Dear John, Pardon My Reticence – 10 Years After The Red Shark Adventure

“I have owed you this letter for a very long time – but my fingers have avoided the pencil as though it were an old and poisoned tool.”
John Steinbeck

The internet, ah the internet. How I love thee like a warm summer breeze on long days. On other, shorter days, I wish you’d still be a Netscape platform with crude websites made with a limited color palate and few fonts (comic sans, I’m thinking about you). Back in the day when you would log into email and check for AOL messages, doing that weird chat thing with strangers, and my favorite: forums. God bless the forums. Perched at my nomadic workstation, I realize that what was once a fun adventure into the internet is now consuming my life. No longer is it the fun stuff, it’s business, it’s work, it’s a job. Much like so many things in my life, I have realized that I have become addicted.

As a digital nomad, I have developed a free-for-all mentality that the world is my office space. I can ride shotgun while someone is driving to the next adventure, develop an email marketing campaign, and produce content better than what I create in my home office. The proof? Analtytics. I tested the work done on the road to that which was done in a sterile office space, and the product that was produced during travel has performed better every time. Not to get all weird e-commerce marketing on you, but my CTR for work done on the road was approaching 4%, while the office staff was barely breaking 2.5%. It doesn’t sound much, but in the wild world of email marketing, that could be a pile of money left on the table. This week alone, while cat-sitting, I tested the remote work setup. The general demeanor while working from the home office here was of despondency and isolation. After moving to the kitchen, where I had a panoramic view of the world around me through three solid walls of windows, my morale improved. But why? What was wrong with the well-equipped home office?

This isn’t meant to be a diatribe against offices. No. That’s not how I roll. Perhaps it’s more of a self-actualization as to what the future may hold, and what brought me here from my past.

“If you can do a half-assed job of anything, you’re a one-eyed man in a kingdom of the blind.”
Kurt Vonnegut

What brought this epiphany front and center, you might ask? The gentle tap on the shoulder from my old friend, you may know him pretty well, the internet. Since I stare at a computer screen for, on some days, 12 hours a day if not more, we’re pretty tight. Most of the time he (in my mind, something that has so much control over my life must be male), is pretty darn helpful. I can ask for anything, and he always provides. Weather, done (although it may not be accurate). My credit score, done. Stalking a random person who kept me on the phone for 45 minutes wanting to talk about kinetic ropes, done. It’s a powerful tool. We all have the same tool, we wield that tool. Although essentially it’s the same tool, ours are all shaped differently. Some use their tool to abate the sinking feeling of loneliness and isolation; others utilize it to obtain information for research; and there are the Candy Crushers. No judgment at all. My tool stabbed me in my hippocampus and caused a moment of reflection.

Enter stage left – “Your Memories From This Day 2014”, prancing in with much fanfare as if on cue. Many of you were around the old “Adventures of Nikki Weed” website in 2014, and more than likely saw the same photos that I was graced with today. The first photo that popped up was a glorious photo of the Shark and I in the desert. The Great American Red Shark Adventure. Little did I know at the time that a three-week romp across the country was going to impregnate my spirit with a sense of wanderlust (I hate that word for some reason, but it’s applicable here). What put a little more fire under my kettle after the brief reminiscing over Shark photos was Facebook telling me that I have memories there, too. A mysterious blog was posted titled “I’m Not Cut Out For This”. Alas, it was password-protected.

My own blog, my own website, and I couldn’t remember the damn password. The mystery of what poignant things I was writing, while very possibly in a Makers Mark-induced writing frenzy, distracted me from the chores of the day. What was I going to read, was it amazing? Were there some words of wisdom from ten years ago? Diving into the WordPress platform, I unlocked the mystery behind door number, err blog post number, eh, whatever you’d like to call it. I poured myself a modest drink, dimmed the lights, and read what N Weed had to say.

And you, too, can read that same blog (now that I unlocked it) for the low, low price of free. If you have a mind to, you can click here.

Stepping into the Wayback Machine, it’s interesting to see how day four of the Red Shark Adventure and day 18 differed. In the beginning, I trusted the ample arms of the BMW CCA to carry me safely across the country. Like a fetus in the womb of an expectant mother. Suddenly, I was turned loose into the desert and needed to gain a sense of independence, but I didn’t know how. I needed to be surrounded by that surrogate CCA family to keep me safe. I had ample self-doubt and a little bit more doubt in my venerable automotive companion. Today, looking back, I thought a good long while about the “what-ifs” that were toxifying my adventure at that moment and time and saw only irrational fears and cries for attention. Leaving Vegas, I knew I had three days on the road solo before I would be back in the arms of the fam’, traversing some of the most desolate areas of the country – – the stretch on I-10 between Phoenix and San Antonio.

I stayed in Phoenix, on the almost top floor of the downtown Marriot, where I received valet parking and exclusive access to the private upstairs lounge with free cocktails and attractive servers. I had the penthouse suite, which seemed excessive, but pretty amazing. Breakfast was served to me in the morning while I was still in my pajamas. The next day, I gave a homeless guy a five-pack of beer that had been riding around in the backseat of the car, who made it seemed like I changed his life. It was luke warm Miller Lite, to each their own. I started feeling a little more confident after that positive interaction. Later, I blew off all “plans” (much to the chagrin of my partner at the time) and took an adventure to see Tombstone, Arizona. I hung with locals, dealt with several border patrol and agriculture stations, and headed on to El Paso. With every strange encounter, I grew a little more as a person. By the time I arrived at the super sketchy hotel in El Paso, I felt bulletproof. My independence was at an all-time high.

By the time I arrived in San Antonio, me: person who flew into San Diego with two full-sized suitcases, a laptop bag, a backpack, and a stuffed bee; was very different than the person behind the wheel of the 3109-pound (plus cargo, of course) Ultimate Driving Machine. On the horizon, a looming ice storm was brewing, I had a car show that I was hosting, and miles to go before I slept. I was iced in while staying in San Antonio, almost got stuck in Alabama, and dealt with the weirdest fog in Florida. I couldn’t give up, I had to go, the road was calling, obligations were out there, and I had to press on. There was no rest, with speaking engagements, staying with random strangers from the BMW CCA family, and activities, stopping wasn’t an option.

Before The Ice Storm

I pushed on, through to the East Coast of Florida, Hilton Head, and Atlanta, to the terminus of South Carolina, where the final rally took place. That’s where my ponderance today really took hold. I was surrounded by maybe 40 cars, all from the local car club chapter welcoming me home. At the time insecurity was overcome with confidence and I couldn’t comprehend that it was over. The adventure was over. The epic journey, done. Some moments of life stick, like the awkward thing you said to the person you had a crush on in middle school. For me, this one sticks out. I asked Lee (my partner in all things at the time, who is still one of my favorite humans), “It’s over?” It was, at least that particular adventure, over. There is an epic photo taken of that moment.

