7-26-2017 Day 106. Chicago.

Chicago.

I woke up to the bustling sound of the south side of Chicago.  Boss and I arrived the night before and It had been a long time since we had stayed in a real city.  In fact, Portland, Oregon was the last big one and the car had been broken into, with $3000 worth of gear stolen.  My idealistic fantasy that the US is filled with nothing but good people was shattered.  And now we were on the south side of Chicago, notorious for its crime, so I was already nervous. 

It has been weeks since I have been able to put anything down on paper. 

From San Francisco, we had driven up through California, bouncing back and forth from the coast to the mountains as we worked our way up to the Redwoods.  From there, Oregon, a beautiful state with the nicest people and strangest laws (for example, it is illegal to pump your own gas).  We arrived in Portland and the car got broken into, but after getting it fixed, we still pressed on.

Oregon turned into Washington and we moved from forest to forest camping out on a different river each night; my hammock hanging from a different tree.  Chicken and broccoli for dinner.  Coffee in the morning.  A sandwich here.  A sandwich there.  It had become routine.  It had become life.  Every day we just pressed on a little further, spending most days gazing at the passing scenery, in awe of the beauty of this nation.

We reached the border and turned east.  Across Washington the forests melted into plains.  Idaho, Montana, Wyoming.  Everything started to look the same to me.  I had forgotten what day of the week it was.  I had forgotten what month it was.  I had forgotten what state we were in.  All I knew is to keep pointing the car east and go a little further each day.  We would get through this, no matter how long it takes.

Wyoming turned into South Dakota.  South Dakota into Minnesota.  Then Iowa.  Then Wisconsin.  The days were long and the nights were short.  Boss slept in the car and I listened to the same music as the day before; I rarely had cell service.  We drove for almost eight thousand miles since San Francisco to get to Chicago.

We have had good days and bad ones.  We’ve camped in pouring rain and burning sun.  We’ve run from bears, chased after deer and fought off raccoons.  We have hiked mountains, kayaked rivers and swam in lakes.  We have slowly become a part of the road, two vagabonds at one with this infinite stretch of asphalt that keeps going.

But Chicago brought us back to reality.  A big city, with its millions of people, its rich history and culture, its indoor plumbing—all so foreign to us after being lost in nature for over a month.  But I sure have a lot of stories to tell.

6-14-2017 Day 64. San Francisco Knights.

June 14th, 2017

Day 64

Santa Cruz, CA

Miles driven: 7263

Currently Reading: Banjo tabs.

Currently listening to: Crappy folk music in a Starbucks.

San Francisco Knights.

Saturday.

I had been in San Francisco for two days.  I had been staying in the Tenderloin area of downtown, a grimy place spotted with all sorts of riff-raff.  I had been warned about the roughness, but all I saw were junkies shooting up in alleyways and two-bit hustlers trying to slang a few Xanax to an unsuspecting fool.  I wandered the neighborhood on a Saturday night at the witching hour and saw nothing out of the ordinary.  There had to be more to this town.  Little did I know, I would find out how much more there was to this town later the next day.

Sunday.

It was late in the afternoon. 5:00 maybe.  I was sitting enjoying a beer at the Owl Tree bar on Post and Taylor in downtown.  I was watching the Penguins win the Stanley cup when a young blonde sat down next to me.  She was uninterested in the game, but was interested in the scruffy out-of-towner sitting next to her. 

We began chatting, noting serious, I just wanted to watch the game and drink a beer before I walked to my tiny hostel a few blocks away.  Her name was Nicole.  She worked at a retail shop in the tourist district of San Francisco only a few blocks away.  We had both stumbled into the Owl Tree bar at the end of our day.

I could have never predicted the adventure that Nicole and I would embark on in the next few hours as we made small talk sitting in a dive bar in downtown San Francisco.

After the game was over, she leaned over and asked me, “Want to go to The Mission?”

“What’s The Mission?” I asked her.

“My neighborhood.  If you want to see a real side of San Francisco, come with me.”

I looked over at the bartender, Amanda.  She was the only other person I had talked to in the building.

“What do you think Amanda?  Can I trust Nicole?”

Amanda replied, “I trust her with my life.”

10 minutes later Nicole and I were on the BART; the light rail that connects the Bay Area.

After a short ride, we arrived in The Mission.  It was dark.  Nicole and I walked casually to the closest pool hall, passing several groups of people hanging out on street corners and in dark alleys.  There was the usual rabble-rousing from those on the street; they were not too sure about the tall cowboy with the local girl.  We pressed on further.

Inside the pub, we played pool.  She was better than me; or at least had played a lot more recently.  I didn't mind losing.  I wanted to see how far we could get into The Mission and keeping Nicole feeling triumphant, as my guide, was the best possible move a stranger in a strange land could make.

A few games passed and we decided to head out.

We walked down the streets, twisting and turning through the city, stopping at different bars and speakeasies as I was whisked away by Nicole

Nicole whisked me away, twisting and turning through the city stopping at different bars and speakeasies with no end in sight and no known direction we were going.

At one point, we were walking past a club and I heard the sound of crisp, west-coast hip hop.  I stopped Nicole. 

“Wanna go in and listen to some music?”
“Sure,” she said.

We walked in, ordered some drinks, walked to the dance floor and found a spot to chill and listen to the music.  The music hit hard. It hit west coast hard.  Like the cold Pacific Ocean crashing into the rocky coast, the bass line and the hype in the club exploded in intensity.  I looked at Nicole.  She looked at me.  We hit the dance floor.

Up until that point it was a pretty calm evening.  This was the turning point.

