More than just words.....perhaps.

And that’s when I had enough, burned my credit cards for fuel, and headed out to where the pavement turns to sand….N. Young.

OK-Ok ….wait a minute now. He actually thinks credit cards are cool, no? Why does he so connect with that line? Well, it’s sort of complicated. It's something about losing patience in the soul work, and knowing the rest is just that, the rest. Let’s start somewhere else and see if we can meet back here in a bit.

More and more he sees it in our faces. The need we have for a connection….the need for a human connection beyond the stacks of expectations. When it occurs we coo…and purr. We buzz with soul. We know it when it’s real….and it rarely fits into the prearranged holiday card that our childhood created. Looking, searching, wanting to collide with a glimpse of ourselves in another. Maybe they understand.

What is he speaking about? Nothing new or profound, be assured. Simply the daily human tragedy of our search….not an endless search, but one that requires a stern, yet pliant self. For even though most will not connect with us on any soulful level, they need us none the less, and to short change them will push you farther away from your own soul, limiting any chance of the light getting out of the proverbial bucket.

That’s it. That is why he is drawn to wayward, melancholy poetry, often planted and nourished in chord and harmony. It reminds him to keep going, reaching out for each and allowing himself to be helped by others, reducing expectations and rejoicing in the exceptionally long glance or the relaxed lipped smile. It is all there.

If it is true that all we need individually is within us (commonly thought of as true by those smarter than he), then it may and must be also true that all we need collectively is outside us, perhaps in you….or you…..or you. We don’t know for sure, so we continue, each day, each person, each soul.

Reflections......

“Everybody knows, this is nowhere”
N. Young

It reminds him of when he turns on his cell phone in some new and different city, and it quickly determines you are in a new time zone, reflecting it accurately after thinking about it only a few seconds. Not so much the technology, but our ability to adapt to the changes that interest him.

Similarly, when you wake up in a new place before the dawn and for a long moment cannot register where you are. What if our brains no longer functioned so mechanically, quickly recounting the plans put in place, and the execution of the plan which brought you here. What if we had to relearn about ourselves each time we awoke?

Well yes, that would be creepy. The movie Ground Hog Day comes to mind. However, there may be some value in the concept. Travel allows some of that wouldn’t you agree? If you are alone and interacting with other unknowns, you can choose to cheery pick the parts of your life you wish to share, even over-emphasizing the things about yourself that your day to day mates fail to recognize or appreciate. You can reset the view of yourself more in line with your “zone”, and not the one that is necessarily reflected back by those that have always “known” you.

It may be, and it may actually be a more useful practice leading to a better understanding of self, to not “act out” the different, more favorable perhaps, parts of your psyche, and instead just pay attention to what those who know nothing of your list of life roles, fears, joys, skills, or conferences attended, reflect back to you. Simply pay attention to how you feel when you are “recognized by others right now, at this moment in time, in your zone.

And who is that in your mirror? Do you find that the reactions of others who have just met you fit better into that image you see reflected back? Oh, the benefits and limitations of a world surrounded by those who have seen us grow up. And in contrast, the fresh and intoxicating sensation when someone recognizes the “you”, that you see.

Travel, physical and intellectual movement off our stump, openness and conscious avoidance of judgment toward others, will offer the opportunity for this to occur. Or, as Carole King so clearly wrote, “you’re as beautiful, as you feel.”

Right here....right now.

It’s the “here and now” thing again….except from childhood, before we had to try so hard to “be there.”

Summer of 68’, kids like him wore shorts, PF Flyers, striped colored t-shirts, crew-cut hair, and big smiles. Never remember any vacations, other than cabin camping at a “local” lake, seemingly way off in the north woods. And then of course the summer vacation that wasn’t, when the old man told us we would attend all the museums over the three warm months, but really didn’t.

But when that large RV pulled into the driveway, he knew this was special. Every now and then, the alpha came through in a big way. Unfortunately, he only really remembers one thing about that travel experience. Certainly, but yet faintly, he remembers the civil war fields, and statues, and listening inattentively to a tour guide. But that is not what resonates when he thinks of that early road trip.

Back in the driveway. That’s where the trip was occurring for him. Because he then first felt that strange sensation that occurs when you prepare for leaving….nothing else seems to matter. Once he had his pillow and little suitcase stowed, he sort of “dissed” his little neighbor friends. Who needs em? He gone! That feeling has never left him. The idea of going on the road erases all trivial concerns and allows one to have a “tabula rosa”…or blank slate.

