This was a long stretch. From Lyman I headed south, down past the blip of Lonetree the first night, and then on into Manila the next afternoon. Stopped and made a batch of sandwiches and checked the local ranger station to ask about where I'd be able to find water between Manila and Vernal. In the evening I pushed past town, and climbed out into the bluffs toward the Flaming Gorge. For eleven miles I climbed up and down (mostly up) through red rock and sunbeam. At sunset I made it to the top of a set of switchbacks four miles long and cut at an 8% grade. My thighs burned and my shirt dripped, and right as I came up onto the top, an old lady grinned real big and gave me a giant thumbs up as she passed me. I started bawling. My emotions are so easily set on fire, now. My heart strains to be in love with the world, and it succeeds.
I camped the night twelve miles out of Manila, then made another thirty miles through the Flaming Gorge Recreation Area the next day. Pushed on to Vernal by late afternoon on Thursday, but by the time I stumbled onto the library, it was already closed for the entire holiday weekend. I stayed Friday in Vernal. Watched the parade come down through the streets. Did some laundry. Slept. And then left town when the heat had died away, around ten that night. I made it halfway to Jensen before turning in behind a church.
Saturday I pushed through Jensen, and out into the final stretch toward Colorado. Half a mile from the border I pulled over in the ditch and slept.
Sunday I crossed the border and made it up to Dinosaur, then headed south-east toward Rangely. Three miles out of town a pickup stopped and a middle-aged couple offered me some work and a place to sleep, and I couldn't refuse. They put me up at the R.V. park where they're staying, fed me, and this morning I went to work hauling brush on a stretch of property they just acquired, back in Utah.
And now I'm back in Rangely, at the library. I'm going to head toward Loma and Grand Junction tonight, to get a jump on the next stretch. The map says that I have 73 miles between here and the interstate, so I might need to try and cache some water, though I've heard that there are some springs down toward the pass. I'll see.
An entry from my journal:
7-3-08
Things I hated about today: The heat. The insufferable heat. The sun itself. That burning glob in the burning sky sending out little beams of burning light. And the heat from the motor homes as they climbed the hill and passed me by, their engines struggling. I hated that they were sitting in air conditioning at my expense. Hated that they were getting four miles to the gallon to entertain themselves for a week's vacation. And I hated how everyone had to pull a boat. Had to pull a boat or haul an ATV or lash a whole fleet of ATVs inside their boat.
I hated the heat some more. Hated the way it made me sweat, and hated the way the sweat rubbed on my skin. My armpits and the inside of my thighs rubbed and rubbed and sweated and sweated, until I was raw and stinging with every step.
I hated the notion of town. The notion of fountain drinks and ice cream, out of reach. And I hated getting to town. Hated passing dog kennels and law firms and nurseries and hair salons and not seeing so much as a coke machine for miles, or a gas station. And then I hated the gas station. Hated having to stand in line, dripping, panting, to fill my 44 ounce fountain drink cup. Hated having to stand in line to pay for it, even though I started to gulp it down. I hated the first gulp. So incredibly cold and delicious, having waited for it so long, having struggled for hours with its idea in my head, and the gulp itself seemed out of place. Seemed too cold. I gulped and my head went funny and the cold wrapped fingers around my brain.
And then I hated sitting outside. Drinking my drink out front while the pickup trucks pulled up and blew their heat on me. Hated how the drivers left their engines idling as they went inside so that the wife and kids could remain in their fake states of air conditioned bliss for an extra five minutes.
And I hated the heat. Hated it.
Things I loved about today: I loved waking up. First to the yip-yelp of the coyotes in the hills around me, high in the mountains. Their seemingly congratulatory remarks to each other in the cold. I loved the way my face, as I looked up at the stars, was bitterly frozen, and loved tucking it back under, nose first, into the warm depths of the sleeping bag.
I loved waking up again. With the sun on the sleeping bag, heating me up so quickly and telling me to climb up from the bag and pack up my things and be on my way. Telling me to walk.
