6/21/08 - 15 Hours Later

Through the Canadian Rockies and into Idaho. We stopped at the border, and were searched. "Hey Jim, I need your nose," spouted an old squat woman. Jim was a man, they couldn't afford a dog, so they hired a man that looked like one. Jim stuck his nose in our trunk, knocked a few things onto the pavement, and gave the squat woman a shrug. We went on our way and into Montana.

Glacier National Park met us late at night, and we stole a campsite. The managers chewed us out in the morning, but were old and useless. We drove the wrong way on the one way road, played loud music, and got drunk, and heard about it each morning.

There is only one bowling alley in the area, shared by three towns, but each town knew where it was. We got there at three in the afternoon, picked up beer, and shotgunned three each behind the building. There were two other people bowling, 24 lanes, and a bar. We bought a few games and a few pitchers. We got loud, Tyler went crazy on an arcade machine, almost kicked it in, and were kicked out.

We cooked pasta in the afternoon sun, spilled, and burned our mouths. All the doors on our car were open, music blaring and things falling out all over the pavement. A car of two backwater girls pulled up and we asked them if they wanted to join the party. they didn't. Tyler got their numbers and we sat around, finishing our watery pasta, nursing our mouths.

Somehow we got back to our campsite, and fell asleep in a downpour.

6/20/08 - Singing in Vancouver: Part II

We woke up the next morning and ate an entire box of their cereal, said we would get them back, and left to go play music on the streets of Vancouver.

Armed with directions, tourist hot spots, and a special map that we had to bring back in pristine condition for the uncle's wife, we made our way downtown. The cheapest parking was thirteen Canadian dollars, and we agreed that we would sit out on the street until we paid for our parking. It was overcast, and dreary, like Portland and Seattle should have been. We made for the train station, and after being ping-pong around by bad directions we found it and set up in the busiest hall.

We only made eight dollars or so in Portland, but there aren't many one dollar coins, and no two dollar coins like there are in Vancouver. We were hopeful, and smiled as we hummed harmonies, and made up riffs and lyrics, and watched the coins drop. Derek improvised on his guitar, Tyler on the pots and mugs. Lance and I helped out with the vocals and kept our "Feats of Strength," sign in lain view. I bagged a two dollar coin with five one-armed push-ups, while the other three cheered and hummed and riffed away. The hall we played in was more like a tube with a shiny tile floor that bounced and threw our voices until the echoes rang into the ears of shop owner nearby who asked us to leave, or stop. We stopped to count our haul. Derek pulled some coins from his pocket. He had a theory of keeping a small amount of money in the bowl, and the rest in his pocket, insurance against robbers or to make us look more pathetic than we were. It was a good theory. We wound up with nearly twenty dollars, and decided to move outside and try for a little longer, but only added three dollars and some change to our pot.

With a ten dollar profit after the parking fee we looked for food and used our $2.50 judiciously. We looked into pooling our money together for beer, but the prices were outrageous. I don't care if Bud Light is an import in Canada, it should never cost $20.00 for a six pack.

The rest of our stay in Vancouver was relaxing, and uneventful. We stayed another night and woke up to an empty house. We packed our things slowly, thinking about the drive ahead; Through the Canadian Rockies, into Montana to Glacier National Park. Derek forgot to lock the front door, and I clicked the knob and tried the handle. I doubt it would have mattered.

6/20/08 - Singing in Vancouver

We finally made it to the customs agent, a dead-eyed drone that welcomed us into Canada. I must have been just as run down as the agent, because we locked eyes for a second and he gave me a small nod. He asked why we were coming into Canada. For the past hour I had been reminiscing while staring at the shadow of a large defined cloud. The shadow was in Canada, and we were stuck here in American traffic with shadowless American clouds. I wanted to say I was going to Canada for their clouds, but that would have gone out the window in a hurry.

We got in and walked around Vancouver. All big cities seem the same after a while. The downtown area is too rich, the traffic is bad, and the same shops again and again, the same people, just a different skyscraper and a different team to root for from town to town, something to keep heads from spinning. I liked Vancouver though because there were constant floating planes flying into the harbor near by. We watched for a while as the planes came in against a white and green mountain backdrop.


We met Derek's uncle, a kind bald man with a soft voice. He was in the film business, and said his career peaked when he was 18 years old and sold a script to Saturday Night Live. He asked is pasta was okay for dinner and we all laughed and nodded promptly.

We ate the pasta on the floor, sitting on cushions, with the exception of Lance, who sat on an overstuffed recliner without a care, like a king.

The lights are very orange now, with dark blue light leaking in from the windows. Talk of jazz standards between Derek and the uncle flutters and dies, and picks up again. A large collection of classic and not-so-classic films to my left, almost all on VHS. Braveheart takes up two VHS tapes, which seems appropriate. Laughter erupts from Tyler and the uncle’s daughter, a shiny-cheeked smiley girl our age, a vegetarian in love with Indian culture. The orange light seems warmer. I can't seem to scribble fast enough, and my hand is cramping up, forcing a break to join in the conversation.

Coming back to the page it seems like my hand is falling apart, other parts are following. Juggling multiple roles of big brother, friend, positive example, while trying to explore and stay upbeat, but it's not always true. It feels like a challenge from the road. My back and eyes are sore. My ears are open. Maintain.

Derek and the uncle have guitars out now, and we're singing a lazy rendition of Here Comes the Sun. Derek and his uncle combined knew most of the words, while the rest of us chipped in occasionally. We stop and the conversation turns dull, to gas prices and other safe topics we had heard so many times before. Pulling up my shirt sleeve my upper arm reveals a small galaxy of dead, peeling skin. Thoughts of San Diego rush back, it seems like a long time ago.

