Searching........

We sift through the past washed out gravel of a well laid foundation. We turn every stone, searching for that one gold nugget that will push us past the vice and toward the dream. On the one hand, it’s like the movie where the action hero is caught between the converging and ultimately crushing walls. He is able to prop something in between at near the last minute, and able to slip out of the pending squashing of his existence. Once he lets go of the big dream (i.e. saving the world and getting the girl), he is able to focus on the task at hand, continuing to breathe.

On the other hand, is the dream, the hope, the reason to move forward and not stand, sit, or remain stagnate. We have a desire to have impact on our world before we are dust; too late then, all must conclude. And "then" is sooner than we are willing to admit. We spend a good deal of unconscious energy to avoid or even deny this truth.

Round and round, these conversations will go. Whether it be just a quest, a religion, personal growth, or seeking some higher evolution of consciousness, we always come back to one simple truth; we all need to sleep, eat, and shit.

Yes there are those other things; things that we have heard of, and read about, dreamed about, and prayed about. All in some way true, for us, and undoubtedly many others. And although something like the truth, often elusive, is not necessarily something that requires human consensus, it does remain rooted in one basic understanding, if we deny, or let others deny, or let circumstances deny any human being their most simple but essential needs, we have reversed any growth or understanding about truth that we think we have discovered, embraced, or hope to add to our dust driven resume.

On the Road....#18

Standing out between the rail cars in the open air, somewhere in Iowa, grasping the step handles, and trying to make sense of things, he watched as his vomit appeared suspended in air, much like the time so similar on an amusement ride as a child.

On his way out to Colorado, after being talked into the train of last resort, he assumed that the engines stalling were not a good thing. Grinding to a halt, he learned that the train would require some repair, and the passengers should remain patient. He read his book for as long as he could concentrate, but soon the stirring conversations were too alluring, and he mustered up some wit and joined in.

Remarkable, how our fellow humans respond to such circumstances, receptive and encouraging, particularly after the conductor announced that the dining bar was open, and complimentary. We had been sitting for three hours.

This was one of those times. The power and lights were out on the train and they handed out green glow sticks and mini wine bottles to the passengers. All became friends. When one would risk humor, everyone laughed, making it easy to be young and restless. He did his best to open up to all, learning that only ego-idiots spoke exclusively to the attractive people, but rather, attempting to engage each and all, made friends of all, which in turn made him feel real and alive, and most importantly, human.

At one point we were singing songs together, after having long lost the interest in when the train would roll again. But it did, after a six hour wait. He ended asleep in someone’s warm arms, for a spell, but in the early morning hours the crazy vibration and throbbing of the rail cars caused him to seek fresh air.

Starring out from between the cars he could see the countryside flipping past like the frames on an old movie reel. The farm fields stood proud and stiff in the cold December night air. He was hurting, and then of course, he was also heaving.....but soon he knew he'd be skiing.

On the Road....#17

He woke up in this old empty farmhouse somewhere in Minnesota, up on the second floor, in a bedroom curled up in his sleeping bag, and upon opening his eyes, he immediately wondered where the summer went, and how he would arrive back at Marquette in time for his first class the next morning.

He had taken summer graduate classes up at a small university in the north country, sublet an old house a few miles out in the country, worked for a poor farmer at a poor farm, met some cool people, drove sand roads between small fish filled lakes, fished those lakes, met girls at the town tap, took his dog to the dairy queen, read, planted a garden, listened to an orange crate of someone else’s albums, played the harp, didn’t do laundry, drank beer, drank more beer, was rarely lonely.

Classes over and he was “all in” on the road, with two weeks and a new friend who wanted to ride his bike while hanging onto the back of the 76’ Chevy Luv truck, while ripping up the back roads into Canada, looking for something and hoping we don’t find it, which would cause us to stop, and that was not in the plan, till they reached back in the states and stopped at night in Grand Portage, only to climb the 10’ stockade fence of the old forte, now a tourist stop, where he caught his flannel on the top spike and just hung there till his friend cut him down, laughing harder than ever, and sitting at the base of the fence, in the cool moon lit grass, watching his friend immediately pull a needle and thread from his pack and mend the shirt he called his favorite, he was weird like that, and all the time still laughing.

