Well grounded......

After a long night on the roads through northern Wisconsin and central Canada, red eyed from moose watch and the juxtaposition of headlights to wooded darkness, he reached the rain soaked Indian town of Red Lake to gather supplies before flying into the bush for an annual civilization relief spell.


The bush planes were grounded for 24 due to heavy rains, and this forced them to hunker down to card playing and beer drinking in the local joint. He could think of worse things but the anticipation delay of the cabin was wearing on him. Then again, there was the French Canadian waitress that stood and sang brightly against her quiet and reclusive Indian counterparts. Filling beers without counting and keeping the men festive was all part of the craft. But this was less a manipulation and more her joyful nature.

At times she would sit in his lap with her long toned arm wrapped around his shoulder as she played his poker hand, often successfully, smiling and laughing and calling each gent by their consciously remembered birth name, while he just leaned back in awe at her graceful confidence. There was no anticipation or expectation of anything more than this moment.

Until the tavern door flung open and the Indian kid said the storm had passed and the plane was ready to fly. Cash on the table and packs gathered up, they hustled out the door. At the threshold, he looked back to see her leaning against the bar rail with her arms crossed. He sort of shrugged his shoulders for a moment and she waved her hand forward as if to say “go man, do what you came to do.” He turned and headed for the plane that would take him away from such distractions and offer the perfect clarity he needed.

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Travel companions.....

The general rule is that hitchhiking with others is the recipe for a long wait. The general rule nowadays appears to be “don’t hitchhike at all.” But once, it was a really a legitimate mode of travel.


She just sat in the grass along the side of the road not saying much and offering little encouragement. She would not even offer a gesture that would increase our odds of getting a ride. No, she didn’t have to do anything and the cars would just pull over and offer us a ride. Sometimes there would be two or three cars pulling over and he could literally just choose.

It wasn’t just the good looks, but rather, people just cannot resist picking up a Labrador retriever, particularly a young black one with a red bandana. Having a dog with you somehow said that you were not an ax murderer, and more importantly, that you were an animal lover. A good thing, no?

Typically the driver would stumble around with quick questions for him to identify any quirks or concerns, or even just to make small talk. Yet with her along, resting her nose on the open window and breathing in the new air, the driver would immediately ask a hundred questions about her, and how we became traveling buddies. “Well, it’s a long story he would begin,” knowing that the longer the stories, the longer the ride.

When darkness set, and it always did, he sometimes would be in- between rides. Off the road he would wander until he found a spot in a patch of woods. Rolling out a small tarp and bag, he would quickly fall asleep, with her spooning for warmth, and generally keeping an eye and ear open on his behalf. A better friend is hard to find.

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A good ride......

Gearing up for a desert chase soon, although there is very little centerline in the sand. It has got him thinking about the different vehicles that have moved him about over the years.


Traveling rigs have a variety of characteristics that make them suitable for road trips. As you might imagine, nowadays gas consumption is a real consideration. But not in the past when oil was near free and ever flowing. Also, he always preferred a rig he could sleep in when necessary. And necessary was quite often actually.

Certainly cannot forget tunes, with speakers that play sweet and loud, even with all the wind from the glass drawn low. But most important to him was a truck, or if required a car, that was old, dirty, and fit in well with the local landscape. One does not want to standout as a tourist on the outside; even if you know you’re truly a traveler within.

There was a time when cars just stopped in their tracks, left for time to treat. After the vandals took the obvious, the sand, sun, and time ran charge. He always had a hankering to walk away from the confines of a car. Just leave it in a flood prone gulley, like Chris McCandless did, as described in “Into the Wild.” Then just stick out the thumb and see what the universe provides. It always has and it will for awhile more he suspects.

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Lonely streets.....

What separate the city life from the rural life, are the people.


It was early morning in the wake of a holiday, and everyone who could, was asleep. He trolled through the “Big Apple” in his 72’ Dodge, windows down, the Doors on the tape deck (ironically playing L.A. Woman), Central Park on the right, and on the left were the creations of mankind’s ingenuity, rising to the sky.

The city was quiet, while the sun rose between the concrete spires, with only the sounds of a rogue canine chasing off another from found scraps. He stopped the car and was able to walk out to the center of Times Square, as if he was in a small town street during Sunday services.

