Idaho - Around 6/18/07

I'm not sure what day it is, might be Monday, but that word doesn't mean much anymore. Back from the first hitch out in the Payette wilderness of Idaho, with six other people. The only six within 50 miles. Cars, roads, tires, 9-5's, and the slice of hot apple pie in Boise seem like flashes from years ago, but it's only been a week. I like my new planet; the sun welcomed me with a gift of blisters on my ears. I popped them with dirty fingers. Time out interruptions. Reflections in oral form, written soon. Falling off...

Everything's fine. It's been 8 days now. 8 days without a shower, joining a new family. Today I hiked back 8 miles through dense backcountry Idaho with a shovel and axe in hand. I can feel my body becoming stronger, leaner, but my mind is falling off track. I have no concept of time, and all the time to think about it. The following are guidelines:

The sun's up, I'm up.
Work starts, I start working.
We eat.
Work ends.
Dark out, we sleep.

This is the most relaxing, wonderful lifestyle. My reflexes are sharpening, animalistic. I use all five senses constantly. My beard has grown to the point that I can run my fingers through it. My hair feels like straw, and my mind always wandering. Work the hardest, regardless. There's no music out here so we sing. We sing and scream and laugh and tell stories and fart around the campfire. We lunch in the most beautiful, scenic places I've ever seen. I try to shake myself from this dream regularly, but it's all real. It can be absolutely silent here if you stand still in the right place. Walking through fire-charred stretches of lodge pole pines everything becomes clear, and calming. Simple. Things live, and things die, and nature ahs a perfect handle on the balance. The burns are not suppressed here, but left to run their course, leaving behind a mosaic of life and death, seemingly chosen at random. Either it was time to burn or it wasn't, and if it wasn't then they just keep on living.

I've had days filled time to play with reality, stories, songs, and maxims, but right now I feel so scattered, excited, and entranced by the amount of living, true living I've been doing here that I'm struggling to form cohesive thoughts. Maybe this experience is indescribable. I'll stick with that until the words show up.

I can, however, describe my new family. It began with seven Student Conservation Association volunteers (SCA's) signed up to clear trails in the Payette National Forest outside McCall, Idaho. The two that I shared a bus ride with from Boise to McCall have left for duty on the South Fork of Salmon River (Sam Bass, 19 from Texas going to school at Amherst in Mass. and Tim Blake, 23 a photographer from New England) Tim had a glistening bald head, and deep eye sockets set close together. His dramatic eyebrows clashed with a pair of lips that drooped at the corners as if pulled down by a string.

That leaves the family of five and two rangers, four of us will remain here at Chamberlain station while the other three are flying out to Cold Meadows station on July 3rd,let's begin with them.

Anna Sharar, 22, CA
10 lbs. of hair, never without a smile, fitting snugly into the Californian stereotype. Vegetarian, dreadlocks, fair trade, organic Q-tips, etc. Always up beat, with the biggest heart in the group. I admire the hell out of both here and Kalyn for coming out here to chop and saw.

Kalyn, 18, WA
A sweet girl with a round face and shiny cheeks, stout, strong limbs, and a semi-rebellious stud in her nose. We celebrated her 18th birthday out in the wilderness. I think that out of the groups her experience will have the most dramatic effect, but I'm not sure of an example or really how I came to that conclusion. A bouncy girl with a love for cold streams.

Mark, 25, OH (Cold Meadows Station Ranger)
A modern day Jack Kerouac. From hitch hiking to Giardia to "riggin' up a mean knot," this fellow has a story for everything. The bright blue eyes twinkle before a punch line, looking out through a pair of old glasses. A chipmunk like smile twists itself into shape through a red steel wool beard. It'll be a shame to see him go in July, I've already learned a lot from him.

Chamberlain Crew

Dave Hammer, 22, MN, Station Ranger
Dave will become our immediate supervisor after July 3rd. By supervisor I mean a fourth player for cards, Frisbee, drinking, and shit shooting. Dave, along with Big Sam is an outdoorsman. Hunting, fishing, and wandering the woods since diapers. He played hockey, and has hunter in Africa, and isn't afraid to tell the stories a few time, to make sure you caught the details. Hockey was his sport of choice, he couldn't spell to save his life, but when his front two teeth, slightly smaller than the rest, come sliding out from behind his gums in a smile, you can't do much but smile right along with him.

