to avoid them.
Down across Nebraska. Finding the old auto shop in Chadron where Howard and I were once stranded in 1986. Finding the old motel in Crawford outside of which Cara and I tried to sleep in the car one cold night in 1982. Being pleased at how things have changed over the years in my own life. Scottsbluff. Kimball. Looking for the old Beef and Brunch in honor of James. Into Colorado. Splurging for a motel in Fort Morgan, my favorite town on the plains.
Into Denver and up to Westminster in time for my niece's birthday. Spending three nights hear relaxing before...?
Total: 23 states. Three months and three days. Broke my personal record of continuous days in travel that I've held since 1985. Thirty nights camping. Stayed with friends in Austin, Memphis, Silver Spring, and Brooklyn. All this while working from the road (at Starbucks and other coffee shops in Austin, Galveston, Lafayette, La., suburban Virginia, suburban Maryland, Baltimore, Atlantic City, Yonkers, N.Y., Toledo, Fort Wayne, Peoria, Omaha, Duluth, Bemidji, Grand Forks, N.D., Minot, Rapid City among other places) and having almost as much in the bank as when I left three months ago.
And now? Well it's not even over. Just a pause. The loop goes on.
San Antonio---south Texas---Mexican border--Brownsville. Mouth of the Rio Grande. Palo Alto Battlefield. Corpus Christi (after all these years again---so much the same). Beach camping. Meandering up the Gulf Coast obsessively. Hotel where Rita Hayworth stayed. Galveston (after all these years again---so different!). Port Arthur. Sightseeing amidst the oil refineries. Sabine Pass. The Louisiana coast. Touring many houses on stilts until it seemed normal. Cutting inland into Cajun country. Historical plaques in French and English. The Cathedral in Lafayette. Revisiting Highway 61 (which has been widened, I think). Natchez (again). The Natchez Trace. Finding the speed limit has been raised. Jackson. The state capitol. Vicksburg Battlefield. Taking a business conference call while walking the Confederate lines. Back into Louisiana. Splurging for a Best Western in Monroeville and embarassing myself regarding the tv remote. Visiting (at last) the 4000 year old Indian mounds at Poverty Point (!!!). Up the river in the flat Delta region.
Memphis (!!!!). Harbortown. Seeing Grey, Nate, and Ben again. Dogsitting for Lou for a glorious relaxing week. Miss Cordelia's for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Lunch with good old Martin. Almost winning at Trivia. Hamlet as performed by junior high school students in the basement of an Episcopal cathedral.
Nashville (again). A big new tent. A mad dash through the night across the Great Smoky Mountains. Sleeping in a rest area in Virginia. Manassas. Chantilly. Bilderberg. Living in my new tent. Alex Jones on the bullhorn. Confronting the world's elite. A glorious victory.
Over into Maryland. Two wonderful weeks in Silver Spring with Howard and Mia. Seeing Promethesus and hating it. Watching John Carter and liking it. Learning "I Can See Clearly Now" with Howard (playing guitar) over three hours (in honor of our mutual friend Kelle) and then performing it that very evening in an old farmhouse in rural Maryland with other amateur musicians. Actually having the courage to pick up a guitar, finding I could do barre chords well enough without much practice, and leading the entire group in "The Ballad of John and Yoko" for which I remembered most of the words.
Driving into D.C. at last. Walking around my old campus. Sneaking into my old dorm after almost thirty years and finding in completely changed and unrecognizable.
Father's Day in Baltimore with an air show featuring the Blue Angels. Riding the Baltimore subway for kicks. Camping in Delaware and being awakened by a state trooper for not having put up my tent at my campsite. Meandering along the Delaware river. Getting lost on the backroads in far southern New Jersey (easy to do). Cape May (again, after all these years). Watching the waves of the ocean crash on the beach. Atlantic City. The Boardwalk (which made me feel like I was in NYC again at last). Losing 10 bucks at the Trump Taj Mahal on purpose. Finding the eastern end of U.S. Highway 30. Eating at a real Jersey diner in Egg Harbor City. Hunting the Jersey Devil in the Pine Barrens. Driving crazy on sand roads to find the Carranza Memorial.
Meandering up through Jersey on the Turnpike. An evening from hell trying to find a campsite in northern New Jersey. Revisiting my old neighborhood in Staten Island for the first time in eight years. Having a slice of pizza in the old neighborhood pizza parlor and asking for "Sicilian" like the old days. Over the Verrazano. A night in Brooklyn with my old friends Adam and Marie from Portland who have since become New Yorkers.