Taxies and buses slept, trains and river ferries slept, while the big city stood proud. The street was without the typical edge so often associated with humans, driven by individual needs, in a maze of psychotic waves, and lacking any collective sense, or direction. It was like the morning after the party when you walk about noticing the remnants of the prior evening and the various events each represented from the night before.

Only this after party was a collection lonely buildings representing man’s plan. The city, like the small town, is built with purpose. It is never just one building on the landscape we see, but rather all the built structure, serving the collective needs of all the people, not only the individuals. It does have sense and direction…….that being community.


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The Open Road......

Although he has drawn inspiration from his youth and the mindless wandering so often associated with adolescence, it was during his teenage years that “hitting the road” became his obsession. He would hitchhike at age 13 to the next town to see a girl he met at the skating rink. Right out of church he would walk up to Waukegan Road and hitch to Morton Grove, often picked up by church goers, just to spend some time on the swings of the playground with her.


And then later in college he discovered that his formal education, though taught all things cerebral by those Jesuits, was predominantly a “receiving of education” and he desired to see firsthand what others had to say.

And of course there was the music.

It’s knowing that your door is always open and your path is free to walk…..


that lets me keep my sleeping bag stashed behind your couch/

Gentle on my Mind by Glen Campbell.

It was Truckin’ by the Grateful Dead, Ramblin’ Man and Blue Sky by the Allman Brothers….

Walk along the river ... sweet lullaby


It just keeps on flowin' ... it don't worry 'bout where it's going ... no, no


Don't fly Mister blue bird I'm just walkin' down the road


Early mornin' sunshine tells me all I need to know


Dylan, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, and the Blues….seeds planted by his next up older brother, with whom he shared early quarters, were responsible for all of this wonderful musical mind play, instilling dreams of more…….

And the books….

It was and still is Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road,” coming out of the beat and hippie generation as if he was timeless, an instilling in him a cultural celebration of movement, travel, and the road. And then he was drawn in to Walt Whitman and his “Song of the Open Road,” where he:

 “inhales the great draughts of space. The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.”

The escape of travel on the road has rarely even been a physical change, but rather a mindful exercise. This became more rooted in Pirsig’s classic “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,” where time and travel can be manipulated to promote deep and meaningful reflection.

So what is it that he has been searching for, or perhaps running from, all these years? Chasing the centerline has been the search for his self.

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Changes......

Drifting’, drifting’, drifting’ away….got move on but something’s still in my way.


Change of life decisions do just that. And therein lays the secret. Without the will…you will never find your way. There is a moment, often when the conscious slips below the reality radar and the dream begins to emerge. Trusting that moment is the key for so many of us, as it is so easy to lace up your boots and spend another day in the same tracks, denying the voice.

Of course there are no promises in life. Change is simply something else. But that ‘something’ can be the difference to a life lived, or one pondering the potential. When we lean further ahead in the saddle we have a tendency to forget what is left behind and gravitate toward creating something out of the next step. Each new step presents opportunities to challenge ourselves and making the intrinsic value of the change more meaningful.

He remembers pulling his packed truck alongside the river, the river that had been cutting the rock out of this canyon forever, and watching his woman sobbing uncontrollably upon one of the rocks, fearful of the great change waiting up in the mountains in their yet unseen rented cabin. The rush of the river, and large billowy clouds overhead, only added dizziness to her confusion.

However, he had a strong conviction in the cross country migration, and she believed in him. And now years later, she still shares the stories with people along her own life path, because it represents her belief in herself. Her willingness to try.



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A friendly gesture....

A friendly gesture rarely has consequences that surface later, and eventually leave you with a hill to climb, or in this case, a hill to fall down.


Waking a little later than he hoped, he hustled down to the tram for the long ride up to the top and the back bowl skiing he had come to assault. Missing breakfast was of little help but he figured he would make one long run, usually taking 45 minutes or so, and then hunker down at the lodge and chow down.

The tram was always a rush. Looking out beyond the resort at Steamboat Springs to the mountains in each direction left him feeling small, but vital. So when the tram halted, his gaze pulled in and studied the faces within. No panic of course, these were all seasoned skiers who understood the risks and the random technological breakdowns that slowed progress and dampened the anticipation.

One rider, this wild eyed cat from San Francisco, struck up a conversation with him, and they shared stories, and more. The dude was telemark skiing, judging by the thin skis and small boots. An older, and more demanding form of skiing the backcountry, but one that most the local hippies he was familiar with gravitated toward exclusively.