This “here and now” concept, written or implied in every self-helpless book around, first surfaced for him in that driveway. That RV was never as fun during the actual trip, as it was in those first few hours in the driveway. Alone, still chewing and swallowing his dinner from the kitchen table, he slipped out into the RV to punish that steering wheel with his dreams. Tightening his eyes, he could see prairies and ranges, cowboys and Indians, of which either came from a past life, or perhaps from a television show.

What occurs “now” is real……what is anticipated….. rarely matches up.

.........is fear itself.

Do you remember how it feels to sense fear in yourself? There are times when the brain requires that bolt of stimulation to keep you centered. We are weak when we soften….and of little use to ourselves, others, but more importantly, the never ending demands of the universal balance.

It was a long dirt, dark, dank, and daunting path that led to what, when explained in the daylight, by a Belizean local, seemed easy enough. Ahh….culture buzz dude….keep on. And he did. He had his woman though, and that always complicates his view. He is never as much worried with his own demise as he is in even disappointing his woman. He can only credit his father with the whole “pedestal” thing.

He figures he should be hearing the drumming by now, as he walks hand in front of face to the end of the peninsula where the gathering was promised. She trusts him and he trusts the guy, and all of it is highly questionable at this moment. Then, after catching a few too many branches in the face he emerges out of the jungle thicket to see a light. Yes a light. It sat up upon a pole, and since it was the only target around he was drawn to it like a bug.

Reaching and reaching allowed him to reach the pole and then he heard the bigger draw, the drums. The drums of people who do not need light to see, who do not need light to feel, who seemed to not understand his nervousness. What is it you fear losing?

Oh…to lose the fear!

On the Road....#21

Their relationship began and ended with an accident.

He stepped off the curb on the main street in Corvallis, Or. on a warm breezy summer evening, just a few moon cycles from his 19th birthday. He stepped of this curb with his mind wide open and evidently, his eyes wide shut. The six pack of Coors in the paper sack cushioned his fall, as he look up at the girl on the bicycle, lying in a heap on top of him. She was not happy about it.

After straightening out the wire basket on the front and picking up the pieces of broken tail reflector from the rear, they finally agreed that the loss beer was the most significant loss. While sharing a few new ones in a local joint, she decided she wanted to hitch with him to the beach tomorrow, about an hours’ drive away.

The day was as he hoped, sunshine, waves, rocks, large trunks of driftwood, on a pine tree lined beach. Yet there was something unusual about the girl, and he kept a little distance until he could understand it better.

The drive back was unusual as well. They were offered and accepted a ride from a guy in an El Camino. He was headed to Corvallis from California for a best friend’s wedding. He listened to this dude for the full hour going on about all the bad things that had happened in his life as of late. And now, this dude's best friend was marrying his old and only girlfriend whom he still loved, but would have nothing to do with, mainly because he had given her the equivalent of herpes after returning from the army and a stint in South East Asia.

As they approached the exit, the exit that would finally allow them to climb out from this cramped cab of misery, he was busy thanking the dude, she had not spoken a word since entering, and the vehicle stopped on the side of the ramp. H remembers opening the large door with his right arm while still looking at the dude and thanking him for letting us have our freedom back, when he glanced back at the door and all he saw was the front bumper of a Ford pickup truck. He pulled his arm back just in……

A moment later they were all three starring at the large door of the El Camino spinning around and around out in the middle of the exit ramp. The dude started banging his head against the steering wheel. The girl freaked and climbed out over him and literally ran up the grassy ramp slope and disappeared.

He consoled the dude as they roped the door oddly in place and drove to the police station to fill out an accident report. He never saw the girl again. Oh well, it had all been an unfortunate accident anyway.

Spring Break....1978

They say the memory is first to go.

But it would be hard to forget the unfolding of fear, anxiety, and youthful power of the moment. Then again, had he never been set free, he remembers thinking; the Frisbees would continue to fly and sun tan oil (can you imagine?) would still be spread.

Once outside the jailhouse in Daytona Beach he began to walk briskly across the parking lot. Looking back, he recalls wondering if they would change their minds and apprehend him again (again ...for no reason) and put him back in that dungeon. And with the sun shining and a semester of anticipation for this week, two days in hell seemed like a dungeon.