Trying to get out of New York. Getting stuck in traffic in the Bronx. Car overheating. On and off the freeway all afternoon. Getting helped by a friendly Galician with coolant on hand. Spending hours in Younkers waiting for car to cool down. Blowing a tire and having to change it as the sun set. Giving up and spending a night in a Younkers motel to find hard core porn on the tv as I flipped it on.
Trying to get across the Tappan Zee to the west side of the Hudson. Realizing something seriously wrong with the car. Giving up in rural New Jersey. Calling around to get my car looked at in a small lake resort town on a Friday afternoon. Finding out I need a new radiator. Enjoying three nights in comfort at a Day's Inn watching classic movies and eating at the diner right next door. Almost wishing that they needed another day to fix my car.
Finally getting out of New Jersey. Revisiting the Poconos. Across Pennsylvania. Checking in late to a private campground in the Wilds and leaving twenty bucks with a note in the morning when I left. Looking unsuccessfully for my great granfather's grave in Drums, Pa. Getting stopped by a Pa. state trooper for nothing at all and then being let go (?). Into Ohio. Wishing I could tour the car factory near Youngstown but being in a hurry. Getting stuck on the Ohio turnpike and detouring up to sit in the shade along Lake Erie. Scrambling to find wifi in Toledo. Crossing southern Michigan then down into Indiana. Thinking I lost my camera in Fort Wayne but then finding it under my water container.
Finally visiting Hartford City and seeing where my grandfather grew up. Spending an incredible afternoon with Great Uncle Clayton and hearing stories about my great-grandmother and my great-great grandparents, and seeing the houses where they lived. Seeing my great-grandfather's grave (a different one). Seeing all the memento's of my astronaut cousin on Clayton's wall.
Driving across Indiana on a very, very, very hot afternoon. Touring Purdue in West Lafayette. Cooking camp meal in Illinois state forest in Danville. A morning spent touring Univ. of Illinois campus. Seeing the buildings where the web browser and web server where invented. Passing pleasantly through Peoria. An impromptu visit to Carl Sandburg's house in Galesburg in 100 degree heat. Finding Sandburg's current neighbors are not impressed by living next to his old house. Crossing the Mississippi. Finally visiting the University of Iowa campus. Taking refuge from the oppressive heat in the air conditioned buildings on a campus. Driving across Iowa without stopping. Rushing to get to Omaha in time for dinner. Finding the restaurant just in time for a beer and a meal with my friends.
Four nights in a motel in the incredible heat. Watching fireworks right above our heads while Huey Lewis played nearby. An awesome wedding. Seeing old friends and making new ones. Staring up at the Union Pacific Building on the 150th birthday of the old railroad (as it happens). Seeing the aforementioned Kelle again after a year and getting an awesome pep talk about life in the Cheesecake Factory next to the Westroads Mall.
Leaving Omaha and driving up the Missouri. Rediscovering my love of historic sites while following the Lewis and Clark signs. Buying water in a pathetic convenience store on an Indian reservation. Camping along Lake Lewis and Clark on the night before the Fourth and being invited to partake of beer and brats by my neighbors while watching the fireworks across the river.
Crossing up into South Dakota. Yankton. Vermillion. Sioux Falls. Incredible heat. The falls of Sioux Falls. Trying to find a campsite. Finding a cool air conditioned motel in Madison. Mitchell. The Corn Palace. Huron. Laura Ingalls' hometown. Brookings, where I tourned the SDSU campus and ate delicious ice cream at the campus dairy bar next to the dairy science building. A street fair in downtown Watertown where I bought a gyros and listened to a medley of pop songs. Sunset as I drove into the lakes region on the Coteau des Prairies. Lakes that looked like a sea coast. Beautiful rolling hills. The taste of water at Fort Sisseton State Park.
Crossing into Minnesota along the Laurentian divide. Following the Minnesota River from its headwaters downstream on backroads. Taking refuge from the heat in New Ulm watching the new Spiderman movie. Swimming by myself at sunset in the pool below the falls at Minneola State Park near Mankato. Visiting the Maud Hart Lovelace house in honor of my sister who is a huge Betsy-Tacy fan. Continuing down the Minnesota. Walking the entire Mall of America and spending only fifty one cents (on a souvenir smashed penny for my collection). Finding the mouth of the Minnesota and watching the sun on the sparkling water of the fast-flowing Mississippi.