By sharing more, he is referring to the large fresh brownies the dude pulled from his backpack, and offered him one. This was a no brainer, literally, as he was starved. Little did he know or suspect of the “organic” ingredients and the greater effect on his mind, as opposed to just his hunger.

Leaving the tram station he first noticed his unquenchable desire to laugh, and he did so for a long while as he walked teary eyed to the slope. Was there a left and a right ski? Why were his goggles so foggy? Which way was down? And then after wrestling with his skis for too long he fell flat on his face, spread eagle, and skis stuck deep in the snow.

Laughing again which was his only way of making sense of his condition and situation, he began the long and precarious descent, weaving, falling many times, and often just sitting in the deep snow, laughing.

Oh, he made it down eventually. Just wish he had those brownies again though. Yeow!



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Just a dry patch of ground....

Just a patch of the planet. One patch of ground, just a little different than this one over here. But once it’s chosen, you will lay your body down and absorb all the life it offers.


The trail leads on and on or so it seems and your body can only take so much. Or so you think. So on you go to get up high enough that you can see out beyond yourself. It is all about getting away, from demands, from others, from your own self. So when you pick that spot to call your own, you search a patch that feels right. Has anyone every slept on this ground before? Will the stars and the remainder of the universe find me here? Or will he just blend in with the rock, soil, and flora? Or just be a dark spot on a Google Earth view.

As spring becomes a hope, he is sensing the inspiration and enthusiasm that accompanies its arrival. It arrives in your mind and soul well before the calendar alerts you. You are slowly stirred by the minute by minute changes each day in the light and temperature. So slow, so sure, each year, and then the next.

Soon his file opens daily and he adds bits and pieces of accumulated research on those patches of ground, the human history upon them, and the natural history within them. Maps, coordinates, scanned pages from books, all compiled and filed under the words, “On the Road ahead.”

Pay close attention now to your world now, things are starting to change.


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On the Road.......#31

Like time standing still. Remember those warm summer afternoons as a kid when there was nothing to do…..nothing to do. Yeah, you feigned boredom but you were pleased with the slowness of time, the lack of demand, the lack of control. Oh, that’s it you say, when controlling people no longer have it, they are off the hook with regard to outcomes. Hmmmmm.


They had spent some quality time in this small Mexican village, but they had their minds set on getting to Alamos by nightfall. Choosing the shortest route through the valley would require travel by back roads, dirt roads, and very little traffic. So with the deck stacked badly, they sat on the roadside, thumb ready, for the cars and trucks that would not appear.

There was little to do and less to talk about. He liked that part best. For he and his brother always seemed to have a plan, a method to reach our goals, but moments like this just sit still and make you wait. Every so often they would hear the clatter of a truck coming up the road. As the dust trail stopped in front of them the driver would explain what they knew already, and drive a ways up the road and turn off into his life here in the hinterlands of Sonora.

A young Indian rode by on a bicycle and stopped. He had a great smile and better stories about the great marijuana that grows in this valley. We all laughed a while and right when we thought the young cowboy would move along, he would stay a little longer. After a few hours of our lives had past, a small pickup approached. In the cab were three young Indians and one in the rear bed of the pickup. They were all dressed in their best and driving to Alamos for the festival that evening. We had a ride.

The drive was memorable for so many reasons, not the least of which was the fertile valley we saw as we drove along the river bed, through the river, and back again. The driver was skilled and nobody seemed to mind the dust and bumps as he roared along what soon became an old horse trail that led to the back of Alamos, which for these parts, was the emerald city.

Coming in the back door of the city, from dirt to pavement, we arrived in front of the grand cathedral, feeling the festive air; we jumped out and said adios to our friends, and began our evening.

Back in control again.


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There you are.......

Late night treks alone with the wind, the soft stepping dogs rooting out treasures buried deep, too deep to find and still keep up, so left for another pass on another night. Say what you will about the snow and cold, the frozen earth locked up for these months, and you may be right. As he returns through the trees and sees the welcome dancing warm reflection on the walls, he is reminded that this will all pass soon.


What lay ahead is the transition. The seamless shift of awareness that draws him closer to natural warmth and light, as opposed to the substitute he has had to create over the last months. Is it where you are, or how you feel? The two scenes that seep into his dreams currently are the desert and the surf.