And I loved walking. Loved the first five minutes. The first five miles. Loved coming over the pass, green with alpine grass and covered in little white flowers, and scattered with aspens, their leaves blowing in the breeze. Loved the shade that sloped down across the road from the trees, where I walked. Loved the sound of the water bottle sloshing in my pack. Loved the peanut butter and orange marmalade sandwich for breakfast, sticking in my teeth.
In town: I was in the midst of hate, and then suddenly the ice truck pulled up, and I loved it. Loved how the two Latino guys jumped out and threw up the rolling back door of the truck. Loved the way one of them jumped inside and starting tossing down bags to the other, who stacked them on a waiting dolly. Loved as his gloved hands nimbly flexed and grabbed and patted. I loved the rhythm: Catch, Smack, Stack...Catch, Smack, Stack... I loved watching as the stack grew. Eleven bags to a layer. Two layers. Three. Six. Eight. The stack grew as high as the man stacking and he had to reach up over his head to put them in place. Thirteen layers. Eleven bags per layer. Seven pounds per bag. 1001 pounds of ice, sitting in front of me. 94 degrees, on the pavement.
And I loved the way the men rolled the dolly inside and re-stacked the ice inside the freezer. 23 degrees, inside the freezer.
I loved the quickness of it all. The rush to get it all from the truck into the store, under the sun. 'How much ice do you go through,' I asked the lady in the store. 'A lot,' she said. 'They have to bring it two or three times a day.' 'And how much does it cost?' I asked. 'A dollar fifty three a bag,' she said, 'including tax. Three - 0 - seven for two bags.' (As if that were a steal.) 'And we hardly ever sell just a bag. Five or ten at a time, mostly.'
I loved, today, the idea of the ice. The idea of the time it buys, that must be bought. The idea that all that ice will just buy a little time - maybe to keep your beer cold, or your milk, or your thinly sliced ham from the grocery store deli - and is then doomed to melt back away. Doomed to go back into water. Doomed to be poured out on the side of the road, or in a campground, somewhere...
I loved evening. As the sun fell and the heat faded a little. Loved walking on the sidewalks. Loved it when a kid in a car yelled at me from a stoplight. 'Cut your hair!' And I smiled and said 'Sure,' and he said 'I'll give you a hundred dollars to cut your hair.' I was interested. 'Okay,' I said. I loved how instead of pulling out scissors he pulled out a middle finger and waved it at me as the light turned green.
I loved the grocery store. Loved the familiar aisles, and sections. Deli. Produce. Bakery. Bread. Soup. Dairy. Cosmetics. Customer Service. Loved being surrounded by food. And loved how everyone seemed eager to talk to me, to hear my story. The older couple. The younger couple. The mother and daughter. The checkout clerk. And I loved talking about myself, about my trip. Loved feeling social.
I loved eating my macaroni outside the store, on the sidewalk.
I loved putting new film in my camera.
And I loved, today, the way that everything seemed to be a love or a hate, and the way that nothing seemed bland, or mundane.
It's interesting to think that when my life seemed too pedestrian, I became a pedestrian. The pedestrian seems to be going away.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Monday, June 30, 2008
Lyman
I made another ten miles from Montpelier before pulling over for the night in Paris, in the grasslands north-west of Bear Lake. I celebrated the thousand mile mark with dinner in a little cafe, and then called my parents from inside the local gas station. As I was talking, a lady came up and wrote a note on a napkin, then held it out to me. 'We heard you were a traveler. Come by for a beer at the first trailer south of here. We'd love to hear your story.' So after hanging up the phone I walked down the street and knocked on the door.
The lady who'd written the note - mid thirties with long black hair - welcomed me in and introduced me to two men sitting on the couch. Jerry - close to fifty, a brown ponytail, high cheekbones and dark eyes - and Steve - younger, maybe thirty, with a thick beard, his flip flops perched on the coffee table.