Racing down the Mississippi at sunset to find a campsite. Lake Pepin (!). Across the Mississippi. Up the Chippewa River in Wisconsin. A night at Moose Lake in Chequamegon National Forest. Returning to the tiny town of Moose Junction after four decades. Pattison State Park. Being devoured by mosquitoes there. Into Duluth. Seeing Lake Superior again. Up Highway 61 along the north shore of the lake for the first time since 1972. The magic coming back. A night (again) at Gooseberry Falls State Park at a campsite shared with two lesbian college students. Grand Marais (!). Meeting an awesome group of canoers from the the Twin Cities who were traveling down the lake. Hiking up to the highest point in Minnesota in the Boundary Waters camping area. Grand Portage. Camping in the Indian Reservation. A three hour ferry ride. Isle Royale (!!!!!!!!!!). Incredible hiking. Incredible experience. Intense wilderness experience. Discovering the strengths and weaknesses of my current gear. Making some friends from Kentucky. Wishing I could stay longer.
Inland through the Superior National Forest. Ely by night. Stopped by the cops for not having headlights on. Finally finding a campground that evening along Lake Vermillion. Virginia in the morning. The Mesabi Range. Up to International Falls. The Canadian border. Down to Bemidji, where I had an awesome time (as previously mentioned).
Up to the Red River. Crossing at Grand Forks and being in North Dakota for the first time ever. Splurging for a motel. Hearing about theater massacre in the morning on my smartphone. Touring U of ND campus. Camping on island in the middle of Devil's Lake and watching Japanese guys trying to fish there. On Highway 2 westward, just like old times from 2004. Having an omelette at the geographical center of North America in Rugby. Arriving in Minot to find myself in the midst of the parade for the state fair. Buying a ticket and touring the livestock barns. Watching a horse shoe in the air conditioned pavilion.
An intense experience at the North Unit of Theodore Roosevelt National Park. Getting lost on buffalo trails in the badlands. Sliding down a mountain where I reached a dead end. Wading across the Little Missouri River twice with the aid of my trusty trekking poles. Impressing the park ranger with my adventure.
Crossing down into South Dakota on the high plains. Three nights in the Black Hills. Camping next to Mount Rushmore. Commuting into Rapid City to work with the wifi. Sneaking into Mount Rushmore the back way so that I was nearly even with the faces. Deadwood. Lead. Keystone. Custer. Hunting souvenir shops for gifts for my family. Getting crappy service at biker-themed restaurants and learning to avoid them.
Down across Nebraska. Finding the old auto shop in Chadron where Howard and I were once stranded in 1986. Finding the old motel in Crawford outside of which Cara and I tried to sleep in the car one cold night in 1982. Being pleased at how things have changed over the years in my own life. Scottsbluff. Kimball. Looking for the old Beef and Brunch in honor of James. Into Colorado. Splurging for a motel in Fort Morgan, my favorite town on the plains.
Into Denver and up to Westminster in time for my niece's birthday. Spending three nights hear relaxing before...?
Total: 23 states. Three months and three days. Broke my personal record of continuous days in travel that I've held since 1985. Thirty nights camping. Stayed with friends in Austin, Memphis, Silver Spring, and Brooklyn. All this while working from the road (at Starbucks and other coffee shops in Austin, Galveston, Lafayette, La., suburban Virginia, suburban Maryland, Baltimore, Atlantic City, Yonkers, N.Y., Toledo, Fort Wayne, Peoria, Omaha, Duluth, Bemidji, Grand Forks, N.D., Minot, Rapid City among other places) and having almost as much in the bank as when I left three months ago.
And now? Well it's not even over. Just a pause. The loop goes on.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
The Dixie Swim Club@Paul Bunyan Playhouse
It had been ages since I'd actually seen any live theater---over six months by my reckoning. I was wondering when I might get around to actually seeing anything on the stage again, probably, I figured at some time during this big loop around the country I've been making.
As it turns out, it was here in this little town of Bemidji in northern Minnesota that I was finally motivated to buy a ticket. Last night I'd been here a couple days, resting after after a successful wilderness trip to the far North Woods, which itself followed the whole Maryland funtime, the New York/New Jersey adventure, the mad dash across the country in extreme heat, and the wedding in Omaha, etc.
Bemidji is a charming little college town beside this wonderful lake that sits near the headwaters of the Mississippi River, which trickles in and out of the lake at either end. The state park that has been my home for the last couple days sits astride the north end. It's the kind of place I could stay for weeks, especially given this nice little coffee shop from which I can work, and where I can plug in my electronic devices (big revelation: Caribou Coffee is as good as Starbucks as a work place).
After putting in a day's remote work, I went into downtown yesterday afternoon to finally do laundry after the wilderness trip. While my clothes were going through the cycles, I wandered around the small grid nearby and saw a classic movie theater (the Chief Theatre) that turned out to be a converted playhouse, home to the Paul Bunyan Playhouse, which bills itself as "one of the oldest stock theater companies in the upper Midwest."