That sense of adventure, although it started so innocently and instilled me with a panic that I wasn’t cut out for, morphed me into a different person. From a timid, unaware person with self-esteem issues, I catapulted into a different realm of adulthood. I had confidence that I could conquer. Suddenly, there wasn’t a desert big enough to create a ripple of paranoia; there wasn’t a sketchy bar that I couldn’t handle. Large groups of children, however, still make me cower a bit, but I’m working on it. I pushed myself out of my comfort zone, and have, perhaps, become addicted to it. In all aspects, for the past ten years, I have not been half-assing my adventures, Kurt Vonnegut would be proud.

“Everybody, everybody everywhere, has his own movie going, his own scenario, and everybody is acting his movie out like mad, only most people don’t know that is what they’re trapped by, their little script.”
Tom Wolfe

Now, here I am 1,200 miles from the place where I have my items (home), reflecting on how much of a transformational voyage the Great American Red Shark Adventure was. Pushing me out of my comfort zone left and right, throwing curveballs (leaky break lines and ice storms, a random electrical issue in Florida) all instilled a confidence in myself I didn’t know I had. I went from wanting to be coddled to being a free-range human. From needing to be surrounded with people to keep me safe and secure, to socializing with locals and hosting (okay, co-hosting) a car show with almost 100 entries, I pushed myself way out of my comfort zone and blossomed psychologically.

This is where I share nuggets of experience, do it. Go. Do. Explore. Although my nomadic spirit hasn’t subsided, my work ethic has coupled with that thirst, and have found a happy balance. Don’t waste your life, go do the thing you want to do before it’s too late, and never rely on brevity when it comes to what you want out of life.

Your Gray Matter Is Knocking

“I just walk along and stroll and sing,
I see better days and I do better things”
Bob Dylan – I Shall Be Free

As a human race, it’s very easy for us to ruminate on those things that dwell inside our heads but don’t pay grey matter rent. The longer we plod our way into memories, the further down the path of mental instability and, god forbid, depression. Those things that stow away like rats in the belly of a ship, nibbling the goods and leaving nothing behind but toxic droppings. The longer the rats, or thoughts in this analogy, run around, the more toxic of an environment it becomes. With the cargo of the ship slowly being depleted by the rats, and the nutrition that the sailors need dwindles, morale dips. The same with those less-than-pleasant things knocking around in your noggin. Although they may be knocking, it doesn’t mean you need to open the door for them.

Why do we hang onto such emotions though, if they don’t serve us and provide a positive inertia? The simplistic explanation is that we’re unable to unload the mental baggage from the semi-truck and just haul it around down the Interstate of life. In my recent adventure, I found myself being absolutely disgusted with travel, which never happens. I didn’t want to drive, I wanted to stay put in my own semi-trailer of thoughts. Thoughts ranged from self-condemnation to self-disgust, but it all boiled down to a simple feeling of guilt.

“There is no doubt that “a thou shalt” speaks to us”
(You’ve probably already guessed, but in case you haven’t this is Nietzsche)

This is a very perilous thought pattern to allow the privilege to pitter-patter through your peripheral thoughts. Thou shalt doesn’t have to be a religious outcry from an unseen presence. There is a moral obligation for humanity to do the right thing at all times, and occasionally the wrong thing happens. This bond into morality is glued to each individual with different adhesives, though. Think of the difference between fixing a flapping fender with gaff tape or Elmer’s School glue. It gets even more complex when, as humanity, we mingle with those whose moralities are stuck on using chewed-up bubble gum.

My most recent vagabond adventure left me visiting such a broad cast of characters. As Pancho and I wound up the Interstate through West Virginia, leaving those characters behind in waiting for our next episode, I had to think about it a bit. I’ve lived a pretty rotund life up until now, and since getting laid off at the end of September it has exploded. In what I can only describe as a fit of absolute panic, I felt the need to meet and visit as many people as I possibly could. Each and every face had a story, something to tell, and I was very receptive to listening. Some of the dialogue was a little more interesting than others, with interesting plot twists. A few were a little depressing, and bittersweet at the same time. One in particular reminded me that you’re never too old to get feisty and end up with a restraining order. Each and every story develops into that character and a unique set of morals; their own “thou shalt”.

No single person is the same, which makes the tapestry of adventure so alluring for me. The values of each individual vary in such severity, that I just want to pry into their thoughts and desires and sniff around a while. Encountering people makes me reflect a little more about myself, pokes me in the chops, and reminds me to gaze in my own “thou shalt” mirror. I bang the gong of autonomy; make your own choices, and reap the consequences. When your “thou shalt” and “thou shalt not” get blurry, that’s when morality gets questionable and it’s very possible that those choices you make will change others’ “thou shalt”.

Where am I going with this? Everywhere and nowhere. As I reflect on myself, I see where I need to prioritize my “thou shalt” and try to avoid the impulsive nature that has infected me in the past months. Where I feel the sense of adventure has filled a depressive hole, I also feel like I was filling that same hole with many other things that weren’t feeding my morality. The adventure became the “thou shalt”, and was mirrored at least twice in the past where morality dipped and irresponsibility flourished. Although, as humans, we all have different life experiences, that teeter-totter of morality manifests us all. When our morality soars, we can only expect that our lust for irresponsibility will drop. Picture your butt on one of those playground nightmares (they were fun, though).

I’m just going to be over here, bouncing on my teeter-totter. Just remember, if you don’t win at the game of life, there is a consolation prize, high moral standing.

Taken when my “thou shalt” was being completely disregarded and my teeter-totter was very immoral. Circa 2015

Square Dancing With The Devil You Know

“And the flies of thoughts and promises buzz in our brains like the hopes and dreams that land but never stay,
And our dreams are but a window into our subconscious, with the deeds of the past dancing in flickering moonlight.
And between the flickering are flashes of past passions, possessions, and haunts that linger just beyond the fingertips.”
N Weed

This blog screen has sat open in an endless sea of open work tabs, nestled between an unfulfilled Amazon order complaint for a product that has long since been discontinued, and photos of a dead plant. It was an appropriate place to let it rest for a while, knowing that although the task of fulfilling and fixing the listing issue was resolved, the plant was not to be resurrected. It was a safe place for it to stay, knowing that there will be more broken listings in the future, and plants will always die. As I scan my non-screen surroundings, I see that I have been a pathetic plant mom and can count seven dead ones. I’m a failed edition of Agnes Arber, surrounded by fascisation, botrytis, and a hell of a lot of fungus gnats.

Dead plants on the screen are much different than seeing them in person, though. Working for a plant shop, you experience the range of emotions involved in nurturing a houseplant through the messages of other plant parents. “What’s wrong with my plant?” “Why is my plant dying?” “Why did you send me a dead plant?” All questions that, to any other person, would be brushed off and answered without a thought. The issue that I have is that it’s not the plants’ fault, the plant only wanted love, a new home, and to get the appropriate amount of water. We wouldn’t send a dead plant, that’s a horrible business model. Our marketing would go something along the lines of, “Hey! Do you want dead plants? We’ve got them!”