Their VHS collection is not alphabetized. There is a small yellow book in the bathroom titled Instant Enlightenment. And strange music from a dusty worn piano. Before long I'm laying on an impermanent mattress, staring up at the stucco ceiling next to my little brother. Looking up at the tangle of frozen drips, like frosting, I see our route planned, and a message I can't make out because my arms aren't long enough to read ceiling Braille.

6/18/08 - Dump on the road, off to Seattle

We woke up early the following morning to avoid paying for our spot. I usually drove the morning shifts; I liked starting the day on the road. Derek was riding shotgun, passed out. When he woke up we shot the shit for a while. We saw some signs for Mt. St. Helen's and decided that we wouldn't be missing anything getting into Seattle at eight in the morning. The detour was about fifty miles, but the ride was smooth and we were the only ones on the road. By quarter to nine we stopped at a visitor's center, but they didn't open for another hour. We pulled ahead maybe 400 feet to a scenic look out. None of us knew what Mt. St. Helen's looked like, but we saw a predominant peak off in the ridgeline and decided that was it. We kicked around a bit, Derek improvised on the guitar and Tyler banged on some pots. I climbed some loose rocks across the street, and jumped off. Lance lay down or sat on a cooler. We made breakfast. I had a different flavor of oatmeal, and sat in the sun. Tyler had to crap, and decided to do it in the middle of the road. When he finished some cars passed, but none of them ran over the shit. Tyler took a few pictures of it, one with the light reflecting off a particularly nice piece reaching toward the sky. We sat around a while longer and left for Seattle.

The crap in the road was probably the most interesting thing that happened in Washington. We saw my cousins and Aunt in their nice pace in Redmond, where all the Microsoft millionaires live, and were treated nicely, to good food, and warm beds. It was nice and safe and overall tame. I did not see much of Seattle, and thought it was hiding it's true self from us. We were there two days and both were sunny and out of the ordinary. When we left my aunt told us we could stay as long as we wanted, that we didn't have to rush off. I didn't know how to tell her I was bored and restless so I didn't, and we left after hugs and pictures.

6/15/08 - Inching into Canada, thinking about Oregon

It's blue outside in Vancouver, and it smells like hundreds of cows. The rest of the group is inside where it's warm and orange, with lots of music and smiles, just behind me. The ground is cool and soft on my feet. Another full stomach, more hospitality, more manners and small talk. I took a shower here, probably the last one until the wedding back in Chicago, that half waypoint. We inched into Canada today, waiting in traffic for over an hour at the border.

I thought back on our eleven-hour drive out of Yosemite to Eugene, Oregon. We met Derek's friend Remy after his tenth drink of the night. He was short with a straw cowboy hat and wild eyes. He smoked cat nip cigarettes and make sudden movements. After a lot of coaxing and repeated questioning directly into Remy's ear we made it to his ex-girlfriends apartment near the university campus. We had been cleared to pitch out tents in the backyard. When we got there a party was in full swing, and I danced through the living room with a beer in hand, and a giant pack on my back. "Oh, you must be the campers!" one shouted over the music. I laughed and made for the kitchen, then out to the backyard, where I had to clear a group of people to set up my tent amidst sidelong glances. We were hungry and went back into the kitchen to use their stove for pasta, and ate a lot of their food while waiting for the water to boil.

We camped the nest night outside of Eugene, near the coast. Remy said he knew the way, but we almost ran out of gas looking for this place, never found it, and by the time we crashed illegally in some state trailer park, I was ready to wring his neck. I was hungry and tired of following this guy. We all ate like wolves that night, without a word to each other, without so much as a glance away from out bowls illuminated by small pools of light, like the only thing that existed was macaroni and sauce.

I slept well that night, it was cold and the wind smelled different than the Midwest. The next morning we said goodbye to Remy, he was off to his pig farm outside of Eugene. We packed up the car and set out eyes on Portland, making it there in a couple hours, driving easily along the coast.

When we reached Portland I got off at the nearest climbing gym and hit the wall for a few hours. I smelled terrible and everyone knew it. I had rivers of sweat that cleaned the dirt off my arm in vein-like patterns. I climbed hard and it felt good to move something besides my right foot. I met up with the guys in the late afternoon. We bummed around Portland a while, cooking on the street near a closed coffee house. Their wireless Internet still worked, and Derek’s laptop picked up a signal. At one point I was sitting with a computer in my lap, and a stove in front of me in the middle of Oregon. I remember laughing about it.

The sun was slow to fall that night, and after dinner we decided to play some music on the streets for a while, try our luck. Lance and I don't play an instrument, but that didn't matter. We sang, and during solos brainstormed on things we could do. There were handstands, one-armed push-ups, climbing random things, and if none of that we could always hum along. We ended up making eight dollars that night, and scored a pretty good sized nugget from a couple of stoners that walked by giggling in low-pitched voices.

An old hippie named Willow came and sat with us, chatting away and teetering in a cross-legged position. She had greasy gray braids hanging down her neck and a few missing teeth, but still managed to blow out a tune on her dirty harmonica. She gave us a book of folk songs entitled,"Our Singing Country: Folk Songs and Ballads," and signed it with a shaky hand in a scattered combination of all capital letters, cursive, print and pictures.

