Manhole Music Tea Room

Suley stands in the now empty Manhole Music Tea Room. The light from a flickering match casts his shadow against the cracked and peeling blog.com facade. He lights a cigar and releases a plume of smoke into the air. Outside, everything was packed up on a donkey, ready to be shipped off to the land of dead ephemera - a land where ephemera never dies. Where ephemera says to death:

"Death, thou shalt die."

"Some kind of anodyne for ephemera," Suley mumbled to himself as he ambled slowly into the street.

"Humanity is ephemeron," whispered the donkey.

"True, short lived are we," replied Suley, not at all surprised that he was talking to a donkey. "But that's what makes life interesting. It dies. Impermanence and stuff. Wabi-Sabi. That's philosophy, man."

Suley looked at the donkey, but it only brayed and farted.

"Stupid donkey."

HEE HAW!!

Visit our new manhole, where ephemera never dies.

No, that's "Donkey Lips."

Happy Communist Workers Day!

Manhole The Younger has seen a lot of activity lately. I would advise you to read it. 'Tis good. I have tagged some folks for a meme there.

Tomorrow, I intend to play Jazz music and drink iced tea. It shall be most instupitiuous.

Question: Does anyone have a favorite Geraldo moment?

Mine is most likely what occured two days ago, when Geraldo was clutching the baby tightly in his arms in front of the Superdome, tears streaming down his face. Geraldo was crying out in the wilderness like some Christ figure. "There are babies here!" He exclaimed. Then that little baby, God bless him (or her, so hard to tell with small children), reached out and grabbed Geraldo's handlebar moustache. And I died laughing. And laughed until I resurrected. I'm still laughing now.

There's just something so incredibly funny about that. Whenever you see Rivera, you think: Gee I'd really like to just pull that moustache. You don't think it consciously, but you are thinking it. There's just no escaping it. Geraldo. What a weird guy.

J. has his "spackle," I have my absurd Geraldo moment. 

Fox News, your programming is genius.

My mum's student worker (my mum works at a college, I won't say which) has a brother who writes for Fox News. Apparently, Fox's writers, as with all news outlets' writers, are instructed to embellish just short of lying. 

Geraldo. You magnificent Bastard. 

Day 8 is forthcoming.

I'd like to thank the folks who raise the grapes way out in California
And I'm hopin' this will be their biggest year
'Cause scarlet water's all that's left to keep me hangin' on
That's why I'll try to wine me up each day and night next year

                                                    -Gary Allan

The sun struggled up on the 7th day. God would have rested, but I woke up around 7:00 to hit the showers before they got crowded. Had a pathetic breakfast consisting of peanut butter on a slice of thin, crumbly wheat bread. This was real travelling. Real Oregon trail stuff. The only difference being that we wouldn't have to ford the river in our wagon and none of us would contract Typhus. The great thing about America is that it's all frontier, even now, 300 years on, there's still that feeling of exploration. When you finally get to Oregon, though, don't complain that it's not a land of milk and honey. More a land of instant coffee and peanut butter.

As we continued southward, we noticed signs warning us that the interstate was "patrolled by aircraft." Really, people. They have huge, black, menacing signs of this nature in Virginia that read: "Speed Limit Enforced By Aircraft." I've never actually seen any Apache helicopters using hellfire missiles to take out speeders, but it's an idea. In Oregon they use creepy Cessna aircraft that fly up and down. One flew directly over us, probably 500 feet up, like it was watching us. After matching our speed for a ways it banked to the left and came around for a pass over the north bound lane. I imagined the pilot laughing maniacally like the Red Baron. That job must be fun as hell.

We then stopped at one of Oregon's rest areas. Oregon definitely has nice rest areas. A group called "Bikers for Christ" was passing out free coffee and cookies to weary motorists. Each cup and napkin had various bible passages on them. I got into a conversation with the elderly couple manning the counter. Apparently, both of them worked in the furniture industry, a job that sent them to North Carolina on occasion. They asked me about Moonshine of all things. Do folks assume we just know a lot about moonshine, that we're just hayseed mo-rons with a jug of XXX whiskey in one hand and a blunderbuss in the other? I didn't ask them that... They were polite about it and I wasn't at all annoyed by their question. I'm proud of that redneckyness, baby! 

After telling them about my (mis) adventures in Moonshine makin' and how it made you feel warm all over (imagine how amused they were at meeting a bonafide Moonshiner from NC), I asked them an equally ridiculous -but reasonable- question: "Why do y'all not have self-service gas stations up here?" I mean, they have assisted suicide in Oregon, but no self-serve gas? The old biker's response was: It's the law. Bikers, apparently, are allowed to gas their hogs, but folks in cars are not. Very strange. We talked for a few minutes more on this and that, including my plan to write a book about Southern Jews when I was done with graduate school, and then parted. I decided these were the second nicest people we'd encountered on our excursion (see? Something nice about Oregon!).

We stopped off at one of those full service gas stations. The attendant was a gal, probably in her late teens. "You want me to top it off?" C. looked bewildered. "Yeah..." C., not used to this sort of treatment, got out and insisted on washing the windows himself. A real throwback to the good ol' days, that.

We saw some fun people on the road in Oregon. There was a lady driving around in a car with birds painted all over it. White car, black birds. C. has this thing for ravens, so we pulled up along side and snapped a picture of her (those pictures will arrive eventually. C.'s camera is, ahem, on the fritz or something - dammit.). We also saw some girls who were hitchhiking. Dangerous. Why, you ask? 'Cause they looked like the kind that would stab you and steal your car and take it on a deadly, sinful joyride through the wilds of Oregon - murdering and leching. C. considered stopping, but seeing as how we were 3,000 miles from home, we weren't gonna take any chances. There was also a lady in a Jeep that C. kept trying to make eyes with. He also has a thing for Jeeps and the women who drive them. As we neared the California border, we saw a gal in a Nissan with North Carolina plates. We exchanged nods and she sped on.

Oregon had been fun, what with its bunny rabbits and full service gas stations, but it was time to get some California Love.

Our first stop in California was instantly made clear, for it was looming ahead of us, covered in snow: Mt. Shasta. C. and I vowed to touch snow before we left on this trip, and it looked like Shasta would be our last -and best- bet. Home of harmonic convergence, Mt. Shasta has hardly been a peaceful place in the last 2,000 years. It has erupted numerous times and remains to this day quite active. I was excited at the prospect of not only touching snow, but walking on my first volcano - not just any volcano, but a 14,162 foot volcano. That's the highest anything I've ever been on. 

After stopping off in the town of Mt. Shasta for information on the volcano, we made our way up the winding road to the parking area. The best thing so far about Shasta: it's free. No fee to walk up to what's right there, which makes sense. We drove up to the highest parking area, an area above the tree line, and were immediately greeted by the sound of Enya's "Orinoco Flow" floating gently through the air. There was a VW van coated in every cliche hippie bumper sticker you could think of, and a scraggly woman sitting on a picnic table, grooving. A ways up the mountain was a crowd of Gaia's children gathered in a circle meditating with the spirit mother. We were definitely in California.

A ranger lady drove up in her SUV and asked C. how we were doing. C., who also has a thing for ranger women, insisted on snapping her picture. I mumbled something under my breath about rangers and how they "was no good." I stand by that, too. Where were y'all at when I was freezing in the cold and bears were picking up my scent? 

