So tomorrow I will begin a little excursion out of town, out of civilization. Currently I am staying with my aunt Colette in San Marcos, California, just north of San Diego. In the morning I will load my bike down with all my bags again and head east. My destination is the Salton Sea, a surreal and soothing spot out in the middle of the desert, about one hundred miles away. I camped out there last year with my ex-girlfriend and fell in love with the place. Being out in the desert, the area is quite isolated and quiet but still feels very much alive. It is a great place to think and just be. In addition to the sea, which happens to be saltier than the Pacific Ocean, around the sea are breathtaking landscapes, hot springs, a few small cities, Slab City and Salvation Mountain. Salvation Mountain is a national treasure, a man-made mountain dedicated to the idea of God = Love and the salvation brought by Jesus Christ. The entire thing was built by one man, Leonard Knight, who is in his seventies now, has worked on the place for about twenty years, and continues to maintain and build new components today. Meeting him in person earlier this year left me filled with inspiration and admiration. I suggest reading his story and visiting if opportunity permits. It’s worth it.

Other than a few destinations in mind, my plan is fairly vague. Getting out there will take me two days, traveling through what should be some beautiful scenery. Once there, I’ll probably take at least a week to ride around and explore and rest and relax and write and think. I will be without my computer, so unfortunately I will not be able to make any updates until I return to civilization, unless I come across somewhere with computer access, but I’m not planning on it. I’m looking forward to taking some time without this machine, much as I love it so. My phone should work out there, and I’m always happy to have phone calls. I should have some visitors in the flesh, as well, during my stay.

Hopefully this little excursion will help to satisfy some of the wanderlust that still occupies my blood and mind and spirit. I don’t think it will ever be completely calmed or satisfied, but I do still want to take some time in one place, to have my own space to work creatively. This time of solace and solitude should provide ample resources to help get my mind focused, my heart mended, and my spirit calmed.

The days leading up to the confrontation were tough. My mind was torn between hope and doubt, as I tried my best to quiet my emotions. The day I finally asked the question was a Tuesday, the 11th, Veteran’s Day. This day also happens to be my brother’s birthday. He would have been 27. There was nothing I could do to stop those emotions from surfacing. His birthday never fails to leave me deeply saddened, always serving as a reminder of the tragic loss. Usually my grief leaves me quiet, maybe a bit mopey, and contemplative. I lose my drive to be social. Anyway, that day and the day before I had been staying at her house, which was a mixed signal to begin with, but I was not feeling terribly welcome, like my presence there was not really anything special. The weight of the sadness of remembering my brother coupled with the lack of feeling wanted was too much for me to carry at the same time, and thus I forced myself to ask a question that I wasn’t terribly enthusiastic about hearing an answer to. ‘Would you rather I wasn’t staying here?’ Her response was all I needed to hear to know exactly where things stood. ‘It would be much easier for me if you were not here; I would be able to get work done at my own pace. I don’t want to throw you out on the streets with nowhere to go, though.’ It was too late at night to leave at that point, but I knew I would be packing up first thing in the morning and getting out.

The next day was incredibly tough. I couldn’t believe this was happening, that I was going to be walking out like that, that the relationship was really over. I know it sounds cliche or cheesy, but to be honest, the loss of the romantic relationship did not bother me too much. I will admit that after four months of being mostly alone, I was hoping for some kind of compassionate touch from someone I trust, even just an enthusiastic hug. Perhaps I set my expectations too high. Really, though, what truly made me sad, what brough tears to my eyes as I packed up my belongings, was the knowledge that I was losing a good friend, that someone I trusted and thought I could share everything with would no longer be in my life. I know this is all standard break up protocol; that’s the nature of the situation. I’ve just always been on the other side of things. Plus, her actions had clearly shown, and she even admitted, that she could not be an emotional support for me. She could not be a shoulder to cry on or even a sympathetic ear to tell my troubles to. That’s what broke my heart.

Lucky for me, though, I do have people I can turn to when times get tough. There are people I can call upon who do know how to listen, how to empathize, how to comfort. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt terribly to lose someone whom I thought was one of those people. I have already lost too many people that I loved due to death, so to lose someone who is still living seems like such a pointless shame to me. However, if someone can look me in the eyes and tell me that they cannot be there emotionally, that the stress of some work prevents them from being empathetic or compassionate, I find it difficult to find it within myself to find the drive to sustain that relationship in any form. It is difficult to try to take a step backwards in any relationship and make things work, and personally, degrading relationships, tearing down what has been built up without the intention of rebuilding, is not on my personal agenda.

So with a heavy heart and teary eyes, I left her place on Wednesday and headed first to a park to collect my thoughts and then to a good friend’s place just down the road. Like I said before, I am very lucky to have some really fantastic people in my life- good-hearted, compassionate people. My friend Betsy has been that since the very beginning, and she did not fail me this time. She gave me a place to stay last year when I finished my bike ride up the Pacific coast, when I had no money and nowhere to go. She gave me a roof over my head and even bought me a nice bed. The story of how we met and became friends is really an interesting one, but perhaps best told another time. The short version is that I gave her my cat when I graduated college, and we have been friends ever since. So in addition to having good company and someone to talk to, I also got to see my old cat, Soma, to whom I have always had a strong attachment.

I mentioned earlier that I had gone to the park first after leaving her place, and I am glad I did. While there, I was able to breathe a bit and put some perspective on the situation, to look past my initial reaction of grief and a crushed ego. I tried to look past the short-term consequences of the loss and focus on what this meant for my future, what my next move should be. As I began to look at the change from this different perspective, I began to realize what this closure had created for me. Suddenly I understood the freedom I had just been granted, a freedom that I had longed for while on the road but was never able to realize. My tethers had been severed. No longer did I have any gravitating ties to southern California; I was now free to go anywhere. The lack of closure on that relationship, that constant wondering ‘what if’, had inevitably led me back to Orange County, but now I had an answer, now I had nothing to wonder.  All throughout my journey I longed to feel that kind of freedom, to know that wherever I was could only be exactly where I needed to be, but I never felt it. I knew I couldn’t be free until I found out for sure that it was over. Only then could I move on from California and completely focus on where to go next. I genuinely worked up some excitement thinking about all my new possibilities.

So the past week has been filled with mixed emotions. I still feel saddened over the loss, and despite being surrounded by friends up in L.A., there still remains a penetrating feeling of loneliness.  It is hard not to remember the relationship we had before and yearn for some semblance of the emotional companionship. At the same time, I am excited to begin something new. One of the goals I set for myself when I began this long journey four months ago was to try to find somewhere new to live. I had hoped that by the time I got to Los Angeles I would have a strong idea of where I wanted to go to settle down for a bit. When I arrived here just over a week ago, however, I felt completely void of any idea on the matter. Thus I had concluded to stick around here for the winter and give myself more time. Now with this sudden change that has developed, I find myself with ideas I didn’t think I had. I think I have decided what my next move will be, where I will go. Funny enough, it isn’t even somewhere I visited on this journey. For the moment, my mind has settled on taking my life to Nashville, Tennessee, in the near future. I hadn’t even been considering moving there at any other point, really, but somehow the idea popped into my mind a few days ago, and since then I have been thinking about it nonstop. After much thought, the whole thing makes sense, and I am ready to take action. When I consider the factors of what I am looking for in a residence, Nashville seems to fulfill my needs. I realized that I want to be in a city, somewhere with a diversity of people and opportunities. At the same time, I do not want to be locked in a concrete jungle anymore, like Los Angeles. I also must find myself in a place with friendly people, somewhere not overrun by pretension and insecurity. Nearly everywhere is cheaper than southern California, so that was a pretty easy standard to fulfill. And then another factor, one that has only recently been brought into consideration, is proximity to my dad. I genuinely want to try to improve my relationship with him. He’s all I have left as far as immediate family goes, but since my mother died seven and a half years ago, our relationship has not been terribly fulfilling. It has been incredibly tough, but I am finally at a point in my life where I am willing to work to make things better. I can’t stand having a strained relationship anymore, and I believe that I have the understanding now to try to facilitate the necessary changes. Being back home in Knoxville earlier this year has proven to me that there is no way for me to move back there, living in the same house with my dad or not, but Nashville is only about a three hour drive from Knoxville. Close enough that visiting would not be a difficult or expensive trip, but still far enough away that I can be on my own, independent, and start something new for myself. I hope to have a little bit of space where I can set up workshops, areas for sewing and woodworking and painting. I have not had much outlet for creative energy for the past few months, and I am in desperate need of some release. I want to make clothing and build furniture and paint everything. The thought of all this gets me really excited. I look forward to beginning fresh. I do know a few people in Nashville, but I am excited about meeting lots of new people as well. I see a lot of possibility in this move.