Back to the analogy at hand, though. As I lament the fact that I obviously overwatered my Peperomia, which caused it to turn into a black, rotten mess, I knew better, but I did it anyway. There is a very stoic yet proud Ficus in the corner that has been naked of any foliage for quite some time now. It’s slightly bashful in its corner, with its striptease of uncertainty. It might be slightly alive, I don’t know. I look at it with compassion every day, with a sidelong gaze while making my coffee. I put it in that corner, where there isn’t any light knowing that Senor Ficus wouldn’t survive. Again, I did it anyway. A certain hush falls upon the chloroplasts as I walk into Frank’s Haunted Mansion, Bat Emporium, and Swinging Bordello. “No more,” I tell myself with candor, all the while looking at the dead Ficus thinking in the back of my head what I want to replace it with.

I study the dead plants that I see in emails and want nothing more than to launch into paragraphical prose on horticulture. I don’t. I offer a refund, devalue the plant and myself for not fighting back. It is an operator error, and go about my day. “He’s dead, Jim,” is my motto most times, although there are more times than I’d like to admit the customer is wrong and the plant is perfectly fine. The variegation, what makes the plant alluring in the first place, is what they feel is wrong. Yellow coloration along veinings, abnormal loving of a leaf, an irregular growth pattern; are causes for alarm for some people. They are applauded by others.

I look at the dead plants and flip back to the unfulfilled Amazon complaint. More unfulfilled expectations from people who want something from me in particular. The consumer’s decision to shop through the anonymity of a computer screen and avoid any sort of personal interaction is quite aseptic. When you decide to seek anonymity in your shopping, good luck finding an actual person to help you when you’re found unfulfilled. I’m here because our company has integrity, but it’s a risk you take. When you walk into a store, with cold hard cash in your hand, you will leave with a product. These faceless shoppers, in my eyes, paint their lives with the canvas of online shopping and want nothing to do with me as a person, so it’s hard to care for them back.

There are numerous days, that I perch myself at my workstation, poised for a wonderful day of customer interaction with people who have problems. The complexities of the issues that I encounter, and I have to assume most people do in their occupations, can sometimes cloud my already hazy sense of reality. There may be a mask that I don in the morning, to get through my workday, however, when the emails are sent there’s still a stench of dissatisfaction in the air. A sense of perennial non-fulfilled status. A chronic condition of being a dying houseplant. Many days, by about ten AM, I find myself feeling like I’m one of the main characters in No Exit by Jean-Paul Sartre. My hell is other people’s problems.

“I am what I am because of you. You are what you are because of me.”
No Exit, Jean-Paul Sarte

Life is more than toiling between work and personal life. Although I feel like once the laptop is shut, the dead plants are provided a proper mourning period. The orders are canceled. At that moment, I have to draw a philosophical parallel between them. In life, as humans, we all have unfulfilled personal orders. The desire to be happy, healthy, and sane propels our emotional momentum. Depending on the person, the method by which these are obtained can vary. The biggest issue is that due to lack of emotional fulfillment, we can’t email a customer service agent to expedite a replacement because the emotions we’ve received are broken. We certainly, and I very strongly emphasize this, cannot choose to be a dead houseplant. The easiest thing to do, to obtain these basic human needs, is to repeat what has been provided to them in the past.

I’m quite certain that the ascent, and what has become the rapid freefall into almost being 40 has stimulated my desire to reassess thought patterns and decisions. I do understand that not many people analyze life, living, and humanity as much as I do. One of my mottos has always been “for all or none”, for when I tried to live my life for all, I became nothing. To further compound the complications of this poignant milestone of life, I found myself somewhere that I promised myself I’d never be. Facing unemployment, in the fall, in Wisconsin. It’s a very appropriate time to be laid off. As the leaves fall, so does my optimism, daylight hours, and bank account. For all, I feel a servant, to myself I have become nothing.

What is coming of this abstract mess of words woven together in a web of more verbs than adjectives? I’m getting to it. Calm down.

“An accomplice is what I wanted.”
Electra to her brother in The Flies, Jean-Paul Sartre

Plagued with thoughts that are comparable to the quantity of the fungus gnats on the oversaturated soil of my Peperomia, I have to make a game plan. The struggle is that I really want to grow a Peperomia. I like them, dare I say love them? Something about the fleshy foliage, the structure of the plant, the way I smile whenever I see it. I want the damn thing to grow. Did Paula Deen give up on recipes when they didn’t turn out? No, the solution was to add more butter. I can find more Peperomia? Yes, they’re everywhere. What’s the use until I figure out how to offer the fulfillment needs of said plant and keep it alive?

The moral of the circuitous story is that the alternative to perpetual guilt is perpetual boredom. Don’t quote that as one of my own, although I’d be flattered if it were. Years of picking up pieces of text here and there can sometimes turn into a mental potpourri. Is it a famous writer or an obscure thing I’ve overheard at a dive bar? I can promise, that the same sage advice happens both within the moth-infested pages of a tired edition of Atlas Shrugged and over a Budweiser in a smoky private club in the south. Wearing a noose of shame and guilt around your neck over the decisions of your past is not going to help you manifest a healthier relationship with your houseplant. A careful reflection, placing your hands firmly around that rope of guilt around your neck, and a game plan will get you further than hanging from your past life ever will.

Becoming complacent with your condition due to previous circumstances and choices should be limited to those who have found themselves locked away. When you stare in the face with the devil you know, is it a mirror or is it a mirage? Are you going to two-step for eternity into the grave that you’re slowly digging yourself or are you going to choose a different dance partner. Metaphorically speaking, the devil you know can be your habits, and it’s only when you decide a different dance partner is needed that you’ll find that the mirage becomes a mirror and you can reflect on yourself.

Go show off your variegation. Be confident in your care requirements, and never leave your emotional order unfulfilled.

Fear And Loathing In The Midwest – A Post For All And None

“The higher we soar, the smaller we appear to those that cannot fly.”
-Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

From the cloud-ridden skies of the midwest, I gaze upon the canopy of hardwood trees peppered with songbirds and feel like I’ve been here all my life. The familiar “ope” from the person I bumped into at the local gas station; to the way you get into a waving match at any four-way stop sign. At the same time, the world seems different from the land that I left when I was a late teenager. Slowly, the gas stations are transforming into mini-grocery stores instead of mom-and-pop operations. The four-ways are now getting ripped out and replaced with roundabouts (traffic circles to some). It’s the same, but different. A bizarre world of modernization and efficiency.

But what is really going on? Where is this blog adventure going?