The trail started just shy of 10,000 feet. From where we were parked you could see the snow. It was perhaps another 1,000 feet up. To prepare for the snow, I put on an excellent pair of snow boots. I also took my daito, "Black Dragon." A. laughed at me. "Why are you taking that stick?" "You never know when it might come in handy," I replied, "there might be bandits." In addition I loaded down my backpack with food. With memories of last year's disastrous outing at the Grand Canyon still fresh, I was keenly aware of the importance of sodium when hiking. Physical exertion - Sodium = sickness, loss of consciousness, and death. C. brought along some bread and bagels in addition to my jar of peanut butter and box of Triscuits. To supplement this there were at least eight bottles of water for the three of us stowed here and there.

The first leg of the walk was the hardest. After going for several days without a decent walk, our legs and lungs were having trouble acclimating. Not only were our legs all wobbly, but the air was thinner than we were used to. We paced ourselves fairly well going up. We'd walk 50 yards or so and then sit for a minute or two. We passed the group of hippies who were communing with the mountain spirits. One thing they seemed keen on doing was stacking rocks in strange formations along the trail. I'm not sure what this is all about, but it was kinda neat. The balancing acts that many of the formations pulled off were quite amazing. C. had a flashback to the time he was chased by Wiccans. A whole coven of them came after him when he stumbled upon one of their "handfastings" down in the country. Country Wiccans are not your typical Wiccans.

Mt. Shasta is a rugged place, but very beautiful. The terrain is almost totally breccia and grey volcanic pebbles and sand. Here and there are some hardy plants called Pasque Flowers that resemble something out of Doctor Seuss. My favorite flowers, name wise, were the Pussy Paws. We then came to a brook that was tumbling down the mountain side. Tall grass grew around it on all sides. Very beautiful (unfortunately, this is where pictures would come in handy). The water was flowing quite fast. Tired and thirsty, I stuck my head underneath one of the small waterfalls and took a long draught. Delicious, ice cold water. The coldest water I'd had since leaving home in fact. A. and C., after seeing that I hadn't keeled over from some poison, stuck their heads into the water and took long draughts. The water was quite good, much better than the wretched Deer Park we'd been drinking all trip long. We took a long rest there, sitting on tufts of grass and drinking water like primitives.

While my companions rested I scouted ahead. With my daito drawn I looked like some zealous Japanese officer traversing the ash fields of Iwo Jima. I scaled up to the next level and found an enormous reservoir that the mountain water was running into. I dipped my hand into the metal tank. Clean, cool, delicious. Amazing how such simple things can be wonderful when they're in a natural setting like that. Just above the next rise I could see the snow.

C., upon seeing the snow so close, took off like a child. The snow was wet and fairly new. Unfortunately it had been melting all day long. It was probably six or seven inches deep at the lowest level. C. fell into it up to his knee in one area, instantly soaking his pants leg. We tramped around in the snow for a while. With my snow boots I was able to ascend a 45 degree face that was covered in snow. While the others walked along on the trail, I decided to ascend the snow face using my daito as a pick. It worked remarkably well, and I was able to scale a good 100 or so feet of steep snow in August. Walking on a volcano was cool enough, but climbing snow in August was worth the trip.

After stopping for some food, A. revealed that her heels had been stripped of the outer layer of epidermis. The brand new boots she was wearing were slipping in the heel and causing her skin to be stripped off. I was led to believe that A. was in very good shape. She's a scrupulously regular gym-goer and eats healthy all the time, but for some reason the air just wasn't flowing into her lungs like it should. I wasn't particularly bothered by it, despite some shortness of breath. Well aware of how fast her condition could worse if she carried on, I asked if we should turn back. After thinking it over she decided to sit it out while C. and I climbed the next rise - which was the top of the caldera. After that we would turn back.

The last 100 feet were quite gruelling. At this point my gear was beginning to weigh on me and my legs were starting to ache with lactic acid. The trail vanished into a sea of breccia and stones. We just made our own path. In an insane move we took a steep route up a rock face in order to cut time off of our ascent. At the top, the last hand hold was the hardest. The wind whipped across the cliff side, sending sand into my eyes. For a moment I felt gravity attempt to pull me down and dash my brains out on the rocks below, but I was able to scramble frantically up and onto the top.

The top of the caldera was a somewhat flat area of grey pebbles and piles of snow. Here, for some reason, the snow had been dyed red. C. and I guessed that perhaps it was iron in the rocks. At the top of the cliff was the remnants of an old lodge that had evidently been destroyed by an avalanche. Huge telephone poles just snapped like toothpicks. All that remained was a concrete foundation and a couple of poles. We stood atop a toppled phone pole and eyed the summit jealously: another 3,000 feet, but much steeper and covered in snow. We resolved to come back next year and climb to the top.

The way down was so much easier. I simply ran down the side. With my sword I kinda looked like this guy while running down the mountainside. One dude who was walking his dogs up the mountain, probably thought I was going to kill him - until I smiled. A. had to go much slower. After resting at the spring again we made our way down to the truck and had ourselves a good stretch. Upon closer examination we found that A.'s foot wasn't as bad as we thought. And damn did it feel good to walk on even ground! What a treat we have in even earth! Next time you walk across your living room floor, enjoy the flatness of it.

From Shasta we drove and drove to get as close to Sacramento as possible.

Around midnight we saw a sign for a state park near the town of Williams that had a campground. After driving for what seemed like five miles off the interstate we came to a run-down little camp area next to a train track. Oh, great, more train tracks. Who are you sadistic asshats who put campgrounds next to train tracks? The price was 17.00. Since no one was there and we didn't have exact change, we decided to wait until the morning. If someone showed up that could give us correct change, then fine. If no one showed up, then so much the better.

The campground was filled with locals. One tent was obviously chock full of drunk folks. Another tent swayed back in forth in the dark. One fella was propped up on a picnic table downing what looked like a forty of liquor. That was the seediest campground I'd ever been to, and that's saying something. As we pitched the tent we noticed a strange moaning was blowing through the air. We strained our ears. It was a man singing. There was a karaoke bar not far away on the other side of the train tracks. It was Elvis' "Suspicious Minds," which is one of my favorite songs. Unfortunately, this guy was butchering it. The singing went on for at least another hour.

We soon discovered the showers were pay showers. I didn't discover until I was totally undressed and with a bar of soap in my hand that the showers only took quarters. After rummaging through every single article of clothing I had and every single pocket on my bags I managed to scrounge two quarters. 50 cent = five minute shower. I was the lucky one. Neither C. nor A. had any quarters. A. was forced to fill a jug up with water and use that as a shower.

When everything quieted down and the drunks stopped making noise we quickly went to sleep.

On the morrow: San Francisco.

Katrina just keeps getting worse. We're in for a gas crisis.

The two main pipelines from the Gulf that bring fuel into North Carolina have no electricity. By the end of this week there will be no gas in North Carolina save what is coming overland via truck. This is reliable info coming via the NC government. Just thought I'd pass that on.

Times is tough y'all. For more on Katrina, check tha otha blog.

Later.