Josh Lobe, 22, Mebane, NC
Dark haired and quiet, with long arms, full lips, and a pair of piercing blue eyes, that seemed to stand out stronger as we all became dirtier. His soccer background lent to his strong hiking, and trail endurance. He never began a complaint, but was willing to chime in if someone else did. Always thinking, always humming, and literate in French. A true thinker in a perfect environment for thinking. We connected on the Wu-Tang Clan and Hong Kong cinema, and he seemed to open up a bit when it was just the two of us. A bit of a cynic, but not to the point of being obnoxious or a downer.

Sam Zahner, 21, Perryville, MO
The true good ol' boy, and the definition of a gentle giant, at 250lbs 6' (weighed in at 199lbs. at the end of the summer). Sam doesn't tan, he burns, and his scalp shines deep red under a wisp of white blonde hair and eyebrows. At first glance you might think redneck, and leave it at that, but Sam is well read, and open minded, with a good set of values. Fishing, hunting, drinking and cards are on the top of his list, and Idaho was a perfect fit. Probably the most genuine guy I've ever met, and a hell of a trail food chef to boot.

More to come, letters to write, but for the time being I needed to write myself. Fragments, no pictures, beards, and hard laughter. Impossible to draw anything concrete from it now, but that’s not what I'm after. I'm taking this day by day, enjoying every minute of it. Drifting, and the only thought that comes to mind is that I was born to do this.

Jottings From the Speeding Greyhound

Looking to the east he squinted into the sun and flared his nostrils, causing his mustache to tickle his upper lip.

Last night out of place in a foreign land he watched Rocky IV and pulled wayward hairs from his thigh.

The sun had just begun to define the mountains. From the downward spiraling road clouds could be seen releasing their embrace, melting slowly into the sky.

Amsterdam - Part II

The next day was Derek's birthday. We spent the morning getting the keys back to Locanda Daniel in Florence, then sat on a curb eating cool, creamy yogurt with fresh fruit. We were looking for the "The Cracked Kettle," a place I read an article about in the Chicago Tribune some months ago. Boasting over 300 beers, including some of the most rare and expensive in the world. When we found it we picked up two Trappist darks for 3 euros. They were cold, and tasted good in the early afternoon. Lazy day after that, a chocolate birthday croissant with 20 candles by the dock for Derek. The sun was dropping quickly, and we decided to have a last joint while we watched the sun set on our trip.

The high was relaxed, as promised by the description. I soon fell into the slow rocking rhythm of the dock. The sun's reflection glinted off the dark water in every shade of orange, then red as the sun bled into the horizon, painting the water as it fell. Flying fish soared across the sky. Whether they were real or not I could not tell, and did not want to. Finally the sun went to sleep and the wind grew cold as the sea grew black, and I knew the trip was over. I was overwhelmed with a bittersweet feeling as I climbed down to the lower deck, and into my bunk. Looking out the porthole, taking a deep breath, and tasting the salt, I lay on my back and closed my eyes, falling asleep to the gentle cradling of the Avanti.

End of European Trip - 6/10/07

And there it is. My hot apple pie has grown cold here at the Copper Kettle in Boise, ID, and the booths have filled up with a dinner crowd. The rain has stopped and the drops on the shrubbery outside the window have slid off. Time seems to be speeding up again. Tomorrow I go to McCall, ID. Tomorrow I leave the planet.

Amsterdam

We were taking in the sounds and smells of Amsterdam by noon, where we found our houseboat with little difficulty. I was happy we had managed to rent a room on a houseboat. It's one step closer to actually living on one some day. We unloaded our things, settled the bill with the owners (a couple consisting of a wise cracking man with a beer gut and a Heineken hat and a shrewish woman with an unnerving stare) after an extensive search for an ATM, and went mushroom hunting. I had decided somewhere along the trip that I was going to do mushrooms in Amsterdam. I had never tried them, and figured it was better to experience them where they are legal and probably cleaner.

We found a smart shop in the outskirts of the red light district. After explaining to the Hawaiian-shirted owner that I wanted to see things he gave me some damp Colombian mushrooms, I gave him 13 euros, and that was that. I ate them on a nearby bridge overlooking a wide canal, chomping the fungus, and washing it down with a banana. 1:33 P.M. Derek noted. 45 minutes until something happened, the Hawaiian shirt had said. All I could do now was wait.