Somehow, after a nine mile hike and nine night and days at the base of Pigeon Falls, while losing nine pounds from poor provision planning, they made it out and further down the highway, where finally they eat and drank around nine beers each, LaBatts it was, while his friend mumbled something about having a father, who also had a father, who had a farm not too far off, nine miles or so he thought, which had been abandoned for, yes, nine or 10 years, but didn’t remember for sure, so when he woke up, he rolled up his sleeping bag, smelled the end of summer in the air, stopped for coffee, and headed for Milwaukee.

Seeing the light....on the dark side.

The difference between traveling and vacationing is not always apparent. In fact, what he always thought was simple; the idea of movement, is only one aspect of travel; think of riding a bus on old folk tours. Travel involves exploration, and that cannot be done staying in one spot, he always thought anyway. But trips below the imaginary line dividing the lower half of North America, have shown him things in a different light. It appears to be about experiencing both sides of the life and lives before your eyes. Looking under the rocks and straying off beaten paths, that allow the dark sides to receive due acknowledgment.

Busy doing the good work needed down on an orphanage in central Baja, this notion surfaced most profoundly for him. From the time when the morning bell tolled signaling breakfast for his brother, himself, and 80 or so Indian children, till the sun set on the dusty old buildings, the light shone brightly on hard work, common goals, and the bonds that bound likeminded people.

The first reminder to look deeper came early in the morning hours. Difficulty sleeping found him outside observing a daily ritual that was unnoticed by the other volunteers, as it occurred before the rooster did his thing. The migrant workers would gather at the crossroads outside the orphanage, in the cold and dark they would huddle together around a small fire. He stood with them, none speaking a word, until the truck pulled up and into the back they climbed. They would not return till long after dark, only to leave again hours later, rarely seeing the family they struggled to support. He would kick road dust over the embers, and listen for that breakfast bell.

When that bell did ring, it was all over in a matter of minutes. Hunger has a way of forcing habits, and breakfast was so important that little time was wasted. This was learned by us as well, as strolling in late, was just that, too late. The days brought thought and labor. They were respected and the results of the technical work completed were appreciated. There was much singing in the church and cleanly drawn lines among those doing the work of the righteous.
And although this was all good and fine, and might have been enough for most, he and his brother had a need for some color, yes, a need to see below the surface, to look into the dark side of life. This is where the tour bus idles and travel begins.

Late that night, after lights out, they headed for town. Once away from the wooded gate of the orphanage there was a distinctly different feel. Most noticeable was the reality that none of the homes (wooden shacks, constructed of an assortment of materials really) had electricity and the dusty road to town (a mile or so) was completely dark. The only way we knew to walk straight, were the deep ruts in the road, the haunting howls of stray dogs, and the beacon of light atop a pole in the center of town.

The rickety steps up to the cantina were not intended to welcome anyone, much less gringos on a night out. It was quiet and empty, and the barkeep was asleep. Waking and seeing us, he stumbled out mumbling something, leaving us sitting at the bar staring at dusty bottles of tequila. Upon his return, our new friend had brought a sack with somewhat cold beer inside. All the commotion caused a previously unseen patron to wake up from the end of the bar. He wiped his chin clean from the drool and joined the unexpected party.

Out for a long walk......

Hiding out.... reading, working, thinking and drinking. Back to the pen on Tuesday morning the 26th.

The need for North.......

The first few minutes there is a welcomed silence. Each of us understands the value of this time. The lanterns extinguished, and poker chips lay still, each in a bunk allowing the days aches and efforts to settle into fatigued muscles, we listen and allow in through the cabin screens, the sounds of the night, undisturbed.

There is a battle occurring now. One where the body craves sleep and the mind begins to wander. Typically the body wins out in short order and the acceptable level of snoring begins. For those who win the battle on any given evening, and move their mind outside the log walls, there lies the ripe and seasoned fuel for the imagination.

The mind’s eye wanders high above the pine and spruce and sees the rock hills and waterways that reach out on in all directions, in this road less uncivilized territory. And while the grand picture entertains him, it is steered to a particular sound emanating from the wood. The knowledge of the diversity of creatures here makes immediate identification difficult initially, but then, as it continues and draws closer to the cabin, it becomes unmistakable.