We had been enjoying the dance floor for a while, dancing to the songs the DJ was spinning, when I started to notice something.  Nicole and I would dance for a little while and then take a break when the DJ transitioned by scratching the LPs.  However, the longer we stayed in the club, it seemed the shorter the time we would dance before the "skirt-skirt" sound of the record scratching would come on.  The DJ started to stop songs midway through.  In fact, I began to notice that they directly corresponded with when Nicole and I started dancing with each other.  Then I saw people making gunshot signs at me and I decided that it was time to leave.  We walked out soon thereafter, our time exploring the hip hop scene in San Francisco at an end.

After we walked outside, Nicole grabbed my hand. 

“Follow me,” she said.  “I want to show you something.”

I followed her.  She brought me down a few blocks to the opening of a dark alley.

“Would you like to see what is down there?” She asked.

“What’s down there?” I asked.

“Do you want to see?” 

She looked into my eyes.  I could see she was confident and excited.

I have a general rule while travelling not to go down dark alleys in strange place while drinking.  But Nicole was my guide for the evening and Amanda trusted her with her life, so I rolled the dice.  I would either be robbed and murdered, or something amazing would happen.

“Show me.” I said.

She took my hand and pulled me into the alley.  We walked through the pitch black for a while before I saw the glint of streetlights in the distance.  The lights lit up the alley as we walked through it.  There were chain link fences on one side and a large brick building on the other.  We walked further.  The chain like fence ended and a smaller brick wall began.

A few steps later and I saw the graffiti.  I looked as far as I could down the alley and the wall seemingly stretched on forever.  Every few yards there was a new picture, tag, work of art, whatever.  It was indescribably beautiful. The detail in all the artwork and the unbelievable variety in styles blew my mind.  We walked for a long time snapping pictures of the artwork, telling jokes and talking about life.

At the end of the graffiti wall, my stomach growled.

“You know a good taco spot?” I asked her.

“Follow me.” She said.

A few blocks later and we were in a taco shop.  The Mission was home to a large Latino community before it started getting gentrified during the tech-boom, but the key remnants remained.  This place was legit.  It smelled like home.  I hadn’t smelled a good taco shack like this since I left Houston.

Three tacos later and I was good for the night.  We walked out of the taco place happy.  It was a good night.

I walked her home.  She lived in a medium-rise building a few blocks away.

Once we got to her place and said our goodbyes, I kissed her.  “Thanks for the night.” I said.

“It was quite the experience.” She said.

I Ubered home to the junkie side of downtown and left San Fran the next day with a smile.

6-4-2017 Day 54. A Series of Unfortunate Events.

June 4th, 2017

Day 54

Pismo Beach, CA

Miles driven: 6280

Currently Reading: Great American Short Stories

Currently listening to: My My, Hey Hey.  By Neil Young.

A Series of Unfortunate Events

I woke up pissed off.  All I wanted was to camp on the beach and here we were, worn out and cramped from sleeping in the car on the side of the highway.  As cars whizzed past in the early morning, I struggled to get out of the driver’s seat and stretch my legs.  I took the last swig from the near-empty bottle of Jameson from the night before; coffee would have to wait, there are no fires allowed on the highway—at least not in daylight.

About 24 hours earlier, I woke up in my hammock in the state park on Pismo beach.  I was in a bit of a hurry, I was going to a yoga class at 6:15 that morning.  It’s funny how I used to struggle to get out of bed by 7:30 in the morning back in Houston, but now I naturally wake up before 5, just as the sun starts rising over the horizon.

Yoga class came and went.  It revitalized me and stretched out all the tight muscles from driving so much.  We had to get out of the camp by 11, so I went back, fixed a quick breakfast, packed everything up and headed out around 10:30. I didn’t really have a plan, but I did want to camp on the beach that night.  We hadn’t done any beach camping yet and I wanted to watch the sunrise over the Pacific ocean.

I had a couple of errands to run, so we cruised around town for a while.  We stopped at the bank to get some cash and check my bank account—still on schedule.  Next stop was the laundromat to wash all my dirty clothes.  Once the clothes were clean, I cruised up to a Starbucks to use their wifi—Pro-tip, you don’t have to go into Starbucks to use their wifi, it works in a parking spot close to the entrance and you save a couple bucks. 

After I made sure the internet was still alive, it was off to the grocery store.  Today was going to be a special day, so I bought a ribeye steak and some vegetables to cook on the beach.  I had a load of firewood in the back, so I was going to cook everything on a wood fire.  Steak and silver turtles—foil-wrapped vegetables cooked on hot coals—seemed just the ticket.  From there it was to the liquor store for cheap beers, ice and a special treat, a half-pint of Jameson because it’s the beach right?

It was around 2 pm, so I decided to wait for a while before hitting the beach.  My lily-white Irish skin doesn’t fare well in direct sunlight for too long.  We parked behind an Auto Zone and sat and waited for about 2 hours.  I read for a bit and played my friend in online chess.

At around 4 pm, we headed to the beach.  I was stoked because it would only be $10 to camp, instead of the $35 I had to pay the night before.

“Do you have four-wheel drive?” She asked me before I pulled away from the kiosk.

“No, but I know what I am doing.  I’ve driven on plenty of beaches before.” I retorted with an air of arrogance.

And we took off.  I was playing Tupac loud with the windows down as we cruised past a bunch of RVs and trucks.

“Amateurs.” I thought. “We would never camp in such a crowded place.  Let’s go to the end of the beach Boss!”

Boss looked concerned, but the crashing waves of the Pacific ocean took his attention and he continued to stare out of the window.