I’ve neglected the blog, I’ve neglected many things, to be honest in my last few years of tromping around the world. In past blogs, I’ve boasted (ad nauseam) about my exploits, adventures, and explorations. I’ve rambled about the bluebells of Texas, the yellow rose of Texas, and the Cracker Barrel in Tyler, Texas. I’ve made blog followers play guessing games as to where I’ve been. The blog even took a strange pathetic turn in panhandling behavior in asking people for money. Like a baby bird reaching my neck for more scraps from mama bird, I stretched my creative bent for an audience. For once, I actually feel like I have something to share that might be valuable to anybody.

“I love him whose soul is deep even in the wounding, and may succumb through a small matter: thus goes he willingly over the bridge.”
(Same text as quoted above)

This adventure, this large midwestern adventure, feels like salve to a wounded soul. As I peer back upon my decade of blogging, I can identify a common thread that intertwines, going. Going, always going, always trying to see, do experience. The ability to sit still and be quiet with my thoughts isn’t possible, so the sense of adventure kicks in as a coping mechanism. Whenever I feel “I can’t do this particular thing”, the inner Lebowski in me kicks in and taps my shoulder. “Fuck it, Nikki, let’s go adventure!” And off I go.

And off I go indeed. I make lofty goals and set super high ambitions to “see every effigy mound in Wisconsin” or the current goal “see every State Park in Wisconsin”. Although I’m well on my way to achieving both goals, there’s something deeply wrong with both of them. Once I’m done with that, what next? The quest for adventure is but a temporary salve on deep mental wounds, trauma, and unexpressed feelings. What do I do after I’ve seen them all? As HST once said, “What now, what comes next?”

And within me, a fear of the end manifests like loud cicadas on a hot summer night. The noise penetrates my being and I am rattled with the ponderance of what to do next? Be an adult and get a “real” job? Find a different state to explore? Turn around and do it all again? The song remains the same, the chirping sound of emptiness only to be compared to an empty toilet tank after taking a large dump. What are you going to do with this shit that you’ve created?

To the perpetual traveler, I do have to wonder, why? What are you running from or to? There is exploration, there are sights to see, but there is also complete fear that you’ll run out of things to see. That’s where I’m perched right now. Perhaps I’d my jaded outlook on life, after being crashed into twice in less than a year by other drivers. How many more times can I explore before the crash is the big one that takes me out? What if something else takes me out?

The fragility of life is heavy on my soul, and if anything, I’m trying to make sure I make the most of what I’m blessed with. With choruses of people cheering me on in my travels, stating they live vicariously through me, I must go on with my adventures. I must see the world that has such beautiful creations and appreciate what some people will never see. The show must go on. Fear, loathing, anxiety, panic, and depression. All of these things manifest in my travel reality, however, nobody sees it in the fun videos and photos. It’s part of the art, I suppose.

Onward!
“In the end one experiences only oneself.”
-Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

Nothing But A Tank Of Gas And Time – A Summer Goal

“I’ve got to roll on between the ditches.” Rodney Crowell “Leaving Lousiana In Broad Daylight”

Do you ever get the feeling like there’s something sneaking up on you; a mysterious figure in the dark. A feeling almost as if there was something hiding under your psychological bed, waiting to pop up and wrestle you out of your comfort zone? Lately, something has been looming, that I can’t quite put my finger on. My suspicion is the reality of mortality and the fragility of life. With my mom being diagnosed with Colon Cancer this year and my Dads mental capacity slipping, I’m a little wrung out. Mentally, I feel like a washrag that has been used a few too many times in the tub. Squeezed, dried, and moisturized with hydration again but only to repeat the process.

In a moment of silent repose, at the nearest State Park, I contemplated life from standing atop a large mound. Aztalan State Park, is 2 miles by car from my very modest apartment in Lake Mills, Wisconsin. Looking out in any direction, I could see diversity springing from a glacial drumlin, a bump called “Christmas Hill”, and the methodic flow of the Crawfish River (Crayfish, Craw dad, insert your own colloquialism here). There’s so much out there I haven’t seen, and from that vantage point, I had a panic attack.

To be fair, I’m not prone to panic attacks, as a self-proclaimed “traveler”, I can’t waste mental energy on the “what ifs”. Almost like a slow shock from an extension cord that isn’t grounded, I felt a vibration telling me I’m missing out on things. As a floundering adult, doing adult things, I lacked purpose in life. I awake, do work, perhaps drink a cold beer in the afternoon, and watch tv. That wasn’t working for me, even in periods of sobriety with the clarity of a desert summer sky, nothing. Empty. The lack of purpose was strong.

So what was I going to do to fill both the void and the recently found knowledge of the fragility of life? I pondered as I stood on that mound, and scanned the horizon. Maybe I’m supposed to write the equivalent to “Travels With Charley”? Maybe I’m still humping the “Great American Dream” as Hunter S. Thompson quested for. It didn’t seem that was it, though, it was something else. As someone once told me, “they can’t be you, so why should you try to be them?” Though provoking for sure, but how could I be me if I lacked the confidence to be uniquely me?

As a strong, putrid breeze came from the neighboring farm field with the odor of a nitrogen fertilizer that’s going to destroy the watershed, I got it. I set a goal, complete with timeframe and outline. I’m going to visit every. single. state park in Wisconsin. I want to visit Wisconsin topography.

But why?

As a boyfriend of mine once said while we were at a wedding and I danced with everyone except for him, “don’t forget to dance with the one that brung you.” Although it’s not “officially” my home state, being raised here, and fleeing in a fit of teenage angst didn’t leave the best taste of Wisconsin in my mouth. I blamed the state, not my lack of emotional maturity, which wasn’t fair. Even Steinbeck during his epic travels and novel covering such, had a stomach-sick feeling upon returning to his homeland of Modesto. I refuse to be polluted by the same negative vibe, and am on a quest to find the heart of Wisconsin.

Looking past the stereotype of beer, cheese, Packers, and the bitter cold, there’s so much more. SO. MUCH. To visit Wisconin without these things may be impossible, but it’s part of the challenge I’m up to.

After wandering aimlessly through about six parks in two weeks, I was confused as to how to document and keep track of this quest. While visiting Rocky Arbor State Park just north of The Dells (not to be confused with the infamous Dalles in Oregon), I asked the park ranger for a map. Meekly, she informed me that there was only one hiking trail, and it didn’t really require a map. Shaking my head, I informed her of my plans. She then shook her head, “There’s no way”.

She did hand over a map, complete with a rudimentary outline of the state of Wisconsin, with the location of all said State parks on it. It has now become my traveling companion, riding shotgun with Zips (of course). My goal, who knows, maybe to write a guidebook for the state parks of Wisconsin? Maybe to spend my time doing something productive? Maybe just trying to put miles on Pancho?