For the next few weeks, however, I plan on staying out here in California. There are still people to reconnect with and places to visit. I must make it out to the Salton Sea and go camping. So who knows, maybe I will end up spending the better part of the winter out here, as long as I can afford it, as long as I am enjoying myself. At least now I can take great comfort in knowing that I have created some new direction for myself. I haven’t solved all of my problems, far from it, but I have a new excitement that allows me to take each day one by one and continue to move forward. I am beginning to put this journey into some kind of perspective. Every day I find myself gaining more and more understanding of what I have just been through. I still hope that soon enough I am able to comprehensively revisit this entire adventure and consolidate all this documentation into a book. I think it is a really good story, and I have tried to be as honest as possible in relating my account of it all. Plus, there is so much more that wasn’t written here. If for no other reason than for my own memories and to show my kids one day, I really want to turn this whole bicycle trip into a cohesive narrative, a truthful and emotional account of my journey, of all the great people I met along the way, and all the wonderful tidbits of life that come along with that. For now, I must continue to process what I have just been through and where I am going next. Lots of pictures coming very soon!

I called Amtrak the night before and learned that my bike needs to be boxed up to be taken on the train. My hope was that I could just load the bicycle as is on the train, with all my bags still hanging on the side. That way I could just load on, enjoy the train ride, and unload and ride away in Los Angeles. Under these conditions I needed to box up my bike, consolidate all my possessions to two or three bags to avoid extra charges, and somehow get my boxed bike and luggage to the train station from wherever I boxed the bike. The closest bike shop to the station was about a mile away. Not too far, but that would mean probably dragging my boxed bike as well as some big bags (which I did not have yet) down the sidewalk.

The ride itself was decent, mostly through suburbia. I just let myself get lost in thought as I passed down the highway until I came upon a bike path. The road I had planned on riding into the city was closed off completely for construction, and I had no idea of any alternative, given that I had just written down some simple directions from looking at a map online. The bike path looked to parallel the closed road, so I took a gamble and headed down the path. If nothing else, it would be a relaxing break from riding on the streets. Fortuitously, the path completely paralleled the road and brought me exactly where I wanted to be, and all while riding along the Rio Grande. How nice.

Once I reached downtown, I had three objectives to complete in order to make the train and be on my way to sunny southern California. I arrived around 11:30, and the train was scheduled to depart at 4:45. I figured that gave me about four hours to accomplish my tasks and still ensure no chance of missing the train. First objective was to find a thrift store and buy some luggage for all my goods. I would need to consolidate my five bags of possessions into about three bags that would be easy to carry. I had written down the location and directions to two thrift stores that morning, a Goodwill and a Salvation Army. The Goodwill was not actually there anymore or maybe never was there. The Salvation Army was where it should be, but they did not have what I was looking for, just some small duffel bags and some old, hard-case luggage. Not gonna cut it. So with my only two documented potentials unsuccessful, I needed to find some new resources. I asked around at the Salvation Army, but no one could tell me an exact location, just vicinities, and everywhere else required climbing a huge hill. Still, I had no choice; I had to make this work.

I climbed the giant hill that went on for miles. It was steep at parts, but the worst part was the traffic. I got the feeling that drivers in Albuquerque do not care too much for cyclists. No specific incidents worth mentioning, I just did not feel terribly safe on those roads. So up and up I went, keeping a keen eye out for thrift stores. Passed strip mall after strip mall, but nothing appeared. Just as I was about to give up in that area and turn around, I spotted a big sign that merely said ‘Thrift Store.’ Perfect. The store was fairly large, filled mostly with women’s clothing, as most thrift stores generally are. I found the section with luggage and scored big time. The place had exactly what I was looking for. The first piece is a large duffel bag. I knew it was easily big enough to fit my sleeping bag, as well as my other large items. In addition the bag also had a telescoping plastic handle and two wheels on the other end. That would make it much easier for getting down the street to the train station. Then I found a smaller duffel bag, perfect size to carry easily and bring onboard the train with me. And wouldn’t you know it, both bags were nearly matching, almost looking as if they came from a set. Basically, they were both black and red. It is almost as if they were there at that store just waiting for me. At the register I had another great surprise as well. That day happened to be half-off day, and everything was fifty-percent off. So for a mere five dollars and fifty cents I purchased exactly what I was looking for, and quite easily.

With just a little work, I strapped the new bags onto my load and set out for a bike shop. I had written down the locations of the two shops closest to the train station, and made my way to the closest one. I needed to pick up a box to put my bike in. The train station usually has boxes, but they charge, and usually bike shops are more than willing to dole out free bike boxes. The shop I stopped into, Two Wheel Drive, was quite friendly, and not only did they give me a box, they let me use some of their floor space to save me from doing the work outside on the cold asphalt of their parking lot. One man was particularly friendly, and we chatted for the entire time I was there. He asked a lot of questions and more than once explained to me why he loved Albuquerque so much. He is the only person I have talked to that has spoken so highly of that city.

It took quite a bit of work to break down my bike enough to fit in a box with all my racks and some accessories. After I finally got the bike packed up and transferred all of my possessions into those two new bags, I finally had to stop for a moment and begin to consider how the hell I was going to get all this stuff down the road to the train station. The bike box is not terribly heavy, just terribly awkward to carry. The box is quite long and has handles cut in the side that really only make it conducive to carrying with two hands. I needed to be able to handle that one with one hand. Then I had the large duffel bag, which could be rolled, the smaller duffel bag, which could either be slung on one shoulder or stacked on top of the larger bag and rolled along. Then I had a backpack, which housed my essentials for easy access on the train- some food and electronics. The bike shop employee also racked his brain with me on the best option for transport. He said he would just drive me down there, but he didn’t have his truck there. He had the great idea to cut another handle into the box at the halfway point on the side, instead of on the edges, thus making it somewhat possible to carry with just one hand. Still maneuvering the sometimes narrow and busy sidewalks of the city was not going to be easy. I said I would just go for it. I think the time was only about three, which really gave me an hour of comfortable time to get down there. I figured the distance was not much more than a mile, which, even with the difficulty of toting that baggage, shouldn’t be tough to manage within that large window of time. Another employee, however, suggested asking the guy next door, who owned a used book store. He has a truck and maybe would be willing to give me a ride. I figured it was a long shot, given that this man had not met me and would probably have no incentive to interrupt his day to give a stranger a ride down the street. I was wrong, and the guy was willing to help me out. So we loaded all my gear into the back of his old 4-Runner, and he took me down to the station. What a nice guy.

From where the man let me off, I still had a block and a half to walk to the station, but I managed alright. Then it was only a matter of buying my ticket and checking my bag and bike. That all went fairly smoothly and left me with nearly an hour of time to kill before departure. I occupied the time with some reading and people-watching. The train was on time arriving but late departing by at least a half hour, but I didn’t care. I had nothing to do but get comfortable and settle in for a sixteen hour ride to a destination that probably would have taken me at least that many days to reach by bicycle. As I settled into my seat by the window, as we finally got moving and heading west, I thought it a good idea to try to reflect upon my recent decision, on the reality of the end of a long journey. This trip was not an outing or a vacation, it was my life for four months. It was a lifestyle completely different from the norms of our society, and I felt that I would be better off putting the ending into perspective before attempting to assimilate back into some semblance of ‘normal’ life, life not on the road. These thoughts made me sad, but I knew that was for the best. With any loss or major life change, grief is and should be a natural process, a healthy way of accepting that what was once so physically prominent in our lives will now only remain in thought and memory. The memories always remain, especially with the valuable resource that has been this journal. With these writings I can revisit my entire adventure or any segment at any time and relive part of the amazing experience. And to think that I originally did not want to keep a journal like this. The main reason why I decided to do it was so that I would not have to get on the phone every day and notify family that I was still alive and where I was and how things had been. I figured it was worth the hassle of carrying a laptop and writing every day or so to keep people updated, instead of telling the same stories multiple times every few days. Looking back now, it was well worth the extra weight and bulk.