Well, I wish I was in New Orleans
I can see it in my dreams
arm-in-arm down Burgundy
a bottle and my friends and me
hoist up a few tall cool ones
play some pool and listen to that
tenor saxophone calling me home
and I can hear the band begin
When the Saints Go Marching In
by the whiskers on my chin
New Orleans, I'll be there
                                   - Tom Waits.

Y'all pray for the folks in the Gulf states.

Woke up bloody early on the 6th day. The sun was shining directly onto my side of the tent, turning it into a regular sweat box. That night we had camped on gravel, and at some point the cushion I'd put underneath my sleeping bag got all out of whack. I was being poked by rocks for a good part of the night. I didn't notice it until I woke up. Just too damn tired. Anxious to get to Seattle before noon, we hurriedly repacked the truck and set off. For breakfast, C. and I grabbed a couple packs of Lance peanut butter crackers and washed it down with bottled water.

Western Washington is incredibly sparse. I expected more trees, conifers, redwoods, something. But as we got deeper into Washington, it began to look more and more incredibly barren. After a while I started to believe we were in northern Nevada. Nothing but dry dirt and scrub everywhere. As you get near the Columbia River, the terrain begins to look more and more like desert; rocks, shrubs, sand. But once we got beyond the Columbia the terrain began to change. C. broke the silence that morning (since then it had been mostly radio and the noise of crackers cracking): "So when are we gonna see Rainier?" I checked the map. "Pretty soon. It's big as hell." As we went over the next rise, Rainier came into view. I'm not used to mountains of that size. 

We'd initially planned on scaling Rainier, but since South Dakota we'd decided against it. There just wasn't enough time for us to see it without sacrificing other sites. But we remembered our vow to touch snow. At some point we'd have to touch it. If not Rainier, which was totally covered in it, then some other mountain.

Attracted by a sign that read "Free Coffee," we stopped at a rest area outside Ellensburg. A Volunteer group had set up shop there and was giving away free coffee and cookies. Well, not technically "free" - they did ask for a donation, but it wasn't required. Feeling charitable, I gave them a couple quarters. Best 50 cent cup of coffee and chocolate chip cookie I have ever had. Since I had been drinking black instant Folgers prepared in a pot that was also used for Ramen and oatmeal, pretty much anything would taste like heaven at that point. I was so happy to have a good cup of coffee that I didn't wait for it cool off and burned my tongue. Despite this little mishap, Washington receives the honor of having the "best rest area in the country." Montana, take note.

From Ellensburg, we ascended into the Cascade Mountains. The scenery quickly changed. Pretty little mountains reminiscent of the Alps, happy trees in abundance - mostly untouched by fire - and pretty lakes of the deepest phthalo blue. Here and there the pretty little mountains were capped with thin patches of happy snow. Bob Ross could not have invented scenery more beautiful.

After winding through Snoqualmie pass and descending towards the Puget Sound, we stopped off in a suburb of Seattle to get gas. The price was $2.59. This was the highest price we'd seen so far. We were shocked to see prices over $2.40 in Wyoming, but this was ridiculous. When we left Podunk, the price of gas was $2.18 (which is itself outrageous). At that price, we were looking at $30.00 for a full tank A 41 cent difference doesn't look bad on paper, but that's almost half a dollar more for each gallon. By this point, it cost us about $37.00 for a fill-up. Seeing paper leave my wallet at such a rate felt like highway robbery. And it is. I'm so getting a scooter.

We then made our way down into Seattle proper. We got off the interstate in Chinatown and made our way over to the docks where we parked "MacGyver" across from a "Celebrity Cruise" ship carrying lots of Japanese tourists. The parking meter was one of those digital deals that takes credit and debit cards. The fact that you could only get up to two hours wound up screwing us in the end. I suggested we put it in a parking deck, but C. wasn't willing to move the truck. It wound up severely cutting into our time in Seattle.

From the docks we made our way up to Pike Place Market, home of the original Starbuck's.  As we approached, I heard the strains of a familiar tune. There was a band of hairy men standing in front of a coffee shop playing "Fire On The Mountain," which is a song by the Marshall Tucker Band about a young man from Cakalaka who goes out west to make his fortune:

Took my fam'ly away from my Carolina home
Had dreams about the West and started to roam
Six long months on a dust covered trail
They say heaven's at the end but so far it's been hell
And there's fire on the mountain, lightnin' in the air
Gold in them hills and it's waitin' for me there

I mentioned how significant this was to C. and A., but they didn't get it. That annoyed me more than a little bit. How utterly perfect that this song should be playing at this particular moment in time - just as we, a trio from North Carolina, are coming west on a "dust covered trail," a group of street musicians should strike up this song just as we are walking by? Ah, but they didn't get it. Perhaps it was for the best. The guy dies "all for a useless and no good worthless claim" anyway.

Pike Place Market is little different from the open air markets (read: Flea Markets) I'm used to back home. It's just classier. And the women are prettier. In fact, I've never seen so many beautiful women in one place. Most, if not all of the ladies working the produce and flower stands were lovely. It's a proven recipe for business success. One of my professors told me a story about a family that ran a tea stand near a local university in Taiwan. The tea was not particularly good, but the students kept coming back. It turns out that the owner of the tea stand had put his daughter in charge of serving tea. She was so beautiful that the men kept coming around to buy tea in order to see her. In this way they were able to make a fortune and put the girl through university. We're such fools, us fellas.

In Podunk we have a place known as the "Buckhorn Jockey Lot and Market" where people sell pretty much everything. It's usually populated by rednecks selling junk, Hispanics who sell produce and cattle, and Vietnamese and Caribbean Islanders who hawk counterfeit Dolce & Gabbana and Hello Kitty merchandise. I'll have to write a post about it sometime, it's a fun place. Some people call it "Little Mexico." 

Pike Place is almost totally Asian-American. You feel like you're in China. There's a guy doing watercolors of Koi, a booth selling various Feng Shui items, a hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant populated entirely by grizzled locals, a joint called "House of Jade" that deals in, well, jade statues of Buddha, etc. etc. But the tourists are all Japanese. And there's so many people packed into the market that movement is almost impossible. We came to where they throw fish. Seeing fish fly isn't that interesting. It's worth a look, but it ain't nothin' special.

From there it was on to the Seattle Public Library. As we went, I was struck by how odd city people are. The biggest town I've lived in has about 70,000 people. That was many years ago when I was a youngun. Since I was about 11 or 12 I've lived in the country. We don't have bums or punk rock kids (posers, yes) or weirdos in the country. We don't have guys who run around clutching manifestos, or guys wth long beards who roll around on bikes, or street preachers (ours are strictly indoors), or the smell of human urine coming from an alley, or indie chicks with pierced noses....C. and A. were pretty turned off by the twitchy street folk and the odors of the town, but I rather enjoyed them. I don't get to experience this sort of thing. Well, neither do they, but they aren't weird like me.

The library was interesting. Certainly more vertical than I'm used to. I've been telling folks that it's like the inside of Wonka's chocolate factory. Not quite. In terms of the odd coloration, yes. It's not like any library I know. The library at my university is plush, a sort of glorified coffee house where kids hang out into the wee small hours of the morning. The Seattle library is a revolutionary building. Imagine if IKEA produced a building (as a side note, the IKEA website is as weird as hell. It's like their furniture is named after Norse gods or something). Rather than try to describe the library, here's an article. We got some much needed computer time, checked out the surroundings, and headed back down to Pike Place.