The other student released was mirroring his gate, and with each swifter step, he wanted to go faster. No words. Just some strange unleashing of pent up energy, as if reaching for his mother’s arms, he started to run. They ran down the city sidewalks toward….toward the beach of course. They were in full sprint now and the sight of the slow spilling waves on the beach brought a smile to his face, and then a burst of laughter, and joy.

And then he stopped, and he looked out to his amazement. The beach was in full swing, and his friends were all right where we always hung out, having the fun that we always have, but he was not in the picture. He was standing over here and the world was going on over there, without him. That’s just the way it is he realized, right then and right there.

Sure, as he approached he noted their interest, questions and concern, but very quickly it was buried over by the girls they had met and the party planned for tonight. He knelt down in the sand and tried to absorb the situation when he suddenly saw the Friz skid to a stop in front of him. Without a hesitation he was up throwing and making diving grabs in the shallow surf. After all, the game must go on.

The Grind of the Road........

Road travel can be a grind. Sure, there’s the initial exhilaration of leaving on an adventure, cooler packed, duffel stuffed, and road map handy. As well as, and perhaps it even should go without stating, the grand triumph of the arrival.

But in the middle there, in the middle of the trip, are the fuel stops, stretching, wandering buggy eyed through the Quik-Mart looking at a buffet of sweet laden junk food, and old grey hot dogs slowly rotating in the steamy glass box on the counter, and worse yet is seeing your reflection in the other sleepy travelers stocking up with handfuls of what you detest but cannot deny stimulates you, if only briefly.

The miles drag by on the trip counter as you stare out for something different on the landscape, something to trigger a thought or idea about life “in these here parts,” but all too often it is just bill boards and an assortment of proprietary signs advertising the same thing…everywhere you go. Missing are the differences, in the way people speak, cars driven, houses, restaurants…..it’s all one big meltdown of the same.

So you keep your eyes on the pavement, or for our purposes here, the centerline. Your mind is called upon for entertaining thought, stimulated by unfinished contemplations from your busy life back home. You are alone on the road, even with sleeping passengers, you are alone. Your gaze is fixed, your body postured, hands ten and two, and you are once again alone with your thoughts.

Oh the grind, the glorious grind of the constantly welcoming and never ending centerline.

Finally......

It's time to go North! Gone to Canada June 11-21st.

Early years...early fears.....

When you least expect it. Who would have thought that his greatest danger would confront him after returning from the deep dark woods, as he sat in the parking lot waiting for his parents to pick him up. They were too late.

Once on the bus, they made the long exodus out of the concrete jungle maze of the northwest suburbs of Chicago. Not soon enough, but finally, they were out on the road and headed north into Wisconsin for his first two-week stint at Boy Scout camp. A big deal at 12 years old.

As they moved on to lesser known roads, the pack of badges started singing together at the request of the head badge. He just leaned against the window and stared out at the large welcoming pine trees that lined the road and led deep into where he wanted to be.

The Indians were so cool. They were either, young, strong, and fast, or old, steady, and wise. They were focused, reverent, and completely respected by all the young tenderfeet. Whereas, his white, overweight, middle class scoutmasters barked out orders endlessly, and were, if possible, ignored or avoided.

After all the things that camp is, were done, they headed back to “civil-i-zation.” The bus pulled away after dropping all the scouts and duffle bags off to the greeting parents in the parking lot of a movie theatre. Warm wrap- a- rounds were happening left and right. As the cars pulled away, with one scout after another sitting in back seats showing off their merit badges to little brothers, he sat down on the curb and waited. It was a different time then, and the scoutmaster left after being assured that “he had a ride.”

Quiet now, as he sat, arms wrapped around his knees, chin resting in the crevice. He was all alone now. Suddenly a car approached. As it pulled up alongside him he saw it was full of older boys. He clutched his duffle as he saw them stick a hose out the window and turn on a portable water cannon. He sat there as they blasted him for about a minute or so until he was completely drenched. Then they drove away, laughing loudly.

It feels Greek to him.....

It is not the story that really matters, nor the movement of molecules and atoms, of time and space, or any other gauge of human activity. Even though all of these occurred to make this a remarkable morning, it all pales in comparison to the transition from spectator to participant.

He had parked far north of the great city and biked south along its shoreline. It was early on a Sunday morning, and he was spending it like many other summer Sundays, back then. Paperbacks and the tribune stuffed in the pack, alongside a thermos of Joe.

The landscape was a fabric of people, truly a patch quilt of activities. Every race, religion, culture, and fan of life played and laid in the grasses, perennials, and worn out ball fields. As his vision lifted from the spandex bottoms to the building tops, he breathed in the smells, sounds, and sights of humid humanity.