It read:
"To Derik, MAX, Tyler, LANCE,
thanks for the jammin, keep jammin in the
streets and & everywhere else

peace, love, and a smiley face,
Willow

I HOPE our Paths + again in this life or Another"

It was dark now, and the stores were all closing up. We were energized and giddy at our success, and thought to ask some of the closing restaurants if they were throwing out any food. About an hour later we had a bundle of spring rolls, rice, sauce, and a few old scones and pastries for dessert. We sat on a curb laughing and eating, excited and inspired talk, grand plans for all the rest of the bakeries and pizza joints we came across, when a pair of true buskers walked past and stopped to compare loot. They had three-quarters of a good-looking pizza, and offered it up, they looked stoned. We accepted and offered some spring rolls. They were dirtier than we were, or at least their clothing was. There was a taller one with long dreadlocks and a bent neck that made his face lean to the left, and his features followed along with the tilt, like his face was melting. The other one was pale and quiet with an oversized coat and dilated pupils. He didn't say a word, but the melted face made up for it. "You'd have to be an idiot to starve in Portland!" he cackled and elbowed the oversized coat; he sat motionless and didn't speak. We said goodbye to the two and made for the car. There was something eerie about that guy in the oversized coat. We were on our way to Seattle, and drove for maybe an hour before scamming a campsite nearby.

6/12/08 - Half Dome

We hiked to the top of Half Dome today. Roughly 8 miles each way with a steady incline all the way to the top. It was my idea, and I could tell the guys were nervous about it. Hell, they probably did not even want to do it, but I tried to keep the spirits up, and after a short breakfast we packed our bags and started the daylong hike.

There is not much to say about the hike itself. It is absolutely beautiful, but crowded. People in all the wrong places. Near the waterfall, huddling around an animal or an overlook. It cheapened the experience. Too many cameras, too accessible. I tried to think what this place must have looked like to the first pair of human eyes. It was a fantasyland, a paradise. Enormous granite formations jutting out from a carpet of healthy green trees, waterfalls and rivers in every direction. And the damned people.

The last one hundred feet or so takes you up a low angle slab to the peak. The slab has hosted a lot of foot traffic over the years, and has been polished to s sheen. Two steel cables have been dropped down on either side of this polished path for people to cling to. There are also a series of wooden boards set up for footholds. From a distance it looked like a mass exodus, or just a lot of unhappy people waiting in line at the bank.

I got to the peak before the other three, rested a while, and ate a lot of some guys trail mix. He offered it to me when he got back and I said thanks but I was all right. I took his picture for him. I was there maybe an hour when I remember Derek was terrified of heights and he might have opted to stay at the bottom. I quickly rushed down the steel cables, when halfway down I bumped into Lance, and we headed to the top again.


Derek made it up soon after with heavy breaths and a crazed look in his eye. "Did I mention I'm afraid of heights?" were the first words out of his mouth. Lance and I laughed and I gave Derek a hug. I was proud of these guys. I asked where Tyler was, and Derek said he left him down at the beginning of the cables, Tyler was afraid of heights too. It was a bummer, but we took some pictures, talked about the hike, and milled around on the top for another hour. When we decided to head back to see Tyler, he was coming up the cables and the day was complete. He had overcome his fear too.

We laughed and walked around again, taking the tour for the third time, but it felt like the first again. It was great to be traveling with these guys. Lance said this was not his thing, and did not see what I got out of it.

From the top looking north to where we are headed. North to unknown territory for all four of us. To Eugene and Portland, then on to Seattle and Vancouver. The dust is beginning to settle and the Trip is slowly showing itself to us.

6/12/08 - From The Valley Floor

1,400 miles in: The smashed gooey body of an earwig a foot from my head, body parts on this pen. Writing this from Camp 4 in Yosemite National Park. There is no vacancy, but we found a spot next to a group from Colorado that didn't seem to mind. Outside my tent a group is singing and drinking, mostly Sublime and other sing-a-long types. The light from their fire flickers and dances against my tent. They are probably dancing. My body is too sore to dance.

We drove in from San Francisco yesterday, almost directly east, and made it to the valley in the early evening. San Francisco is nice, and we camped illegally on the north end of the Golden Gate Bridge. We found a secret beach with a lot of rusty scrap metal half buried in the sand. The view from the beach was great, and I climbed a big island rock that looked like a shark fin. I felt at ease. I do not think I could live in San Francisco, but there is no real reason, just an overall feeling. Maybe I am not hip enough or smooth enough. The trip to Yosemite was only supposed to take four hours but we got lost and made it in close to six. The last gas coming into the valley was $5.29 per gallon, the highest we have seen so far.

Our sunburns are falling off slowly, leaving behind milky white patches of skin in their place. I get a little dirtier everyday, and the memories of the gourmet BBQ in Arroyo Grande fade. I can still see that crystal dish planted next to my arm, an ornament on an elaborate dinner display. Complete with the tiniest of spoons to save the embarrassment of squeezing the brand name plastic bottle. How would a plastic bottle of BBQ sauce look against all this finery?

I have been cooking on the street since then, oatmeal in the morning in Monterey, Pasta at night in San Francisco. Sleeping in my own filth with permanent dirt under the fingernails. A week ago I was happily spooning BBQ from that crystal dish. I should have broken it and laughed.

6/8/08 - An Evening in Arroyo Grande

I opened the door to a falling sun and a terrified lizard. The lizard froze for a beat, and then slid across the rustic stone tiling, a flurry of tiny green legs. The sun was uninterested and indifferent. I shot a look directly into that burning ball, it was the reason my back throbbed and looked like a damn tomato. It was also why the lizard was out on the rock, and why my toes felt nice burying themselves in the sand below me. The sun was a lot of things.

