Out walking.....

There is something very revealing about walking. Of all the ways we propel our bodies forward on this planet, walking appears to him to attach us most closely to the earth itself. In addition, there is rarely a hurry in walking, as most walk is at relatively the same pace, reducing competition often found while running, or anxiety often associated with taxis, plane flights, or bus rides.

He has read and heard that the most enjoyable gate to strive for is an amble (to walk slowly or leisurely; stroll). This gate allows for consistent movement, along with introspection, reflection, observation, and interaction the with surroundings. This seems awkward at first, as the tendency is to attempt to complete the walk as timely as possible. It’s just our modern way. But not necessarily the way.

No, this is certainly more Zen-like than we may be accustomed. After all, who has time for this anyway? He might argue the point that we should make time, but that simply forces the action into a schedule, diminishing the value considerably. He notices this same conflict when he catches himself counting steps, or marking time and distance, difficult to avoid, but distinguished clearly once overcome.

It seems there is such value in the repetition of mind and movement. The reoccurring empty thought, coupled with the graceful decision-free step. When the limits of the mind subside, it seems the boundless consciousness awakes, and the body agrees. Capability is far more than the anxious, fearful mind is accustomed to acknowledging.

He remembers hiking up a long deep canyon with his brothers and father, on a warm sun baked Texas afternoon. Upon finally returning to camp, shade and beer, the sons took ample time to wipe the sweat and calm the heart rate, and return to a normal state of being. He looked up at the “old man,” still standing with no noticeable change in his physical stature since before the hike.

He later learned that one of the symptoms of oncoming dementia is the minds shutting down of messages to the body. In essence, our bodies are capable of so much more, if we tune out the stress, and tune in our presence to this moment, and the next step forward.

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On the Road....#28

On the road to somewhere he exited an old mountain town in Colorado, driving his brother’s beat up Dodge Charger. Next town to avoid would be Aspen, on his way southwest. Early afternoon and his cares in the trunk, he drove. Usually woman hitch hikers are heavy, old, or scary looking. She defied all the odds, standing for a ride, no thumbing required. He stopped.

Conversation was light, if at all. She knew the game, and she refused to reveal her inner brilliance to justify her obviously beautiful exterior. Like 1969 GTO, candy apple red, there was no need to rev the block.

Eventually though his music choices loosened the puzzle and they started to ramble. Over the road she shared stories of her life in Aspen, confirming that he would be stopping at the tinsel town now anyway. But his eyes shined for her. She was careful not to shine back, though he was in denial of this fact at the time.

As they pulled into the star haven he realized that he would stay at her place, or move on, as camping in these hotels was above his pay grade. She said OK……… OK! They stopped at a friendly place to eat and drink beers. She was an artist. She made things from clay, as in pottery. Her boyfriend was a musician. Ohhhh,uggggh.

Her place was a small reflection of herself, simple and tasteful. Now, with all their self secrets revealed, things became very light, airy, and fun. She played music and entertained him with amazing stories. He tried to reciprocate, but he was younger and less experienced in life.

Suddenly the door opened and Raphael appeared, as was bound to happen at some point. He was cool. Very cool. They spoke for a long while. Then, as their bedroom door shut, he unrolled his bag behind the couch on the floor and slept it off. When they awoke in the morning, he was gone already, leaving only a note of gratitude.

Note to self: Good people.......there are many good people.

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On the Road....#27

When he walks in the woods he “ambles”, implying a slow and leisurely gate. But they were in a Jeep of sorts, actually a Chevy, no matter. Point is, they were ambling up this gradual slope, along a trail lined with pines. Each time they came to a fork in the trail they would alternate between the left fork or the right. They were moving at less than five miles an hour (an art to keep steady) , listening to tunes, hanging out the window for views of the mountains and sky, popping tops for refreshment, and enjoying all aspects of hiking, without the boot tread wear.

This is British Columbia. And it took a while to like it, too much Limey influence in the “Pubs” for their liking. But the wilderness- that was plentiful, and awesome. They spent the better part of the day just getting them as lost as possible in this sign less land. Eventually though they stumbled on gold, perfect in every way.

The river was loud and though they could not yet see it, they knew the Lillooet would be grand. Hiking back now on feet for the first time all day, they found the source of the commotion, a large frothy river, bordered by rocks the size of cars. It did not take them long, though the sounds prohibited vocal communication, to discover steam streaming up from between the rocks. Further inspection proved splendid indeed- hot spring pools for soaking. Aaahhhhh!