A. and I wanted to buy souvenirs for people, but as soon as we arrived, C. looked at his watch and announced: "We only have about fifteen minutes left on the meter." We had to walk back several blocks and plop more money into the machine. Since we'd come so far, we decided to head over in the direction of the Space Needle and then come back to the market. For some reason, C. wanted to visit the Seattle Vespa store. I kinda wanted to see it, too, even though we can always see the one in Charlotte. It was on the way so we stopped off there. Out front they had the incredibly overpriced PX-150s, which are the exact same thing as Stella scooters. The only difference 'tween the two being that the Stella costs about 2K less and the engine is slightly different.

The guy who worked inside was a jackass. When I mentioned that I was interested in a Stella he treated me like I was some sort of fool. When I asked him about the Stella he replied: "Why buy that when you can have the real thing?" The real thing? The real thing is an overpriced piece of crap! "Sell the name, not the bike," I said under my breath. When C. told him he owned a Stella and that he was looking for a floor mat, they wouldn't even help him. They told him there weren't any floor mats in the store and that he'd have to go down to their warehouse on the other side of town to get one. Funk that. It wouldn't be the first time on the trip we would encounter Vespa snobbery.

From there it was over to the Needle. Not impressive. It looks really tall in pictures, but it simply didn't impress me. Inside is a lame gift shop and a winding stairwell that leads to the elevator to the top. The line was fairly long and the price was fairly high. I would have liked to see the city from above, but C. and I are wary of amusements such as this. It shouldn't cost people money to climb to the top of things. On the grass lawn in front of the Needle I watched Japanese tourists take pictures of a huge mural of Ichiro across the street. Two little Japanese girls with duck calls in their mouths (don't asky me why) were making quacking noises at each other. Very cute. That's what I'll remember about the Space Needle.

From there it was back down to Pike Place. I was slightly disturbed that I wouldn't get to really experience this town. I'm one of those folks who just wants to go to a place and act like a local. I want to see what it's actually like for the people who live there. I want to go where the locals go to eat, where they shop, where they hang out, etc. etc. But when you're with two other people that's kinda hard. As we neared Pike Place I saw some Hispanics drumming on their knees under a highway overpass, which reminded me of home.

After briefly looking around at this and that at Pike Place, C. again informed us that our time was running out. I didn't have time to buy anything. We'd have to go back down to the truck and see to the meter. After the long walk, we didn't feel like walking back up Seattle's hilly streets to Pike Place. While standing there, A. and I got into an argument about what pier was used for "Real World: Seattle." Now, I'm not a huge fan of this show, I really have hated it since Puck stopped being on it - but I was absolutely certain it was Pier 70. A. thought it was pier 51 or something, I can't remember exactly. We were parked directly across from Pier 70. Despite my "100% certainty," A. was herself certain it was pier 50 something. So in order to appease A. we drove down to where Pier 50 something would be, but found nothing. Turns out it was Pier 70 all along. Sigh.

I could hear Frasier Crane say, "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid our time is up."

We then jumped on the highway. Rush hour traffic. Took two hours to get past Tacoma. We finally escaped stop and roll traffic and stopped off for a break at one of Washington's fine rest areas. Truckers were buying candy bars through vending machines protected by metal grates. The water from the water fountain was warm, soft, and cloudy. Some Chinese kids were playing with a dog by a concrete picnic table. I ate some peanut butter while sitting on the gate of the truck. A scary trucker sitting nearby inquired about our journey from North Carolina. We got to talking and it turns out he used to live in the city of Gardiner, which sits right at the northern gate of Yellowstone. We related to each other briefly how beautiful it all was out there. He told us to avoid I-5 through California, since it was "a fucking desert, there's nothing out there, man." I informed him we had no choice since we were going down to San Fran in a day or so. He congratulated us on making it this far and we bid him farewell.

We entered Oregon at night. My first memory of it is a car crash in the northbound lane of I-5. There were three or four cars crumpled up, blue lights, red lights. In the median, a set of headlights was shining on a white, blood-stained sheet draped over something vaguely resembling a person. Not something you ever want to see, especially when you're on the road 3,000 miles from home. The traffic was backed up for five miles at least. People were out of their cars and standing on the side of the road. We counted ourselves lucky. As we drove, I was reminded of the chorus to the song "Oregon" by They Might Be Giants:

Oregon is bad
Stop it if you can
Here it comes
Here it comes
Now it's after you
Flee to someplace new
Run away!
Run away!

That night we stayed at another RV park. C., who never signs anything with his real name, put "Daniel Jackson" on the campground register. If anyone knows the significance of that name, well then props to you. One thing that became quickly apparent was that peppermint grew wild over the entire RV park. The spot we decided to camp on was a bed of peppermint. The odor was strong, but not so strong that it was unpleasant. As we set up the tent, we began to notice the presence of large bunny rabbits. The rodents were everywhere, feasting upon the peppermint plants. C. and I quickly put down what we were doing and chased after them like idiots. It was like one of those sped-up Benny Hill chase scenes. 

Rabbit chasing and peppermint smell. Perhaps that is what heaven is like.

After a quick meal of beans and peanut butter we bedded down on the peppermint and dreamt of bunny rabbit girls on Vespas.

Tomorrow: Goin' Back To Cali' and snow in August.

"$37.00 for a fill-up."

"Clair de Lune" is a beautiful composition, is it not?

Went over to tha old skool convocation today. Saw some professors and kicked around.

In response to the most recent comments:

Jenelle: The road has changed me. I've done this twice now and I've definitely developed a taste for it. I find I'm very restless at home. I get sick being cooped up in one place for too long. I like not knowing where I'm going to be tomorrow and the day after that. But its not just the Wanderlust. Being on the road also connects you more firmly to the nation as a whole (even if it is sometimes negative). On the one hand, I feel a stronger connection to my region, but on the other I feel a stronger connection to the whole of the nation. It feels good to come home and hear a drawl, but then again it's also good to hear a biker from Oregon, a Latina from Los Angeles, and a Navajo woman from Gallup, New Mexico. I feel as if I'm more a part of it. 

Heather: I'm partial to Oriental food as well as Southern cuisine. Teriyaki chicken with rice and ginger sauce with sausage biscuits and corn bread. The best thing in the world is a glass of iced tea that is not too sweet and not too tart. Just cold enough so that the glass is sweating. Then top it off with a lemon slice. The memory of a good glass of iced tea makes my teeth ache. One peculiar combination that I also enjoy is a ripe banana that has been chilled along with a very cold glass of chocolate Ovaltine. I'm also all about some DiGiorno Pizza.

J.Star: Virtually every trip I embark on, rather it be with family or friends, comes to that at some point. It must be something about not being able to retreat into your comfort zone - your "private space" that brings things to a head. That's why prison sucks so much.

I think it's "Olfactorally." 

Jerry: Hey, Lainie, how's the trip going?

Elaine: Awful. This trip was a *huge* mistake. Huge!

Vegetable Lasagna: Please don't shout. I can't take it.

Jerry: Who's that?

Elaine: It's Vegetable Lasagna.

Jerry: Who?

Elaine: Vegetable Lasagna!!