We cruised down the beach, but now we were passing four wheelers and dirt bikes instead of RVs.  They were zipping all over the beach, kicking up sand as they jumped sand dunes.  The beach was getting softer, so I made a move to drive onto the hard-packed sand that the tide was washing on.  That was my first mistake.

Right before I got to the hard-packed sand, the car stopped and sunk into a very soft section of sand on the beach.  I tried everything I could to get unstuck, but the tires just spun, digging deeper into the ground.  I finally gave up and started formulating a plan. 

As I was figuring what I would humbly tell the park ranger I scoffed at earlier, some folks came up.

“Stuck eh?” One of them asked.

“Yep.” I replied.

“Four wheel drive?” He asked.

“Nope.” I said.

“You from Texas?” He asked, pointing his foot at my license plates.

“Yep.  Most recently from Houston.” I said.

“I used to be stationed at Ft. Hood.  Let me help you out.  I don’t want you to give a bad name to Texans to these Californians.”

“Thanks.” I said.

A few minutes later and he had pulled the car out of the sand and I was good to go.  At that point, I didn’t want to go any further, so I drove near where the other cars were parked, positioned myself with a nice view of the beach as well as some personal space from the other campers.  I was surprised that there was so much room where I was at, but I really liked the spot we got.  That was my second mistake.

I put up the tent and sat down on the side of the car and watched a few videos on the internet.  As I was watching, I kept noticing the dirt bikes and four wheelers zipping past me.  They would come on all sides, revving their engines and kicking up sand all over us.  I started to get annoyed until I looked up and saw where we were.  We had parked directly in the middle of a racing course and the riders were trying to maneuver the course around us.

“Way to not give a bad name to Texans,” I thought, begrudgingly.

Well we couldn’t stay there, so I packed everything up and planned to move back to where all the RVs were at.  I started the car, it lurched forward and stopped.  I tapped the gas.  The tires spun, but we didn’t go anywhere.  Stuck again.  I quietly uttered all the worst swear words I could think and decided to just make camp in the middle of the race track.  I would wait until sunset to put everything up and build a fire.

A little while later, Keith came up on us.  Keith was a middle-aged man who also happened to be drunk as a skunk.  I figured Keith gets drunk and then goes around the beach and offers to tow people who are stuck; getting stuck was a very common occurrence of the day for more than just myself.

Keith stumbled onto us, swaying in the wind as he got closer and asked, “You need <urp>? You <urp>? <urp>. You need a tow?”  His sentences carried by a train track of cheap beer burps.

“Sure thing man, I don’t want to be in the middle of a racetrack.”  As I said that, three four wheelers zipped past and baptized us in yet another wave of sand.

“I’ll getcha.” He gurgled. “<urp>.” He finished with a burp, just for completeness.

A few minutes later and we were out of the sand.  Despite his inebriation, Keith was delicate with his towing.  I will give him that.

Out of the sand again, we pressed forward to the RV section.  At this point, the tide was coming up and I had to drive through constant seawater where beach once was.  The sun was setting and all I wanted was my wood fire and steak.

I found a place near the RVs that was perfect.  It was harder sand, so we wouldn’t sink, and it was still far away from all the other folks in the RVs.  I didn’t unpack anything, but instead just sat in the car and watched the sun set.  That was my third mistake.

As I sat in the car, watching the sun drop down into the Pacific ocean, I finally felt calm.  We had a place for the night and it was almost fire/dinner time.  That was when I started noticing the tide.  It was slowly rising as tides do at night.  Little by little, the ocean crept upon us.  At first it was five hundred feet away.  A few minutes later, 200 feet.  Then 100.  Then 50.  Then it was underneath the car.  I quietly uttered all the worst swear words I could think and decided that this beach just wasn’t for us.  We could go back to the state park and get a late-night spot there.

Against all odds, we made it off the beach.  We literally had waves crashing up against the car as we tore out of the park.  But we made it.  A quick stop at the local car wash and the sand from the racetrack as well as the saltwater from the ocean crashing onto us and the car was clean.  I was hungry, so we headed over to the state park.

Once there, we were shocked at what we found.  The entire park was completely full.  People were camping in the street and there were even people in the parking lot sleeping in their cars.  We drove around the park looking for anything, but it was completely full.

So we went to the parking lot.  Having given up, I cracked open the bottle of Jameson and took a big swig.  We would make this work.  I would get my steak.  This disaster would end in full bellies.

It was completely dark by this point.  I grabbed my propane stove and a pan; I would cook the damn thing in the parking lot, but I would get my steak.  I put the stove right by the driver’s door between my car and the car parked next to me.   I seasoned the steak, heated up the pan and threw the ribeye onto the grill.  It sizzled to my heart’s delight and Boss licked his chops.  At least we would get a decent dinner.  That was my fourth mistake.

The steak was almost perfect.  It was in that transition-zone between rare and medium-rare, so I knew it would only be a few more minutes.  Suddenly, a powerful gust of wind came and toppled the stove and steak onto the rocky gravel of the parking lot.  I quietly uttered all the worst swear words I could think of and picked up the perfectly-cooked steak, now covered in gravel and debris, shook it off and threw it back onto the pan.  I grabbed the Jameson and took another swig.  This time with purpose.

Boss and I enjoyed a very crunchy steak that night, with a side of whiskey.