Like L & C upon discovering the Columbia, they rejoiced, and camped for a few days. In the evening soak they propped candles along the rocks, looked up at the moon filled sky, and listened to the roar of the river, just a few feet away. The two brother's would have stayed longer but they grew weary of seeing each others naked body, and vowed to return someday with an alternative gender.

Very little talking, very Zen.

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Rain......

Rain. He can always remember the rain, and how it has added or subtracted from various experiences. When you’re high and dry, it matters not. When you’re too dry, it matters most. When you’re trying to stay dry, it can be a long night.

He had been instructed to sleep on the ground, in his bag, and under a single 5’x8’ tarp. The Boy Scouts insist on these experiences for obvious reasons. Not obvious to him at the time though. Impending rain caused him to apply serious thought to the idea of a trench around his bag. On a slope, just a few feet from the lakes edge, it would serve to channel the rainwater away from him, and to the lake, where it belonged. So he got up while others slept and utilized his folding scout shovel to do just that. After, he slid down in his bag, secure in his water diversion plan.

He first woke to the large intermittent raindrops on the tarpaulin. No worries. As the rain became more consistent, and then begin to increase in intensity, he peeked out to see how the diversion trench was performing. It was then he thought that a dike or berm around him might have worked better. So far so good anyway.

After a couple hours of downpour he awoke to a strange sensation. He felt like he was floating. Now he could hear other scouts rumbling around and complaining, and finally he stuck his head out of his tightly synched bag, to find a surprise. The trench had filled in and his sleeping area had become a detention area filled with water. He literally could have drowned in the six inches of water that was now floating his sleeping bag.

Rather than appear ill-planned, he just decided to roll out of his little lake on to the ground nearby and just sleep in the rain, like a real boy scout. So in the dark of night he rolled over a couple more times until he felt solid ground, albeit momentarily. Suddenly he heard a splash and realized that he had rolled and slid into the actual lake.

After struggling for a couple minutes to get out of that soaked bag, he just stood there knee deep in the lake, in the steady rain, and started to laugh.

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Listening.........

He’s thinking about those summer evenings. There’s something about that word evenings that includes the entire transition of day to night. Whereas, summer nights, seems to be something that occurs well after dark, somewhere other than home.

Summer evenings conjures up thoughts of childhood. Evenings that began when excused from the table, having swept the floor and cleared the plates and received the nod, he slipped out of the screened porch door to begin a summer evening.

The ranging summer sun provided the backdrop for pitch and hit against the garage door. Or an unbelievable neighborhood game of running bases. When he was young, the older boys, the ones running the game, didn’t pay much attention to him. But he knew when he was growing up because he became a threat on those bases. But in the mean time, he would run like the wind through the cut grass in bare feet, sliding from bases to base in the first remnants of evening dew to emerge on the tips of the grass blades.

On one evening, memory does not serve him well here as to why, but he was pulled by his mother from the peak of the evening and sent to his room till morning. He sat on the floor under his wide open window, with his back to the wall, and listen to the sounds of the summer evening.

Like a Polaroid becoming clear, he was able to determine from the many voices, that one parent was taking the whole crew to the Dairy Queen in town. Voices and footsteps, as each ran to their perspective homes to clear it with the parents. He decided to try the same. No, was all he heard. He returned to his room and assumed the same vantage point under the window.

As the kids piled into the car for the short trip to ice cream nirvana, he listened. As the excited voices were muffled for a moment as the car doors slammed, and then reemerged as windows were rolled down, he listened. As the engine pulled the car of kids up the road to gone, he listened.

To the sounds of summer evenings, he listens.

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Leavin'.......

There have been many goodbyes. Part of leaving is saying goodbye. In previous writings he has discussed the therapeutic value in planning and preparation. And then the ritual of "packing the pack." Followed closely by the orchestrated flow of your daily life while on the road. But the passion in your life can be measured by the goodbyes. There was a time when woman cried. There was a time when men wondered how he could just leave, pick up and go. Those days have moved on though. He has created an expectation of those around him as make goodbyes fairly commonplace, even mundane.

Yet still, there always is a sense of excitement in those that say goodbye, even now. On one such occasion, he had a friend who took a few minutes to write him some words of his own. Wishing he could ride along, but unable to go, he sent him off with the words only a cowboy could appreciate.........

Written by Rick P

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Home?....Storm on the range.....