My feet are clean, not by choice, but because I realized feet could not get dirty here in Arroyo Grande, it's too nice of a place for dirty feet. The house is guarded by smooth rustic stone tiles that in two steps undo all the work put in to get the dirt on in the first place. A few horses mutter and pace out across the field next to a small guesthouse where a Mexican family lives and prunes trees or something. Derek's aunt told me their house is traditional for this area. One story something or other.

They do have a three-legged dog Annie with bright eyes and an energetic leap. The three-legged dog Annie hopped up to me just now to smell my kneecaps. I know that someone told me how she lost her leg but I forgot. I just figure a bear got to close to this traditional house one night and Annie gave it what's for. "Oh, this? Hell, you should see that bear!" She would say.

The flies are hovering lazily through my hair and the shadows are growing longer as the sun falls and falls. The smell of warm dirt and burning coals tickles my nostrils and plays tricks on my stomach. The man of the house has an enormous outdoor cooking pit that looked more like a black hole with a grate over it.

It is getting too dark to write anymore, but that's fine.

6/8/08 - 800 Miles and Sunburnt

We are 800 miles deep. Staying away from the sun is fucking impossible. Scurry from shadow to shadow, quick. Our movements are slow, riddled with personal curses, yelps, and groans. We tried to eat the whole 12,000 miles at once and overate.

Two days drinking heavily in the hard San Diego sun shriveled us up. I saw one of my best friends from Flushing, who currently blows things up, drives fast boats, and screws beautiful women for the Navy. It feels right for him to be in San Diego, and he loves it. I was very happy those two days, playing in the Pacific, letting the waves crash over me, giving in and letting my body become an insignificant rag doll, slowly eaten away by the sun and the salty spray. The nights were warm, but not hot, and we did not shower, but did not feel dirty. Drinking out on the front porch, breathing in the sea less than a mile down the road. The liquor store is right on the corner, and it stays open late. Everything was perfect, and the laughs resonated into the soft palm-lined night.

But we had to pay somehow. Derek can hardly walk, and Lance is getting blisters on both shoulders. My back is a deep crimson, with the exception of two islands on my shoulder blades, and other distinct outlines where my hands could reach, and my skin remained pasty white, defined against the crimson. Like a clown face.

We are in Arroyo Grande, a high class wine country area in the middle of California, visiting Derek's aunt and nursing our skin. I feel spoiled. Everything and everyone is nice. The cars seem too nice to drive in and the food to nice to eat. I know it will be like that last piece of apple pie before Idaho before the hard work comes down like a sheet of rain, but I am a masochist and want to be hungry and dirty right now. The groups is bonding well but slowly, beginning to feel one another out. A few nights around a campfire, some dirt and a half empty stomach will get us together in a hurry. None of this thin mask of manners and hospitality. By the time we come out on the other end there won't be a mask, our faces will show enough hunger and appreciation themselves.

Tomorrow we leave for Los Padres National Forest, up Highway 1, then off to San Francisco and Yosemite. Our trunk is packed up tightly, precariously, with overflow spilling out into the back seat, falling out the back when the trunk is open. Once we crack into our food store we should eat ourselves some room. In the meantime I will enjoy my pie, let my skin heal, and relax. We'll be on our own soon enough, wishing there was some pie left.

6/4/08 - The Long Night Before

"Freedom, Sancho, is one of the most precious gifts bestowed by heaven on man; No treasures that the Earth contains or the sea conceals can compare with it; For freedom, as for honor, men can and should risk their lives, and in contrast captivity is the worst evil that can befall them."

-Don Quixote

Freedom is an open road ahead of us. It's Derek's birthday again, twenty-one years old. This time last year we ended a five-country tour of Europe at breakneck speed on his birthday, in Amsterdam, celebrating with a half stale chocolate croissant and a sunset on a dirty dock. Tonight the celebrations were muted. A beer in an airport, bursts of laughter and nervous last minute planning. The talk of people with more on their mind.

Tonight a new question mark hovers over the group. A domestic question mark, a familiar unknown, like the pitch black in your own house. This is my country. This is Lance, Derek and Tyler's country. It's the sum of all the bullshit fractions of heritages make up. I am an American mutt free of attachments. Here under safe covers and soft lights for months at a time, only imagining the missed exits and gas stations, and locals with accents and deep set wrinkles, the wrinkles that a place really works into the skin over the years. A few bags with everything we own, carrying our lives around. The chaos of two oceans, connected by eager stream, dotted with placid lakes and easy people. Mountains and giant steaks. Smiles and a constantly half empty stomach.

We are hungry, with a lot to chew come morning. A big 10,000+ miles bite to gobble up and taste slowly, to nibble and examine subtly. Spit out, swallow,crave, and digest.
Shake it up some, make the tongue bleed! I want a stupid grin and some scars to prove it. Grease in the hair so thick it oozes down with the sweat. A burnt nose that never fully heals.

Images swirling around the true question here under my safe sheets. It's all a self-righteous rant, talking about things like I have something to teach while the honest sliver in me screams out in shitless fear. I'm taking this trip at an unstable time in my life. A time where i can see the foggy outline of things going either way. Staying in school, getting a job that makes everyone proud and in turn makes me a socially acceptable boring old man. There's something else there too, something that all this bravado can not even hide.

A 12,000 Mile Road Odyssey

In assembling the skeleton of this adventure these five words align themselves vertically, building a strong backbone to build on. Sinewy adjetives and tissue-lined descriptions eventually envelop this backbone, putting it on the back burner, out of sight but holding all the weight, keeping form. A 12,000 Mile Road Odyssey. A complete loop around the America.