Again, another cold morning. Considerably dewy as well. At some point in the night, things must have frozen over and then thawed as morning came. The sky was cloudless and somewhere nearby I could hear birds talking. The trees across from us were bear, victims of the 1988 conflagration that claimed 790,000 acres of Yellowstone. C. and I headed up to the latrine, a heated bathroom with sinks and stalls, but no shower. "Damn. We coulda just slept in here." The only time in my life that sleeping in a public restroom actually seemed like a good idea. After some gypsy-style washing up, we prepared some breakfast (again oatmeal and coffee) and kicked around the campground looking for signs of bears. C. discovered a pile of bear dung not fifteen feet from the truck.

Both of us had an encounter with a bear several years ago in Georgia - a brown bear. While at our campsite, in broad daylight, the creature just sauntered right up out of the forest and stood fast, staring at us. C. played dead. I just froze in place, sure I was about to meet my end. Then, the creature ran off to the right. Convinced it was going to fetch its buddies and then come back for us, we ran like mad and took refuge on top of a shelter. We scaled that thing like acrobats. When you're scared shitless, you can do amazing things. Needless to say, the fact that a bear had been so close to our truck was slightly unnerving.

I then busied myself with cleaning out the oatmeal-caked pot. Since there were no outdoor spigots to use, I decided to use one of the sinks in the bathroom. After cleaning out the pot and attempting to force most of the oatmeal gunk down the drain (some of it just wouldn't go), I retired to the truck to pack it away with my other things. About 10 minutes later I returned to the bathroom to find a note perched up on the soap dispenser scribbled on a piece of napkin. It read: "Please do not wash your dishes in the bathroom sink. I have to clean it myself. Thank You." Well, excuse me. A tiny bit of oatmeal sits in the bottom of the sink and you just have to write a note. Would you prefer me to dump it out in the pristine natural setting where it can attract bears? Would you prefer that I keep a moldy oatmeal caked pot inside my backpack all day? That was just the first minor annoyance of what would become a highly annoying day. A Vegetable Lasagna, you might say.

After eating breakfast and washing up, we sat by the truck and waited for the good samaritans to awaken from their drunken stupor. When it seemed Bill and Jenny wouldn't wake up, we had an argument over who would write the thank you note. Luckily, Bill came out of the tent all scraggly haired and squinty-eyed. Jenny followed, ragged from sleep. Our "gods" were not morning people. We all shook hands, said our thank yous, and then bid farewell. I was a little saddened by the fact I would never see these people again. For one night we connected and shared a beautiful view of the sky over Wyoming. In haste, C. snapped a picture of their car (when I get it from him, you'll be among the first to see it).

We then made our way to Old Faithful and the geyser basin. Very crisp morning, just perfect for lots of steam. From a distance, as we approached the basin, it almost reminded me of home. My house is not far from several textile factories that have huge vents that release heated air, and during winter the air rises up in thick, white clouds. As you get closer, the geysers take on an otherworldly aspect. There are so damn many of them that you feel like you're looking at the surface of another planet.

While there we toured around the geyser pools. The area is set up with plank walkways that are elevated over the thin crust of the basin. I'm happy to report tat Old Faithful was as faithful as always. It's not as breathtaking and exciting as advertised, but still neat to see. A man with a gimpy leg came up next to us at the Old Faithful viewing area and suddenly ripped a mondo cheek flapper. Mein Gott in Himmel. He just let it go. He didn't care. The man just kept walking like it was nothing, but we instantly folded over in mute laughter. That's the eruption I'll remember from "Old Faithful." Who is this guy who just breaks wind in front of people like it's nothing and then keeps on walking without so much as flinching? That takes chutzpah. Sir, I salute you.

We hiked a short ways through the woods up to the Solitary Geyser. This is by far my favorite of them all. It's secluded and still retains some of that primordial look that the others lack now that they've been circled 'round by walkways and information placards. In addition, you can walk right up to Solitary Geyser and touch it. C. stole a few pieces of the thin crust that accumulated around it as well. Afterwards we visited the lodge and General Store. The store has everything, just overpriced. You can buy virtually every brand of liquor in the Old Faithful General Store, as well as every domestic beer. No Guinness, though. I suppose people like to get crunked while they watch Old Faithful. Perhaps the Park Service doesn't recognize the risk to personal safety posed by selling hard liquor near volcanic heat vents.

From there we drove on towards the north entrance of the park. Along the way, the sheer devastation caused by the 1988 fires became more apparent. So much of the foliage has yet to fully grow back. We stopped at several other smaller geyser basins before finally reaching the northern gate to Yellowstone, which bears the inscription: "For the benefit and enjoyment of the people." Before we left, I made a vow to return. 

From there we took Highway 89 north to the interstate. After driving for one, two, three hours, one thing became apparent: Montana is honkin' big. To make matters much more boring, most of it was brown, rolling grassland. C. and I spent our time scanning the radio for corny rock songs to sing along to. The one that sticks in my mind is "Living On A Prayer" by John Francis Bongiovi. Nothing aids one in escaping the drudgeries of life better than that tour de force of hair rock, the mellifluous "Slippery When Wet."

When lunchtime rolled around we stopped off in Butte for a bite. Along the way, we'd seen signs for a chain called "Taco Johns." Now, the mascot for this establishment is a Capuchin Monkey named "Whiplash" who rides around on an Australian Sheep Dog. Edward Lear, on one of his better days, could not have invented something more absurd. On top of that, the motto of Taco John's is "There's A Whole Lot of Mexican Goin' On." How could we resist?

(If you've ever been to a Taco John's you'll have to forgive me if I bore you here) The interior of Taco John's is similar to a Taco Bell, except it's relatively clean and the kids seem like they're actually working. When we got up to the front of the line, I was unsure of how to order. Just what do they serve at this place? What in God's name is a "Potato Ole?" It's just Mexican food, I told myself, it can't be that complicated. Not knowing what to get, I just went for it: "Yeah, I want a Taco Bravo meal and a beef burrito." "large, medium, or small?" he replied. "Um," I was confused, "You mean the drink?" "No. The meal. Large, medium, or small?" Now I looked the fool! I had been outed! I instinctively went with the medium. Good ol' Via Media. But not even that could erase the damage. My identity as an outsider had been revealed. Then the price came back a little steep: $7.00. This ain't like no Taco Bell, I thought.

C. got a couple of soft shell tacos "meat and cheese only." He can't digest greens. For real. As a child, C. used to hide in his grandparents cabinet and eat raw meat straight out of the package. A. ordered some grilled chicken thing. She has a hatred for all things fast and fried. When our order came up, we were shocked at the amount of food. Not only were there two soft tacos, a taco bravo, a burrito, and grilled chicken thing, but a basket of nachos with cheese, and - get this - a half-gallon sized bucket of hash browns (or to use a Hardees term, "hash rounds"). "Those must be the Potato Oles," I remarked.

Not surprisingly, Taco John's tastes hella better than Taco Bell. Not only do they put lettuce (good lettuce) and beans in their stuff, but they also put olives. Delicious olives. And the "Potato Oles" actually go well with the Mexican cuisine. I was surprised. I'm used to eating hash browns as a breakfast side with my Biscuitville biscuit. My only complaint was the rumbling I got in my innards afterward. Lawd a'mighty. Mexican food is the only food, which, immediately after eating it, you ask yourself, "why the hell did I eat that?"