I left the hostel in Santa Fe just after noon and headed southwest along I-25. My destination lay thirty miles ahead at a campground on Cochiti Lake. After my flat tire and exhaustion and thoughts of ending the whole trip, I had decided I needed to take some time off, to clear my head, and think through my decision. I chose a campground not too far from the city so that I would not spend my whole day riding and have some time to set up and cook dinner before dark, which comes just after five now. Cochiti Lake seemed ideal, being right by a lake and at a relatively low elevation.

The weather was fair, but the winds kicked up toward the end of daylight, providing a steady headwind for the last hour or so. The beginning of the ride ran on a frontage road paralleling the interstate, but that road ended due to construction, forcing me to walk my bike through some dirt onto the interstate shoulder. The last twelve miles found me on a small highway heading north. I passed through vast open country, some farmlands, and small signs of civilization, including a buffalo farm. Sometime before five I reached my destination: Lake Cochiti campground. The place was fairly quiet, with only a few RVs around. The campground is divided into two loops, an upper one containing electrical hookups, and a lower one without. I chose the lower loop, as it was four dollars cheaper and was completely unoccupied. I wanted to be alone. The site I chose seemed to be the only one optimal for hanging my hammock. Nearly all the sites have covered shelters with a picnic table, but only mine had a larger shelter with narrower, wooden support beams, ideal for tying my hammock to. The rest of the support beams were made of stone and much wider. The shelter also had four picnic tables, which may seem excessive, given that I am just one man, but I figured I could spread my stuff out and use each table for a different purpose. Since I was planning on staying two nights, I figured I might as well be comfortable.

I wasted no time setting up my hammock, as I was racing the sun. Once that task was completed, I set about scrounging for twigs to build a fire in my new tomato can wood stove. I had only tried it once before, just after I made it in Denver, and I had been eager to try it out for real and cook with it. Well, I wasn’t really cooking so much as heating up a can of chili that I picked up at a Trader Joes before leaving Santa Fe. The stove worked well for making my chili nice and hot as the setting sun took his ambient heat with him.

By the time I finished my meal, the sky had turned to black, and the quarter moon and some stars were already shining down. It was still only six, and I had no idea what to do with the rest of my time. I knew I wouldn’t be able to go to sleep for at least a few hours, but most options for activities would require a flashlight, and for some reason that did not appeal to me much. I decided to stretch and try to unwind. The stretch did wonders for mellowing me out, and I wrote a bit in my journal. Always on my mind was the decision I had come there to make. I didn’t want to forget.

Writing and walking around a bit and looking at the stars, among some other small activities, managed to pass about three hours, and I decided I was ready to go to sleep. The forecast called for a low of only about forty degrees, so I wasn’t too terribly worried about staying warm. I wore a few layers, but not all of them. Inside my bag was actually quite warm at first. Before falling asleep, I read a bit of my current book, Travels With Charley, but sleepiness came fairly quickly, and I didn’t read much. I can’t say how much time passed before I awoke the first time. The wind had picked up considerably and was whipping the rainfly on my hammock with fury. Constant cracking as the cover flapped violently in the gusts. I’m not sure how long it took me to get back to sleep. I’m also not sure how many other times I woke up in the dark, or how long I actually slept for. Every waking minute seemed an eternity as I listened to the sound of the wind, but I also seemed to be only half-conscious.

The call of nature, as well as the wind, woke me for good around seven-thirty. The sun had already established his presence in the day, but clouds obscured his direct rays. The morning seemed rather temperate, but after washing my hands in the spigot of cold water, I realized how chilly it actually was. I put my fleece and a pair of gloves on and ate a cold breakfast of oatmeal with powdered milk. After breakfast I decided to scour the area around my campsite for arrowheads. Since coming into the southwest I had been hoping to find one laying around. I have always been fascinated by Native American crafts and weapons, and I wanted to find a relic of those simple but inventive people. I searched for about a half hour, but all I found were what appear to be volcanic rock- shiny and black, almost like glass.

After my search, my hands were starting to get cold. While the wind had stopped for a bit after I awoke, the blowing had continued and kept the temperature rather cool. I decided to build a fire in my stove and cook some more breakfast. So I set about searching for twigs again and got my fire going. I heated up some grits and added a packet of instant oatmeal, as well as some powdered milk. With the gusty winds, my fire was quite ineffective for cooking, so while I managed to get the food warm, my grits were not properly cooked. I ate them anyway. My second breakfast done, I looked around the area some more for cool rocks. I had decided that I wanted to try my hands at making my own arrowhead. I thought the volcanic rock might be a good substance, but I wanted to find one that was already near in shape to the final product. The wind was blowing still, but all of a sudden I felt some moisture. Now I had felt a few drops of rain carried in on the wind the night before, but it only lasted about a minute. This seemed to be the same at first, but as I stood and felt the moisture coming down, I realized that it wasn’t actually rain but snow. Some flakes landed on my gloves and remained for a minute before disolving to water. Well, I thought that was pretty exciting- a little bit of snow out in the desert. Within a minute, however, the winds had kicked up into something fierce, and all of a sudden it was almost like I was in the middle of a blizzard. The snow was getting heavy and the winds were strong. The shelter provided no relief as the snow came in sideways and was beginning to wet my gear. The wind flapped up the rainfly on my hammock and some snow was hitting the bottom. I scrambled to get all my bags covered with my tarp. Once all my bags were covered, I stood and watched the phenomenon and laughed. What a strange sight, all this snow blowing in on the wind among the tumbleweeds and sagebrush and small pines. The snow lasted about ten minutes and left just as quickly as it had entered, leaving the picnic tables and concrete ground under my shelter completely covered in moisture. The sun came out, and I knew it would all evaporate with an hour.

With no where to sit, I decided to take a walk down to the lake and check out the view. The sun warmed things up, and the day seemed quite pleasant. That lasted for about a half hour before the winds kicked up again. They roared through, kicking up dust and offering resistance as I walked back to my site. I ate some lunch of trailmix and decided to set about making that arrowhead. With a real hard rock, I set about trying to chisel the black, glassy rock into a sharp point. In trying to make the point really sharp, however, I managed to break off the whole tip, thus making that rock no longer suitable for my endeavor. I tried another rock that was a bit thicker, and had some moderate success for a while, but in the end that one suffered a similar fate.

It was afternoon now, and the winds had picked up considerably. At some point during my walk back from the lake, I had lost my gloves; they had fallen out of my jacket pocket or I set them down on a table. I knew there was pretty much no chance of finding them. In any other situation, I could simply retrace my path and figure I would find them somewhere along the way. With the wicked wind, however, the gloves could have been a hundred yards from where I dropped them, and not even knowing where I dropped them, I figured it was hopeless. I walked around a bit anyway, and I did come across one of my handkerchiefs, which I hadn’t even realized I was missing, but I saw no sign of the gloves. I was a bit upset about that. I do have another pair, but his pair was a bit thinner and thus more ideal for activities requiring some level of finger dexterity.

I decided to take some time and relax, as I wasn’t really sure what activity to get into next. So I lay down in the road and looked up to the sky. The wind rushed over me, and I just stared at the blue sky and passing clouds. I was thinking about my impending decision, about whether to hop a train. My mind had been pretty much made up that morning, and I knew I was going to be following through with that plan, but after talking to a good friend, who happens to also be my ex-girlfriend, I was feeling a bit apprehensive about being back in southern California. Doubts began to swirl in my mind, and I wondered why I was going there, what I was going to do when I get there, and what I really wanted to be doing. I knew I was done biking, but all of a sudden I was not feeling good about going there. I had to write it all down and get my head straight, so I took out my journal and wrote a bit. That seemed to help.