When I see something like this, I usually make a dare to myself: if there is something showing that evening, I will go. Turns out that last night was opening night for their production of The Dixie Swim Club, about the ongoing reunion of a women's college swim team.
It was about four o'clock when I encountered the theater. The showing was an eight. That gave me plenty of time to finish my laundry, return to my campsite, build and campfire, and to cook and eat the filet mignon that I had just bought at the local Wal-Mart (the filet mignon cooked very well on the skillet).
I got back to downtown all showered and in clean clothes just before showtime and bought a ticket in the back row. The theater itself was rather quaint and antique with huge decorative statues of Chief Bemidji flanking the back of the auditorium.
The auditorium was about two-thirds full and production itself was well done and fairly well acted. I wasn't too impressed by the play itself, which seems a rather trite rehash of Sex and the City-esque female empowermentfest set in the North Carolina Outer Banks. Often during the production, I would do my trick of closing my eyes and imagine the script being typed out onto the page as I hear the dialog. The number of cliches was amazing. Not much to be impressed by. The whole message was basically: "you go girl! break free! you're never to old! do your own thing! celebrate yourself while you do it!" Yawn.
Nevertheless I was well pleased by the experience of attending. It was worth the twenty-two bucks, which is only three dollars less than the per-night cost of my camp site.
After the production I walked down in the dark to the edge of Lake Bemidji and watched the waves ripple in the night. It was a beautiful end to my restful stay here. I was more than reluctant to pack up my tent this morning (I was able to use my REI Kingdom 6 for the first time since Virginia---my portable hut, as I call it).
Bemidji feels like a little paradise. I could almost live here. But the road calls. I have only a few miles to go to reach the source of the Father of Waters. Then it's onward to the west, to pick up another state on my list of states visited (the 49th, as it happens).
As it turns out, it was here in this little town of Bemidji in northern Minnesota that I was finally motivated to buy a ticket. Last night I'd been here a couple days, resting after after a successful wilderness trip to the far North Woods, which itself followed the whole Maryland funtime, the New York/New Jersey adventure, the mad dash across the country in extreme heat, and the wedding in Omaha, etc.
Bemidji is a charming little college town beside this wonderful lake that sits near the headwaters of the Mississippi River, which trickles in and out of the lake at either end. The state park that has been my home for the last couple days sits astride the north end. It's the kind of place I could stay for weeks, especially given this nice little coffee shop from which I can work, and where I can plug in my electronic devices (big revelation: Caribou Coffee is as good as Starbucks as a work place).
After putting in a day's remote work, I went into downtown yesterday afternoon to finally do laundry after the wilderness trip. While my clothes were going through the cycles, I wandered around the small grid nearby and saw a classic movie theater (the Chief Theatre) that turned out to be a converted playhouse, home to the Paul Bunyan Playhouse, which bills itself as "one of the oldest stock theater companies in the upper Midwest."
When I see something like this, I usually make a dare to myself: if there is something showing that evening, I will go. Turns out that last night was opening night for their production of The Dixie Swim Club, about the ongoing reunion of a women's college swim team.
It was about four o'clock when I encountered the theater. The showing was an eight. That gave me plenty of time to finish my laundry, return to my campsite, build and campfire, and to cook and eat the filet mignon that I had just bought at the local Wal-Mart (the filet mignon cooked very well on the skillet).
I got back to downtown all showered and in clean clothes just before showtime and bought a ticket in the back row. The theater itself was rather quaint and antique with huge decorative statues of Chief Bemidji flanking the back of the auditorium.
The auditorium was about two-thirds full and production itself was well done and fairly well acted. I wasn't too impressed by the play itself, which seems a rather trite rehash of Sex and the City-esque female empowermentfest set in the North Carolina Outer Banks. Often during the production, I would do my trick of closing my eyes and imagine the script being typed out onto the page as I hear the dialog. The number of cliches was amazing. Not much to be impressed by. The whole message was basically: "you go girl! break free! you're never to old! do your own thing! celebrate yourself while you do it!" Yawn.
Nevertheless I was well pleased by the experience of attending. It was worth the twenty-two bucks, which is only three dollars less than the per-night cost of my camp site.
After the production I walked down in the dark to the edge of Lake Bemidji and watched the waves ripple in the night. It was a beautiful end to my restful stay here. I was more than reluctant to pack up my tent this morning (I was able to use my REI Kingdom 6 for the first time since Virginia---my portable hut, as I call it).
Bemidji feels like a little paradise. I could almost live here. But the road calls. I have only a few miles to go to reach the source of the Father of Waters. Then it's onward to the west, to pick up another state on my list of states visited (the 49th, as it happens).
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