From Butte we ran non-stop to the border with Idaho. Along the way we passed through Missoula, Montana. Missoula is an old oil town. The skyline (if you can call it that) of Missoula is still dotted with oil derricks. From Missoula to Idaho it was still an hour or two. At a rest stop not far from Missoula, we had a run-in with a weird local. Apparently, some Montana rest areas are on private land. The rest stop we happened to stop at was a guy's house. In front, he had a tree covered in the dessicated corpses of elk he'd discovered along the highway. They were nailed up there as if to say, "I'm not a nice guy. In fact, I'm insane." A loud, but ultimately cowardly dog came rushing out at us as we perused this macabre collection. C. pointed out that it was the same kind of dog you see in the movie "Road Warrior." Then this guy comes plodding down out of his trailer and asks, "Can I help you?" "Yeah, we just saw this tree and came to look at it." We gave the guy a line of talk about hunting, but only largely out of fear that he might kill us if he knew we were "college boys." I was glad to get out of there. Montana, you have the worst rest areas!

We crossed the narrowest strip of Idaho, thank God. All along the interstate, the forests were being scorched as part of a controlled burn. It was smoke for fifty or sixty miles. Before crossing into Washington, we stopped off in Coeur D'Alene to refuel. I hate that town. As we pulled into this place, an asshat totally cuts us off and steals our pump by pulling into it like he owns the friggin' place. We just sit there, looking at him. He casually gets out of the car, says something to his woman, and begins pumping gas like he didn't do shit. C., who is pissed as hell, gets out and walks off for a moment to avoid killing somebody. When the jackass sees me get out of the back of the truck and just stand there, looking at him, arms folded, I could tell he got a little nervous. Weren't expecting two guys, were you, you sonofabitch? When the pissant finally goes in, pays, and jets off in his ridiculous IROC Camaro (Idahoan Retard Out Cruisin'), we find that the damn pump doesn't even work. I go back and forth, talking to the woman inside about six times, until we realize that the pump is totally broken (somewhere, faintly, I hear the voice of Nelson Muntz go, "Ha-ha!") The IROC guy must have broken it. She tells us to move the truck around to the last pump on the other side of the station. C. doesn't lose his mind. We refuel and return to the road. Vegetable Lasagna.  

Spokane was dark. I don't remember much from it except the Spokane Valley Mall, which they light up in neon at night. It's very 80s looking. I could imagine Tiffany singing to a crowd of Val Girls clad in dayglo in that mall.

That night we camped in a town called Ritzville. Another odd town name. Luckily, they had a La Quinta there that ran an RV park in back. As we pulled into a spot and stopped to check it out, some asshats in a giant $200,000 RV poked their heads out of their side door and barked, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" C., trying to be polite, replied, "Oh, is this your spot? We're sorry..." "YES IT'S OUR SPOT!" "Sorry, sorry, we didn't know...." Since Couer D'Alene it had been only assholes. I was so hoping we wouldn't run into anymore assholes that night. 

The girl in the La Quinta office looked straight out of 80s. She had a gnarly perm that looked like baked lasagna. Fortunately, baked lasagna girl was able to set us up with a tent site with showers and a pool for only about $17.00. I loved baked lasagna girl. It was too late for the pool, but each of us wanted to rid ourselves of the accumulated road grime. We hadn't properly bathed since Iowa. I went up to the shower first, convinced I wouldn't run into anymore assholes. I was ready to bleedin' relax, but oh no, no such comfort would be afforded to me. Someone came and knocked on my shower door. When I asked who was there, I got no response. Minutes later, it happened again. When I responded to the interloper, nothing. I was getting plenty fed up. If he comes again, I'll give him the what for, I thought. Sure enough, he came again. I wrapped myself up in my towel and strode out into the bathroom. No one. A stream of obscenities and oaths escaped my lips, but no one showed themselves. Vegetable Lasagna!!

After returning to the tent, I warned A. and C. about the <word deleted> and set about preparing dinner (a delicious can of Bush's Beans). C. told me he'd jump out naked at the guy if it meant catching him and trudged off to the showers. A. soon followed after. C. returned fifteen minutes later. "Well, some asshole knocked on my door, too," he said wide-eyed. "What did you do?" I asked, my mouth full of Boston Baked goodness. "I just yelled like this: Alalalalalala!" C. does this yell that sounds like every curse word combined into one. It's a fun sound. "After that, he didn't come back!" That gave me a chortle. We were starting to come down from our high level of agitation.

After finishing up my beans I figured I'd go check on A. I didn't want the same jackass who'd bothered C. and I to get hold of her. I waited outside the showers for a couple of minutes, pacing to and fro. When A. emerged, she flinched and got in her best "Gymkata" stance. "I was about to cut you," she said, "Someone was knocking on my shower door." We left the shower well alone after that, staying close together down at the tent for the remainder of our stay. That night I kept my daito (nicknamed "Black Dragon") at my side, just in case I'd have to crack somebody's skull.

Despite the interloper, we were just too tired to stay awake that night. The intense period of everyone being on edge had passed. A decent night of sleep awaited us. 

Tomorrow was Seattle.

The other dogs must laugh at him

"Night wolves moan
Winter hills are black
I'm all alone
Sitting in the back
Of a long white Cadillac"

South Dakota is fairly cold in the morning, at least it was that morning, probably somewhere around 50 degrees. After going into the bathroom for a shower I discovered that the water pressure was next to zero. When I turned the handle all I got was a pathetic trickle of lukewarm water. I'll spare you the details of the berry patch campground's bathroom facilities. Let's just say that I would advise you to never go there. Ever. Camp on the side of the road if you must, but don't let them have your money.

From there we took Highway 16 south to Mt. Rushmore. As you near the monument, you begin to see wild goats all over the place. They're snow white and look like something you'd come across in the Himalayas. We pulled the "MacGyver" up along side a couple of them and snapped a picture (at this point I would show you the picture I took of them, but C. has yet to send me the pictures, dammit).

Then, as we rounded the bend, the four presidents came into view. Washington first, which is fitting. He stands in front, chest out, like he's protecting the others from some unseen enemy. He's the big daddy who could have been king but said "No thanks." Then Jefferson. Another Virginia boy. I'm a Jefferson man, myself. The population of farm animals outnumbered the population of bureaucrats in Washington during his tenure, which ain't bad. He's almost gazing over George's shoulder, straining to get out of his shadow (as a side note, both Washington and Jefferson were exceptionally tall men for their day, 6'3" and 6'2" respectively). T.R. comes next. He's tucked into the corner, apparently standing on a box (He was 5'10"). T.R. was the first truly "modern" president. Not only did he act the part of hunter, pugilist, and traveler, but he established our national park system. Finally, it's Lincoln. When I look at Lincoln I feel like I'm looking at God. Grim, careworn. Sometimes you disagree with him, but in the end you know he's right. Lincoln rounds out the group at a towering 6' 4".

The entrance fee to Rushmore is $8.00. Not bad. It's good all year. If anyone wants a free pass for a Blue Chevy, you're welcome to it. We were the first people to pull into Rushmore that day. The wind was blowing, it was probably 40 degrees, and I hadn't had my coffee. Before we walked up to see the monument we sat in the car park and made up a pot of breakfast consisting of cinammon flavored oatmeal. I also made some cruddy, black, instant folgers which tasted like ramen for some reason. After that, C. insisted that he carry his huge Lowe Alpine hiking pack up to the monument. His excuse was that he hadn't exercised in three days and needed to get his lactic acid flowing. On the way up the steps to the viewing area, C. looked like a psycho yodeler.