The wind was still blowing fiercely and flapping my rainfly violently. I needed to find a fix for that so I would be able to sleep peacefully tonight. I made some adjustments, and instead of tying the support strings to the picnic tables, I gathered a few large, heavy rocks to tie the strings to, thereby giving me more flexibility in the angle of the cover. That seemed to help with the noise and violent flapping, but one side was pushed into the side of the hammock with major force. I decided I should try out lying in the hammock to see how this was going to work out, so I could make adjustments. Lying in the hammock, one side of the netting and the rainfly were pushed in so hard that there was no escaping them pushing up against my face. I got out and tried to make some adjustments, but there seemed to be nothing I could do to avoid that problem, save loosening up the fly and submitting it to tormenting flapping. I became frustrated.

In the meantime, the temperature had seemed to drop. My hands were beginning to go numb. Some flurries of snow had come in here and there, but nothing lasting longer than a couple seconds. I looked up to the sky, at the gray clouds on the horizon, I felt the wind blowing at a steady pace of at least ten miles an hour, probably fifteen, with gusts that must have been around thirty miles an hour. I thought about my numbing hands, the forecast low of twenty degrees for the night, the gray clouds promising more snow, and the unavoidable problem of my rainfly. In a flash of certainty, I made up my mind for the entire situation. I was going to get the hell out of there right that minute. I was going to head to Abluquerque and catch the train the next day. There was no way I was going to put up with that crap there at the campground. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with it. It was two o’clock, and a terrible time to be deciding to leave and begin a fifty mile ride, but I felt that was my only option. So I packed up my gear and loaded up my bike. This all took about a half hour, due to the incredibly difficulty of folding and rolling objects like tarps and sleeping bags with such an unrelenting wind. I loaded up my bike and took off, leaving the campground behind, looking back just once to catch a last glimpse of my site, now empty.

Heading back to the interstate, the wind fluxuated, sometimes at my rear, sometime straight at my side. It was an unstable ride, but the boosts helped. Back on the freeway, I found myself staring straight into a setting sun and a fierce headwind. Every pedal stroke was a marathon, even going downhill, but I was determined to find somewhere warm to lay my head for the night. A few exits early on offered some hope of a short day, but they proved to be just small roads leading off to small towns and pueblos, no signs of motels or hostels, no passing strangers offering rides or hospitality. I pressed on. In the end, after a few hours of riding, one of them in the dark, I finally came to the suburbs of Albuquerque and found myself a hotel. I was able to talk the guy behind the counter down ten dollars on the rate, which made me feel much better about paying for lodgings. I had arrived exhuasted and cold, and I was terribly happy to learn that the hotel has a hottub and free breakfast. I took advantage of the hottub tonight and gave myself a nice warm shower afterwards.

Now, sitting in my warm room with king-size bed, I think about what is to come next. I still feel some apprehension about being back in soCal, but I have reminded myself that the future is largely what I make of it. There is no reason why I have to get stuck in my old ways there, to find myself in the same funk I left behind six months ago. It’s funny, I began this trip four months ago thinking I would come out if with some direction, some idea of where I wanted to be and what I wanted to be doing. I have none of that now. I can think of plenty of places that are nice, plenty of reasons to be in some places, but nothing comes to me to drive me to those places. I find myself completely lacking direction. So for now, the comfort of warm and sunny southern California, among friends and ex-lovers, will have to suffice as I continue on some kind of quest to at least figure something else out. I don’t think my days of bike riding are quite over. I still have a few destinations in California that I had intended to spend some time at and which I still intend on visiting, including Joshua Tree and the Salton Sea. I also still need to make my way down to San Diego and out to Las Vegas to visit more family

So the plan for tomorrow is to ride the remaining twenty miles to downtown Albuquerque, find a bike shop so I can box up my bike, and catch the daily train out west, heading to that old familiar place to see some old familiar faces. I’m looking forward to seeing friends.

The last two nights have been nice, staying with a family in Ranchos De Taos. The Medinas, Fidel and Hope, are an older couple native to the area. I was connected with them through Brother Sebastian, who stayed with them for a while when he went to art school out here. The Medinas were kind enough to invite me to stay a second night, and their son, Leo, showed me around the area on the second day, taking me to the bridge high above the Rio Grande Gorge and up to the Taos ski area. It was a beautiful day. The entire stay was completely comfortable, and the Medinas treated me like family. They even taught me some Spanglish and bestowed some elk and antelope jerky and dried apricots and dates.

Riding out of Taos this morning was a gorgeous route. The clouds in the sky made for great picture-taking conditions, and passing by the Rio Grande River Gorge was overwhelming. The entire time I just wanted to stop there and spend a week next to the river. While north of here most of the trees have already shed their leaves, along the river many of the trees were glowing with full, bright yellow folliage. About half way through the day, I reached the town of Espanola, which doensn’t seem very nice. I stopped and ate lunch there and headed out, but the rest of the day found me on busy highways away from the river. The relaxation was gone.

In Santa Fe, I was hoping to couchsurf, but unfortunately none of the people I contacted got back to me. As I neared the city just before five, I was not at all sure where I was going to stay. Just about two miles outside of town, on a busy highway with a small shoulder, I struck a big rock while rolling down hill. There was really nothing to be done to avoid the rock, save swerving out into traffic or into the dirt and guard rail. Hitting the rock left me with a flat tire. There was no way I was going to attempt changing the flat on the side of that busy highway. That would be far too dangerous. So I decided to walk to town and hopefully find a bike shop. I am so tired of getting flat tires, and I resolved a few days ago that at the next opportunity I would buy a new tire. These last two I have had on the rear have not been working out. I think the last few days have given me more flat tires than I had in the first month and a half of riding. So I will go back to what I had before.

So I walked into town and began searching for a bike shop. A young woman walked by me, and I asked her about finding a shop. The only place she knew about was REI. She was walking that way anyway, so she walked with me over there. We had some great conversation about politics and Santa Fe and California and Oregon. She has been working on the Obama campaign there in Santa Fe. We parted at the REI and I checked out their stock. Unfortunately they do not carry the tire I want, and I am set on getting that particular brand of tire. I don’t feel like trying something out new again. Tried and tested, that’s what it has come to. I asked an employee there about other bike shops. She referred me to another shop but said they were probably closed. It was just after five. This town shuts down early. While talking to the employee, the young woman, Laurie, came in. I had asked her about cheap motels, and she suggested a hostel in town. She knew the general location but not the name or exact intersection. She felt bad about leaving me with such little information and since she was walking in the direction of the hostel, she said she would walk me part of the way and set me in the correct direction. She walked with me for six or seven blocks and we talked more. She was very friendly, and I was hoping that she was going to offer me a place to stay, but she didn’t. In the end we parted and she set me in the direction of the hostel. The street I walked down was busy with the sidewalk disappearing intermittenly. Of course I was still walking my bike with a flat tire, and I have probably done some damage to my rim.

After about a half hour of walking, I found the hostel. For $25 I have my own room. I just have to clean it up myself in the morning. There is a kitchen here and some free food. I ended up cooking my own rice. I arrived here very tired and a bit frustrated. I had the strong thought of catching a train tomorrow all the way to LA. In the end, I think I am going to go camping around here for a day or two and think things through. I don’t know if I am ready to end this trip, but I am tired and need some rest, to get away from the stress and be alone with nature. So I will not be on my computer for a few days. Now I need to go. They are closing down the common area. Good night.

While on the internet earlier, I had looked into frontage roads along I-25 to avoid being on the interstate as long as possible. I had found a decent route that would keep me on side roads for at least a few miles, and I thought I had memorized the route fairly well. As I approached the end of town, however, I came to a T in the road, and I chose the wrong way. I went about a mile and a half before I realized my error, but I decided to stop at a Family Dollar and get a can of soup before turning back around. As I locked up my bike outside the dollar store, I noticed a thorn sticking out of my rear tire. The tire was still inflated, so the thorn was obviously plugging its own hole. I had two choices: take the thorn out and have the tire go flat right then, or wait and let the road take its coarse and work the thorn out down the raod, maybe 100 yards, maybe 2 miles. No telling. So I removed the thorn, thinking this was a decent spot to patch the tube. I let the air drain out then went and purchased my food. I ate the can of soup in about 20 seconds, and decided to pull my bike to the side of the building to do the work, out of the way.