We began in Las Vegas on June 5th, 2008 as a clean, sane group of four: My long time travel companion Derek, our friend and drummer Tyler, my younger brother Lance, and myself. I finished the loop alone forty-five days later on July 20th, dirty and permanently changed.

The following is a record of this change.

Looking Ahead

New adventures are on the way, including a 10 day climbing from to Red River Gorge in Slade, Kentucky (3/21-3/30), and an extensive summer road trip starting June 1st. If everything goes according to plan I'll be caught up by then, there's no time to waste!

Idaho Wrap-up

It's now March 19, 2008 and I've just finished transcribing events from last summer, almost a year ago. I blame school, waking up early, and a borderline climbing obsession. The fire didn't reach us, and I made it out of Idaho in tact. I've shaved since then, moved back to Chicago, resumed biking and climbing, and hardly even think about the mass amounts of people, metal and technology I see each day. I wouldn't have it any other way, because I couldn't appreciate what Idaho was all about without this.

Idaho - 8/?/07

It's a Tuesday, but I’m not sure what the date is. Normally I wouldn't care, but I think it might be my Dad's birthday, or it might be tomorrow. Either way I won't be able to tell him happy birthday until the 30th, when we get back to civilization. The hours pass by outside as we sit in Dave's cabin throwing cards and thinking about what to eat next. Cards that used to have a fine gloss finish, and shuffled easily. Now they're dull, brown, worn, a hassle to shuffle. Some we can even recognize face down. There's that old bitch, that queen of spades. Look at the face on that jack of diamonds. Another game? Yeah, why not. We had a home run derby with axe handles and choice rocks yesterday. We took turns standing out in the field with a helmet to verify distances, and give the batter something to aim at. Probably not the best idea, but how can you get hurt with a helmet on, right?

I smell worse than I have all summer, I think we all do. On the last hitch we reinforced some muddy trail with rocks, using mud to fill the gaps, which basically means that we shoveled mud, and when we got bored we threw it at each other. Even though the shower is readily available no one bothers to use it. Better to get your dirtiest before we get back to a clean civilized life. I'm ready to go home, or at least I've been lying to myself to get in the mindset, because I have to leave anyway. It's been a long, fast, short, dirty, belly laughing, simple, happy, insanity inducing two and a half months since the warm apple pie in Boise, since I've seen a car, a cluster of people, a suit, or a telephone. The hair and beard growing on my head are coarse and oily, and can hold a pencil. I took seven showers in ten weeks. Most people take that many in one. I've enjoyed writing letters to my family and friends, it starts a new relationship, and I don't see people's handwriting that often. German beer, French croissants, and eating on the street feel like distant memories. Planning things to eat when we get back is a big topic, music and movies are up there too.

I'm living in a burning state. Over one million acres are on fire of the 2 million making up the Payette national forest. The closest burn is less than four miles away. We're in a pocket actually, with burn on three sides of us. A permanent shroud of smoke, like someone threw Idaho on the grill and forgot about it. Ash rains on us daily like a light December snow. It's strange to be snowed on in 75-degree weather.

Play another hand? Yeah, sure. So, what's for dinner?

Waiting for some excitement, something! I'm harboring a secret hope that the fire clears the final ridge separating Chamberlain from full on inferno. I want to see flames and animals running across the fields in dozens. Dave says we don't need to worry about that. Damn. Good old Chamberlain, holding strong. Outside the window the sun bleeds red and brown through the smoke. I haven’t seen a blue sky in over a week, and it's rare that we see the sun at all. Those days feel like purgatory. Slipping off, talking in obscure, invented accents, imitating grouse, pretending to be Pulaski. Dreams muddled into the following morning. Too close. One ridge away, just get over that damn ridge!

Sam's Salacious Dishes

Thought up by the mastermind chef himself, while we were spitting a couple of grouse (grouses?) over the fire.

Tuna Casserole
Ingredients:
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 can cream of celery soup
half bag of egg noodles
1 lrg yellow onion
enough celery for 3/2 ratio to onion
2 cloves garlic
1 tbsp butter and veggie oil
1/2 cup miracle whip (to taste)
tsp. thyme
1/2 cup milk
1 cup frozen peas
2 cans tuna
3/4 cup bread crumbs
tsp margarine
pinch cayenne pepper

cooking:
mince onion/celery in lrg. saute pan w/ butter and oil until nearly cooked through
add minced garlic and cayenne, continue saute
while boiling egg noodles
reduce heat to low: add soup, tuna, peas, salt and peppr, milk to taste
add egg noodles
melt margarine and sprinkle bread crumbs on top

Bake at 350 degrees until bread crumbs are golden brown.

Sam's Sexy Suprise

Ingredients:
1 12oz. pkg. chorizo sausage
1 lrg yellow onion
2 cloves garlic
1 can diced tomatoes with green chilis
1 cup white rice
beef bullion

Cooking:
in a fairly ig pot with a tight ass lid (just writing down what ws told to me)
add sausage and onion, then sauteed garlic
when done add rice, sautee for a moment, then add tomatoes
cook until there's no waer left*

*Sam's side tip: serve with buttered french bread for extra deliciousness

Jambalaya
Ingredients:
1 cup minced onion/g. pepper/celery
1 clove garlic
1 cup white rice
1 can tomato sauce
12oz. of chicken
pinch cayenne
creole seasoning to taste
1 bay leaf
file powder (just a smidge)

Cooking:
sautee the trinity in oil, add garlic later
add tomato sauce, water
add everything else, save the file powder for a little coup de grace

Cuban Marinade
(good with pork!)