5-31-2017 Day 50. Through the Looking Glass

May 31, 2017

Day 50

Lake Cachuma, CA

Miles driven: 5860

Currently Reading: Great American Short Stories

Currently listening to: American Money by BORNS

Through the Looking Glass

Day 50.  When I first started planning this adventure so long ago, I never really knew what to expect.  I had an idea in my head of what it would be like, but theory is so different from reality.  I would never have guessed the incredible challenges, nor the unbelievable joys that we have experienced on this adventure.  That being said, this is no longer an adventure.

Let me explain.

It all started happening after the incident at the Murder Motel.  Exhausted, broken and pushed to the extreme of every negative feeling I could ever fathom, we left the parking lot.  It was a Sunday.  Being a (usually) good Catholic boy, I went out to search for a local church for mass.  After that night’s events, the calmness of a church service sounded perfect.  We twisted through the evergreen-lined roads on top of the mountain and found Our Lady of the Lake parish near Running Springs, CA.  It was a simple church from the outside, but when I walked in I was overwhelmed by the light pouring through the full glass wall behind the altar that opened onto a rocky garden filled with conifers and religious statues.  It was indescribably beautiful. 

The mass was a regular Catholic mass.  The priest was cracking lame jokes and of course there was a baptism and it dragged on for almost 2 hours.  I left with a greater sense of calmness than when I went in, but the fire of determination still burned.  I would not let this mountain beat us.

Again we drove for hours trying to find a camping spot.  Nothing.  Exhausted, we decided to take a quick hike up a mountain, walk a trail for a while and then head to LA to get a normal place to stay.  We were beaten.

Then a funny thing happened.  As we were driving down the mountain, we ran across a campsite that had tents, but no cars.  I saw a perfect little spot to hang a hammock between two sequoia trees that were surrounded by boulders to block the wind.  There was a couple in one of the campsites, but the other two had tents, but no people.  State law says that these spots are first-come-first-served, but I thought, “why not ask and see if the folks who were camping there would mind if we took up that small area for the night?”

I walked up to the couple who were milling around their campsite.

“Howdy y’all,” I said, “Would you mind if my doggo and I put up a hammock over there for the night?  We really didn’t want to drive to LA tonight.”

“Sure thing,” the man replied, “no one is in any of these other tents, we just took this spot and haven’t seen either of them since we came in last night.”

Jackpot.

Immediately relieved, I grabbed the hammock and Boss’ bed and set up camp. 

Four hour later, the couple and I had played street-Jenga (don’t ask), cooked dinner, made smores and shared stories and laughs about all sorts of things.  The man, TJ, was a part-time automotive journalist and had recommended some folks with Jeep who might be interested in sponsoring us on our trip.  As the evening faded, the warm sun melted off behind the mountain tops and a clear sky opened up to a million stars under a crescent moon as we both drifted off into the comfort of sleep.

After that day, things started happening.  It’s hard for me to describe other than nature opened up her arms to us.  Suddenly, very random occurrences of luck began happening. 

Our drive into LA, the most congested of all cities in America, was traffic free. 

While cruising up the coast of California, every campsite not only had vacancies, but every place had an ideal spot for our needs.

People in Santa Barbara kept coming up to us out of nowhere, cheerfully greeting us and listening to our story about all our adventures. 

The camp attendant in the Los Padres National Forest happened to be from Killeen, TX, so he offered me a discounted Texan rate and a place in his private campground while he was working.  He even threw in a canister of stove fuel and some carnitas he had just finished cooking.  Boss loved that last past.

Even tonight, we pulled into Lake Cachuma and there was one last Yurt available, a highly unlikely event according to the park ranger. (I have never stayed in a Yurt before and it is freaking amazing).

It seemed as if the world was suddenly for us, not against us.  Like a switch was flipped after we had endured such hardships, we were showered with good instead of being cursed by evil. It was a bizarre twist of fate that I couldn’t comprehend.  But then it hit me.  There had to be something greater than my understanding that was behind it all; a driving force that recognized our struggle and said, “enough is enough, give these guys a break.”

So back to my first statement about how this is no longer an adventure.  I have become aware of something inside of me.  It is something that connects all humanity and all of nature together.  Some call it God, some call it the universe or mother nature or energy or whatever; the name is not important.  What’s important is that it is inside all of us.  When we are pushed to our limits with hard times, somehow help comes.  Whether it comes in the form of a friend helping a single mom raise her kids or a breathtaking view at the end of a tiring drive or even a tiny little spot between two sequoia trees to hang a hammock for the night, it arrives just when we need it.

This connectedness of everything is living all around us and within us.  At any moment, we could be the one that gives someone else the break they so desperately need.  If we would quiet the noise in our lives and listen to its soft whisper, we would know that we already have everything.  We have always had everything.

This is not an adventure.  This is life.

5-28-2017 Day 47. Murder Motel.

May 28, 2017

Day 47

San Bernardino Mountains, CA

Miles driven: 5480

Currently Reading: Great American Short Stories

Currently listening to: Fleetwood Mac on repeat

Murder Motel

We left San Diego in a storm.  We had been in San Diego long enough and the wilderness was calling.  The next place on the trip was the San Bernardino mountains.  We would find that this journey, especially on Memorial Day weekend, would be an exercise in futility.  And terror.

The first place was a hot springs just north of the National Park’s boundaries.  It was on the desert end of the mountainous park.  We drove all the way past the park and circled around on its north side.  After driving for about 3 hours we arrived at a locked gate and 10 miles of trail between us and the hot springs.  It was over 90 degrees outside, so a 20-mile round-trip hike to a hot springs in the desert would not be the destination for the day.  With heavy hearts, we set our focus on the mountains.  Lake Arrowhead, deep in the national park, was the destination of choice.  I had no idea what we were getting into.