I shared my goal with my favorite server at my new favorite fish joint, Hi-Way Harrys. She shook her head, too. Then, seeing my gutted reaction, she said “if anyone can do it, it’s probably you”. Probably me. How about, absolutely, me. I’m going to visit the hell out of Wisconsin.

As of June 17th, I’m at 11 State Parks. My puny guide book says there are 79.

I do get concerned, as with any traveler may tell you, you have to focus on taking the trip to see, don’t take the trip to tell. This has proven quite difficult for me, as I’m always striving to prove that I’m that adventurer you see on Instagram (although I have few followers) and the interesting Facebook posts. I’m working on it, physically and mentally. Taking moments of pause to take in the surroundings is what got me into this quest, and it will be the silent moments that get me through the furious moments of work and play. The random “selfie stands” with the Visit Wisconsin logo on it does help.

“A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.”

John Steinbeck

Let’s get this show on the road.

PS – I’ll see some mounds, architecture and at least three cheeseburgers along the way.

Who doesn’t love Pulp Fiction?

Sorry for the hiatus, “Adventures” fans.

As some of you might know if you follow me on social, I’ve been putting some miles on the old Volkswagen. Over 25,000 miles since May and I’m not done with my rambling ways yet.

I did want to poke my head in quick and tell you of a delightful find on one of my adventures. In the background, when I’m not trouncing around the country being a sort of virtual nomad, I have a strange and not-very-lucrative hobby. I collect cow creamers. Big and small, I love them all. At last count, I think I have something like 30 of the open-mouthed loveable bovines. In my hunt for cows, I come across some pretty groovy old ceramic pieces. Some are such weird (siamese twin/cat combo), and some are just something that makes you wonder “why”.

Yesterday on my normal junk route, I spotted a Kangaroo friend. It looked familiar, something from my past. I scooped it up and found that it was the kangaroo from Pulp Fiction, a movie that I have watched countless times. Somewhere in my memory, it called to me, and I’m glad it did. The iconic Kangaroo that held the smuggled-up-the-butt watch is now sitting on my “sell” table.

Why get rid of it? Easy, it doesn’t look right next to my cow creamers. I feel like it would be WAY more appreciated elsewhere.

Give this lovable Kangaroo a home, and gift it to a Tarantino fan.

https://www.etsy.com/listing/1362396633/kangaroo-dresser-caddy-as-seen-in-pulp

Sinking Sun and Sultry Baked Sand Of Slowjamastan

“You know what’s better than building things up in your imagination? Building things up in real life.” Ryan Holiday, The Obstacle is The Way

Sitting perked at my desk, sunk into my overly plush velour swivel chair from the early 80s I found a slice of paradise in the most unassuming locations. Browsing the internet, and finding locations to pop into on my next adventure, I overheard a YouTube video that Phillip was watching. There were murmurs of “a new country”, “is this even legal”, and finally the axiom of that particular video “become a citizen!” Huh? I swiveled and caught the tail end of the video, catching a glimpse of nothing but a dapper-dressed sultan with cop shades and a sexy-semi-scowl.
The semi-scowl got me, I was intrigued, captivated, but also sort of giggling on the inside. How could this be real, could this dude really swipe up a chunk of land and create his own empire? To be honest, there were so many times in the last 20 years that I’d love to have had the chops and guts to create my own little world. A place with my own rule, my own parameters, my own society. Alas, I succumbed to societal pressure and allowed the world to bully me around while I was secretly bullying myself. The guts to set rules in stone and be able to tell someone they’re not welcome was such a new concept to me, so of course, I did what any rational person would do. . . apply for citizenship.

Now, before you go getting yourself excited, I’m not an ex-pat yet, but the temptation is certainly there.

As someone who has gotten internet verified for various things, including pharmacy certification, becoming a Dudest minister, and even the moderator of a Tractor Forum, I was expecting an easy peasy application. Negative, ghost rider. The application process required more than two brain cells to rub together to complete, and I really liked that. Instead of a country built on birthright, Slowjamastan built its foundation on intelligence and acknowledgment that ignorance and stupidity have no open invitation within its borders. Appallingly enough, according to the official Slowjamastan government website, people fail the application process because they can’t follow simple directions.

Follow. Simple. Directions. Let that sink in. A whole country

***
Authors note:
Last week while hanging in my semi-posh Austin Hotel overlooking the Armadillo World Headquarters, I spent the better part of two hours and four beers finishing this blog. It read like something out of a Hunter S Thompson novel. Steamy moments, unpleasant encounters, a roadblock or two – – but alas – – without my noticing, the hotel wifi shut me out after 30 minutes, yet I continued to feverishly keep typing. Revisions, retractions, and a few typos were made, and all were lost.

I have tried for the past week to jump back into the mindset and vibe, but I’m afraid it is lost. The only way through is back, and although I hate to do it, this will have to sit as Part One of a novella of Slowjamastan blogs. Accept my apologies, or don’t.

Still humping the American Dream…

“Who are these people, these faces? Where do they come from? They look like caricatures of used car dealers from Dallas, and sweet Jesus, there was a hell of a lot of them at 4:30 on a Sunday morning, still humping the American dream, that vision of the big winner somehow emerging from the last-minute pre-dawn chaos of a stale Vegas casino.”

Hunter S. Thompson

Truth be told, and much to the overwhelming dismay and disappointment of the fans of my by-gone era of pseudo-gonzo journalism, I haven’t been reading much HST lately. I wheeled across the desert in my own “Great Red Shark” a few years ago. I lived the lifestyle, wrote the essays, took the photos, and developed a weird cult following for a while. They might have been mostly affluent upper-middle-aged men from the car club circles, but hey, a following is a following. I was out there, I was having fun, and I was doing a hell of a lot of writing about it. It seemed like everything was a story, everything wanted to be written about, and I had time, effort, and imagination to put it all into words.

In those adventures, some of my more HST-inspired moments ring vibrantly in my head, almost like one of those incredibly tinny-sounding instruments you hear at church. Perhaps the word church and some of those stories have no room in the same story, let alone in the same paragraph as each other. Like the time I parked the One-Series in the parking lot of an Indianapolis Marriot in the dead of winter with all the windows down only to find it the next morning with snow inside; or the time in Tombstone, Arizona where I made a friendly western bet with a real cowboy that he couldn’t figure out how to open my hood. Good times for sure, but very much more HST than church bells.

At the same time, it wasn’t all about reckless abandon and thrill-seeking. So what, I jumped out of perfectly good planes and had brake failure going down a front straight of a road course and 108 miles an hour. The problem was (and still is) that the highs were always hiding around the next corner, and where I was ended up always being in relative proportion to yesterday’s adventure. I’d be looking for the next adventure before the one I was on was finishing up. Distinctively I remember being completely lost, on foot, alone, and soaking wet in the rains of late October in Sweden. As I sauntered through the most beautiful park I had ever seen in my life. With Zips strapped to my back in a sack, I wondered aloud, “if this is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen, what else is out there?”