After I had patched the hole and was beginning to put everything back together, I realized that I did not have my waist pack on me. It wasn’t around my waist, and it didn’t seem to be in my pile of bags on the ground. It had been sitting on top of my rear rack when I rolled my bike through the parking lot, and it must have fallen off then. I started getting terribly worried. It had been about 15 minutes since I left the storefront. My heart sank at the prospect of losing my wallet and camera. Just as I was about to frantically round the corner of the building, a car pulled up next to me with a family inside. A girl in the back asked my name. I had seen them in line in front of me in the store. When I told her the name on my IDs, she produced my pack from the floor at her feet. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. Washed with relief. After they drove off, I checked to make sure everything was still there, although I knew it would be. I can’t imagine they would have sought me out if they were going to take anything. I only had about three dollars in my wallet.

So with my tire inflated, I set back down the road in the correct direction. The day had become hot. A sign I passed said the temperature was 77. Riding down the frontage road was relaxing, but it didn’t last long. Soon I had to get back on the freeway and join the traffic. I was tired, but I pedalled away. There was nothing along the way except farms for miles and miles. I reached a rest stop at Colorado City around five, and took a water and bathroom break. My destination of Lathrop State Park was still another 25 miles, and the sun was just about to retire behind the mountains. I took a look at a map, and the nearest camp ground seemed to be more than ten miles to the west. I weighed my options. Going west would be a shorter distance, and I might have a chance of reaching the camp before dark, but then I would be ten or more miles out of the way, and I would probably have a lot of uphill. Continuing south to my initial destination would take quite a while, at least two more hours, but probably more. That would mean riding in the dark on interstate 25. But I would be keeping my course, heading in the right direction.

I’m not sure why I felt it was the best choice, but I decided to continue on to the south, to aim for Lathrop State Park. I knew there was nothing in between where I was and the park, save the town of Walsenburg, which is just a few miles from the park. So it was all or nothing. I went for it with gusto! Somehow I found some reserves of energy and strength to push myself along down the highway, up some big hills. The sky grew dark within about a half hour and a starry and moonless sky watched over me for two hours. My bike light does not throw adequate light to safely navigate the debris-littered shoulders of an interstate, so I had to hold another flashlight in my hand to light the way. Passing cars and trucks also helped in my endeavor. Throughout the darkness, I was only snagged by one road gator, and I noticed it just before I hit it, so I was able to swerve and only catch a small tail of it.

By the time I reached Walsenburg, I was utterly exhausted and starving. My energy was waning quickly. I debated stopping in at a restaurant and getting a hot, cooked meal. In the end, I figured it would be faster and I could get to bed more quickly if I just rode the rest of the way to camp and cooked while I set up my hammock. So I passed through town, passed the bar-b-que place, passed the family restaurant, passed the old-style tavern. I thought to myself at one point that if I were to come across a mexican restaurant still open, I might change my mind about stopping. Everything was closed.

I passed out of town, and the streetlights ended. I pulled my flashlight out again and began climbing uphill toward the campground. About a mile out of town, I heard a strange noise as I weaved over the while line on the road. I stopped to check things out and noticed that my rear tire was losing air. Another flat. I was in complete darkness, save my flashlight and a slight glow from the stars above. I had no idea what was around me, and there were big trucks coming through, even at this time of night on this smaller highway. I decided quickly that there was no way in hell that I was going to deal with fixing my flat there on the side of the road. I had noticed a motel just before the edge of town that had rooms for 40 bucks. I figured that was probably the cheapest around, and I turned myself around and began walking my bike back toward town.

It took me about 20 minutes to walk back to the motel. I stopped in and requested a room. The owner there noticed my flashing rear bike light and said he had seen me going down the interstate. He and his wife were very friendly, but they did not offer a discount. Damn. I didn’t really expect it, but one can always hope. I put the room on my credit card. The room was decent: two beds, a tv, fridge, and shower. That was all I needed. I cooked some food on my stove in the room and ate a big meal. Then I took a long, hot shower. By the time I got to bed, it was nearly midnight.

I slept fantastically, woke up around 7:30, had some free breakfast, courtesy of the hotel, and fixed my flat. By the time I packed up and set out on the road, it was a little after ten. I left town and headed up the hill again. I thought about how I was pretty glad I had stopped where I did, that I had avoided climbing this hill the night before. It turned out to be quite a bit further to the campground than I had thought, and it would have taken me at least another half hour to hour to reach the place from where I got my flat. Best to keep the positives in mind.

The rest of the day was incredibly tough, but I was fairly relaxed throughout, after my night of great sleep. The day took me into the mountains, reaching a summit of 9413 feet, my highest point of biking yet. Reaching that point was grueling. I had to take it one stroke at a time, stopping at least every half hour for a short break. The sun was hot and the wind was in my face, making the climbing even more exhausting. I reached the summit of the pass just before three, and I felt that was fairly good time to have climbed the 3000 feet up some steep grades. At the top, as I was setting up to take a picture of my bike next to the sign proclaiming the elevation, a guy in a passing truck flipped me off. He was a young guy, around my age, sitting in the passenger seat of a pickup truck. Such a stupid and meaningless gesture, given the context, but it’s funny how something like that stays with you. It’s not that it made me mad. I didn’t take it personally. But the incident constantly reentered my mind throughout the day. I kept wondering to myself why someone would do that and why those kinds of people have to be dealt with. Oh well, it’s not worth dwelling upon now.

With the summit reached, I was looking forward to some sweet downhills. And there were. Unfortunately, the wind did not allow me to enjoy them. The fruits of my labor were bitter, and I had to pedal all the way down the other side of the mountain. I stopped at the entrance of a park at the bottom of a big hill to enjoy a snack. As I was just about to head back onto the road, a man in a pickup truck pulling out of the park road stopped and asked if I was headed up the pass. I told him I had just come over it, was heading toward Fort Garland, and asked how far it was. He said it was ten miles and asked if I wanted a ride. I debated in my mind for a minute whether I wanted a ride. I was surely tired, but I knew I was capable of making that ten miles and the fifteen more to San Luis, my destination for the day. Still, this man seemed friendly, I was exhausted, and I was a bit worried about making my destination before nightfall. I did not want to ride in the dark again. So I took the man up on the offer, and we threw my bike in the back of his truck.

He was a friendly man, a real estate agent in the area. We talked about homes and land prices in the area. He dropped me off in the heart of Fort Garland and handed me ten bucks before he left. He suggested I try to find a ride down to San Luis, but I opted to ride. I figured it was going to be fairly flat, and I was right. The last sixteen miles of the day went along nicely, with the sun beginning it’s tired descent toward the low-lying mountains to the west. I was very glad to have taken that ride, as I would not have made it to town before dusk.

In San Luis, I had a place lined up, courtesy of my aunt Karen. Getting a hold of the man, Thomas , however, was very difficult, as his cell phone does not work at his house. I had made contact with Thomas earlier in the day, but I had no idea where he lived. I asked around in town, and the two people I asked knew the general location of his place, but not exactly. They knew he lived several miles down a side road, out towards the mountains. I still couldn’t get a hold of him, so I had no choice but to just set out in that direction and hope for the best. It would be dark very soon. Luckily Thomas knew I coming and met me only a mile or so down the road. We threw my bike in the back of his truck, and he drove the last six miles or so to his house.

Thomas owns a ranch with plenty of acreage. His house is a work in progress, but very beautiful, with some fantastic art inside. When we got there, his friend (whose name escapes me at the moment, and I feel terrible about that) was preparing dinner, incuding homemade tortillas, chili, and a corn and pork stew. (The name of the dish also escapes me; I must be tired.) It was all delicious. Afterwards, we watched a movie then went to bed. This morning, his friend cooked a fantastic breakfast. Thomas insisted on giving me a ride that day to Taos. I felt fit to ride, but I thought it might be alright to just take the ride. I probably needed the day off from riding after crossing the mountains, and Thomas and his friend were so kind to offer.

So we drove down to Taos, stopping at a hot spring next to the Rio Grande along the way. Now I am in Taos, at the library. I have had some decent tacos and some good chili. Now I am heading down to Rancho de Taos to stay with a friend of Brother Sebastians. I should get going. I think the library is closing. Tomorrow I am heading further south to Santa Fe. Hopefully I will be couchsurfing there.