When you get up close to the mountain it looks much smaller than you think it will be. A. and I were scratching our heads. "I thought this thing was supposed to be really huge." It is slightly less impressive than in pictures, but only slightly. The sculptures are remarkable, though. A path leads down to right underneath the four. When you walk right underneath them you get a better sense of how utterly monumental an undertaking this was. When I say it isn't as big, I still mean its big. Big as hell. You could climb inside Jefferson's nose and sleep in there. Roosevelt's glasses look like they're about to slip off and crush those below. After walking silently (and it is somewhat solemn. It's like a secular-national holy site), you loop around to the artists studio. There they house some of the casts that Gutzon Borglum used in his work on Rushmore, including a scrapped design that features the arms and hands of the four presidents.

We then headed over to Crazy Horse. C. has always had this (crazy) idea that it would be cool to have our pictures taken next to the incomplete Crazy Horse monument. "It would be cool to show our grandkids, like a sort of 'we were there' thing.'' Ok. Fair enough. As we pulled up to the entrance, I warned C. that if it was over $10.00 it would be no dice. Sure enough, it was $24.00 per vehicle. Funk that. We pulled down as close as we could, snapped a picture in mid u-turn, and zoomed out of there. If they're gonna charge that to enter then Crazy Horse can just stay incomplete.

From there we rode up through Deadwood. This is the famed silver mining town that Wild Bill Hickock once frequented. Lots more motorcycles. Trikes and bikes and whatever else it is those people ride around on like Mongols. From there we ran to the interstate. At a rest area we met some folks from Cakalaky and South Cakalaky and had us a warm welcome. Good folks. Comforting to hear a Southern accent when you're away from home. From there it was on into Wyoming. Big sky everywhere. Wyoming may be the most picturesque place on Earth.

The terrain of Wyoming is varied, but a lot of it reminds me of parts of western Colorado. A sort of high chaparral terrain that is dominated by grass and shrubbery. At some point I dozed off. When I woke up it was getting cold as hell in the truck. We were climbing up a steep gradient and I could see snow-capped mountains in the distance. After taking stock, sleep overtook me again. I awoke at a gas station in the town of Ten Sleep. This is one of the more odd town names I've ever encountered. I should talk though, there's a town called Lizard Lick in NC (Home of "Yoshi Day" of all things)! While there, we were joined by a gang of Canadian bikers dressed almost totally in leather. In the distance, beyond a grove of trees and a stone picnic table, stood an orange mesa. We were in the desert now. A dramatic change from earlier. After refueling on peanut butter and apple juice, we headed out for Yellowstone.

The road to Yellowstone was fraught with peril. As we neared the town of Greybull, we noticed fires burning all alongside the road. They were controlled burns, but the smoke was pretty thick in patches and it looked like a warzone. Could the gods of Chi be telling us to turn back? Then, dark clouds began to gather on the horizon. Fierce winds swept in. These were like shear winds that kill people. The sort of winds that cause airplanes to fly out of control. The wind got so bad that the cover on the truck bed threatened to fly off. Since I was back there, it fell on me to hold it down. It probably didn't do any good, since I could feel the truck being pushed from side to side by the winds. Luckily, after passing through Greybull, the clouds cleared and the winds subsided.

After passing through Cody (named after Buffalo Bill), we entered the last leg of the journey to Yellowstone. The terrain along this corridor is nothing short of otherworldly. (Now, I will begin to gush) Again, I felt like I was in Middle Earth. Places like that don't seem real to me. Everything you pass looks like every stereotypical beautiful wildnerness scene, but now it's somehow profound. Every photo that looks banal and tasteless up on some cheap motel wall, something you wouldn't give a second thought to, instantly looks breathtaking when you see it in person. The scenery along Highway 16 through northwestern Wyoming is truly God's country.   

We reached the entrance to Yellowstone in the dimness of the dying light of the fourth day. Like all national parks, the fee was $20.00. This time we weren't disgusted at the price. It would turn out to be worth it. After driving for 10 minutes or so, we came to an orange sign. Oh no, I thought, I know what that means. One constant to life in North Carolina is road work. You think the state government existed solely to build roads to places. Damn orange road signs are the devil. But the last place I expected to see them was in Yellowstone.

We pulled up to a woman holding a stop sign. After waiting for five minutes behind another car I got out and asked "what the deal?" Apparently, they were widening the road and putting in a retainer wall ahead. No pavement. We had to wait half an hour for the pilot car, which would guide us along the narrow cliff edge and into the park proper. It began to rain. Again I thought about our Chi. I didn't want to camp in a wet, wooded camp area tonight. If we made it that far.

After waiting about 20 minutes the pilot car arrived, and guided us through the unpaved construction area and back onto the real road. From there we descended down into the caldera of Yellowstone. Some people don't know that Yellowstone is in reality a super volcano. 2.1 million years ago, the Yellowstone super volcano erupted, burying 20 states in ash. For comparison, Mt. St. Helens only covered part of Washington and Idaho in a thin layer of ash. Although it's not likely to happen again any time soon, it's still pretty cool knowing there's a chance you could be vaporized at any moment.

Then the rain cleared and we were treated to the most beautiful sunset ever. Ah, the supreme ephemerality of that sunset! Pink, blue, and slightly orange at the selvage. J.Star, as color sensitive as I know you are, you would have flipped at this one, dude. We parked beside Yellowstone lake and took many photos. At this point A. was getting annoyed at our camera-happy nature. From there we went in search of a campground. The first campground we checked was booked up. Night fell. We drove another 15 miles or so to the next (Yes, the park is friggin' huge) and found that it was booked up. Not to be deterred, I stuck my head in the campground office window and inquired if there were any open campgrounds in the entire park. The answer came back after ten minutes: No. Check with the ranger station. They may have an emergency spot for you. 

Aw, hell, I thought. It was beginning to get mighty cold rapidly. C. and I shifted into preternatural redneck mode. We would have to steel ourselves to survive this one. We made our way to the ranger station. Totally dark. A light was on in one office. I knocked and knocked but no one answered. Taking a flashlight and preparing myself to do battle with bears, I searched around the sides and rear of the ranger building, but found no one. Out chasing Yogi, I guess. I returned to the truck and suggested we return to the last campground to inform them of the lack of rangers. Maybe they could get on the ranger phone and wrangle us some rangers. When we got there, we found the place closed up completely. In the fifteen minutes they had all darted off to God knows where.

We just sat there, totally dejected. C. began to lay out a plan like he always does. "We've got light in this parking lot. I say we just crash here." I was about to agree to this when a white Volkswagen TDI pulled up next to us and a guy jumped out. "Is the place still open?" "Naw," I replied. Apparently, they had reservations. He snatched a reservation from a box of some sort and darted back to his car. As the VW was pulling away I suggested that we ask if we could possibly share their camp area, or at least park next to it and then sleep in the truck. But the car pulled away. I thought we were screwed.