“Yesterday’s weirdness is tomorrow’s reason why”

HST

From there, the adventures became somewhat out of a Dali painting, with recognizable context, but a sort of convoluted ending. Everything turned into a game of connecting the dots, where the dots were never in order, and many of the dots were skipped entirely. A prime example of this adventure-seeking hopscotch was my career path. I started doing what I was meant to do, tried to do something else which sucked my soul, and skipped over to something completely different. Of course, I was missing all of the things that mattered in between. What was I doing in the deep depths of a pharmacy learning about “mechanisms of action” when my heart was outside with dirty fingernails?

I don’t have to tell the faithful followers of “The Adventures” that the relationship sector sort of played suit similar to work. It was a quest of “where is the best adventure?” Everything in life became not a quest for the American dream, but the American Adventure, no matter the cost. I blew people off that meant the world to me, I disappeared like a fart in the wind from some of the people I considered my best friends. My adventures weren’t of pure intention, they sort of ran off the rails. Making plans for one place, only to ditch them for the next big thing – or so I thought.

Here’s the thing that is impossible to extract from your literary heroes, no matter how much admiration or resounding applause you give to them; they are not you. A famous quote from my days of studying philosophy sticks with me “yours is not theirs” – in other words – what you’re chasing and what other people need are seldom the same. In a psychological vacuum, we could all walk in this world and adventure to our hearts’ content. There would be no reason to feel shame, especially while glancing in the mirror. We could drive slow in whatever lane we choose.

We’re not in a vacuum, and very often our adventures can be the taproot of others’ emotional distress. Adventure responsibly. Brush your hair. Be aware of the drivers around you. I’m not sure why I have to say this aloud to myself occasionally, but I do. Getting wrapped up in the adventure is part of the adventure, but knowing when to acknowledge that the adventure needs a break is an artform.

“I enjoy gambling, but I work hard for my money, so what do you care?” The Gambling Adventurer spending their time seeking the sweet slot, meanwhile, his loanshark is planning on taking out his knees in the parking lot with a flat bar.

“My work gives me the gratification of providing a product and service the community needs, I want to make it better” The Career Adventurer looking for the gratuitous payoff while utilizing the cheapest materials produced by slave labor overseas.

“My appetite for companionship far exceeds what you can provide me with.” The amorous adventurer that spends time finding the right one, all the while gaslighting their suitors into mental disorder.

“I can beat my previous time by so much if I only adventure out of my comfort zone.” The speed seeker that is willing to risk personal well-being while their mother sits at home worried about their safety and tips the bottle to relieve the stress.

The list can go on, and in almost any sector you look in. Careers, money, power, fame, fortune, sex, people will push if they think there is something out there that is better than what they have. This is where adventure becomes perverted, and sound thinking tends to take a back seat. My favorite example was a person wanting to tear interior components out of his daily driver to make it go *that* much faster off the line at stop lights. Keep in mind, this car never saw a track a day in its vehicular life.

In a conference call today, I realized that I’ve done things that people dream of doing for a living. I have to chalk that up to being both reckless, but also slightly talented. One person mentioned he wanted to be an automotive journalist. So, dude, go do it. What’s stopping you? Someone else wanted to work in a greenhouse? Go do it!! The primary reason why people don’t seek out the adventure they really want (career-wise at least) is that there isn’t any money in dreaming. At the end of the day, how do you compare your daily comfort to your lifestyle?

As much as I hate to use the term “sustainable”, there is no other world that I can think of that depicts the antithesis of “The American Dream”.

Sports cars, McMansions, pools.

Disney vacations, holiday photoshoots, matching buffalo plaid family pajamas.

A Tik Tok following of 4 million, perfectly contoured face, the finest of all fashion.

As much as I don’t get many of those things, I respect them as being some form of the American Dream. There is no blueprint for it, there is no book that tells you where to find it. You just have to go get it. You want that vacation, save your damn money and go do it. You want to do that photo shoot, practice smiling in the mirror, and hope your family does the same. I’m not here to poo-poo on your dream, so when my dream is to adventure professionally with little to no roots anywhere, leave me alone about it.

And if you don’t, I’ll be the first to comment on your post at Disney or in buffalo plaid jammies and compliment you. Just because the world needs more nice.

Is it your dream to meet Wyatt Earp? It wasn’t mine, but it happened!

Ship, Captain, Crew – What Does Detroit Do For You?

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
For some reason whenever I feel so incredibly typical, I think of this quote. Although it’s not one that is in my normal rotation, it’s still in the top 20. Someone that bases their life decisions on other people’s musings and quotes, that’s me. I’ve always been that way, I have diaries dating back 20+ years of these random notes, musings, and quotes. It’s when I feel like I’m trying to be someone else and fit a preset mold I feel ugly, I feel unclean, I feel. . . well. . . incredibly forgettable. I stare down the barrel of 40, of 20-year high school reunions, of indecision and bad decisions, and although there were some sketchy moments in there, I consider myself accomplished.

I know I was working on getting a normal cadence in for getting a destination post out every week on a set day – but you know what – life happens. The adventure takes a lot out of a person and sometimes you have to step away from the keyboard and realize you need a moment to take a collective breath, analyze where your life is, and resituate yourself. “Are you still being yourself in this wild and crazy world?” I asked myself, the answer was no, and I panicked. I was not being me, I was being a robot programmed for production, and it made me take a pause and step back, where would I rather be? As a responsible adult, of course, I have to work and do “adult things”, but all I could see were endless tabs of work and seemingly unsolvable problems. Where would I rather be?

As I sat there with a dumb look on my face, another voice came into my head. “The bums lost, Mr. Lebowski, condolences. The bums will always lose! You hear me, the bums will always lose!” It was like a slap in the face, my passion for my job, my lust for life, and my taproot of temptation rousted me out of my funk and found a place in my memory where, perhaps I was a bum, but it was totally worth sharing the experience about. Was it a low point in life, yes, but I don’t like to consider it such. I’d like to refer to this location as a deviation from the highpoints. Step into your Wayback Machine to plus or minus September 2014.

Without adorning details or getting personal, I was scheduled to take a 3pm flight to Detroit out of Greenville and spend the weekend not only adventuring around Michigan, but also renting a car and driving around the flaccid phallic-looking lake to visit my family in Wisconsin. I seriously had one thing to do that entire day. One. One thing, to get to the airport on time. I fell asleep at one in the afternoon and woke up at 2:30, there was no way I was making the flight. I hopped in the German chariot and gave it my damnedest, though, and found that, alas, I was not anywhere close to making it. Jogging to the front of the airport carrying nothing but my purse, way overdressed in a pin-up style dress, I knew it was in vain. I saw a friend casually strolling along, he said “you’ll never make it.” He was right. I didn’t.