They call Jerry 'Trapper' and it's easy to see why. It's his trailer and spread out through the room are hundreds of pictures of hunts he's been on, of coyote and bobcat and raccoon that he's caught and of the mountains and forests nearby. There are all kinds of odd rocks around the place, too. One that looks exactly like Idaho - "Took a blue ribbon at the fair for that," - one that looks like a mushroom - "Saw it from a mile away," - and so forth. He shows me a handful of rings that he's carved from antlers, elaborately decorated, and hands me arrowhead after arrowhead. He holds up a little one - no more than an inch long, knapped out of a glassy green stone - and says "I could get a hundred thousand for this one. Made out of jasper. Worth more than diamond. You just have to find the right buyer."
Steve sits quietly on the couch. I think he's already put back some beers. Every once in a while he'll take a look at a picture or an arrowhead that Jerry shows him and say "Oh....oh yeah. That's really... something. Huh."
As the night winds down Jerry offers to let me crash on his floor. He spreads out a thick pad in front of the t.v. and I lay down and watch Family Guy. Steve keeps saying something about a guy named Bill, and having to go get something from him, but Jerry is intent on keeping him in the trailer. "You take my bed, man. Wait to go see Bill until morning."
"No, man. I don't need your bed."
"Come on. I don't care. Honest. You need a good sleep." Steve spreads out on the couch and starts snoring, and Jerry leaves for a little while. When he comes back he rouses Steve and tries to get him into the bedroom. Steve seems confused.
"Shouldn't I go see Bill?" he says.
"No, you just need to sleep."
"Oh...ok. I'll just take this couch if nobody's using it." He plops back down, happily, but Jerry stands him back up and manages to walk him into the bedroom. I fall asleep.
In the morning Steve is up before me.
"How's it going, drifter?" he says, as I stir.
"Pretty good."
"How far you headed?"
"Florida."
"Shit. You going down along the lake, huh? That's a long walk. It's a long lake. I work down in Laketown. Long drive. Really long drive, just to get to work. It kills me. Thank God I'm a substance abuser. I'd never make it, otherwise."
Jerry comes in from outside. "You sleep well, man?" he asks Steve.
"Oh man. That bed of yours did the trick. I feel so good right now. Walked all the way out to my car and back without a twinge." He turns to me and explains. "I cracked a vertebra a week ago, jumping on the trampoline. I'm moving all kinds of slow, now. It kills me. I have a new rule: No jumping on the trampoline drunk."
"You have any plans for the day?" Jerry says, and I shake my head. "You really should go up and see Minnetonka. It's a good ways off the road, though."
"I could drive him up," Steve says, from the couch.
"That'd be cool. Really, man, you should see it," Jerry encourages.
So Steve and I shuffle out to his car. He throws a bunch of stuff in the back to clear off my seat and we head south, then turn up toward the mountains. When we get to the parking lot for Minnetonka caves Steve waves me on. "A lot of stairs, in there," he says. "Don't think my back could take it. Besides, I've already seen it all."
There's a tour group just heading out, and I catch up with them. Minnetonka's a really cool place. 444 steps, up and down, through the cave, and it's forty degrees inside, so my t-shirt and shorts weren't a great idea, but other than that it was pretty cool.
Steve meets me after the tour is done and we head back down the road. We talk about things.
"My life's all jacked up right now," he says. "My wife left me and took the kids. After ten years of marriage she decided she was gay. I mean, what am I supposed to do? I mean, if a guy has a handlebar mustache, or something, and she likes that, I can grow a handlebar mustache. I can do that. But I can't be a woman."
We eat lunch when we get back to the highway, at a drive-in by the road.
"I was studying Anthropology. Minoring in Philosophy. Till I figured out I could do it all for free. Just sit in on any class I wanted to. I paid for fifteen. Took another sixty for free. It was all over. I mean, I'm not an anarchist, or anything. It's just that - well - learn what you can, I say. You never know where life's going to take you. You never know what you're going to be doing to make money. I mean, I'm a carpenter, now."