If you keep moving, the weather should always be behind you. Or at last that's what he always heard, or read, or made up. And small storms in the open can behave like big ones and be in your face quickly.

When he saw this herd of cattle he was not screaming about wanting to "tip em," but rather he was attempting to warn them of the impending storm coming. They wanted nothing to do with him.

A storm at home is welcome from the friendly confines of the lawn chair in the garage. Out under the big sky, with no cover is another story. Yet he loves it. The rush of excitement and fear is worth risk. He understands that some folks view any unnecessary risk as illogical. We each are in charge of our own next breath. He just wants it to be one of exhilaration, rather than a sigh.

He always considered the Midwest as inherently have a greater sense of roots for him. Of course, outside of a few brief interludes, that has been home. But even beyond him, large tracts of the wild west have appear to have no roots. Certainly no trees, and the soil just blows around so much over the years it becomes difficult to determine one acre from another. Not so back East, where the oaks grow long roots, firmly establishing the landscapes, and the people who count on them.



Just stop the rig, crack a cold one, and let it do it's thing. Nothing like a good storm to give a guy pause.

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On the Road...#26....(continued again)

Continued from August 19, 2009…….

He stood there and slowly stopped his wave, and just stared at the remaining image in his mind of the truck, expecting them to return. They did not. Later his brother just said he assumed I had a ride…..huh? That moment was a clear sign of the times for him….rely on yourself.

Wandering up the on ramp now he wondered if someone else might be headed the same way. Certainly one of these many cars passing by would offer the kid a ride. He hesitantly stuck out his thumb for the first time, not knowing yet how often he would rely upon his fellow man for rides in the years ahead.

Simple really. The driver invests the gas and car, and he would share a story with enough enthusiasm to keep the Samaritan entertained. The dance has been engaged to the mutual interests of both participants up and down the roads of this land many times without incident.

Jumping out somewhere on State Street he began walking west. It was at least 20 blocks or say two miles to his brother’s flophouse. As he walked he enjoyed the late afternoon lights play on the city streets. It was Saturday, and people along the sidewalk were in a festive mood as he recalls. He could hear cheering as he walked by tavern doors. His curiosity got the best of him and he finally decided to enter into the darkness inside.

As his eyes adjusted to the contrast, he made out the anticipation of patrons staring up at the small black and white television on the bar shelf. It was the track and field portion of the summer Olympics. Someone encouraged him to pull up a stool, which he did, and he started drinking quarter beers with his new comrades. The positive energy flowing through that moment would stay with him to this day, to engage humanity with enthusiasm.

Walking the darkened streets later with a happy buzz made his young eyes open even further, so much going on if he just looked closely. Reaching his brothers door he was a little surprised at the non-reaction he received from his older brother. Then again, perhaps not.

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On the Road...#26..... (continued)

Continued from August 18th……..

After an extended inquiry, the monk was convinced that the older brother was in fact studying under the Jesuits in the city to the North. He decided to drive them all back on what had become a very rain swept evening. In the back seat she told him she would have to call her family to pick her up. He understood. The brother had started an inquiry of his own on the merits and possibilities of a monastic life.

They lay together on an old dusty couch in the attic. Soon….too soon….the headlights pulled up and stopped on the dark wet pavement fronting the old house. Her sister picked her up and whisked her up North to the predictability of the family vacation home. He went down stairs after a few minutes of reflection and sat at the kitchen table, squinting and squirming as he drank his first shots of whiskey, having not yet turned 17.

The next morning, or a little later than that, a friend drove them in an old pickup truck back to the familiar exit ramp. The pair of broken vehicles waited there patiently.

As it turned out, they were towed away to different shops. He rode in the front seat alone with the shirt soiled driver. Not much to talk about, but he tried anyway. His car would take a week to fix, forcing a consideration of mobile options as he was dropped back off at the ramp location as he and his brother had discussed earlier.

As he lay in the thick grassy ditch waiting for his brother, his brothers friend and of course his brothers friends truck, he fell asleep. He awoke much later. He knows this as a result of the sun burn face he felt. It was the sound of the old pickup truck down on the road at the base of the off ramp that caused him to stir.. He jumped up and waved profusely as the truck turned and headed up the on ramp to the freeway. He could hear the old muffler for at least a mile or so as it headed North back to the city, without him.

To be continued……

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On the Road...#26

He was young. She was young. The car was old.