We went deep into the mountains.  We took an old goat-esque trail twisting through towering sequoias and massive rocks.  The road was narrow and steep.  Grades of over 15% were regular, even to the point where I had to pray that the wheels of the Jeep wouldn’t slip careening us to our deaths.  We passed broken down cars with blown out engines every few miles.  But Red continued, pushing herself up the mountain. (also I just named the car Red, for future reference).

We finally reached a crest, and what a crest it was!  We had stumbled upon the Rim of the World road at the top of the San Bernardino mountains.  It is a narrow road that runs parallel to the mountainside, but just a few feet off the edge is a 5,000’ drop into the Sand Bernardino valley.  I have never experienced vertigo before, but it hit hard.  Dazed and confused, I puttered on with a train of angry drivers behind me, honking and swearing at my pathetic pace.  We would drive this stretch of road another dozen times in the next few days.

We finally pulled into the campsite at Arrowhead lake 6 hours later.  Traumatized by the road and still exhausted from San Diego, we were all ready to call it a day.  To our dismay, we were informed by the attendant that not only Arrowhead park, but every single campground in the entire national park was completely booked for the rest of Memorial Day weekend.

“Damn tourists,” I thought.  This wasn’t the first national park they had ruined.

I stopped to collect myself.  Another stick in the proverbial wheel of this adventure.  The only option was to get a motel and figure everything out in the morning.  Once I found cell service, I called around.  Everything was booked.  Finally I found a place to stay, the name of it will remain anonymous because of what happened next.

We pulled into the parking lot of the motel.  It was a delapidated wooden three-story building that leaned to one side. I went into the office and met the motel attendant.  He was a middle-aged man with a wildly unkempt white beard.  He had the dark black eyes of a rat cornered in an alleyway. He was cordial, but there was something off I couldn’t put my finger on.  He excitedly gave me the key to room 19, the “America” room.

With a dark smirk growing on his pointed face, he said, “It’s my most favorite room in the building.”

Exhausted and at the end of my rope, I shrugged it off, took the key and walked up to the room.

I climbed up the two flights of rickety wooden stairs and found room 19.  Upon opening the door, a dank wall of thick air hit me hard in the face.  I walked in and realized exactly why it was nicknamed the “America” room.

Across the walls were disjointed scribbles of pointed American figures and events, from Ben Franklin’s kite to the dropping of the atomic bomb.  They looked to be crafted by either a 9-year-old child or the criminally insane.  Above the bed was a giant bald eagle and paintings of American flags.  In the bathroom hung horrendous paintings of worn-out celebrities long past their prime, smoking cigarettes in bohemian bars. Again in the same style of the rest of the room.

I flopped down on the bed.  I was so tired, I didn’t even care.  After laying on the bed for a moment, the mind-piercing squeak of a smoke detector with empty batteries shattered my soul.  I would have to get it replaced if I would maintain my sanity for the night.

I went down to the office and found the attendant out back smoking a cigarette.  I informed him of the problem and asked him for either another room or to fix the smoke detector.

“You just keep that room, I will get what I need to fix it.” He said.  I went back up to the room to wait.

A few minutes later he came up with a handful of dark objects that I couldn’t make out.  He fumbled with the detector for a few minutes, jumped down from the chair he was on and said with a smile:

“It’s all good to go.  Sleep well.”

As I was bringing the things up to my room, I noticed the attendant speeding off in his car.  Odd, I thought, but again, what other option did I have?

I laid down in bed with Boss and vegged out on TV.  After a while, I got ready for bed and turned off the lights.  The strange figures all over the wall stared at me as I tried to go to sleep.  But something didn’t feel right in the room.  I tried to calm my mind by saying my prayers and as I was doing so, I looked up at the smoke detector.

A small lime-green light about the size of a quarter was shining through the detector.  I thought that was odd, I had never seen a detector with a light like that on it before.  I stared at the light, pondering its design.  Suddenly, a dark black shadow eclipsed the light for a moment, then the light returned.

A fire shot down my spine.  I had read about motels with cameras and peep holes where people would watch the tenants, and everything about this place fit the stereotype.  All the red flags that had come up before suddenly fitted into a creepy puzzle that terrified my mind.  I stared at the light; maybe in my exhausted state I was imagining it.

A few minutes later, it happened again:  lime-green light shining through the smoke detector suddenly eclipsed by a dark shadow, then after a few seconds the light was shining again.

I shot up and grabbed every weapon I had.  I clenched them under my sleeping bag—I slept ON the bed, not IN it.  My mind raced.  What could happen?  Was this just a sick peep show, or something worse?  I was exhausted, but I wouldn’t allow myself to fall asleep in case a darker plan was slowly hatching in the recesses above room 19.  It was midnight.  Sunrise came around 6 am.

For hours I laid there, completely exhausted from the day’s events, but completely terrified about what could happen with the shadows behind the smoke detector.  I gripped my knives with white knuckles, fighting sleep with every ounce of my being.

The shadows came again around 3 am.  I snapped.  Knives in hand, I jumped out of bed and flipped on the lights and walked over to the smoke detector.

“Either come at me, or F-off!” I yelled.  I stood there for a minute, staring into the green light.  Nothing happened, so I flipped off the lights and laid back in bed, still clutching my weapons. 

The rest of the night was calm.  Around 6 am as the crest of the sun was rising, I finally fell asleep with knives still in hand.

I woke up at around 8 to a shaking sound on the second-floor walkway.  A strange man in a red bandana paced past my window, then returned the opposite direction, stomping.  He repeated this again.  There was no one else staying on the second floor and I had not seen this man at the motel the day before.