I made it down to Garden City, Utah, that night. Rolled out under a tree in a little park, off the road. The next day I walked thirty five miles, out into Wyoming, and slept in the ditch, then did another thirty the next day, through Kemmerer. Another thirty miles got me down into Lyman, below the interstate. I took Sunday off. Went to church and met some people. Did a load of laundry. Rested up. The next stretch, down to Vernal, is going to be rough.
The lady who'd written the note - mid thirties with long black hair - welcomed me in and introduced me to two men sitting on the couch. Jerry - close to fifty, a brown ponytail, high cheekbones and dark eyes - and Steve - younger, maybe thirty, with a thick beard, his flip flops perched on the coffee table.
They call Jerry 'Trapper' and it's easy to see why. It's his trailer and spread out through the room are hundreds of pictures of hunts he's been on, of coyote and bobcat and raccoon that he's caught and of the mountains and forests nearby. There are all kinds of odd rocks around the place, too. One that looks exactly like Idaho - "Took a blue ribbon at the fair for that," - one that looks like a mushroom - "Saw it from a mile away," - and so forth. He shows me a handful of rings that he's carved from antlers, elaborately decorated, and hands me arrowhead after arrowhead. He holds up a little one - no more than an inch long, knapped out of a glassy green stone - and says "I could get a hundred thousand for this one. Made out of jasper. Worth more than diamond. You just have to find the right buyer."
Steve sits quietly on the couch. I think he's already put back some beers. Every once in a while he'll take a look at a picture or an arrowhead that Jerry shows him and say "Oh....oh yeah. That's really... something. Huh."
As the night winds down Jerry offers to let me crash on his floor. He spreads out a thick pad in front of the t.v. and I lay down and watch Family Guy. Steve keeps saying something about a guy named Bill, and having to go get something from him, but Jerry is intent on keeping him in the trailer. "You take my bed, man. Wait to go see Bill until morning."
"No, man. I don't need your bed."
"Come on. I don't care. Honest. You need a good sleep." Steve spreads out on the couch and starts snoring, and Jerry leaves for a little while. When he comes back he rouses Steve and tries to get him into the bedroom. Steve seems confused.
"Shouldn't I go see Bill?" he says.
"No, you just need to sleep."
"Oh...ok. I'll just take this couch if nobody's using it." He plops back down, happily, but Jerry stands him back up and manages to walk him into the bedroom. I fall asleep.
In the morning Steve is up before me.
"How's it going, drifter?" he says, as I stir.
"Pretty good."
"How far you headed?"
"Florida."
"Shit. You going down along the lake, huh? That's a long walk. It's a long lake. I work down in Laketown. Long drive. Really long drive, just to get to work. It kills me. Thank God I'm a substance abuser. I'd never make it, otherwise."
Jerry comes in from outside. "You sleep well, man?" he asks Steve.
"Oh man. That bed of yours did the trick. I feel so good right now. Walked all the way out to my car and back without a twinge." He turns to me and explains. "I cracked a vertebra a week ago, jumping on the trampoline. I'm moving all kinds of slow, now. It kills me. I have a new rule: No jumping on the trampoline drunk."
"You have any plans for the day?" Jerry says, and I shake my head. "You really should go up and see Minnetonka. It's a good ways off the road, though."
"I could drive him up," Steve says, from the couch.
"That'd be cool. Really, man, you should see it," Jerry encourages.
So Steve and I shuffle out to his car. He throws a bunch of stuff in the back to clear off my seat and we head south, then turn up toward the mountains. When we get to the parking lot for Minnetonka caves Steve waves me on. "A lot of stairs, in there," he says. "Don't think my back could take it. Besides, I've already seen it all."
There's a tour group just heading out, and I catch up with them. Minnetonka's a really cool place. 444 steps, up and down, through the cave, and it's forty degrees inside, so my t-shirt and shorts weren't a great idea, but other than that it was pretty cool.
Steve meets me after the tour is done and we head back down the road. We talk about things.