Phones calls later, I was booked on the next flight to Detroit. I made a pact that I was going to make that early flight even if it meant I had to sleep in the airport parking lot. I was determined, but at the same time, I was left with ample time on my hands to research all that Detroit had to offer. Keep in mind, 2014 Detroit wasn’t the place you really looked to for a holiday, but I was going. Even though the missed flight and overall weird energy around the trip warped my positivity, I arrived at the airport on time the next morning and boarded the flight. I was anticipating grabbing a rental car and getting my way Wisconsin-bound as soon as I landed. It wasn’t exactly going to happen that way.

Upon arrival at the airport (it’s a really nice airport, btw), Hertz informed me that the car I requested was no longer available. It was promised to me, so I had to push a little to understand why. After beating around the Buick a while, they finally dished the scoop that the car I wanted was involved in a, ahem, police-related incident the night prior and it was still in impound awaiting car-bail. Fine, give me another one, I won’t be picky. They scooted some paper around and after about 25 minutes of me tapping my toe thinking that I’d be destined for public transit for the duration of my visit, they came up with something. Something. It wasn’t much of anything. Enter the recently freed from impound (separate charge) Altima coupe.

Imagine the cheapest base-model you can, then subject it to being a drug-toting rental for weeks (maybe longer, I’m not sure). They proudly gave it to me at a discount and sent me on my way. After looking around at the cabin, it was very obvious that every piece of plastic had been unscrewed, items had been obscured, and then plastic parts refastened. The smell was surprisingly not like the fragrance I was expecting from a “drug car”, but quite the opposite. There wasn’t a smell, just plastic turmoil in the form of rattling over every single bump. The bums that had previously used the car definitely lost. It wasn’t that the car ran poorly, that it wasn’t comfortable, or even that it gave me any issues. The problem was that it seemed like it exuded a sort of bad vibe, some sort of cosmic car karma. One that if I had just made my flight the night prior, I’d have something different, without the crime-ridden vibes.

Without incident, I arrived in Wisconsin to visit with my mom and who I didn’t know I was going to lose, Grandpa. Driving out to the farm, he was eager to hop in the car with me and go to the local bar to shoot some innocent dice, a memory that I will cherish forever. He hopped in the car with the agility that I had no idea he had and buckled up. Looking at the floorboards, he nodded and chuckled. I reminded him it was a rental, and he laughed a little more. We didn’t have a ton of words on that 15-minute ride, but it was good to have Grandpa to myself for a bit longer.

In the grand scheme of things, it was probably a more forgettable story than most, but if it weren’t for the Hertz Rental Car in Detroit, my Grandpa and I may not have had much to chuckle about. The car was unforgettable, but the trip itself was even more special to me. Maybe this wasn’t the most “location-specific” adventure post, but let it serve to remind all that life is fragile, and sometimes you just need to take the afternoon off to shoot dice with your Grandpa (and in this photo, sister, mom, and step-grandma).

The bums may always lose, much like I was a bum and missed my flight, but the bums that take the time to enjoy life always win in the end. Every time I feel like I’m being sucked into that vacuum of shoulds and shouldn’t, I think back to that rental car and imagine where the bums that were driving that car before me ended up. At that moment, I realize, I’m not that much of a bum after all.

Silent Poetry Of Picturesque

“I can live for months on one good compliment”
Mark Twain
When it comes down to landscapes, be it manmade or naturally occurring, I have a very sophisticated palate. Considering I spent almost 14 years doing landscape design for the pickiest of rich dames in the South and my entire life exploring the human-designed park-scapes of the world, I’m not easily amused. Naturescapes that send people into “oohs” and grappling for their cell phone cameras to capture the moment rarely get me excited. I do, however, take a photo along with the dorks, but only so that I have some sort of digital record of my location on that given day. I could do an entire series on “Most Disappointing Places”, “Why Did I Waste My Time”, and “Give Me My Money Back”.

Why do I feel like I can be so picky, almost catty about it? Well, because I’ve seen a lot, and I feel like I can be a little selective as to what sends me into wow-mode. The internet, television, and seat-back rag mags that adorn airplanes can scam you into thinking something is beautiful and worth the trip, but what’s going on behind the scenes? My bet is that there was a big, fat check cut to the publication or program to highlight them in their very best season. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that the most majestic places aren’t that majestic. It’s just that on a wrong day even a supermodel can be a little less than impressive. I’ve had wrong days myself, very ugly days (just ask the locals in Brigham City, Utah).

When I share a location in a positive light, it’s from the gut, the soul, a place that seriously changed my life one way or another. To avoid all spoiler alerts, I refrained from hinting at the location in the title and even the introductory paragraph, only to keep you reading. (Tricky, I know). I want you to sit there and wonder quietly to yourself, “what is this magical place that is so life changed, and, should I go there?”. The answer, before I even divulge the location, is probably not. Not to ween you off of this story, but I have to be honest, it was a magical place for me at that point and time in my life. You may have a bar from college that was magical to you at one point and time or even the special place where you met your significant other. Nothing like that happened here, and let me tell you, there was blood, tears, and some regret.

Picture it, Boring, Oregon. I sat at work at my desk next to an amazing, adventurous woman whom I’ll always look up to as a mentor, guide, and mother figure when I needed one. To this day, I still feel like I could pick up the phone and she would cheer me on in my adventures, cautiously of course. It was a Friday, my life was quite messy, and I was looking for something to occupy my time over the weekend. I needed something, anything, to keep me from the solitude and loneliness that was the bedroom that I rented. Knowing my zest for travel, love of nature, and ample free time, she mentioned “Dog Mountain”. My ears perked at that anticipation that maybe, just maybe there was a place in Oregon that had a mountain of dogs that you could pet and love on unconditionally. Lord knows I needed some unconditional love at the time.

Turns out it was not a pet shop full of lovable dogs. In fact, there were very few dogs at all, it was a hike, like, up a real mountain. One that you have to plan on packing snacks and gear for. One that required you to take a shuttle bus from miles away just to get to the trailhead because it was that popular. One that was so heavily trafficked that there was never going to be a single moment when you weren’t swarmed with other hikers, all happily experiencing “Dog Mountain”. After doing my research and reading every single AllTrails review on it, I felt like it was a safe solo hike, and began packing my day pack for the next day.

Dog Mountain in perspective to where I lived was not that far as the crow flies, however, there was a big ass river (Columbia) along the way with very minimal crossings. I knew one route over the river through Cascade Locks, a bridge called “Bridge Of The Gods”, and always welcomed the toll every time, mostly because going all the way into Portland and taking the free bridge was just insane people-wise. I dished out my $3 to cross the bridge into Washington State and headed East to connect with the trailhead with the naive hope that I would be the luckiest hiker of the day and find a parking spot recently vacated in the tiny parking area at the foot of the mountain. Luck was not on my side.