He could hear one sound that stood out and drew him closer. There in the center of Grant Park, flush up against the concrete power of a city, sitting in a tight but relaxed circle, Indian style we used to say, and from first appearances, a band of gypsies, all eyes drawn closed, were methodically drumming to the sound of “his” soul. The rhythms were individual and sporadic at first, causing many to pass by after only a glance. He stood perfectly still and shut his eyes also, while his body rapidly filled with weight. Then he mentally stepped away from it and in his mind he was dancing with Greek woman, for some reason.

Startled, he felt a hand on his shoulder and it was connected to a dude drummer. “Want to give it a try”, he said as he gestured to the use of his drum. “No dude, just watching, er, listening.” As he sat down and pinched the drum between his legs, no one seemed to pay him any mind. Looking up at the building tops, and out to the big body east, feeling the fresh air blowing in, he began to slowly hit the skin. Awkward at first, self conscious as well, he continued to try to match the others and make sense of it. But that was not the idea, and certainly the mind has nothing to do with it.

Finally, after the building shadows had shifted some, he felt a transition occurring. Then, in his soul he felt the Greek woman come to him again, and away he went.

On the Road....#20

It was just days after 9/11. One of the few flights back on schedule, and he took it to Bozeman. Yeah, he felt uneasy after the attacks, and a few days of thinking that life would always be different. Phone calls to a handful, assurance, and then out of here to find a blood brother and cousin intending to rendezvous in the Lamar Valley in N.E. Yellowstone.

Free upgrade, the Explorer was useful as it was cold and the snow still flying. He had secretly planned on three days ahead to himself, and that is what he got, himself. Not a bad place to be alone, as the depth of things to see and do is extraordinary, and he was able to set pace and interest level to appease who he knows best, himself.

When you’re alone there are no excuses. There is no covering the truth. Your efforts, fear, and motivation are transparent for your other half to see, and take humor, sorrow, or in some cases embarrassment, in. Is this really you? Are you really only going to hike back this far? Are you tired, or disinterested, or just lacking someone to show off for? Are goals something we make, accomplish, and satisfy for others, or do they in fact not exist when we are alone, our efforts rather just becoming steps forward or backwards depending on our current feeling, mentally, physically, and spiritually. Who can say really?

He remembers thinking that he sensed that he was fairly safe from terrorist threats up in these mountains. He thought that, if needed, he could make Jeremiah proud, if he had to hide out during a real invasion, red dawn style. What about those he loves back in the target zones?

He cast his fly out into the swift current of the river and let it drift and churn into the target zone of spawning rainbows. He supposed that all living things have targets on their backs, some knowing, others unsuspecting, of their time and number. Until then, enjoy!

On the Road...#20 (continued)

It seemed like an unconscious death wish. He had spoken to one of the rangers a day or two ago and was told that this time of year the grizzly were grazing on pine nuts just below the timberline. OK….certainly when he hooked up with his companions in a couple days they would likely prefer to hike in the lower elevations and avoid an unnecessary confrontation, once they heard his clear recommendation from the experienced ranger.

Driving up to the agreed upon camp location, he first noticed his cousin hanging laundry, and his longtime friend from Mexico sitting at a table crying and frantically writing in a notebook. Upon greeting, his friend hugged him and began to speak very emotionally about the “great towers”, once representing American power, now crumbled. He was writing poetry and trying to make sense of the chaos. Later his brother arrived after 14 hours of driving and listening to NPR commentary on the event.

That night around the fire was disturbing to say the least. There was endless discussion, most simply confirming what was heard, and what was true. There was a clear sense of uneasiness and a rare feeling of anxiety, typically not welcomed on such trips. Strange time. Not even the Jack seemed to medicate as well as usual.

The talk shifted to the hike the next morning. The cousin wanted to hike right up the canyon into the high country and see the bears. He did not. His brother was impartial. There was some disagreement, but come sunrise we were up and on our way. As we moved further up, he was glad that fire had ravaged these area just years before, and he was able to see what was happening ahead through the branchless trees. Around each rock outcropping he anticipated, only to find himself staring at his own fear. Even though he became convinced that his cousin may have been planning on dying up in this valley, he decided to relax and embrace it all.

Sitting in a burned out forest eating lunch, listening to the whine and moan of bare dead trees swaying to and fro from the strong alpine wind, they looked across a small mountain pond and saw a bear eating a dead elk carcass behind a large log along the shoreline. A good view, from a distance.