Then, a Yellowstone miracle happened. The white VW returned and the passenger side window rolled down. Inside was the man from earlier and his wife. "Hey, are you guys stranded without a place to stay?" "Yeah, we are actually," I replied, trying not to seem too desperate. "They gave us a group site I think. There's more than enough space if you'd like to stay on our spot." "Yeah! That would be great! Thank you so much. We thought we'd freeze out here." "Great. Just follow us to the place." A. and I thanked them profusely. "Nice people," I said as I jumped into the truck."No, they're gods," A. added.

At the campsite we had our introductions. Our two saviors are named Bill and Jenny, a young couple from Minnesota. If you asked me to, I would fall down and worship these people for rescuing us from sleeping in 30 degree bear country. We continued to thank them. All we could offer was our meager food. Peanut butter, ramen, or Chef Boyardee ravioli. They politely declined. A fire was built and they broke out the wine. Wine. I didn't think I'd see wine at the end of that day. After warming ourselves and talking about our regional differences for an hour or so, Jenny and Bill got a little tipsy from the wine. The conversation got a little interesting. Jenny laughed uncontrollably at one of C.'s stories and I was afraid we'd wake up the whole camp area (it wasn't until the next morning that I realized we had pissed off a group of campers across from us).

We then became transfixed by the sky. From where we stood, you could see the Milky Way stretch out, upward, into infinity. Never have I seen so many stars in one sky. Shooting stars as well. I craned my head back. My breath swirled into the air. I wanted to swallow that moment whole. Jenny offered me some wine and I availed myself. With little or nothing in my stomach, I quickly felt a little affected. Jenny then did an impression of the time her friend crashed her motorcycle, complete with motorcycle noise. It was so loud I thought the rangers would surely come and arrest us for disturbing the park peace. After nearly burning my shoes in the fire and blinding myself from campfire smoke, we decided to turn in for the night.

C. was so utterly terrified of bears that he refused to pitch the tent. I argued it would be warmer to do so, but he was set on staying in that truck. After rigging up A.'s accomodations in the back (which is actually halfway comfy), we settled into the cab to sleep sitting up.

Thus ended a day I'll never forget.

And a long ass post.  

I'm moving to blogger. Or, rather, moving back. I initially set up shop at blogger, but then moved to blog.com. Why, I can't say. Now I'm moving back to blogger simply because it's more customizable. I'm fed up with blog.com and their fixed templates. I'll finish up the road trip narrative here and then move completely over to blogger. If you wanna see what the new manhole looks like (as well as the first real post there) check it out.

The morning of Day 3 was filled with promise. Finally, we would be seeing the real west. The rest of Iowa was fairly plain, except for the massive windmill generators. Everytime I see those I think I'm in some sort of eco-friendly future populated by genetically engineered people. They're almost creepy and Orwellian.

If there's one state that could justifiably be called the Realm of Rohan, it's the state of South Dakota. Up, up, ye mighty riders of Rohan, atop your argent steeds! Rally to your Corn Palace, warriors of the Sioux Empire! As you cross the grasslands, you think: Out here in the fields, I can fight for my meals, I can get my back into my living. I don't need to fight to prove I'm right. I don't need to be forgiven. You may also think something like: I'm a cowboy. On a steel horse I ride. And I'm wanted...dead or alive. Curse you, Jon Bon Jovi!

I-90 across South Dakot' is just one long straightaway. Ideal for taking a hog up to about 90 mph. We were passing through at the height of Sturgis, so the riders of Rohan were definitely in effect. Eventually you just lose count of the motorcycles. We were passed hundreds of times by menacing - but surprisingly - courteous bikers. C. felt the need to identify every bike that passed by. He owns a Honda Goldwing, but is trying to sell it. If anybody wants an old ass Goldwing (in good condition!), just let me know and I'll pass it on to C. But the bikers were really nice. I was expecting some sort of "Mad Max" nightmare, but most of them were just red state family types out enjoying themselves. I even spotted a couple of Japanese bikers. What surprised me about the folks is that they would just floor it sans helmet. 90% of the bikers we saw weren't wearing any sort of head protection, nor visors. I guess they like swallowing insects.  

The terrain of South Dakota changes from farmland to sparse pastureland and then into rolling hills dotted with patches of black stone. These are the "Black Hills." It's at this point you begin to think you've been transported to Middle Earth. Eventually it all unfolds into a Led Zeppelin album cover; a unicorn crashing into a naked woman riding a winged puma. You drive for miles and miles and see no one. Yet magically, all of it is fenced in. Who are you keeping out? Or in? 

The emptiness is eerie. Not too long ago, this land was populated by millions of buffalo. Now reduced to mere thousands. I don't need to hear about how evil the white man is. When you study history, you get a fairly balanced picture of how utterly reprehensible all of humanity is. But of the things the white man did do on this continent, the destruction of the buffalo ranks up there. The indians he put on reservations, but the Buffalo he pursued to oblivion. In 1850 there were approximately 20 million buffalo. Today there are only about 350,000. After crossing the Missouri river we stopped off at a giant statue of a buffalo and posed like we were Troy McClure/ Jebediah Springfield (star of such films as "Good-Time Slim, Uncle Doobie, and the Great 'Frisco Freak-Out"  and "The President's Neck is Missing!"). Sadly it was the only Buffalo we would see for the duration.

At some point I found myself at a Walmart. C. needed some batteries for his Digicam so we stopped off at the Rapid City Supercenter. The parking lot was packed with bikes and RVs. The aroma from a nearby Longhorn wafted through the air. Meat was cooking. Grog was being poured. My tongue was struck with lust. One thing about Walmart is that it almost becomes some sort of familiar thing. Its ubiquity is almost comforting in a perverse way when you're thousands of miles from home. When every Walmart is the same you need not feel homesick. It's a sort of evil constant that ties every place together. As I stood in the main aisle of the Rapid City Walmart, I could have sworn I was back home in Podunk. 

We picked up the "Official Sturgis Motorcycle Rally Magazine" and I perused the contents. Here is a quick abbreviated list of the guests: Two 2004 Playboy Playmates, Toby Keith, Kevin Costner, Journey, and G. Gordon Liddy. 'Nuff said. Late in the evening we made it to an insanely overpriced campground ($32.00 to friggin pitch a tent) populated entirely by bikers. Apparently, this was their "peak season" rate. As the dusk light faded, it rapidly got chilly. To keep warm I made steamed rice and Ramen for supper. Best meal on the trip yet.

In the fading light we didn't notice that the tent area was situated roughly 20 feet from train tracks. We were awakened twice by freight trains. The sadistic engineer felt the need to blare the damn horns just as he rolled past my tent. When you hear that, you wake up. You know how Einstein looks after he plays that loud ass note in "Young Einstein?" That's how I felt. What made it worse was that the brilliant engineer felt the need to slow his train down just as he was rolling through Rapid City. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack for 15 minutes.

I wrapped the pillow around my head. Tomorrow was Mt. Rushmore.

That night I dreamt in Tolkien:

“Begone, foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion! Leave the dead in peace!”

A cold voice answered: “Come not between the Nazgul and his pray! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the house of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye.”

A sword rang as it was drawn. “Do what you will; but I will hinder it, if I may.”

“Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!”

Then Merry heard of all sounds in that hour the strangest. It seemed that Dernhelm laughed, and the clear voice was like the ring of steel. “But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Eowyn I am, Eomund’s daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him."