I passed the parking shuttle and giggled at those waiting in line, wondering how long they’d have to wait to get on the sweaty, hiker-ridden bus just to get to the trailhead. “Suckers,” I thought to myself, as I pushed the Civic into third gear to pass a little faster. I was certain that I was going to find a place. As luck would have it, I did find a place, conveniently located 2.5 miles away from the trailhead on the side of a very heavily trafficked road with a minimal shoulder. I parked on a rocky ledge, and grabbed my day pack, Zips, and my stainless steel water bottle full of, well, cold celebration beer for when I got to the top.

As someone with less hiking ambition than most, but a heck of a lot of time on my hands, I set off down the road on the narrow shoulder to get to the trailhead. Two miles in, I was starting to doubt my decision, I mean, seriously, I was already two miles in and I hadn’t seen anything more than the roadside. Empty beer cans, plastic waste, and rocks (so many rocks) were all I saw. I pushed onto the tiny parking lot at the trailhead where a family of foreigners had *just* pulled into a spot. I was over it, but I pushed through. I had an entire day of time to waste and damn the torpedoes, I was going to climb this damn mountain.

The first setback was being stuck behind a couple that seemed like they had never been in the outdoors before, they cursed the humidity. They cursed the bugs. They stopped in the middle of the trail to drink water every five minutes, not being courteous of those of us that had something to prove and somewhere to be. Twenty minutes went by behind these loafers, and not only was I getting irritated, but the people behind me were getting irritated because I wasn’t getting irritated. There was a moment where they paused to complain that there was a bee next to them, my Zips-loving motherly instinct took hold. I needed to downshift to pass these bee-fearing weirdos.

That was my mistake. My desk-job body coupled with a higher elevation than I was used to wipe me out pretty quickly. Me being me, I didn’t take notice until I was about a mile from the top of the mountain and my panting started to replicate a dog locked in a hot car without water. As I closed in on the apex of this magnificent mountain, I took a pause to smell the flowers and take in the view.

LIES. I stopped because I was out of breath, but really, it was the most opportunistic “out-of-breath” I’ve ever had. Grasping for my water bottle, which was actually full of Portland Pale Ale, I panned my vision towards the gaping chasm of the river that I had been working so hard to climb away from. For whatever reason, at that moment, the view could have never been better. A lazy barge worked its way up the river, and the flowers were crawling with the creepy-crawlies that the other hikers lamented, the world was quiet for a moment while I sucked the thin air into my lungs. It was a good moment, a moment for a photo op because the world was suddenly painted in a canvas of yellows and greens, unlike anything I had ever seen.

This is where the story goes sideways. This is where I almost didn’t write about this because I lost faith in humanity for a brief moment. Seriously. When you’re doing anything, anywhere, if you see a solo person, doing their thing and living their best life seeing the things that need to be seen and they’re struggling to take a selfie – HELP THE DAMN PERSON OUT! I sat, unsuccessfully, on a few trailside pull-offs trying to get a photo. People walked by and looked, almost scoffing that the idea of me wanting to take a photo. It was, in all honesty, the most breathtaking photo I could have ever taken. . . then it got me thinking. . . why does my mug have to be in it? The landscape could totally hold its own without my goofy smile in it!

Zips stood in once, god bless him. Only because it was difficult for me to grab a snapshot of the enormity of the mountain, the complexity of the flowers, and the sheer magnificence of the hike. It was as though the world had been painted with a wide brush stroke of yellow. From the arduous climb up through the conifers and hardwoods, the world opened up into a wildflower extravaganza. Unlike the wildflowers of the midwest (chaotic in color and willy-nilly), the color scheme was organized and beautiful. As far as the eye could see skyward, the trail was carved through lemony floral decadence.

To squelch the ascent, there were increasingly more people as I approached the summit. After the 2-mile hike to the trailhead, and then the hike itself (3.8 miles straight up), I was feeling less than friendly. It seemed like hikers had lost all social skills when it comes down to trail etiquette. Keep right, wasn’t a thing, there were people milling about, pausing for water in the middle of the trail, stopping in the middle of the trail for god knows what, and those that had slowed to a crawl due to the difficulty of the trail. For the amount of time that it took me to climb the 3 miles straight up, it was taking me longer to get the last .8 miles to get to the peak.

Zips pausing for the occasion.

It wasn’t working for me, and even though the river cutting through the rough, mountains and the wildflowers creating an image that would haunt me forever, I just couldn’t do humans anymore. Within eye-reach of the lookout platform. 3.5 miles up the mountain, so close to the to top, I turned around. The people were just too much. The girl hiking in front of me did the same, and the solo-dude behind me did the same. Suddenly, I wasn’t alone, there were three of us trying to get down off the mountain as fast as possbile, taking in the glory of the flowers along the way.

Yellow flowers, bees. Yellow flowers, bees. Yellow flowers, bees. Purple flower. Rock. Yellow flowers, bees. Purple flowers. Rock. Conifer. Cool root-form. We cruised down the mountain at warp speed, not without respect for the beauty, but because we were over it (not that I had spoken to the two others, but you could tell). Cruising down, I had a mindful concern of tripping and falling down the mountainside. The first mile melted away in a yellow puddle of flowers and we were encapuslated in the craggy treeside of the Columbia River gorge.

He fell. He bit it bad over a tree root, and although my excitement over it not being me was high, I knew it was only a matter of time. Both I and the other lady hiker stopped to help the guy up, who only suffered a few superfical wounds, the equivalent to a scraped knee as a kid on a bicycle. No names were exchanged, but the faith in humanity was reestablish.

She fell. It was less than a mile from the trailhead and there as a muddy corner that grabbed her ankle and tore her to the ground like some sort of mud monster. The guy that fell and I helped her out, fished her water bottle out of the muck, and helped her for a few steps to make sure her bones weren’t broken. For me, I knew my time was near, I was going to fall, too.

I did. The tiniest root threw a hitch in my giddy-up and I toppled sideways. The girl, already scraped, stopped and the fella turned around even though he was well ahead of me. I wasn’t alone anymore. “Do you need anything?” “Do you have water?” “Can I help?” I was suddently surroundend by people that cared, even thought I felt like the most alone person in the work in Oregon, the trail in Washington State made me realize that people DO care.

As we approached the trailhead and parking lot, the accomplishment and pride overtook me and I did a tiny celebration in my mind. At the same time, the reality of another 2 mile hike to the car was overwhelming. Long story short, I made it, and it will still be one of the most enchanting hikes I’ve ever taken. I look back, in quiet reflection, and know that if I took that hike at any other time of the year it would have been a trail-march up a mountain with a good view. My experience, however, paints a different picture. It not only reminds me that the world is beautiful, but humanity isn’t a lost cause. Betsy guided me to this most amazing location, and I will never thank her enough!