Wolves. A small pack of young wolves out on their evening hunt. But the eerie sounds of these wolves were noticeably different. They were like Indians before the attack, rallying and whining, and piercing the usual calm of the forest. The snoring all stopped. We all sat up in our bunks and listened attentively. There was some nervous banter, but for the most part we all knew we were experiencing something primeval, the call of the wild. So rare for modern man, yet so natural.

Always there.....looking ahead.

When you’re young, often you don’t recognize the reliability in others, even when you need it most. Some people are just there for you, watching your back. But when your most reliable companion is a dog, you tend to be often present or looking forward. A dog never worries about the past, no grudges or ill will found, and in fact, a dog preoccupies themselves with the current moment, and what’s just around the bend.

This particular dog, raised in the dark alleyways of Milwaukee, while the master stumbled home from the fading sound of the music, and the failed search for companionship a dog falls short of, was always watching out for him. This young life for them both, this urban exploration, offered a dense rush of human experience. But when they hit the road, the freedom from odd smells, broken glass, unrecognized noise, and the sense of potential crime, vanished, replaced with the sweet natural smells of the trail, or fresh, swift flow of the river.

She was always just ahead, around the bend, scouting. On one occasion, as the canoe eased around the narrow side of the river he saw her standing still and visually locked on the sight ahead. Looking further he saw what had grabbed all the attention, a huge Bull Moose standing in the middle of the river. She held her ground, but with the strong current, the canoe continued to move ahead. Within less than twenty feet of the creature, it turned its head, and through nostrils the size of baseballs, it drew in the threatening scent, and began to charge.

Charge the bank of the river actually. With hooves thrusting bank mud in the air and busting through large pine boughs with its huge rack, the moose left a trail in its wake as it disappeared into the wilderness of northern Minnesota.

The dog just accepted the occurrence as being beyond her ability to effect. Shaking off the experience she moved up river, anticipating what might be around the next bend. Always looking ahead.

On the Road....#16

These kids were fun for him and he kept them occupied in the back seat while their father navigated the increasingly treacherous roadway on the way toward Steamboat Springs. This was a good ride. It began on the edge of the Denver suburbs and looked to take him all the way of what was a six hour drive.

First sign was not good. Road closed due to an avalanche at Rabbit Ears Pass. Once the father understood the circumstances involving an all night effort to clear the road, he began to back pedal. Requesting a conversation out of ear shot of the two young ones, he explained that we needed to part ways. The family was going back to a nearby motel and he preferred no outside company. In fact, he did not want his location to be known to this vagabond, and that was that.

Trying to catch a ride over on one of the snow machines proved futile. As darkness was not far off, he decided to find a place off the road a ways to set up his tent. He always sleeps so well in his bag and sleep is what he did. Waking up from time to time, he could hear the continued roar of the heavy equipment, grinding away at the snow packed road.

At one point there was quiet. He eagerly awaited daylight, and the wait became long and unsettling. Finally, after hearing cars moving on pavement he unzipped the tent fly and took in a face full of fresh powder. The snowfall overnight had covered the tent completely, creating the illusion of darkness. Turned out it was near noon.

It did not take long for him to pack his gear and get his yawning ass up on the road. First ride was from one of the plow guys just finishing a shift and headed home to a town called Yampa. The man offered him a donut, saying “they’re a night old, but still fresh.” “Yeah, me too,” he responded, with a mouth full of long john.

Is time really on our side?

There are times when time is a big consideration. Does he have enough time? Is he wasting time? How long will this take? Is time going by too quickly?...as if he really thought it was something he can control. We can actually. Recently he wrote of the perception of time being different in spring, more so than the other seasons. It appears that time is really in the mindset, and all related items, such as what we are doing with it, or not, are completely independent of some clock ticking away in the sky. Brilliant. Duh.

When he thinks of the time spent on the side of the road, waiting, he smiles. He loves that time. It gathers up a combination of limited expectation from himself, the hope in the generosity of humanity, and the strange connection to some universal tug. Yeah, seriously. Which car or truck, driven by which human being, the son or daughter of who, raised where, with what story or concern on their minds, and of course for all you time whores, when?