On their way up to her family’s lake house in Wisconsin, he convinced her to stop in Milwaukee to spend some time with his brother who was attending the university there. He lived a ways off the campus in an old house with a couch on the porch. There were other signs of the times strewn about, like Hendrix posters, a couple guitars, drug paraphernalia, and apple crates of great albums.

They waited inside after being led in by a house mate. His oldest brother was a no show. They played albums to pass the time and create the moment. Eventually the phone rang and he pushed through the door beads to answer the call. His car broke down 50 miles South on the highway ramp. He agreed to drive back and pick him up. No problem. She was so agreeable when she was young.

As he steered his beat up old 1968 Triumph GT-6 (painted in classic British Racing Green by the way) behind the VW Van slumped along the edge of the ramp, he felt a snap and the front axle sunk to the concrete pavement. Two cars now out of the race.

“No problem,” his older brother stated convincingly, to him anyway, she was wishing she was further North by now. It was around 10 P.M. in the evening and the three of them started walking.

As after talking and laughing and generally getting caught up and into each other’s space, the conversation led to options for the evening. They had little option but to walk to a payphone and see if they could rustle up someone to re-rescue them. Down the dark road East they came upon a gated monastery. The entrance was open and they eased down the tree lined drive to the first stone building. The large ringed knocker on the wooden door soon brought a response.

After explaining their dilemma, they were escorted by a small man to a large library, with high ceilings and shelved walls stacked with books. He remembers his brother would just as well stay right there and spent the night looking at the collection. She was too anxious for that.

Suddenly the door swung open and a large robed man entered. He was interested in our story but in no rush to solve the problem for us. For one thing, they had no phones at the monastery.

He had many questions about our lives and our views of the future. He and his brother were engaged. She was wondering if we would sleep there or would they give us a ride back to the city. He conceded that both were options.

To be continued……

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Song of Myself.......

I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,Hoping to cease not till death.

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes, I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it, The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it. The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless, It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it, I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked, :I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? have you reckoned the earth much?
Have you practiced so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,) You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.

I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the endBut I do not talk of the beginning or the end. There was never any more inception than there is now,Nor any more youth or age than there is now,And will never be any more perfection than there is now,Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge and urge and urge, Always the procreant urge of the world. Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and increase, always sex, Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life. To elaborate is no avail, learned and unlearned feel that it is so.

Walt Whitman.....1907

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Seeking solitude....wanting the crowd....

He had spent the day trying to create some space for himself on the slopes, trying to have some time to himself on this mountain. It had been snowing all day and fresh snow was everywhere.
It was high up in the back bowls of Steamboat that he thought was an obvious place to start. Instead, he had a bunch of extreme skiers hooting and hollering and driving him to another area.

Traversing across the trails on catwalks found him at an unfamiliar lift. He took it and found that this lift was used mostly by the ski patrol as a base of operations.
Exiting the lift, he immediately skied into the pine trees and stopped by some large rocks. Skis off and feet up, he relaxed until the last of the patrol headed down to make their rounds searching for stranded skiers.

The daylight was low, the lifts had stopped, and the snow picked up considerably. Now was his time. He began working his way down the front face of the mountain and realized how the visibility was very limited. The faster he skied the less he could see.

As he squinted through his goggles he began to hear the faint sound of screaming. No, it was not screaming, but rather cheering. Yeah, he was in the Olympics, and the run was lined with crowds cheering enthusiastically for him to win the race. And he was, in his mind of course. But he will always remember the illusion, and the amazing power of the moment being played out. Fun yes, but eerily real for him that day.

He still stays aware for those moments, and they will appear now and then.

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Seeing things as they are......

He’s thinking about the inner workings of his life, his mind really. Strange how when interacting with others, even those close to him, he stays mum on most things and simply finds interest in the stories of others, yet rarely offering up much in return.

He supposes that it is just his nature. Often he actually notices that when he meets some people, they have plenty to say about themselves, and never really ask any questions in return anyway, unless particularly enlightened. Although that is fine with his nature, it does make him wonder how oblivious they appear to the world “without them.”

Revealing personal information to a good friend can be freeing, because they know you and you are confident in their reaction. Do the same with an acquaintance and you are open for judgment. But does that really allow yourself to be real and truthful as you pass through this life?

Travel does provide an answer to this dilemma. One of the absolute joys of travel alone is the way we open ourselves up to the world. We find this easier as a result of the short duration of each encounter. None the less, it can be very helpful in reflecting back to us our true selves, that which our close friends know but choose not to express out of respect, or perhaps preservation of the relationship.