As they headed back down the valley he noticed how quickly his cousin moved down the trail and out of the bear habitat. Not much of a death wish after all he concluded.

On the Road....#19

Wandering around Denver without a plan, he was wondering if others leave so much to chance when traveling. But he had not learned yet to question his decisions so harshly, and he had not yet learned that when you act, others will question it, and he certainly was then unaware that when life is left to unfold, unscheduled, that interesting things happen, and interesting people are drawn to you, or vice versa.

Once the skis were ticketed cheaply on a bus up to Steamboat, he allowed his circle to widen away from the bus depot downtown. Not yet of age, he went into a tavern anyway. Here he met people telling him various options for getting up to the ski areas in Summit County, but no, Steamboat was too far off the worn path. So he concentrated on picking songs on the juke box with the two bucks the stuffed shirted tie guy gave him, “make us cry kid”, he yelled over his shoulder.

After a fair amount of walking he returned to the same tavern, only to find a completely different crowd. A backpack often generates interest from those relegated to living vicariously through others, particularly young vagabonds. This couple though had good questions and even better answers. He had the happy hour buzz, the free happy hour food, and a happy few hours listening to stories of the past, volleyed between these two newlyweds.

He woke up in their basement on the couch. Up in the kitchen he found breakfast, a map, and a note of good luck, and he imagined good riddance. Standing on the sidewalk in front of this suburban home in a rambling overbuilt subdivision, he stared down at the map. With one way making as much sense as another, he was off, slowly, due to two nights in a row of crazy.

Not far down the sidewalk he felt the draw of something strong, perhaps alien. As he crossed the road diagonally, he literally was walking like a zombie with his arms straight out. It was a sound that beckoned, and as he drew closer he could hear the clashing of steel , voices, and pounding percussion. He stood staring at a garage, one like every other one. His legs weakened and he sat down on the walk and listened closely.

It was a garage band inside playing an incredible version of Cinnamon Girl by Neil Young. He just laid back on his pack and listened for two hours. Why not?

Steady as he comes....steady as he goes....

You could hear it coming from a ways. The steady carbon spit of an old engine puttering in the advance. The slouched silhouetted figure, relaxed, yet aimed. The water rolled of the bow in small unfolding waves, moving away and then returning to the stillness of the surroundings. There was a bug or two overhead, no bother, but enough to signal mid-summer on Lake Champlain.

Driving through the Adirondacks, in the northern half of New York State truly opened his eyes to the many unknown gems remaining to be absorbed on this magnificent continent. Read about, but not lived or traveled, is simply not enough to really enjoy and appreciate this neck of the woods. Makes him wonder what we do with the rest of our time.

Crossing by ferry, he landed in Vermont and headed up the shore in search of a square to lay his head. Old, sturdy, and well kept homes, or “camps” as their called, are sparingly scattered about, and owned by people who have the same character as the homes. They’ve seen a winter or two.

One agreed, and soon he was tented down along the shore for what would be a week or so. He had work scheduled locally, 8 mile or so into town, but it was the sunsets he needed and cherished. No, really, this was different.

When the sun sets on a large fresh body of water, being absorbed into the mountain green, the atmosphere belches a plume of cool fresh air, settling over a disco dance of reflections. There are no sounds to distract. Almost.

He came by each evening at the exact same time. And each time, as the long canoe with small outboard finally became tangent, after a hypnotizing approach, the old man, who so far this week had refused to look shoreline, out of some notion of respect, realized that he was sitting there on the shore, in the same spot, also at the same time. The old spirit heard the conscious meeting of minds and souls, turned his head slowly, lifted his hand to his brim, tipped his skull cap, and acknowledged allegiance to it all, and to one another.

On the Road....#19

It was one of those long rides, at night, on an old bus, in central Mexico, that he entertained the question.

The swaying and rocking of the frame on poor pavement, the endless drone of the 12” black and white TV at the very front, so only the driver can watch, with run-on Spanish, that the local Indian pickups don’t recognize (from the cities they must assume), the weak headlights that remain a swerve behind, causing the only two gringos to not take our eyes off the dark and then light road, to anticipate the next curves cliff, short a guardrail, and strain our necks to be first to see the view on the short way down the mountain, even though all would reach a similar fate, all were able to sleep and relax their minds and bodies, moving on to the next life if so numbered with a peaceful step, unlike the two white brothers, who thought that they were in control of the bus with their minds, and their genes, and their falsely conceived sense of worth to this life, which surfaced later on reflection, and now is removed consciously upon returning, being replaced with an understanding that all of us take our souls and go, alone, and with none of the things we have accumulated and clung to as indications of our value.