He always was enamored with Tom, Mark Twain’s character, and the white-washing story. Although Tom may not have been as industrious as most, at least he knew what he wanted to do, fish, enjoy the blue sky and watch the birds overhead. But certainly, completing the fence painting would bring pleasure and pride, but only if it was Tom’s choice.

Stripped of choices, like standing on the roadside waitin’ on a ride, reduces expectations, enhances perception and limits our time controlled choices to one, waiting. And therein lays the enjoyment.

All knowledge and enjoyment come from experience and perception….tabula rasa.....if he remembers Phil 102 correctly. Perhaps time is on our side, or not.

On the Road....#15

The door slammed shut, the floor lights dark, and the engine on the bus began the slow grind out of the small rural town in Eastern Oregon. The interior landscape was a scattered heap, with bodies, legs, arms, and heads all cramped into positions and feigning sleep, creating the illusion that there were no more available seats. So he stood in the dark for awhile.

This traveling capsule contained a collective smell that had been fermenting since it left Seattle, and would not clear till Chicago. Each of the 54 seats contained an individual, a life. But days and nights on the road had merged the personal space of each into this mixture of humanity, with only the minds, thoughts, and feelings of each person separating them from the group. If you could look past all the obvious, this was like a screen play waiting to be noticed, or not. For still, halfway to Boise, and he had no seat.

“There’s room for you here,” her tired broken voice offered. So he sat. Then listened. The old woman had much to say now that the only obstacle to her expression; an overly dominant husband, had passed on, leaving her with a lifetime of personal exploration to sift through. “Never had the time or the inclination to think much before,” She whispered, “Fred did most of that for me, since I was sixteen.”

The thing about buses is that everyone actually pays attention to what’s going on around them. There is a sense of community that develops, a trust, once people see your face enough at the stops. Everyone turns off their life for a few days and becomes a group. When members of the group finally get off in or near their town, there is a loss. People think about that individual for a few minutes, about their life here in northern Utah say, and then turn away and forget about them, and feign asleep, as some newbie’s enter the bus, looking for a seat.

Spring into gear....and go.

The thing about Spring, is that the rapid growth of the grass, the leaves, the flowers, the trees, and of course the weeds, reminds us like no other time of the year of the constant but seemingly quick tick of the clock, the turning of the calendar page, and the strange pace of time. Think about it for a moment, winter’s cold drags, summer’s heat weighs, the autumn games distract, but the clarity and persistence of spring roar on, leaving us in its wake, wondering where the precious time goes.

Right about this time, years ago, as he walked out of his last final exam, he had a strong hankering that would not rest or succumb to the typical excuses or substitutions. He wasted no time and within an hour he was on the road supported by two wheels and powered by a Kawasaki engine. The quick plan was to head down to San Padre in TX, and he gave himself the balance of the day and night to get there. Damn…….. the power, the speed, but most of all …the freedom.

And the vibration. Those Japanese bikes are not meant for real road travel.

By late afternoon he was in Mark Twain National Forest in Missouri, lying out on some very large rocks in a river, running fast with early spring waters, dangling his bare feet in cool wash, and baking in generous sunshine so common this time of season.

Another spring season….and counting by too fast.

On the Road.....#14

He picked up this indian once. Yeah, it was a long ride and he needed some company. This Indian, dressed like a pale face and was headed for LA, like right now, for some particular reason, but they bonded somewhat, so they chose to slow down and enjoy the land some.

Arches NP in Utah had captured their attention, the colors, the sun dance, the dry pure air, the grass. They spent a few days and nights, walking, talking, reading, writing, eating and sleeping. His black dog spent the majority of the time between the rocks.

On one particular moment, as they scaled the natural rock steps leading to nowhere, he saw the obvious colors of a rattler tucked under a flat rock. This other dude, reacting quickly, but with a composure that can only be gained from experience, eased the great snake out from the rock cover with a stick that looked much like a divining rod. The stick was passed to this newbie Midwesterner, with instructions to hold it up in the air, evidently limiting the striking capability of this 6’ long, 4” thick creature. Yeah…..right.

Grabbing the neck, just below the poised head from behind in one quick smooth motion, this Maricopa Indian drove his large blade deep into the spine, and within minutes the snake was motionless. No sense of triumph emerged, in fact, the Indian was gone back to the campsite immediately to clean and preserve the catch.