Next time you are on a train or bus, try tweaking your story ever so slightly in the direction of the truth with your temporary seatmate. Not because you normally lie, but rather because normally you are so reluctant to speak freely and truthfully. When you do this, be prepared for the response. Listen graciously and thank them for their forthrightness. You are a better human now as a result of your courage.

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Just "did" it......

He has done it all over. Not necessarily in exotic locations, but definitely in alleys and on beaches, large fields, and definitely on university campuses. Yeah, Frisbee really has a history.

Not so much tricks and showy sort of playing, but rather, either very relaxing open ended, far flying games, or a close encounter hard throwing “guts” game. Both were, and are still, very intriguing to him.

Something about the cooperation required to heave it out deep into the open wind, across the land, soaring and settling in the hands of your friend. This activity cannot be played alone. You need to know your partner. With each attempt you desire to make a good toss that will provide the challenge he needs, and at the same time chasing down and grabbing the disc in a way that makes him look good for providing the same in return. It’s a dance.

Although guts can be as competitive as you choose, there is something also that fosters cooperation. In essence you are trying to provide a good toss, and if he can catch it, so be it. It only is disturbing when you throw wildly, not cool, and not at all in the rhythm of the game. That’s it really, it’s about rhythm.

Our competitive nature definitely can stifle that rhythm. To participate in this world hoping to one up an opponent, wishing for him to lose for your benefit, is missing the true enjoyment of life’s rhythm. This is what the art of Frisbee teaches us. Pretty simple, eh?

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Drifting...

At one point he just laid in the bottom of the boat staring up at the big white clouds passing as he moved at a drifting pace across the big water. It seemed that since he could no longer see the shoreline in any direction over the rail of the boat, he might as well just look up and forget about a shoreline. What if there was no shoreline.

Once you relinquish control, and let the wind just take you across the lake, certainly giving up visual conformation anyway, you actually move along a continuum from the desire to peek over the bow, to fear of banging into the rocks on the distant shore, and eventually settle into a state of complete acceptance.

He allows himself this experience once a year, but often wonders what it would feel like if the body of water was even larger. The ocean perhaps. How would he handle the aimlessness, the uncertainty, the mental freedom, the boredom, and the fear?

We cling understandably to the certainty of our lives. We make many conscious choices to put ourselves into a life that we can comfortably predict and plan current and future steps. Like stumbling onto a burning bush, we no more want to encounter things that do not fall into categories that we have labeled, chosen, and understand. This is what our development of the intellect has taught us- we can control our lives.

As he had fallen asleep in the setting sun of the early evening, he was startled awake. Err….what the…bam…..he had run aground on the rocks, and the water was lapping against the aluminum boat. Things don’t go on forever, or do they?

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Where the pavement turns to sand.......

He is simply not sure about what is so intriguing about the unpaved road. Yet he is drawn to them time after time. These roads are rarely used because when they do begin to become used they eventually get that asphalt top coating, causing him to lose interest.

Paved roads appear to be the gold standard in America. Gravel roads are a considered undeveloped, unsophisticated, rural. Or perhaps even third-world. He determined once that the farthest it is possible to be from a paved road in this country is twenty miles. All intended to move our cars and trucks, not horses, as was the case less than a handful of decades past.

On one occasion he was traveling with his nearest in age older brother down to an orphanage in Baja, MX. On the trip, about 250 miles down the coast from San Diego they were told that the road they were on was paved less than ten years ago. Before that, gringos would take to the dusty dirt road and drive the 850 mile length of the peninsula. That’s where they came up with the annual Baja 1000 off road race.

When he and his brother realized that only one road was paved on the entire peninsula, they understandably needed to get off of it and back up in the hills, down the sand beach, through dry gullies, anywhere but on that damn paved road. Someone at the orphanage had a 4-wheel drive vehicle, and so they did.

As one might expect, much can be found off the bituminous bi-way, normally attracting the search for commerce and profit, and getting lost on the paths that are…..well……..less traveled. They discovered an old primitive abandoned cable car that crossed a dry river bed, better served during the rainy season once upon a time. They studied it long enough to ride it back and forth across the small canyon. No one around, nothing for sale, only the dry warm winds.

Then again, he does remember ripping down the deserted beach only to stop and pay a few pesos to a local Indian catching lobster. Vende la lobster, senor? Commerce yes, but no billboards or neon signs out on that sunset beach.