A half hour later, I got up and started packing up my things.  With an armful of gear, I walked down to my car.  Immediately the rat-faced attendant came rushing out of his office. 

He looked at me with his beady eyes, a sly smirk growing on his face.

“Did you sleep well last night?”

Note:  There is a photo of the room in the photography section in case you think I am making this up.

5-25-2017 Day 44. The Road Continues.

May 25, 2017

Day 44

San Diego, CA

Miles driven: 5000ish

Currently Reading: The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck.

Currently listening to: Clair de Lune, by Debussy.

The Road Continues

And then I drove.  I drove as fast and as far as I could.  Tank after tank of gas was emptied and filled up in the car.  A thousand miles passed along with a slew of sights, characters and strange places to sleep.  I kept going and I wouldn’t stop until I got to the Pacific ocean. With each mile, all that was behind me was pushed further into the recesses of my mind.  The time to look backward was over.  Now it was time to look to the future.

The desert went on for miles as we tore through though the countryside.  There was only one place I wanted to be and that was sunny California.  We were draining the last little bit of energy we had to get to the most south-west point of the country, San Diego.  I had a friend living there. We went to college together and learned how to be men in this tumultuous world.  It would be good to see a friend after driving for so long.

The golden grass of the California countryside greeted us as we got closer to San Diego.  The rolling hills of the mountains followed along the way as we continued to head south.  I kept pushing the car forward as the sun slowly set.  We finally arrived.

Of course we were greeted with the friendly hugs and handshakes of old friends.  It was nice to be with family after so long.  But the adventure had finally begun, so I was energized for the path.

And what a path it was.

We traveled to downtown San Diego to explore the city and get to the ocean in Coronado, CA.  When traveling, if you want to imbibe and still remain inconspicuous, you have to implement a hobo drink.  That entails buying a half-pint of liquor and a 20 oz beverage of your choice, draining half of the soda and filling it back up with the liquor.  It is a cheap alternative to bouncing from bar to bar and there is little resistance in any institution you may arrive.

We activated our inner hobo, grabbed a whiskey and coke and set on down the road.

Three days passed and we had had the cops called on us for fighting the Pacific ocean, we had ventured into the depths of Tijuana and finished everything off with an epic sandwich battle for the ages.

Tired, hungover and satisfied from all the adventures, I looked over at my good friend, his loving wife, their pet bunny and of course Boss and I remembered something someone told me once:

“People are in your life

For a reason

For a season

Or for a lifetime.”

I don’t have many friends, but the ones that will be there for a lifetime make all the difference.

5-16-2017 Day 35. About a Girl

May 16, 2017

Day 35

Crested Butte, CO

Miles driven: 3958

Currently Reading:

Currently listening to: Edge of Seventeen by Stevie Nicks

About a Girl.

This one is a tough one to write.

I’ve been in love with 2 women in my life.  One was already married when I met her, so that wasn’t ever going to go anywhere.  The other is the reason I am here in Crested Butte.  A little over a year ago, she and I had a grand plan for the rest of our lives.  The plan was to be happy, to travel and to live life the way we wanted.

"The rule is, there are no rules."  we would say to each other often.

She and I were planning on saving up our money and travelling around the world right about now.  This trip that I am on is directly because of the months of conversations we had up until about a year ago.  Long story short, we moved in together and it just didn’t work out.  Life is hard sometimes and the ones you love are the ones you hurt the most.  She left soon thereafter and eventually made her way up to Crested Butte, CO, never even saying goodbye.  I haven’t spoken to her in over a year.

The reason I eventually decided to stop here was on the minuscule chance that I could see her one last time, maybe see a spark of happiness in her eyes and remember all the tiny nuances that made me fall in love with her.  But some wounds dig too deep and cannot ever be healed. 

As I prepare to leave this town, even with a heavy weight of irresolution still dangling around my neck, I can’t help but smile.  To me, there is a freeing feeling in understanding how little one person can control.  A person is only guaranteed themselves in life.  Others come and go, sometimes walking along the same path for a little while, sometimes just passing by.  We as people need to focus on the journey itself and all the adventures along the way, not the destination.  You never know how long someone will be in your life, so appreciate each moment you have with them.  When someone diverges onto their own path and their companionship slowly fades away, it’s the memories of time together that sticks, not what could have been. 

And whoa baby, she and I sure had some adventures.

About 20 minutes after I finished writing the above passage, I went in to get the check from the waitress.  Sitting over in the far booth with a couple of business clients, there she was.  My heart stopped.  I was frozen looking at her.  She was so beautiful; different, but she still had that glow about her that no other woman I have ever met could match.  She didn’t recognize me as I look like a wild mountain man.  Trying not to be weird, I paid my tab and went to gather my things.  Soon thereafter, her party left.  As they were walking out, I looked over at her.

“Hey.” I said.  The only thing that came to my mind.

She stared me down.

“Working.” She said.

And then disappeared off into the darkness of the night.

Some wounds dig too deep and cannot ever be healed.

5-7-2017 Day 26. The Grandma Zone

May 7, 2017

Day 26

Albuquerque, NM

Miles driven: 3006

Currently Reading: Banjo Tabs.  Good lord I need practice.

Currently listening to: I really like you by Carly Rae Jepsen (Go ahead and judge me)

The Grandma Zone.

Sitting in my Grandma’s house in Albuquerque, NM brings back all sorts of nostalgia from growing up.  I have been coming to this house for the past 27 years or so and I have so many memories of this place.  There’s the old tree out back where we used to spend all afternoon; my grandma would bring us snacks and we would pull them up in a bucket attached to a rope.