He just sat on the rock contemplating the recent unexpected series of events.

Later, eating snake (like chicken, eh?) and holding the rattle sack pouch he was given as a gift, he asked the Indian why? “Hmmm…..why do you ask why?”

On the Road....#13

It was not simply the feeling of leaving, pulling the mid-size RV out the driveway with the three of them aboard, the two who he treasures most on this planet, the camping up through the northern Midwest states, the campfires and smores, the first watching of Jaws on the camper TV by young frightened eyes, Wall Drugs and pancakes, the Badlands and Custer, the Black Hills, fishing for trout and actually catching and eating them, stalking wild game for fun and developing future skills that may yet come in handy, the card games in the evening, riding sturdy steeds in the high country, and cooking up dogs on the side of the road, listening to and introducing young minds to his life’s journey through music, sharing ideas and listening to new ones forming, not calling home, or anywhere else for a couple of weeks, because there was no one else to worry about who was not aboard that roaming trolley of fun and exploration.

No it was not these things, but rather one moment that sticks out in his mind that symbolizes life, love, and the road. Late at night, early morning actually, somewhere in Wyoming, the crew sound asleep and he driving, he noticed that not a light could be seen for miles and miles in any direction of the wide open expanse of this western landscape. He slowed the rig down to a quiet stop. After dismounting he walked a ways up the center of the paved roadway, say 200’, and he laid down flat on his back and facing the largest field of lights in the sky he can recall…..from way over there…to way over there. He went completely limp and gave up thinking and started to acknowledge his grand fortune…his life, ever so small and meaningless…..yet with each breath and beat…..full and fantastic.

Too good to fail.....

On the Road....#12

Two escapes in one day are enough. Not only did he and a college friend get stuck after roping down to a small peninsula with no exit strategy, but then fell prey to a rough southern “good old boy” welcome.

A famous trail and a stunning lake view set the stage for their first decision along the bluffs of Fontana Lake, NC. How to get back up? These sorts of thoughts are considered unconsciously one must imagine, but do not sway youthful exuberance from asserting reign. Three days on the small 12’X 20’ paradise was plenty long enough and discussion on escape stirred around the fire pit.

Using the cheap air-filled raft he had reluctantly strapped on his pack three days prior, they secured both packs inside with the black lab pup on top. Swimming back about a mile and half to the rig was cold but successful.

Standing at the open trunk of his 72’ Charger, they discussed the map as it lay stretched over the packs. The pup was sleeping in the back seat when the huge yellow truck with the confederate flag decal stuck on the rear glass between the gun racks, both occupied, roared into the gravel boat launch parking area.

Something about the derogatory language and the immediate anti-northern verbal abuse caused him to withdraw his large Mexican blade he kept stashed in his pack. With it still concealed he continued to discuss the map and avoided a confrontation. Until he had no choice.

When he saw one of the guns now out of the rack they both reacted rather quickly. He dove into the front seat window and his friend the opposite side. He had the wheel and his friend was face first and hands on the gas pedal. Out of control immediately, the Charger went off into a ditch only to flop up airborne onto the pavement, tires screaming. Within a half mile or so they pulled their legs in the windows and regained control. The greycoats in pursuit.

Sun was all but gone when they made a quick turn off and stopped deadly quiet for a few minutes until the truck roared by unknowingly.

If they had not been able to agree on a direction earlier, they knew now. As they sped down the road in the opposite direction of their pursuers, they saw the flashing red lights. Ahh, the law, this was good. Or was it. The sheriff yanked their cooler out of the back seat and spilled it out on the road. No beer as he undoubtedly suspected. The pup jumped out. The badge was rude and explained the actions of the boys as “jus havin’ sum fun,” and suggested that we blue bellies move along now before he cites us for littering, and having an unleashed animal.

We headed north, back up to the land of Lincoln.

On the Road....#11

It was so quiet when he woke up to the cool breeze swirling up off the bay; he wondered how he did not notice them all earlier. Not the beautiful trees framing the great bridge, or the many views of the city and bay from his current lodging, or even the plethora of pigeons milling about for a handout, but rather the number of bums, like himself actually, sleeping on benches and in the grass of Golden Gate Park.