The first day found me biking down interstate 25, which wasn’t terribly fun. I had to take a detour from the very beginning due to construction. There was no shoulder and I definitely did not have the self-confidence to try to balance in a one-foot shoulder on the side of the interstate with heavy traffic. Hello no! So I had to take about a six mile detour up some big hills. I came across some more construction later and had to push my bike through dirt through a construction zone littered with nails. That brought me out on to a frontage road, which was a nice alternative for quite a few miles. When I got to Colorado Springs, I got off the interstate and began heading west, up into the mountains to the Garden of the Gods. It’s a nice park with beautiful red rock faces. At the Garden of the Gods, my couchsurfing host, Cheyne, met me, and we rode back to his place in Manitou Springs. Cheyne and I hit it off pretty well, and he made some vegan cupcakes. He’s a bit of an aficionado when it comes to those.

Day one left me terribly exhausted and a bit dehydrated. I woke up sometime in the very early morning with a terribly sharp pain on the left side of my head. I managed to get back to sleep and it was gone when I awoke later, but I’m not really sure what that could have been indicative of. I made sure to eat a kiwi and a banana the next morning. Yesterday also left me faily exhausted. I had a lot of climbing to do. Luckily I was off the interstate, but still on a fairly busy highway with a limited shoulder at times. The wind was at my back for the first half of the day, but around 2:30, a big gust came up from behind me, and suddenly everything changed and the wind was at my face. That slowed me down quite a bit. Still I was determined to keep going and make it up to Royal Gorge, just west of Cañon City.

Unfortunately, as I was passing through Cañon City, I got a flat tire. I thought I would hurry and try to patch the thing quickly and still try to make it up there before dark. I walked my bike with the flat tire about 400 yards to a church across the street. I figured it would provide a safe place to take everything part and do the work quickly. I patched my tube but quickly discovered that, while pushing my bike with the flat, I had peppered the tube with holes, due to the staple that was stuck in my tire. So I figured I might as well just use a new tube. Well, once I got the new tube on and got my bike back together it was already dusk. Darkness would be falling very shortly. I knew I wasn’t going to make it up to Royal Gorge before it got completely dark, and I didn’t want to be riding at night on a busy highway. Plus, I had asked a woman at the church about campgrounds, and she said there were only private ones up there, which are expensive. So I thought that maybe sleeping outside the church might be an option. There was some kind of event going on there, but not something directly church related. At first I thought to just bide my time and wait until everyone left. I biked off and made a few phone calls. Then I realized that I was much better off talking to someone and getting permission to be there. Who knows, maybe they would let me sleep inside. So I went back and asked someone about sleeping outside the church. She put me in contact with another man, but he did not actually work there. He was searching for someone who did. Finally he asked me exactly what I was looking for. I told him I just wanted to sleep outside the church for the night, as there were no cheap campgrounds around. Well, he told me I should go down the street to a shelter, called Loaves and Fish, where I could have a warm place to sleep. He gave me directions and set me on my way.

I didn’t really know what to expect. I’ve never slept at a shelter before. When I got there, there were about 10 pages of paperwork to fill out, asking tons of questions that didn’t really apply to me. I felt bad for being there. I’m not exactly the type of person these things are set up for. But, I am techinically homeless, and the woman there was very welcoming and seemed to be completely fine with me being there. There were seven other guys there and probably four women, one with child. They were all really homeless, from what I could tell. One man had just been divorced and gave his wife everything. He is a truck driver. To get rid of his wife, he sold his six trucks and gave her the 1.2 million dollars. Another man was trying to sober up and get closer to God. I don’t know any of the others’ stories. One man was deaf. I believe he was the father of the child.

I felt a bit uncomfortable being there, and I’ll admit I was a bit fearful of theft. Maybe it wasn’t the case with all of them, but I felt that I had so much more than them. I didn’t belong there. But, I was there, and so I made use of the situation. I was able to take a shower, and the woman gave me some leftover enchiladas from the night before. I went to bed at ten, which was great, and slept fairly well on the top bunk of a prison bunk. The mattress was firm, but not too hard. I think three of the other men were snoring, which kept me up for a bit, but I was tired, and I managed to sleep soundly most of the night.

I awoke around six and got up to get an early start on the day. There was breakfast ready- eggs with ham and peppers. It was really good, but the man working in the morning did not give me much. I didn’t want to ask for seconds. I packed up my stuff and left the shelter before the sun was all the way up, around seven. The ride back east, toward Pueblo, was decent. Again, back on the busy highway. The sun was in my eyes the whole time, making sight-seeing nearly impossible. I had to concentrate fully on the road in front of me, making sure to dodge debris. Now I am in Pueblo, about to head south. Tonight I am hoping to make it to Walsenburg, or just west of there, to Lathrop state park. Hopefully I can camp there for free, or at least for cheap. The weather has been quite warm during the day, in the seventies, but at night it still gets pretty chilly. Hopefully I can make it far enough south before the real cold weather hits. The forecast low for tonight in Walsenburg is forty-one, so that’s not too bad.

Well, the battery is about to die on my laptop, and I want to have some daylight when I stop to camp, so I best be scooting along.

Tomorrow morning I plan on jumping on that bike seat again and resuming the journey, beginning what will be the third leg of the trip, toward the left coast. A lot has changed in the past few weeks, and my setup is considerably different. With the cold weather that I could possibly be facing, some better gear was necessary to stay warm and healthy. The sleeping bag I have been using is only rated to about 30 degrees Farenheit, so that would not do. Luckily my aunt Karen’s boyfriend Kim happened to have an old bag that he wasn’t using, a much heavier bag that should be good to about zero degrees. I set up my hammock in their back yard and slept outside for about a week to test things out, and it worked well. There was at least one night below freezing, and I slept fairly well. Actually, the worst part wasn’t the cold but rather all the noise of suburbia- road construction, lawn mowers, barking dogs. I also picked up a fleece blanket to line my hammock to help add a little more insulation. In Montana I bought an insulating base layer shirt- a long sleeve shirt that is supposed to breathe well and wick away moisture but also keep you nice and toasty. The picture on the package displayed people climbing ice walls, so I hope that is a fair indication of its effectiveness. I’ve got some warmer gloves, a few more pairs of wool socks, and even a pair of army surplus Swedish wool socks, thick and heavy and great for sleeping in. To supplement my alchohol stove, the other day I built a small wood-burning stove from a tomato sauce can. It puts out a larger flame, burns longer, and the fuel is free. The downside is its size. Much harder to pack than my alcohol stoves. But I think the larger flame will come in handy. While here in the Denver area, I sold my bike seat, my prized leather Brooks saddle. I was excited when I bought the thing, as I had heard nothing but praise for those high-quality saddles, but in the end, after 3500 miles, my own personal experience did not jive with the stories. My ass wasn’t digging it. Nothing against the quality of the saddle; it just wasn’t the correct shape for me. So I put the thing on craigslist for $60. (I paid $100 for it). Within an hour I already had three people emailing, desperately wanting the saddle. Shit, I should have listed it for $80. So I used that money to buy a new saddle. I rode that for a few days, but it wasn’t quite right, and I actually ended up exchanging it for the model of saddle that I had before I bought the Brooks. It is the same kind of saddle that I rode over 2,000 miles up the Pacific Coast on last summer. I could have saved myself quite a bit of money (and pain) if I had just kept the one I had before and forgotten all about the Brooks. Oh well. You never know until you try for yourself. So now I have a brand new saddle as well.

So I am already for the cold, I hope, but the forecast for Colorado for the next week lists the high temperatures in the 60’s and 70’s. All these gloves and insulating layers, and I’ll probably just be wearing a t-shirt for the next few days of riding. But the nights, that will be a different story. Lows are down into the 20’s. I have a couch to surf for tomorrow night, and a place to stay a few nights after that, but there will be two days in between where I will probably be camping. We’ll see if I’m ready. I’m looking forward to camping at the base of the Rockies. It has been absolutely gorgeous here in the Denver area since I got here. A few days of rain, and a few days of chilly weather, but for the most part I have found myself going outside with long sleeves and regretting it.