Sand- On such occasions as he wakes in the Southwestern sands he is often stunned and inescapably motionless as the colors and light emerge from the landscape. The entire day takes place during one cup of steaming coffee. The welcome stillness and opportunity for quiet reflective study is really without comparison. With the exception of mid-day, when only the shade of the tavern will suffice, the days in the desert offer the individual a steady stream of consciousness, peyote notwithstanding.

Surf- Sitting on the edge of the continent, watching the surf unveil its faraway catch of air, light, wind, and water, causes a sense of rebirth or second chances that is lost in the stagnation of the concrete landscapes of the city. Backed up against the rocks, looking out at the unscathed sky, he has been reminded of the need to think new, think fresh, and think again. One after another, the powerful surf scours our age from the body and stirs the sedimentary soils of our mind.

Sand and Surf. Sometimes it really is “where you are.”


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Welcome the silence......

Often youth demands a constant stream of entertainment. This absorption of stimulus is understandable as the brain is busy generating needy neurons. Whether we currently have too much involuntary buzz about us, or if in year’s back, as a result of not having enough, we created our own seeds of thought and challenge, the demand for critical and creative thinking goes on, only requiring a selective avoidance of the persistent chatter of our world today.


But that was then. And then, strange as it may seem, we had no internet, TV, phone, or radio. We did play record albums, read books, take walks, and have talks. The winter tied us down in some ways and freed us in others. It was the feeling of not needing to do anything that made what we did do so much more memorable.

Once the bed was dragged out by the wood stove, along with the kitchen table, the other few rooms were blanketed off at the doorways and we hunkered down in a real attempt to stay warm, and plenty alive, sharing time as opposed to passing time. This included plenty of backgammon games, crossword puzzles, and discussions usually bordering on philosophy and politics.

When distractions are minimized, and the face to face interaction is left to the love and creative imagination that we are clearly capable off, we thrive.

Welcome the silence.


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Hidden values....

Arising from the confluence of mental and physical exhaustive interplay, are the faint glimmerings of our hidden values.


It is not easy to get yourself into this position, this state of mind…..and space on the planet. But when it occurs, and he has little doubt you have been there, perhaps in some yoga class, or in the last pew of a cathedral, or mid-way on a long driveway of deep wet snow with a rhythmic shovel, that you see and feel the past dissolve and the future blur, leaving you with only the next step, as it occurs, to claim as yours.

When we are void of the constant and considerate encouragement of ourselves, reflected back by the needy mirrors around us, and are able to leave the door shut for a spell, we are in a position to observe the veiled core. Not always a pretty sight. Residing there amongst others are fear and doubt. If we maintain the delusion long enough we will simply pass through this life possibly unscathed, yet without any real clarity.

After a while he lost complete track or sense of his location. He had been walking face to the ground for a couple hours to avoid the wind and occasional sleet. From under his hood he could simply make out the next boot pulverizing the snow to compaction before he lifted it through the air for the next crushing print.

Relaxed now, moving without thought, he discovered the magic interaction our minds have with the body. The body will listen and respond in an almost unyielding way, to the directions of a calm and undistracted mind. The moment is brief, but of considerable value.


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Getting away......

It was the eve of the Super Bowl in 1978. Denver-Dallas. The State of Colorado was rabid with energy, enthusiasm, and hype. Throughout the ski area at Steamboat the patrons were getting their last runs in before hitting the bar for the big game. Everyone seemed anxious and focused on the importance of the spectacle. Everyone, but him.


There was a fresh 10” that had blanketed the mountain the evening before. He had made up his mind to take a lift up to the back bowls with only some rented snowshoes, a small pack with essentials, and the desire to get away from the noise.

Heading off the back bowl to the south, he was surprised by the loft and lift the shoes had in the deep powder. Typically he was accustomed to his skis sinking down, sometimes waist deep before they compacted enough to offer support. But snowshoes in dry powder are true winter travel companions.

The pine and spruce branches held the new snow as well, which provided a deep, quiet, and cavernous feel to the mountain forest. His heart beating with rush of adreneline, he used his poles to guide himself down carefully between the trees and the large rock outcroppings that give these mountains their namesake.

Although the views from the ridge were an obvious attraction; he much preferred the stillness and solitude of the forest interior. So it was there, in the deep quiet woods where he settled in to relax, eat from his pack and contemplate his achieved location. But there was a sound emanating from further in the forest that he found unidentifiable. He packed up to explore the source.