"My life's all jacked up right now," he says. "My wife left me and took the kids. After ten years of marriage she decided she was gay. I mean, what am I supposed to do? I mean, if a guy has a handlebar mustache, or something, and she likes that, I can grow a handlebar mustache. I can do that. But I can't be a woman."
We eat lunch when we get back to the highway, at a drive-in by the road.
"I was studying Anthropology. Minoring in Philosophy. Till I figured out I could do it all for free. Just sit in on any class I wanted to. I paid for fifteen. Took another sixty for free. It was all over. I mean, I'm not an anarchist, or anything. It's just that - well - learn what you can, I say. You never know where life's going to take you. You never know what you're going to be doing to make money. I mean, I'm a carpenter, now."
I made it down to Garden City, Utah, that night. Rolled out under a tree in a little park, off the road. The next day I walked thirty five miles, out into Wyoming, and slept in the ditch, then did another thirty the next day, through Kemmerer. Another thirty miles got me down into Lyman, below the interstate. I took Sunday off. Went to church and met some people. Did a load of laundry. Rested up. The next stretch, down to Vernal, is going to be rough.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Montpelier
Well, I've made a thousand miles. Plus an extra thirteen, now.
Friday morning I crawled out from behind the juniper hedge where I spent the night and brushed off the dead thorns. I walked down the street to do some laundry, and ate breakfast - chocolate milk and maple bars - while the dryer spun. By the time I left town it was ten thirty, and the sun was already cooking the sidewalks.
I headed south, down highway 91, toward Pocatello. Ten miles got me to Fort Hall, where I pulled over at a cafe and got a strawberry milkshake. Dozed off for an hour in the cool of the air conditioning. In Pocatello it was still 94 degrees at seven o'clock. The heat isn't bothering me as much as it was at first. I drink lots of water and rub lots of Vaseline on the feet. As long as I keep moving the asphalt doesn't burn, and when I can I walk straight down the white line, which is a lot cooler and smoother, though when the traffic is bad I have to stay farther off on the shoulder.
I ate dinner - macaroni - in front of the movie theater, and then spent two bucks to see Stop Loss. I'm not sure why this particular theater is so cheap, but it might have to do with the fact that nachos are $6.15. (I didn't have any.) After the movie I rolled out my sleeping bag under a restaurant awning and slept.
I've developed a lot of tricks for keeping my mind occupied while I'm walking. And when I'm a little down I can normally trick myself out of feeling bad. Force the face into a big grin and curse loudly. Amazing how much that does. And yelling at cattle is fun, too. 'Are you crazy, or just plain stupid, cow!' They look up from their grazing, munching nonchalantly, pondering the question. 'Stupid is as stupid does, sir,' they answer. And then go back to munching.
I come up with a lot of songs, too:
I met-a-phor in the road
smiling carelessly
He said 'No no, you've got me wrong
I'm just a simile!'
And I ponder other people's words: 'Go west, young man!' West? No thanks. (Another song)
East I say! Its' the only way
for me
Feast on today! It's the only day
you'll ever see
And I don't know why the world turns
And I don't know why the fire burns
And I don't know how the universe came to be
But that's all right with me
All that matters is the next step toward the sea
Out of Pocatello I walked slowly. Above ninety, again, and I didn't get far before pulling over for a couple of hours. Decided to wait it out, instead of keep going. Ate some peanut butter sandwiches in the shade of a fire station. Plodded a little more, into Inkom, where I waited some more, then left at nine-thirty in the evening. Following old highway 91, now, which isn't on my map. I was planning to have to follow the river for a stretch, to stay off the interstate, but I'm glad that I didn't have to. It took me four hours to get to McCammon, and I stopped just short of town and rolled out in the ditch.