Ingredients:
1 juiced sour orange
2 juiced limes
6-8 minced cloves of garlic
1 tablespoon of cumin
enough olive oil to fill out marinade
1 lrg red diced onion

Floutas
Ingredients:
2lbs chicken or beef
1 sliced yellow onion
1 lrg clove of garlic
salt
enough water to cover

Cooking:
Add all of above , then bring to a boil, reduce to simmer until meat shreads easily
then shred it and set aside

Part Dos!
Ingredients:
1 med minced yellow onion
1 lrg clove of garlic
12-20 corn tortillas
1 cup tomoto sauce
cumin to taste

cooking:
saitee onion and garlic in oil
add tomato sauce, cumin, salt and pep, then the contents of the other pot and simmer until little water left
while simmering cook the corn tortillas in oil for roughly 5-6 seconds each side
put mixture into corn tortilla
roll into a flute
cook in 1/2 in. of oil

8/2/08 - Idaho

Sitting on a porch, shirtless in the afternoon sun, drinking a Pabst with Sam while we look words up in the dictionary in the middle of nowhere Idaho with a forest fire burning just two miles north of us. I think this needs to be written down. Just another check off the ol' life to-do list.

The salmon run's going on right now (along with fire season) down in Chamberlain Creek, so Sam, Dave and I went hoggin' last night to see if we could catch one. Hoggin', for those unfamiliar, is the art of using your hands to catch a fish. Sam mastered the technique right away, and taught me the ropes, shocked that I'd never heard of it. Who hasn't heard of Salmon hogging, right? "The trick is to get one hand 'round the base of their tail fin just so, and move your other hand slowly up their stomach, rubbin' 'em a little to calm 'em down, then when you get to their gills-" he interrupted himself with a fierce uppercut clamp maneuver, demonstrating his hand inside the gills of the fish, and making a fist, essentially tearing out the throat. "And, then you just gotta keep 'em from floppin' or jus' toss 'em on the bank." he said nonchalantly.

Sam caught one first, heaving it onto the bank with such force that he ripped on of its gills, then roughly a half hour later Dave got one a little smaller. Both were absolutely huge females, plump with eggs that ran out onto the counter when they were gutted. They were 10 lbs. each, Sam's being 32in. and Dave's 30in. They're sitting in the stove right now, wrapped in tin foil with some lemon pepper and salt, while we're out on the porch so the smell won't drive our stomachs crazy.

As for my salmon catching experience, I'd like to say I got one, but a true fisherman might refute my story. I got my hands on a huge female that Dave spotted, which we agreed later was the biggest we saw. It got away from me when I went for the death grip under the gills, leading us to a dense tree jam in the creek where at least four were hiding. I was still intent on getting the big girl, and finally got into a position where I, after rubbing her belly for a time, calmed her down to the point where I could get a firm grip on her gills. Clamping down to the slimy creature I got the beast fully out of the water, when she really started thrashing. I lost my footing, and the fish slipped out of my hands, nearly missed hitter her head on a log, and left only a swirl of silt as she hit the water and bolted off down the river.

We ended up finding her later after a search, but she was wary, and chomped at us through the dense underbrush, looking possessed, or just thoroughly irritated. Dave nearly got it on shore at one point, but by the time we hiked back to the station with growling stomachs she was the one that got away.

I think it's time to put the dictionary down and focus on eating some hand-caught salmon and drinking a few more of these PBR's. I killed a ground squirrel today with a piece of firewood. I saw the life drain from a salmon's eyes. The stars are beautiful out here, but there isn't much climbing.

7/27/07 - Idaho

Day 4 of 10. Camped at Moose Meadows.

I just finished Poe's short story "A Tale of Ragged Mountains," that could have easily been based where we're camped tonight. Situated on the edge of an expansive Y-shaped meadow, watching the sun drop lazily, flirting with the tree line. Shirtless, I can feel the air easing through the meadow, through the trees, to our camp. Dinner's on the pot, and Sam and Dave have taken to the breeze as well, all three of our sweat and salt stained shirts hanging from a branch. Sam's legs must have felt left out, because he's stripped down to nothing but his underwear. My mouth cracks a smile without telling me as I watch him hunch over the pot attending it like a mother would a sick child. "It's gotta be perfectly seasoned he says," as I complain to him about the rumblings in my gut. "Have I ever let you down?" he shoots a look with a spoon to his mouth, testing the broth. I agree that he hasn't, and wait, looking every so often at my empty bowl. I finished Crime and Punishment, which left a strong impression, I'll probably start it again this hitch. It's hard to imagine being completely moral-free to the point where you've convinced that burying an axe into an old woman's head is not only wrong, but actually doing the world good. Anyway enough of that, dinner smells ready, and the sun's nearly out of sight.

The Dew

Sopping steps, frantic walking,
It's only to myself I'm talking,
While the sun neglects its mopping,
of the morning's endless dew.

Thoughts have hardened , thoughts have clustered,
In unison they say,
"With all the strength your feet can muster!"
The dew it steady, heavy, and it's
Keeping you at bay.

Blistered, aching, laced up tightly,
In these boots my feet are bound.
The dew is patient, persistent, unhurried,
Burdening footsteps pound by pound.

It's funny what a nine mile hike in heavy dew does you the brain. We were all miserable, hungry, and soaked by the time we got back to Chamberlain. We were in a valley for the majority of it, so the sun couldn't reach us (or the dew), and to top it off we spent around 45 minutes taking turns sawing through a massive Ponderosa pine in the middle of the trail. We were due for a mail drop when we got back, which didn't come due to visibility (fire season's begun, blanketing the entire area with a grey haze). The thought of this dew keeping me from mail was too much.