Oh yeah, the question……he leaned over to the gentlemen sitting next to him (his brother and he intentionally never sit together, or rarely even near each other) and asked, ¿Qué es más importante para usted en esta vida? He lifted his hat up above his eyes for a moment, looking inquisically at the bright eyed gringo and said, "Usted no habla muy buen español", and then pulled his hat down low and fell to sleep. So he held on to the seat rail and looked ahead to the next curve in the road.

Who is helping who?.........

With a letter in hand, signed by a prominent Jesuit, they arrived at a small mountain cabin occupied by a missionary deep in Appalachia, who needed some assistance, and announced our willingness to serve. The seemingly rabid dog chased us back into the truck. “Better make friends with Beatrice soon or this cold beer I have for you is going to get warm”, offered the old priest from the porch.

The mining companies from up north owned the mineral rights throughout these mountains. This allowed them to strip mine right up to folk’s homes, destroying the land, water quality, and the souls of these mountain people. We were asked to survey a 70 acre parcel that was later to be used to resettle displaced people upon. In addition, along with other college students, there was firewood to split, testing of creek waters, fences to build, and long nights listening to the dulcimer, fiddles, and real mountain music by lantern light. After all, it was spring break.

We had trouble believing the missionary, Hatfields and McCoys, still feuding in the hills just above, so we hiked up the mountain to see what all the fuss was about. All we found was a small homestead that appeared to be abandoned. That was until we heard the cocking of a rifle and saw a crazy eyed old sort step out from behind a tree. “wach ya all doin on my lan?”
As we were starting to explain about our alruistic purposes, he shot off his rifle twice in the air and yelled through broken teeth “Da nex one is fer you fella.” We started scrambling down the side of that hill at warp speed, we were rolling and tumbling, and grabbing for branches, when suddenly we stopped face first in the dirt out back the missionary cabins. “Did you have a little meet and greet with Mr. Hatfield?, the old priest queried.

It was a strange paradox. Here we were trying to help, be do-gooders and all, and the local folks took a while, if ever, to get used to us helping. Proud folk, yes, but more importantly we learned that helping others is not about being acknowledged or even appreciated, but rather simply to attempt to right a wrong that we are aware of, or so said the old priest.

Itchin' to go.......

He had an itch alright. And they were just a few miles from the home of the king. Yeah, he had an itch to see Elvis. And she agreed. But then again, she had been very agreeable for the whole trip. But it did not start in Memphis, and he did not even know her then, but for an itch.

Driving back toward the Portland airport, from a trip out in central Oregon along the Columbia River, his brother suggested one last hike along the Wind River to an awesome hot springs he had heard about. Not far from the trailhead, and hearing the sound of the river, they veered off the trail and bushwhacked their way along the riverbank searching for the warm spring waters promised. The steep banks required grabbing the ground flora as we went to keep from sliding down into the river. It was a crazy tough and seemingly long huck back into the woods. “Should have stayed on the trail”, was too obvious to even say. Then we saw the warm steam rising from the rocks, and smiled to each other.

Yeah, the springs were pretty cool. And seeing some naked folks besides his brother made for a scene alright. But later at the airport he sensed that he had an unmistakable oily feel to his skin and a tingle that leads to an itch. In such a hurry to scale those slopes along the river he had failed to even notice all the poison oak vines he grabbed and scrapped against, wearing just shorts and boots. Not good.

She was headed back to Chicago from a conference in Portland. They both had started such a nice conversation to really mind that the flight was detoured through Vegas, then to Memphis, making a four hour flight into twelve. They shared a meal in sin city and though still full of life and conversation, little did he know that the poison oil was laying dormant, preparing to surface. A hot shower would have stifled it, but under these circumstances, it would have to wait.

By the time she said “ya know, with a three hour layover, we could go see Graceland”, he knew this bout with nature’s defense was formidable. He did not let on though. And off in the taxi they went to do what you do when you’re stuck in Memphis.

Back in Chicago, after seeing the results of his nature hike along the river, she waved good bye from a distance, not wanting to hug him or even get too close. For what had started as an itch, became a monstrous, fiery, and painful rash that spread throughout his legs, arms, and chest, and would take weeks to extinguish.