It did not take him long to solve the mystery. As he drew closer he could hear the sounds of cheering and loud talking. Peering from around a tree he watched another backcountry escape artist sitting on a large flat rock. However, this fellow had a large boon box that was blasting the Super Bowl game throughout the forest.

So, with little choice, he decided to squat down at the base of the tree, eat some granola, and listen to the game.

When in America……

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Skating away on the thin ice of a new day......

It was a winter afternoon like so many before it, and since. Since is relevant, because it proves that life goes on, with or without us.

He was in the habit of wind sprinting from the school bus to the house, eating rabidly, grabbing the hockey skates and stick, and rumbling down to the lakeshore in an effort to have the ice to himself.

It was a cold day but the sun shined brightly across the windswept ice, coated with a fresh inch or two. Lacing up was important and took a proper moment. He wished he had worn his warmer coat, but the goose down vest and elbow high hockey gloves would suffice.

Once pushed off the shore he dug in hard on the sharpened edges and began to instantly feel the strain in his thighs, though young and strong then, they would still respond to the initial strain and burn. After five or six thrusts he would lean into the long glide, sometimes reversing and skating backwards for show. But there was no show that day, not a body in sight.

When he built up speed he would pull the two skates side by side and dig the edges sharply into the ice to stop abruptly causing the snow to rooster tail in the air. This must have been quite a sight, if only for he to relish in.

On one of these maneuvers he began to bend and sink into a ferocious stop only to see the snow fly high and the ice break wide open. He was suddenly thrust under the surface of the frigid water at an angle and with such momentum that when he kicked to the surface he hit his head on the ice, a couple feet east of the hole.

After shaking off the clumsy hockey gloves he reached out and grabbed the broken edge and pulled himself to air and sun. Each time he tried to pull himself up on the solid ice it would only break off, soon leaving a large 15’ wide opening,  suitable for a watery grave.

He remembers skating one day weeks before and crossing over a perfectly preserved Golden Retriever frozen a few inches below the surface. Fortunately his fate would be different and he would live for awhile yet, though notably less arrogant on his hockey skates.

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Rain or shine.......

Heads up and pedal down, they tag teamed each other closely as the pine tree trunks peeled by like fence posts, and the great Northern forests engulfed them. Darkness held stage and the rain had made an entrance as they sat in their trucks at the chosen campground. He had hoped this rafting trip would be just what the office employees needed, but now the steady rain and the anxiety in the steaming truck cabs had suggested a bust.


As so often is necessary, enthusiasm took charge and they stepped out into the rain and began to unpack the equipment. It took effort and persistence, as most endeavors eventually require, getting tarps up, stoves fired, beers cracked, and chili heating in the pot. Like all great moments, this one caught us all by surprise, and it turned out that the inconveniences of weather and darkness provided the backdrop for teamwork and more importantly, a bit of a much needed bonding.

Eventually the rain moved east and when his watch alarm kept time he stuck his neck out of the sturdy Eureka and saw nothing but sun shining throughout the tall white pines. Biscuits and gravy down and spirits up, they headed down to the river to begin an all day raft trip down the steady and at times challenging Wolf River. Through reservation lands and within the Nicolet National Forest, the Wolf has been many things to many people’s for generations, providing life and a living, but on this day it would provide the setting for fun, competition, and most important to this mix of men, camaraderie.


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Where does the road lead?

There is a scene in a movie, or perhaps just in his mind, that reminds him of days on the road in the warm Southwestern States. Then again, forget the States, thinks lands.


Driving along on paved roads, through scenes that first came to light in an old spaghetti western, it appeared as though the lands have remained untouched, with the exception of the asphalt ribbon running like a snake between them.

These warm days, rumbling by without a shirt or a care, left foot on the go pedal, and right leg stretched across the seat of the pickup. Music plays both loud and soft, ratcheted by his moods, and sustained by enthusiasm, and spirit.

Stopping for a break he shuts the engine down, and with it the music, surrendering himself to the sun and the stillness. The quiet and the heat are consuming. He stands absolutely motionless for a long period, sensing the connection between stillness and survival, like the slim barrier between a tent skin and a curious bear, other more wooded lands provide only an illusion of privacy and security. These rocky desolate wide open lands provide the true solitude. Here, there is no memory, no betrayal.

The West is large enough for a man to lose himself, and in so, doing discover something better.


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