7/19/07 - Idaho

Christmas in July has passed again. A fresh load of dried, zip-locked, preserved, canned, and powdered foods stuffed into this tiny wooden cabin, surrounded by hungry ground squirrels. I went a hitch without writing, the mail brought new literature by request, by plane. I never thought I'd be so happy to hear a plane overhead, our only link to outside civilization. Even in July my feet are cracked and cold, calloused like winters in Chicago. The wind's whipping around my face. It's a good day to stay inside and read, weighed down by a mixture of Dostoevsky and Poe, reading similarities between them, inspirations and connections whether dreamt, invented, or legitimate. While my beard grows steadily my head drifts to thoughts of axes, dirt, and guilt, and the line between the words in a book and real actions becomes undefined. The trail brings everything out of you, sweats it out, opens wounds and traps your mind into thinking, dwelling, with the same idea all day. Looking at the blade of a Pulaski I wonder if I could actually bury it in someone's skull, or at least carve out the part of the brain that thinks about it all day. Carve it out, hold it in my hand, and throw it on the side of the trail, in the dirt, next to the songs, fantasies, sticks, and pine needles. Memorize! Of course. It keeps the minds focused on something, a defense against myself. But now I just want to rhyme everything, get back to practicing, a slave to it, like I quit cigarettes by starting up coke. dozing off and waking up to thoughts of Lenore, the bust of Pallas. My cold feet like the bleak December, and each separate burning ember wrought its ghost upon my floor. Warm up. See what the guys are up to, think like a beard, slow and steady.

Idaho - 7/6/07

The wind's rolling in from the south carrying the pungent smell of freshly cleaned fish along with it. I packed up when the dark clouds rolled in while Sam and Dave cleaned the eight brook trout between them, running a line of cord through their gills and out their mouths for transport. It's a warm day at flossy lake, seven miles from Chamberlain. I'm still barefooted, feeling the soft pineneedles underneath callous, blistered feet. Rain's coming, mumblings about a shorter route behind me. Close to gutted? I holler back to them. I'm don't want to rush a fresh trout dinner, though. Boots on now, unlaced, sunburnt shoulders, leaning against a rough boulder, hearing every sound sharply, tasting the change in the air, feeling the rising and falling of my chest against my shirt, stiff with layers of sweat and salt. Using all five senses at one time, getting tuned in. Think we'll make it? Not sure. The exchange behind me is brief, hurried. No more time for scribbles, shit or get off the pot as Sam would say. Lace up, let's beat this storm, get the fish, and get the hell off the ridgeline.

Idaho - 6/30/07

Full moon tonight. We're on a surprise day off at Campbell's Ferry right on the Salmon River. I'm sitting naked on a warm rock in the mid morning sun, cool water lapping and playing around my ankles, setting an easy pace. Naked. Feeling great and more inspired to write, to swim, to laugh without a care. Soft bright sand, light rapids, and evergreen trees line the bank across from my warm rock. This feels right. Yesterday I saw a glistening black raven, two rattlesnakes (one six feet away rattling, poised to strike) and two elk. We hiked down Highline ridge into the Salmon River valley, through deep forest and exposed views from the highest point around. Through meadows with scattered Ponderosa pines, bold and towering, with a sweet smell like saltwater taffy. Lazy switchbacks down 3000 vertical feet, winding closer to the Salmon. My knees are worn and red from sawing all day, pants wearing thin. The heat reminds me of summer footbal, and sitting by the pool after a long day of practice, every muscle sore, throbbing. Our lack of food reminds me of living poor in Chicago, of staying in, hungry, during bitter January days. Cheap, free, deals, peanut butter and stale bread. We've got that in our food sack along with a bag of rice and a few packs of noodles with a hunk of slimy cheese. Catching the glint of the sun off my glasses I peer out over them, out at the river, the trees, the sun speckled river, as they all mesh together out of focus, colors running, bleeding, my eyes relaxing, resetting after each blink. This can't be recreated. My eyes are growing old and stubborn, they're not used to seeing without the help of a lens. Resting this notebook on my bare thigh, taking a deep breath, and feeling connected to something, completely connected. My legs and bottoms grip to every grain of sand atop the warm rock, sitting cross-legged, as exposed to my surroundings as they are to me.

A boat just passed and with it the connection. A big shiny red and white four man boat ripping through the river, making wake and unnatural rapids, sending waves at me. No embarrassment, no wave or acknowledgement from my exposed form. Just a curious look. The surroundings didn't flow as easily after that, shaken up from the motor boat. Taking one last look I knew it was time to go. As I left I felt an overwhelming happiness that it accepted a naked kid on a rock with bad vision.

Squirrel Hunting

I fell asleep for the bulk of the afternoon after writing the last passage. I woke to Sam's easy voice, excited, "I got one, I got a squirrel cornered!"

I awoke instantly as if I had been waiting, responded automatically with a nod and an "alright, stew," and found myself climbing out of bed, throwing a shirt on, and heading out the door before I realized I was awake. Sam was still talking, but my sluggishness was setting in, and I wasn't listening, his lips were off synch to his voice. I stepped into the sunlight and began to feel excited ad we walked toward Sam's cabin. A squirrel! Good mountain man eating. We had been talking of squirrel stew for some time since our groceries weren't due for another ten days, and we were running low on supplies.

"...walked in, and he ran right into the bathroom, but he was just looking at me like this," Sam's low twang peaked and broke in. It sounded as if he had just begun talking, mid sentence, out of the blue, but as I looked over at him, as he was making a squirrel peeking gesture with both hands, I could tell he was knee deep in the discovery story, and I had just pulled focus. "Fat Sunufabitch," he continued, and I felt a smile sprout and grow on my face, chiming in periodically with nods and affirmations until we reached the cabin.