In the meantime we stopped in a coffee shop and bought a gram of Jack Herrer, that was described as a "mellow, relaxing high," and sat down to eat at a seductive, mood lit Spanish restaurant. I was giggling in anticipation for the trip, waiting for the Columbians to kick in. It was about the time we got our food that my body began to tingle. It was a good tingle, like warming up by a fire after being out in the snow all morning. When we finished eating I was high, but not tripping, just giggly and high. My body felt light and fluffy. When Derek left to use the bathroom the visuals began to come. I was looking at a wine rack, when lazily, everything seemed to relax and stretch as if the entire world had been holding its breath until now.

The waiter came with the bill and I signed it, smiling at my goofy waving signature, and we went outside to the flower market, where everything looked sharp and vibrant. Colors, sound, and especially faces. I felt like I could describe faces, and that everyone had hard edge lines, almost angled, but not dramatically. When I thought about writing the faces turned into the words I would have used to describe them. Languages, fonts, and punctuations dripped from passing mouths. When I looked to the ground there were piles of words laying around, being kicked by many shoes.

Derek said something about Van Gogh park, museum or otherwise, and I was all for it, I was all for anything. Everything was all right. I thought I had said this out loud, but Derek just looked at me while I watched a postcard of a multicolored rug blowing in the wind, like a magic carpet.

Before long we were standing at a bus stop. I was watching everyone's feet as they shuffled and stuttered on the checkered sidewalk. It was as if the sidewalk was nipping at their feet, trying to get them off. It was a tired grumpy sidewalk. I was lost in thought when the bus raced up and ate Derek and I, along with the rest of the sidewalk trespassers.

Lodged into a corner near the jaws of the bus, packed in the middle of nine million faces I concentrated on my arm hair dancing away like reeds dance in a passing wave. I was examining the tiny universe in that little patch of skin when ROAR! The jaws opened and ate a new batch. I stole a breath of fresh air before the jaws shut, and looked at the trees outside. All I wanted to do was get to nature for some reason. I wanted the bus to stop with the constant feedings. Wasn't it full yet?

The build up made the moment when we stepped off the bus and into Van Gogh Park that much better. Everything was made of clay. I was laughing, taking pieces of reality and molding them into something fresh, leaving behind black voids like tears in fabric, then letting them go, watching them slide slowly back into their true places.

We found a spot near a tree next to some children playing soccer, and Derek fired up a nice smelling joint. I heard a violin somewhere in the background of my head. I asked Derek if he heard it, but he said no, and was convinced I was hearing things. I was content hearing things, especially if they sounded as nice as this. I took my shoes off and lay down for a while watching the clouds dance on delicate feet, shifting partners, and breaking away. Then to the trees, swaying and rocking, with laughing faces in the leaves. All to the tune of my imaginary violin.

Derek was enjoying the scenery as well, and asked me what I was seeing. I told him that his smile was wrapping around his head and tying a bow on the other end. We laughed, then I took some reality clay from his face, from the clouds, and a little from a tree trunk and made a painting. I looked at it for a while, but the black voids eventually sucked their pieces back. I'm not sure they approved. I took a deep breath, and the lawn breathed with me.

It seemed like hours before I heard Derek again. He was smiling and asked if I wanted to take a look inside the Van Gogh museum. Of course. I put my shoes and socks back on and we walked over toward the entrance and, HO! Around the corner a small woman was playing the violin. Had I invented her? I rubbed my eyes, but she was real. Derek was equally surprised.

We hit a slight snag entering the Van Gogh. Walking through the metal detectors we caught the attention of a sly-eyed Dutch woman in a starched uniform. She began to ask Derek some questions, while I hung back in fairyland. The woman's hair was fiery red, curling into ringlets framing her face. Her curls were slithering around, sliding up and down her face when I caught the stare. She focused in on me, squinting only the bottom half of her eyelids in a suspicious look. I caught the whiff of the lie Derek was concocting, and added an incoherent mumble of an affirmation. In an attempt to anchor myself I nodded feverishly and mustered what sobriety I had in me. The eyelids seemed unimpressed with my performance, but must have accepted that I wasn't completely off the edge yet, just teetering. With one last half squint she let us through to the eerie whisper riddled museum.

Here in front of us now were original Vincent Van Gogh pieces. Contrasted against the drab walls, hard corners, and impersonal metal, were vibrant animated paintings. It was interesting to think that they were locked up behind layers of security in somewhere so cold. From "Sunflowers," to "Portrait in a Felt Hat," his work continued to floor me. They were all animated, the figures and subjects moving freely about their rectangular existence.