The resources had dwindled since last night’s romp through China Town. An accounting nets him $0.36, a blank check folded deep in his wallet, and a half box of Nature’s Valley granola, remember that stuff? After what had been a great trip over the last four weeks, now required a clear consideration of options.

September’s semester was not far off and he quickly concluded that he needed to clear his head, and cross this great land of ours to the beer town of Milwaukee, and continue to indulge in the education that many of these bench mates in the park may not have been fortunate enough to have had provided them.

Strange how, when you ask folks for a favor, they sometimes say yes and more. First off, he had breakfast in a diner based on an agreement with the owner that he would send him a check for the full amount when he returned home. And he did. Then he spoke to people along the street regarding the location of the airport. One dude said he would give him directions and bus fair if he shared a couple stories about Al McGuire, the now famous and demonstrative coach of the Marquette Warriors. And so he did.

(Picture left is Al, on top of the scorers table saluting angry rival fans after a big win. Note the fan in the middle saluting back.)

Although those days were different, he still was surprised how that blank check was suitable tender for an airline ticket back to the Midwest. Waking up before landing he commented to the gent to his right that these seats were not nearly as comfortable as the benches in San Francisco.

The stewardess asked if he needed anything else before beginning the descent, and he just smiled and commented that he had everything he needed.

Just like his friends in the park.

He was a "Bull Moose".....

Before becoming president, Theodore Roosevelt had a reputation for being a man of adventure, from leading the charge up San Juan Hill in the Spanish-American War, to trying his hand as a rancher and hunter out in the wild western states. But this American icon is least known for what this writer assures you was his greatest adventure, exploring an uncharted tributary of the Amazon River in 1914.

After his humiliating election defeat in 1912, one in which he survived an assassins bullet at a campaign stop in Milwaukee (even with the shell still lodged in his chest, he gave the speech declaring, “it takes more than that to kill a bull moose”) Roosevelt set his sights on the most punishing physical challenge he could find, the first descent of a tributary of the Amazon. In the process, he changed the map of the western hemisphere forever.

Along the way, Roosevelt and his men faced an unbelievable series of hardships, losing their canoes and supplies to punishing whitewater rapids, and enduring starvation, Indian attack, disease, drowning, and a murder within their own ranks. Three men died, and Roosevelt was brought to the brink of suicide. He survived to tell the story of course, the bull moose that he was.

If there is no wind.....row!

Sara "Sally" Spies

Given back to the earth on this day six years ago, with the blow of the pipes and with ever amazing grace.

On the Road....#10

The wife and daughter flew home for the holiday. He planned to finish up some work, and find a cheaper way back to Chicago. Times were thin.

Thumbing a ride out of Nederland was easy. With the snow flying, and the big winter holiday tomorrow, he was able to find long rides, with fine people, out to the edge of that great state of Colorado. With the backdrop of the Rockies in the rear view, he feels the wind blow through the latched doors of the old car, and out ahead, are the barren, wide open ranch lands and farm fields that make up the heartland.

Things are good until they are not. The enjoyable discussions with various drivers while traveling on seasonally snow swept roads soon gave way to freezing rain, causing more than one to pull off for the night and wait it out. He had made commitments in Chicago and would have nothing to do with stopping.

He was standing on a ramp leading out of Iowa City in a steady rain. Although he was dressed well, he got the feeling from the faces of those that passed by, that he looked far worse than he felt. It was about 3 a.m. when the pickup stopped and shouted something to the effect that he had no room in the cab but couldn't’ “in God’s name” leave him out there without at least stopping and saying “may the Lord be with you my son.” He shouted back to four folks squeezed in the cab if they, or the Lord, would mind him riding in the truck bed stacked high with burlap bags of seed.

It is all about perspective, really. That 3-4 hour ride, buried deep under the heavy bags, protected from the chill, was one of his best rides of the trip. He climbed out right on Rt. 173 outside of Rockford, IL, with the sky clearing, and a straight shot east to Antioch. One driver gentlemen even stopped in the little town of Hebron, IL and bought him a bloody at the town tap. It was Christmas morning.

Walking through the front door to a house full of family, they quickly wondered and asked who had picked him up at the airport. He just smiled and said he managed to “get a ride.”