Then there’s the old pictures of friends and family from years past.  The same bunk beds in the spare room where my siblings and I would fight for the top and the BB guns we would shoot at birds and squirrels and each other 20+ years ago.  This is a safe place.  It is free from the harsh reality that comes when one grows up and must face the world without the loving care of your grandma.  I morph back into a 10-year-old when I am here and could stay here forever.

But there is something unnerving about that kind of complacency.  Sure, it would be great to be able to live care-free in my Grandma’s house and not have a worry in the world.  But there is something very satisfying that comes from getting out of that “Grandma Zone” and facing the world with everything I’ve got. 

Over the past week or so, I have been in what I like to call the “Grandma Zone.”  First it was in El Paso with my grandma who lives in an amazing house that straddles the Texas/New Mexico Border.  Seriously, half her house is in Texas, while the other half is in New Mexico.  We spent the time talking about family, going out to eat and enjoying each day.  Same thing in Albuquerque with my other grandma.  I have eaten so much delicious food, had great conversations and couldn’t be happier.  I am extremely lucky to have a very supportive family, they have always been there for me.  The grandma zone is a place where you are home, where nothing bad exists and you can rest.

But, for an adventurer, this can become dangerous ground.

My time writing has diminished because I was napping.  My time exploring has stopped because I was organizing my equipment.  My time reading has lacked because I was laughing with my family.  None of these are bad things, in fact I have had such an amazing time visiting with my family.  However, it is important to keep my focus on what I am trying to do on this journey.

So, my metaphor of the grandma zone to real life is this:

How many of us get to a place where we are overly complacent?  How many times do we come home from work, tired from the day and have dinner and watch TV until it’s time to go to bed?  Repeating this schedule, day after day, creates a niche of routine that becomes very steady and very predictable.  There is nothing wrong with that, just like there is nothing wrong with staying at Grandma’s house.  However, how much life is out there to grab onto and experience if you but take a step out of the comfort of the metaphorical grandma zone and challenge yourself in new ways?

My 90-year-old grandma does this often.  She just got back from a hiking trip in Big Bend and called me a wimp for getting a shack to stay in because it was too hot.  I still have so much to learn.

April-30-2017 Day 19. To every thing there is a season.

April 30, 2017

Day 19

El Paso, Tx

Miles driven: 2,116

Currently Reading: The Last American Hitchhiker by Mark Kneeskern

Currently listening to: Raphael Mallfisch, Cello Concerto in G Minor, RV 417: II. Adante

To every thing there is a season.

Well it’s been almost 3 weeks on the road and we have already seen and learned a lot.  One of the regular jobs that I have these days is keeping my 20-lb schnauzer out of trouble.  It seems that his friendly and curious nature throws caution to the wind and he ends up getting into all sorts of trouble.  Let me just list a few things that this dog has already done in the past 19 days:

1.       Escaped out of the teepee in Marfa and made friends with the hippies in the drum circle.

2.       Got in a dog fight at the food truck in Marfa.

3.       Got in a dog fight outside the general store in Terlingua

4.       Swam across the Rio Grande into Mexico and took significant effort to get back.

5.       Jumped into a pit of poisonous snakes in the Big Bend National Park – Seriously, I had to pull him out by his head as a swarm of snakes were swimming all around him.

6.       Got in another dog fight outside of the general store in Terlingua

7.       Got in a fight with a drunk lady outside of the general store in Terlingua.

8.       Got in a dog fight with the same dog from the general store in Terlingua (the first one), but this time he wandered over to their campsite.

(One quick note.  Outside the general store in Terlingua is a very rough place)

I kept getting frustrated by all of his “adventures” until I had a conversation with a good friend of mine after I told her a few of these stories.  And as always, she put reality into words I could understand.

“Ryan, he is YOUR dog.  Would you expect anything less?  Seriously, I am surprised he hasn’t gotten into more trouble.”

So in lies the point.  Who you are, your personality, your presence, the way you conduct yourself will always have an impact on those around you.  I am not cliché enough to say “Only let the good shine out into the world so everyone is happy.”  Anger and frustration are as equally a part of the human experience as happiness and love.  A life that was just happy all the time, without any conflict to grow from, would be so incredibly boring.  Anger fueled our founding fathers to dissent against England and create America.  Frustration has driven the greatest athletes of all time to master their craft.  It is a fire in the gut that can ultimately lead to remarkable things happening.  But it must be controlled and used appropriately.

But both sides of the spectrum are equally dangerous.  Uncontrolled anger can result in violence, ruined relationships and even wars have been fought over unchecked remarks.  Whereas too much positivity deludes someone into thinking everything will always be fine and they become overly-sensitive weaklings.

So in the immortal words of Ecclesiastes 3:1, or if you prefer, The Byrd’s 1965 song “Turn, Turn, Turn:”

“To everything there is a season.”

Sometimes we need anger, sometimes we need love.

Sometimes we need to be together, sometimes alone.

Sometimes we need to speak, sometimes we need to keep our mouths shut and listen.

True wisdom is recognizing when to do one verses the other because no matter which one you choose, the effect of that decision will be felt by all those around you.

Now if I could just get this dog to stop getting into fights, that’d be great.

4-25-2017 Day 14. Ghosts.

April 25, 2017

Day 14

Terlingua, Tx

Ghost Town Terlingua

Miles driven: 1,534

Currently Reading: Texas Poetry (various writers)

Currently listening to: The wind whistling through the cacti.

Ghosts.