Sunday I started early. Up by six to try and stay ahead of the heat. Now on highway 30, heading east into the hills. In Lava Springs I stopped and filled up the water bottles, and watched the clouds build, in the west. By five it was drizzling, which was pleasant. By six it was raining steadily. By seven I reached Soda Springs, and a man outside of the Subway offered to let me pitch my tent in his yard. I sat on his couch watching Extreme Makeover until the rain let up, and then rolled out my tent in his yard. The rain came back, in the evening, and poured and blew and thundered, but I stayed dry, in the tent, and in the morning the sun was back.
I decided to take the day mostly off, yesterday. The feet were feeling pretty sore. So I found the library, and spent six hours reading (The Pearl, Steinbeck). In the evening, feeling rested, I headed out, and made fifteen miles last night, before sleeping in the ditch, a thousand miles from Ocean Shores.
Friday morning I crawled out from behind the juniper hedge where I spent the night and brushed off the dead thorns. I walked down the street to do some laundry, and ate breakfast - chocolate milk and maple bars - while the dryer spun. By the time I left town it was ten thirty, and the sun was already cooking the sidewalks.
I headed south, down highway 91, toward Pocatello. Ten miles got me to Fort Hall, where I pulled over at a cafe and got a strawberry milkshake. Dozed off for an hour in the cool of the air conditioning. In Pocatello it was still 94 degrees at seven o'clock. The heat isn't bothering me as much as it was at first. I drink lots of water and rub lots of Vaseline on the feet. As long as I keep moving the asphalt doesn't burn, and when I can I walk straight down the white line, which is a lot cooler and smoother, though when the traffic is bad I have to stay farther off on the shoulder.
I ate dinner - macaroni - in front of the movie theater, and then spent two bucks to see Stop Loss. I'm not sure why this particular theater is so cheap, but it might have to do with the fact that nachos are $6.15. (I didn't have any.) After the movie I rolled out my sleeping bag under a restaurant awning and slept.
I've developed a lot of tricks for keeping my mind occupied while I'm walking. And when I'm a little down I can normally trick myself out of feeling bad. Force the face into a big grin and curse loudly. Amazing how much that does. And yelling at cattle is fun, too. 'Are you crazy, or just plain stupid, cow!' They look up from their grazing, munching nonchalantly, pondering the question. 'Stupid is as stupid does, sir,' they answer. And then go back to munching.
I come up with a lot of songs, too:
I met-a-phor in the road
smiling carelessly
He said 'No no, you've got me wrong
I'm just a simile!'
And I ponder other people's words: 'Go west, young man!' West? No thanks. (Another song)
East I say! Its' the only way
for me
Feast on today! It's the only day
you'll ever see
And I don't know why the world turns
And I don't know why the fire burns
And I don't know how the universe came to be
But that's all right with me
All that matters is the next step toward the sea
Out of Pocatello I walked slowly. Above ninety, again, and I didn't get far before pulling over for a couple of hours. Decided to wait it out, instead of keep going. Ate some peanut butter sandwiches in the shade of a fire station. Plodded a little more, into Inkom, where I waited some more, then left at nine-thirty in the evening. Following old highway 91, now, which isn't on my map. I was planning to have to follow the river for a stretch, to stay off the interstate, but I'm glad that I didn't have to. It took me four hours to get to McCammon, and I stopped just short of town and rolled out in the ditch.
Sunday I started early. Up by six to try and stay ahead of the heat. Now on highway 30, heading east into the hills. In Lava Springs I stopped and filled up the water bottles, and watched the clouds build, in the west. By five it was drizzling, which was pleasant. By six it was raining steadily. By seven I reached Soda Springs, and a man outside of the Subway offered to let me pitch my tent in his yard. I sat on his couch watching Extreme Makeover until the rain let up, and then rolled out my tent in his yard. The rain came back, in the evening, and poured and blew and thundered, but I stayed dry, in the tent, and in the morning the sun was back.
I decided to take the day mostly off, yesterday. The feet were feeling pretty sore. So I found the library, and spent six hours reading (The Pearl, Steinbeck). In the evening, feeling rested, I headed out, and made fifteen miles last night, before sleeping in the ditch, a thousand miles from Ocean Shores.
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