One of the best parts of being here in the Denver area, though, has been the opportunity to revisit some of my childhood. I lived in Littleton for five years when I was younger, before my family moved to Knoxville when I was seven. I went on a few bike rides and rode past our old house, the elementary school where I went to Kindergarten and first grade, the creek where my brother and I used to catch minnows, old friends’ houses, and the parks and ponds where we used to go fishing. It’s so wonderful to get back some of my childhood memories, to think about places and details that I haven’t thought about in a long time. So much of my childhood memories were seemingly wiped out after my mom died, and I have had a really tough time trying to regain some of those experiences. Being in this setting did help me concentrate more and gave me some visual cues. Still, I feel there is so much more that I have lost and may never regain. Maybe I just need to spend more time here.

Starting up again after such a long break has brought back some memories of the beginning of this trip. The thoughts that go through your head are quite funny. Here I have already covered over 3500 miles; I traveled for almost three months to get to Montana, but yet I still get nervous about getting back on the bike. I start to think of excuses, of possible scenarios that could delay my departure. Even after all that experience, there still exists that initial fear of flight. I know that once I get going the confidence will quickly rush back to me and I will feel fine, but there is always that initial barrier of doubt to break through. It’s funny, I just started reading John Steinbeck’s Travels With Charley, and as I have been reading his account of getting ready for his trip around the country in a camper truck, I have been awe struck at how completely he has described me and everything I have done and dealt with so far. As he describes his own nature and his own feelings along his trip, I feel like I’m reading my own account. I keep thinking, what’s the point of me writing a book. He already related everything I have felt. He already met these people I am meeting on this journey. Why be redundant. It is an amazing feeling, though, to read his words and understand completely what he is relating, I mean to the very last detail. It’s a real trip. I’m excited to find out where he went and how the rest of his experiences compare to mine, traveling around the country 50 years prior.

Well, I best get to bed and rest up before my big day tomorrow. It’s only about 65 miles to Colorado Springs, but the altitude and the dry air really make a difference. I rode 60 miles from Boulder to my aunt’s house, south of Denver, the other day, and it kicked my ass. I didn’t even have all my gear with me. So tomorrow should be interesting. I am very excited, though, to be getting back out on the road, seeking adventure again, looking to see new sights and meet new people. I only hope it all goes as well as the rest of the trip has so far. One must have faith. Time to dust off my wings and take flight. I will post pictures soon, but for now, I leave everyone with a fun video.

Ice blocking with my cousins, Jess and Ryan-

The first leg left the depot in Great Falls after 3pm, only slightly behind schedule, with half a dozen passengers, en route to Butte. There were two girls probably a little younger than myself and two men probably ten years older than me. Perhaps there were one or two other passengers, but I don’t remember. I overheard one man saying to another that he was just released from prison. Freedom and a bus ticket. His term had only been three years, so it must not have been too violent of a crime. I was curious, but the man never asked.

Our first stop was in Helena, a quick pickup of a few more passengers. I think one person got off as well. We had about ten minutes break, and most people got off to smoke. I decided to use the pisser, get some fresh air, and at least take a peek down the street and get a limited view of the town. As I walked to the sidewalk, out of the tiny depot, I had the intention of just looking both ways down the street, but before I reached the edge of the parking lot, I spotted a dog across the street. It was a black and white mutt, probably some kind of cocker spaniel mix, with floppy ears and a friendly demeanor. It was sniffing around behind some buildings, heading toward the street. Watching the dog, I thought to myself, wouldn’t that be great if the mutt came over here across the street and gave me company on my short wait here in Helena, if I could have a little friend for a few moments. Then I thought about how dangerous crossing that street could be. We appeared to be downtown, and this road probably was a relatively major thoroughfare. No sooner had I finished this thought about the dog crossing the street did I see the intention in its movements. Raising its head and quickening its pace, the dog was heading straight for the roadway. Oh shit. The road was clear directly ahead, but when I looked to the right, a fresh line of traffic was progressing from the next block. In a whir of three seconds, the dog darted out into the street just as a pickup truck was speeding by. The dog noticed the truck at the last moment and attemted to change course, but it was already too late. The truck also tried to avoid the collision, but the driver’s potential sight of the dog had been blocked by a parked car, so there was not enough time to react. The dog avoided the front right wheel of the truck, but could not stop himself from sliding under the double tires of the dualie rear axle. With a thud and a yelp, the rear end of the truck raised slightly as it passed over the dog. I could do nothing the entire time but look on, stunned. The driver of the truck and the woman driving the minivan behind him both pulled over the side. The rest of the traffic line veered slowly to the left around the animal. At first the dog was completely still, laying on its side in the middle of the lane. I thought at least it had a swift end. After a few seconds, however, its legs started twitching, then moving more desperately. It looked as if it was attempting to right itself with its legs, but the head was not coming up, the body was not shifting in the necessary manner to perform such an act. Meanwhile the driver of the truck was out and moving toward the dog. He picked up the dog by its legs. At first I found that method a bit humane, treating the dog as if it were the trophy of a hunt. Why couldn’t he pick up the dog like a pet, cradle the animal. As he carried the dog to the other side of the road, I could see that it was bleeding heavily, leaving a thick trail of blood through the street and up on the sidewalk. It was fair of the man to pick the dog up by the legs. When he set it down in the parking lot on the other side, just past the sidewalk, I could see that the dog was moving no longer. It was definitely dead. Who knows, maybe it was dead before, just having post-mortem convulsions. I remember that when my mom accidentally ran over our cat in the garage, even though the kitty’s head was smashed and the she was definitely already dead, one of her rear legs continued to twitch for almost a minute.

I stood motionless on the opposing sidewalk for minutes as all this passed. The truck driver and minivan driver were both over there. The police arrived. I had desperately wanted to run out into the middle of the road just after the incident, to lay a warm and sympathetic hand on the dog, to possibly offer some comfort to the dying animal. I wanted to walk across and kneel next to it after the man had set it in the parking lot, but I knew I was better off staying on my side of the road, in my parking lot. In a matter of minutes the bus would be resuming traveling, and I needed to be on that bus. I didn’t need to be caught up in witness questioning or having to stay with the animal until the proper authorities arrived. Luckily the man and woman had both stopped to take care of all that. Still, my heart sank for that dog. As I turned around to get back on the bus, I saw that the ex-inmate and the other man were standing twenty yards behind me. They had witnessed the event as well. I think the death struck me a bit more than them, but we were all speechless.

On the remaining ride to Butte I tried to write a little, in spite of the bumpy ride. After a while I gave up and stared out the window. Beautiful country, passing through the mountains, past rivers and farms, rocky cliffs, untouched lands. Snow flurries.

In Butte I had to change buses. The drivers load and unload the checked bags, but passengers are responsible for transporting the luggage from one bus to another. With my backpack on, I lugged my two big duffel bags 100 yards to the next bus, then came back for my bike, which I had to box up for the bus ride. I’ll admit that I had some reservations about leaving my two bags to go back and grab my bike, but I figured no one could get very far in that short amount of time. All these people were waiting for the bus themselves, anyway; why would they try to run off with my bags. Still, logic always comes second to fear.

The second leg had more people, more noise. One guy behind me was fairly vocal at first. He and his friend had also recently been released from prison. A middle-aged guy got on toting a guitar. This led to much joking from the guys behind me. The man also had a tool belt and slammed it heavily against the side of the upper luggage racks as he tried to stuff all his belongings into the compartment at once. One of the guys behind me commented that he was the kind of guy that gives white people a bad name. A ridiculous comment. Once we started moving, nearly everyone became quiet. The man with the guitar tried to make small talk with a young girl sitting right in front of me. She obviously wasn’t into it, and I could tell that this man was probably going to be obnoxious.

As night swallowed the daylight, the bus was hushed and dark, save one light- the one above the guitar-playing handyman. I wasn’t ready for sleep yet, so I put my headphones on and listened to music. We stopped a few times at depots to pick up a passenger or two. A few times we had the opportunity to get food at gas station convenience stores. Not the best, but it fills the belly. The night was cold, windy, and snowy. Despite the freezing temperatures, I enjoyed the time outside and took advantage of every minute we had of stoppage. A nice break from sitting in a bus seat. At one point we stopped in Bozeman for ten minutes. It was disappointing to think that I was in a town where my cousin resides, but I would not have to opportunity to visit her. Sorry, Cindy. I’ll make it back up soon, hopefully, and visit.