When we left the museum Derek and I were both silent for a long while, walking around aimlessly until we spotted a family of ducks, playing in a string of cannabis plants floating along a canal. We talked a while, then walked around, and climbed a sideways tree. I was down from the intense visuals now, and would only occasionally see a drip or a stretch. It was getting late in the day, and we decided to grab a bite and explore the red light district.

I told Derek I'd buy him a whore for his birthday (the following day) and when we saw the selection I almost wished I had afforded myself one. Gorgeous women, but I was happy I wasn't on drugs any longer. They were sirens. Tapping on the glass doors with long manicured nails, licking their lips, becoming, calling out, whips, leather, big, small, and always on the prowl for the next score. Walking down a particularly narrow alley a woman in black lingerie brandishing a whip grabbed me as I walked by. She pulled my ear close to her full lips and said, "You, Now." Her hand slid down my back. I looked behind me at the traffic jam we were creating. She was holding me in place with her whip, which pressed against my chest. I was at a complete loss for words, but managed to mumble something about not having enough money, maybe tomorrow, etc. but she wasn't having it. "Fifteen euro," the lips whispered. Still I refused, shouts were coming from the traffic jam. With a push she moved on to the next in line, cracking her whip on my crotch.

I met with Derek outside the alley, and he said he had found a girl, so we went back to her window three times, but she was taken each visit. We sat on the edge of a main canal and looked at the lights and commotion. My crotch throbbed. Tired and thirsty, we trekked back to the passenger ship Avanti, where I fell into a deep sleep, breathing in the tart sea breeze.

Rotterdam

It was late when we got into Rotterdam. The architecture had a modern motif to it, and walking out of the train station we found ourselves among the techno rats, punks, and strung out faces of the night. We took the last public transit to our hostel, we thought. We had virtually no information on our hostel, just a vague name that Derek and I didn't agree on.

Two hours and three tram routes later and we're right back at the train station where we started. I was exhausted and ate a damp egg sandwich, then tightened my pack. We abandoned all hope and began walking in the general direction of a stop that we debated on earlier, but skipped. It was our best lead.

When we finally found the hostel our room had been given away. We had missed our 11:00 P.M. arrival time by over two hours. The man behind the counter must have seen our last ounce of hope evaporate in from of him because he quickly offered to set up mattresses in the basement for 5 euros, with breakfast in the morning. Once I hit the mattress I was out, regardless of the permanent glow from the exit sign above my head.

The next morning I woke up early, feeling good, and a little greasy. Today we were headed for Amsterdam. After a good breakfast of cereal, toast, and decent orange juice we hiked back to the train station.

Bruges

Packed up with warm egg sandwiches wrapped in tin foil and plenty of Belgian chocolates we hit an early train through Gent and arrived in the afternoon. Derek made a comment when the train rolled in with drops of rain on it. He said it looked like it was a giant sweating animal, and I though that was a good image of a train huffing and blowing steam into a station, panting. Derek was on pins and needles that morning due to an overdraft after a $200 charge that emptied his account. Thinking it was Locanda Daniel (Florence hostel) taking action (we accidentally took the key to the room, and had been lazy in returning it) Derek wrote a very frustrated e-mail, which turned out to be an embarrassing goof, because Derek had really just taken out that much money, but realized it after he hit send. Following an apology e-mail, and a marathon search for a post office in Amsterdam, we did get the key mailed back.

We found that our hostel in Bruges offered a bike rental service and took full advantage, riding through the cobblestone streets on two fat tired cruisers. Bruges is referred to, as the northern Venice, but looking back it seemed closer in structure and atmosphere to Amsterdam, but with a giant town square covering several blocks. Bruges turned out to be smaller than we expected, the bike riding might have shrunk the city some, and over a box of granola we began to talk about heading for Amsterdam that night.

We had luck canceling our hostel reservations. Two guys were looking for a room right as we were trying to get out of ours, but finding a room in Amsterdam for that night proved impossible. We looked for an intermediate and settled on Rotterdam, a half-hour from Amsterdam. With that we said goodbye to Bruges and jumped on a train. I felt comfortable traveling, and was able to write a little. After three weeks on the road a lonely compartment feels more and more like home.