I have encountered my fair share of ghosts in my lifetime.  Now if we want to have the argument on whether ghost are real or not, let me stop you right now.  Ghosts are real.  I have lived in enough haunted places to know for a fact that they are real.  I have been haunted in the darkness of the night as these invisible spirits somehow manage to manifest themselves in a variety of ways: knocking things over, choking me, causing my dog to bark at a corner for no reason to name a few.  But nothing I have experienced in the supernatural could prepare me for what happened in Ghost Town Terlingua, Tx.  Ghost Town was a journey into the thin veil that separates the natural from the supernatural.

After leaving Marfa, I was inclined to travel south to the Texas border.  I heard that there was a picturesque drive from Presidio, Tx to the Big Bend National Park.  Had someone not stolen my GoPro, I would have been able to film this majestic drive, but alas, life on the road brings many unexpected challenges. 

I drove down the 60ish mile stretch of road from Presidio along the US-Mexico border.  I was enthralled by its magnificence.  I have driven the Amalfi coast and will take US-1 up the California coast in a few weeks, but as far as picturesque drives go, this one stands alone.  It is so powerful in its vastness.  On the top of a hill you can see for a hundred miles easy.  The deep reds and browns of the mountains will humble even the most prideful of men.  The road twists and turns parallel to the Rio Grande and offers an experience that I will be telling my grandchildren about in 50 years.

I pulled into Terlingua, Tx at around 5 o’clock.  I had heard about this Ghost Town just outside the city and I had to check it out.  Of course, I will cover the details of this pirate-artist community in another post, but believe me, it was like stepping back in time into the old west.  It is as if history stopped there in the 1850s and, besides for a few tourists and some updated amenities, it hasn’t changed.  There, a rowdy group of drunkards, transients and whores live in semi-peaceful harmony, that is until someone starts drinking whiskey and starts quarreling.

I managed to weasel my way into a dilapidated stone shack that is owned by one of the locals.  It sat on a back road and faced the vast emptiness of the Texas desert.  Roadrunners and snakes scurried around everywhere and I had to make sure Boss kept out of trouble.  Despite his urban upbringing, he will pick a fight with just about anything that perturbs him, not matter the size or danger. I stayed in this rock shack for two nights and experienced the infestation of supernatural like no other place I have ever been.  This place is called Ghost Town for a reason.

The first night Boss and I rolled into bed at around 9 pm.  We had had a long day and wanted to get up early to check out Big Bend in the morning.  We both drifted off to sleep and I could hear Boss snoring as my heavy eyelids closed another day on the road.

Around 2 am, it started.  At first it was like there was a breeze blowing through the shack.  But there were no windows and the door was closed and locked.  But this breeze kept blowing through.  Then there was a strange knocking sound all around the shack.  It would circle the shack and knock on the rock walls.  I opened my eyes and began to listen to the knocking.  The knocks kept circling the building and the tapping grew louder and stronger.  I started to freak out and opened up my Buck knife in case we were about to be robbed (downtown Houston instinct kicking in).  Then lights started flashing intermittently through the cracks in the rock wall.  Then more knocking.  I was officially concerned at this point and stood up at the door, knife in my hand ready to fight. 

 “You better come in or back off because I am not interested in being bothered anymore!” I yelled through the door.

Then it stopped.  I could feel something was different.  I cannot really describe it other than just an absence of something that was once there.  The night was calm and dark and the chirping of crickets could be heard in the distance.  I went back to sleep.

The next night was even more intense.  Same routine, we went to sleep around 9 pm.  We had been at Big Bend all day and were both tired.  We both went to sleep.  The difference between the night before that this night was that it was brutally hot all day.  The stone shack was a dusty oven with stale, dry air suffocating us inside.  Around 2 am the breeze blew through again.  It wasn’t air, just some sort of flow through this stuffy cabin. Then, I heard a small clacking coming from inside the room.  It sounded like someone was dropping small wooden chips into a basket and it happened every 30 seconds or so. 

Clack.

Silence.

Clack.

Silence.

Clack.

I started to get nervous again.  I shined my flashlight around the room and there was nothing out of the ordinary.  There was also nothing that would be able to make a clack-clack sound.  I shut off the light and tried to go back to sleep.  Then, I felt this weird feeling, like someone had tossed an infinite silk blanket over me and was pulling it off slowly just behind my head.  Almost like there was something trying to pull the thoughts out of my mind.

Then I noticed a correlation.  This thought-pulling feeling brought about more and more thoughts into my head.  I recalled so many memories from my life.  Whenever I would recall a good memory, nothing would happen.  However, whenever I would recall something that I did that was bad or mischievous, the clack sound would follow.  I went on for about 30 minutes testing this theory.  And for 30-minutes, like the accuracy on a swiss clock, it would happen.  Good thought: nothing.  Bad thought: clack.

Now I don’t know what any of this means, but I have a ghost theory that involves two different ghosts who work as a team.  The first, I call the Fisher-Fiend. The Fisher-Fiend pulls thoughts of your history out of your mind for the second ghost to see.  The second ghost, I call Bosquarra (but you have to say in in a shady middle-eastern shopkeepr's voice - Bosss-Quaaa-Raaaa), tallies up all the bad things that you have done in your life, marks them on some supernatural tallying device and saves them for later.  Whatever that later is, I don’t know.  Believe me, I will be writing a terrifying children’s book about the Fisher-Fiend and Bosquarra later on this trip.

Or maybe I was just dehydrated.  Maybe the desert makes people crazy.  All I can do is describe what happened.  You can make up your own story.  But we were up at the crack of dawn and got out of that town as fast as we could the next morning.