“That’s when I knew that I had enough, burned my credit cards for fuel, headed to where the pavement turns to sand”………..N.Young

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On the Road....#25

What he remembers the best is the approaching sound of iron on iron. The power of the freight train was stunning, up so close. The rush of fear and excitement was compelling, but it all started in a much more calm and tranquil state.

He and his older brother had been road camping all over the highlands of British Columbia. There were many stories to be told but this one had to do with a simple night of roadside camping. They had had a great time in the wilds but now they just needed a mellow night of sleep before heading back to their respective lives.

Sitting around the campfire their conversation volleyed from one thing to another, encouraged by an old friend Jack, but the sleeping bag was not far off. Or so he thought. Up high on a bluff, overlooking a dark valley, they could hear little, but for the sloshing of the river as it cut its way, continually creating the modest canyon. Something else inhabited that canyon, something that was not far from becoming very present.

Shhhh……he asked of his brother. “Do you hear something, “he questioned. “Let’s go bro.” And with that they jumped up and started to scramble down the steep incline of brambles, gravel and dirt. Out of control they descended, grabbing roots as they tumbled and slid, until they came to a sudden stop a couple hundred feet below the campsite.

They lay there at the bottom laughing only to be silenced by the thunderous noise approaching. As the old iron horse came closer and rounded the last bend the lights shown on a large boulder wall directly in front of them. They were only 10 or 20 feet from the wall and by the time their compromised thinking capacity could calculate their actual location, the iron horse was on them.

What he remembers the most is the raw power. He lay there in the grass on the edge of the slope and absorbed the industrial display. As the train passed by, car by car full of coal, he absorbed the reality that the train was only a few feet away from the soles of their boots.

And for the record, the climb back up to the campsite sucked.

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Trading places.....

He has spent quite a few nights in youth hostels. What he enjoys most besides the cheap price, is the “bed and breakfast” atmosphere, without having to be at a bed and breakfast. You know the B&B in the vintage home with the old couple who are out on a long drive to see the leaves change, or the tip-toeing newlyweds who apologize for bumping elbows with each other at the community breakfast table. That won’t last long. All the while, everyone is trying to be so polite while they stuff their faces with the complimentary grub. And don’t miss the over imposing hostess going on and on about the cranberry festival. Blah, blah, blah.

No, he digs the grunge of the youth hostel. There you sleep in bunks with folks traveling far from far, away. People cook in their bunks on small camp stoves, or get by on yesterdays stale bread and peanut butter. The more industrious can use the kitchen facilities, but the bottom line is we are all on our own. This promotes cooperation and sharing, not competition for the one remaining bagel in the B&B wicker basket.

One can only hope that our off-spring gravitate to experience and exploration rather than conformity and acquiescence. So when he heard his daughter, who had been studying abroad for a semester in Australia, had to spend a week in a youth hostel because of a passport issue, he grinned. As she reported back of the travelers from many countries and the gleam in their eyes as they recanted things seen and things done, she was hooked. Only a hostel can provide the richness of the road, and the companionship of our fellow dudes and dames.

So much in our society offers separation and anonymity, when what we really need, is something else. Perhaps.

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Ride the river......

There was a brief moment to gather his senses, but the pressure was building and he needed to point it forward into the foamy whitewater, and hit it again.

Going solo is not easy. Keeping the bow of the canoe straight between the rocks and avoiding letting it turn sideways and take in enough water to flip it, is the goal. Actually, the goal is to make it to the pull out point safely, hopefully having a thrill along the way.

Stuck between two large rocks he came to a stop. Wedged and taking on water he paused and looked up at the sky, breathing deeply and laughing. If he could get to shore he might be able to empty some of the water, providing some much needed buoyancy.

He learned this stuff in Boy Scouts, but then he was always paired up, providing weight and stroke. Now he was shifting back and forth, but the river was having its way with him. So he pulled his way up to the center of the canoe and found the balance he needed. The center, the pivot point, is where he discovered the control he had lacked. This is not unusual for him. He tends to learn eventually after trial and failure.

Then came periods of calm water, where the current was steady and his breathing and heart rate returned to more normal levels. Even though he could see the churning water a ways ahead, he took this time to enjoy the shoreline visual and position himself for the next chapter. Approaching the next set of turbulent obstacles, he presses his knees against the sides of the canoe and paddles strong right, then left, concentrating on the path of least resistance.

That night, although he only had the dog to share it with, he replayed the ride down the river in his mind. Often it takes effort and some risk to create a moment. And those moments, those simple memories, are all we will have in the end.

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