I tried to sleep throughout the rest of the ride to Billings, but it was tough. Handyman pulled out his laptop several times, and the glow of the screen was enough to light up the entire bus. He was sitting diagonally in front of me, and I found it difficult to avoid the direct light. It was annoying, especially since all it looked like he was doing was changing his desktop picture and adjusting some settings. I never saw him doing any actual work, just moving things around, wasting time. At one point he took down his guitar and started strumming. Although he was fairly quiet, I thought it was pretty inconsiderate to the people around him. And he wasn’t good. He wasn’t even playing songs, just wasting time again. As we approached Billings, the collective anxious energy of the entire bus could be felt. I guess most people were nearing their final destination. I still had twelve more hours to Denver. The guitar player started talking to the girl in front of me again. She now seemed more receptive and conversational. I couldn’t help but listen in. He started expounding what sounded like recycled lines about third eyes and cosmic energy and levitating. He told the girl he knew how to levitate, that he would show her when we stopped. I was curious, but not terribly so.

At the depot in Billings I had about an hour layover before connecting to the bus to Denver. I called my dad. While I was talking on the phone, levitator brought the girl and a friend of hers, the guy picking her up, over to the corner by where I was sitting. He said he was going to levitate for them. He wanted to do it in the corner to avoid drawing a crowd. Before he could perform the feat, however, the young guy laughed and said, ‘oh, is this the trick where you…’ and he explained the trick. I couldn’t hear exactly what he said and didn’t look up in time to see his movements, but the guitar player knew he had nothing and laughed it off. About five minutes later he brought another girl over to the corner to impress her. This time he performed the trick. I was stil on the phone and didn’t get to see it in full view. The girl fell for it.

The bus to Denver was much nicer than the first two. It had seats with full backs, unlike the others, which made sleep attempts a bit easier. There were TVs in the ceiling, but the driver said he would not be turning them on. The ride was almost completely silent, everyone no doubt trying to sleep. I was able to catch some z’s off and on for a few hours. Often it was difficult to differentiate between actual sleep and the dreamy daze of half-consciousness. I think all-in-all, I was able to sleep for about five hours total, with interruptions for depot stops here and there, to eat or use the restroom. I awoke for good around 8am. I had managed to sleep through a bit of daylight. With still another five hours until scheduled arrival in Denver, I decided to occupy my time with a book I picked up at a thrift store in Great Falls, Night by Elie Wiesel.

Night is a first-hand account of the German concentration camps of the second world war. Wiesel was just a teenager when he and his family and the entire village were round up into the death camps. The first day at camps would be the last time he saw his mother and two sisters. The book recounts his experience in the camps, witnessing thousands of people sent to their deaths in gas chambers and fire pits, the cruel and inhumane treatment, and the mental and physical toll of those unfotunate souls. The power of his descriptions lie in his lack of over-indulgence. He is completely straight-forward and honest. At one point he tells of a young boy, with the face of a sad angel, being hung in front of the entire camp, every prisoner not only made to watch, but to look the boy and two other hanged men in the eyes as they are forced to march by the victims on the gallows. It’s a heart-wrenching account. So much senseless death.

Throughout the book, as I read about this boy and those around him, enduring these unspeakable horrors of inhumanity- starving, beaten- I thought about the fact that some of them survived. Some of them managed to hold on to what little bit of lifeforce remained, and to cling to some morsel of hope(?). They didn’t give in. That really says a lot about what the human spirit can endure. The sights this young man witnessed, the devastation, yet he never resorted to taking his own life. And so what about the people who did, and what about the people who take their own life under different circumstances? What does that say? Could the suffering of depression of some possibly be worse than what was endured at those concentration camps? Personally, I don’t think that’s a point even worth discussing. There is no answer to that question. But I’ll admit that as I read these pages, taking in the devastating circumstances of the lives of those people, I couldn’t help but think of my brother. How were these prisoners able to withstand such brutality, yet my brother was unable to endure the circumstances of his depression? How? I don’t know. I can’t imagine I could ever know. Our emotions and experiences are personal, never to be fully understood by anyone else as we understand them. I can read Elie Wiesel’s entire account of his life, but I will never fully comprehend the reality of his years in those death camps, and I will never completely understand how my brother felt in the last months of his life. That’s just something I have to accept.

After finishing the book, I found myself lost in a trance of thought. I wanted so desperately to cry, but I didn’t feel comfortable enough to do that. The tears were welling up just behind my eyes, but that is where they remained. I’ve found that, like most guys, I have the ability to completely negate the impulse to cry. That displeases me. I don’t like that I feel the need to hold back, and I don’t like that I have enough control to effectively block the flow. I wish I had cried on that bus, if only a little. At the last stop before Denver, I got off the bus and walked away from everyone else. As I stared blankly at the run-down little town surrounding, I was completely involved in thought about that book. It had consumed my whole being. I felt as though I had been dealt an overwhelming hand of humility.

As everyone began boarding the bus again, a woman came out of the station on an electric mobility device. She had braces on her legs. I walked up to see what was going to happen. As she pulled up to the door of the bus, it became obvious that she was not going to be able to get herself up the big steps up to the seats and that the small female bus driver was not going to be able to provide enough assistance. A man was there, perhaps someone she knew, maybe a worker at the depot. He was there to help. Still, I figured they might need an extra hand, so I stepped up and offered my assistance. I ended up being the main assistance, offering her support, standing behind her on the stairs. She couldn’t put much weight down on her legs, so I was supporting much of her weight and partly lifting her up each step. Getting her up the five big steps up to the first seat probably took more than five minutes. It left me exhausted, but the woman was ever so kind and helpful in directing the best method to provide her assistance. She was patient and friendly. As I walked back to my seat on the bus, I felt proud of myself that I stepped up and offered my help. I’ve always been the guy that wanted to help, but was too shy and never stepped up unless directly addressed. After reading that book, however, I wasn’t about to sit by and watch someone struggle pointlessly when I had the ability to do something about it.

When we arrived in Denver, I let everyone else get off before me, and as I walked to the front of the bus, I asked the woman if she needed help getting off. She did, of course, so I told her I would stick around to lend a hand. She couldn’t get off until her scooter was retrieved from the bottom of the bus, so I got off to collect my luggage and set it aside, make sure everything was accounted for, as the luggage transfer was handled for us in Billings. We were not allowed to touch our bags and never saw them while in the depot. One would have arrived in Denver before finding out something hadn’t made the transfer.

Coming down the steps was a bit easier than going up, but still exhausting work. The help this time was just the driver and myself, with me doing most of the supporting. Those buses are not terribly well-equipped for handicapped people, lacking adequate railings for support. But we got her down and on to her scooter. She was ever so friendly and gracious, and we talked for a bit while I waited for my aunt Karen to arrive. She was in town for a wedding and to visit friends. She had a wonderful spirit, and I am so glad that I talked to her. My aunt arrived, and I left the station feeling humble. That feeling was soon overwhelmed by the excitement of being in Denver, a place where I used to live, and where I have been considering moving back to recently, but after we loaded my life into Karen’s car, hunger overtook all other thoughts, and we set off toward a delicious lunch.

First of all, the link to the Google map is http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&hl=en&oe=UTF8&msa=0&msid=110005973904868810089.00045908df003fac941c0&z=5.

In the upper right-hand corner of the screen, there is an option to sign in. Click that.

For the sign in information, use the account I set up.

email: map@crestlinestudios.com

password: otisnomad

So just copy and paste the above info in the appropriate boxes and sign in.

Then, on the left-hand side of the screen, notice the link that says ‘My Maps’. Click on this.

Click on ‘Nomad Readers’, which will open up the map.

Click on the button that says ‘edit’, which will be above and to the right of the title of the map, on the left side of the screen.

Then find your location on the map, right-click on your location and select ‘Add a placemark’ from the menu that appears.

Then add your name in the title section and your location in the description section, just like the others. You can change the icon by clicking on the sqaure next to title section of your marker. I use the blue pushpin.

Then make sure you click the ’save’ button on the left side, where the ‘edit’ button used to be. Then you can click ‘done’.

I hope that everyone will participate. It’s just for fun, and I think it will be pretty awesome to put everything together once it is all said and done. That is, the route map and the readers map, and whatever other maps I may add in the future. Thanks for helping out.

-Otis