We met Dave outside the cabin and filed in slowly. Dave was all smiles too. Sam opened the bathroom door to a startled rustling, but we saw nothing. I looked around the cabin for a weapon, something hard and blunt. Sam and Dave followed suit. I was in mid-grasp for an old broom in the corner, Sam had grabbed a piece of wood from the box next to the cast-iron stove, and Dave, who had his eyes fixed on the hole where the squirrel had shown itself, was reaching blindly for another broom in the corner nearby. We moved slowly, in unison, toward the bathroom when I caught sight of him. "You're right he is a fat pig," I said, laughing silently, looking at Sam, who's eyes were fixed on the rodent.

It was fat for a ground squirrel, with an unusually large humped back, offsetting its small head, and scared beady eyes set deeply in its skull. I was caught up in a thought of what it would be like to be trapped in a completely foreign place by three giants laughing down at you, when the critter made a dash right toward me, darting away from my foot at the last second, and made for the space between the cabin wall and the counter. Caught off guard, I attempted to sweep him, instead of whomping him. Dave, who was furthest away made a noise and pointed, while Sam moved quickly and fluidly toward the crack, hunkering down to striking position right as the squirrel disappeared behind the counter.

When the squirrel was out of sight the laughter exploded. I can't remember who started it, but by the time we were through I was leaning on my broom to keep me up. Sam had sat down cross-legged next to the crack, and drawn his buck knife holding it in one hand and the piece of wood in the other poised to strike. He turned and shot a toothy grin at me which made me double over again laughing uncontrollably, with Sam and Dave joining in.

When we had settled to a chuckle the rodent popped his head out and WHOMP! Sam's log grazed its tail as he turned face and flew back into his hideout with a squeak. After one closer encounter with Sam's log the Squirrel was wary, and we stepped outside for a while to laugh, and give the rodent time to forget the near death experiences. Soon enough we heard its fat body rustling around and looked through the screen door, and saw him planted in the middle of the floor. Luckily, we had shut the bathroom door, because when he saw us coming he made straight for it, saw it was closed, and ran back to the crack only to see Sam's body blocking the entrance. Pinned, he turned toward me, and with a twitch of my broom I sent him running to Dave, who had grabbed a log for himself, and with a dull thud of wood on bone. The squirrel fell without a sound. Its back leg was still twitching, thumping again and again against the floor. A dying muscle reflex, not conscious. The second blow came fast striking its head square. A black pool of blood formed under its body, spreading out, and a glaze fell over its eyes as we laughed a rich maniac laugh.

Dave cleaned up, and Sam and I took the dead body out to the creek to clean and gut it. I watched as Sam slid the blade into the stomach and watched as the insides poured out onto the healthy green grass. Sam broke each of his leg bones and slid the skin off, handing me the still warm carcass. I picked up the guts and carried them over to the edge of the woods, throwing them from camp as not to attract animals. Then I walked back to the creek to wash the feces from my hand that had run from the intestines. Sam washed his knife and we took the skinned carcass to Dave who had a plastic bag handy. We filled the bag with water and stuck it in the freezer. It was facing us, looking out through the murky water.

Idaho - 6/24/07

Sam and I have been taking turns yelling verses from the Beastie Boys’ "Paul Revere," all day. I actually wrote a verse here in my notebook I'm transcribing from.

Reflections on the sunset, and later sunrise, after a night with five hours of the most wonderful, fragmented sleep, tucked away in my sleeping bag with the wind whipping over me, leaving my contacts in to catch a few shooting stars before the night took to me. I didn't want to miss anything. Before I could finish a complete dream it's 5:55 A.M. and the sun is breaking, splitting the night sky, and it looks like an orange blue and green stained glass window through my sleeping bag. And it looks fake. It's too beautiful to be the first thing I open my eyes to. A bit of work that morning, then we met up with the rest of the group at the top of Sheepeater for lunch around noon, but the peak looks different this time. It could never look the same, but it seemed that it was holding back. Last night we caught it off guard, caught it in true form. Two and a half hours and ten miles later we're back, tired, dirty, and barely enough energy to throw down a few greasy cards in a game of Euchre.

Today, writing this, I'm showered, cleaner, and scribbling away on the front porch of the cabin, where I've been getting the majority of my day-off writing done. Maybe I'll write about Jasper tomorrow (short story I've been working on), but Sheepeater deserved a spot here, even though words won't paint the picture. We have today and tomorrow off, then we're headed to Campbell's Ferry, where we'll be out until July 2nd. We'll get groceries on the 4th, and properly celebrate this country's birthday with a bottle of Jim Beam and a middle finger to the British from the middle of nowhere America. We don't have any fireworks, but we have fire, and I'm sure we'll find something to burn. I'm taking the deepest freshest breaths of my life out here. Rice and Lentils in the pot, a warm breeze on my bare shoulders. A cool sun and trees everywhere laying down long shadows. We domesticated a ground squirrel this morning, but we're biding our time until we kill him and a few of his buddies for stew, until we make him fatter.

Blank. Block. Hole in a wooden cabin with an address, writing sideways. Sam said that he thought he'd been born in the wrong time period. I never thought I could find another one, but I seem to have stumbled into it. Won't go back. New York City? Chicago for another few years. Maybe live with my buddies for a while, but not back to that, to Flint. I miss them. A deer outside the window, lentils almost done, dirty legs in my sleeping bag, and itch in the beard, so many trees.