There and Back

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THERE AND BACK

The call to hit the road again is permanently intrinsic in some and not others I am convinced. I don’t understand how it is such a selective disease but it only seems to infect those who seemingly have no cause or need for it. My childhood was stable and not constantly divisive; I had no reason to want to run away during those long, childhood nights yet something just outside my window was always beckoning me into its insecure, complication-fraught arms. Yet still, I long to travel. I love it. It is the brief period in my life where I may prove to myself that I have what it takes to survive no matter what should arise. In an unfamiliar place with no friendly faces immediately available, one must learn to turn every unknown encounter into a happy one. The thrill of seeing new places, new climates, new people will never die down in me. Of this, I am sure.

Long before Germany, I felt the itch and I found living abroad definitely assisted in scratching it. But I knew I was ready for something new, if perhaps a bit more familiar just until I got my feet back on solid ground mentally. So I begrudgingly returned to the United States in search of what should be next for me. I had been reading quite a bit of Hemingway around this period so I considered it imperative that whatever it was, it should be cool. Like it or not, I receive a lot of my internal satisfaction from external factors and I wanted the version of me that existed in everyone’s mind to live up to what I desired for myself. I also very much wanted to see out West, as I realized while abroad that I had neglected to experience my own country and that seemed wrong for reasons I could never quite finger.

I was at home, close to giving up my search for a seasonal job out west when I found a last minute job posting. It was in Yellowstone. Truthfully, I had never even been to a national park before and knew very little about how Yellowstone operated but I figured this would be my chance. It was for a cook position. Now I knew in my heart of hearts that I had no desire to ever step into a kitchen again, Edelweiss ruined all hope of that for me, but I thought maybe I would be willing to overlook this fact in the belief that I would be so busy exploring that the work would matter very little. Unfortunately this was not to be the case but I might speak on it later.  I called in for an interview and within 15 minutes (no kidding) I had the job. It started in a month and this was my chance to take a long, extended road trip and meet the people of this country I was born in.

My Altima is nothing special to most people. It has a paint scrape and major dent on the back left wheel well from a hit and run in Savannah, it has one thousand irreversible stains of all the bugs that have come to their grisly end on my front bumper and a (deserved) cultural distaste for being a cheap piece of junk that likes to tailgate your bumper on i75. It is all of these things, yet still, she was to be my Rocinante. I knew that I was in no state to be car camping for I am too large and too full of pride to sleep in a sedan night after night. This pride might be my downfall and some of you may laugh at me for unnecessary spending but I was more than willing to find an actual place to lie my head each night if it included a hot shower and soft pillows.

So I loaded my car quickly. The list of items very short. My suitcase that I had been living out of for three months, my guitar, a few jackets, my coffee machine,  my shaving kit, hiking boots, a few towels and blankets and more books than I felt my car’s springs could handle. This was to last me the 6 months or so that I would be out there. I have begun to try to minimize my life and it is never more imperative than on the road. I felt I had overpacked and opted to not bring many creature comforts that I had gotten used to at home. Actually, come to think of it, one did make it with me. My trusted bottle of Jameson. After a long day on the road, nothing is quite so comforting as that first sip of whiskey. Even in this moment, I cradle a Whiskey Coke. I feel as though this is necessary for my survival and well-being and considering what I’ve been up to in Germany, I believe this is a harmless distraction that keeps me on my feet. It is also incredible for making friends quickly.

In terms of itineraries I’ll admit I do feel a little silly admitting I had none whatsoever. Starting in Florida, I knew I was to begin heading up to North Carolina as I had already planned to meet with someone there. This was as far as I planned until the night before leaving. I figured I would go wherever the wind took me while making stops with relatives whenever possible to ease my burdened wallet. My family was not thrilled to see me leave again so soon, but I felt this experience was for me.

In the early morning I left. While making a bit of breakfast, I found that passage from Grapes of Wrath echoing greatly in my head. It is rather toward the beginning when Tom Joad first makes it back to his uncle’s house and they have decided as a family they must head to California. They have indefinite plans to leave but as they are all standing around the truck thinking on it, they feel the restlessness suddenly begin to tug at them and believe as though they have to leave right in that moment. That indefinable force given to us Americans by the pioneers who fled searching for better; so they felt, and so I did too. I began to head north to Jacksonville. It was a rainy morning and I was determined to blast the day of driving out of the way as soon as possible, so I stopped very little. Within 4 hours I came into view of Savannah and decided to stop on the outskirts for a quick lunch. Cracker Barrel. The sweet home of the degenerate at heart who wants to pretend he is better than those by which he is surrounded. Never has a place been so intentionally decorated, designed, constructed, branded to make it seem so entirely unconducive to what it actually is: a greasy heap. But, between us, I’ll never stop going there; I found refuge in more than one while on the road. They are each identical to the last, tasty and feeling as though what is sliding down your gastrointestinal tract wasn’t totally terrible for you.

I reached Raleigh by four. It was scheduled to be three days of exploring and seeing the city culminating in a concert from my favorite band Backseat Lovers on the last day. I had tried to see them in Munich but they cancelled at the last second when the lead singer suddenly fell ill. It was a terrific, comforting experience all around. I do adore Raleigh, made better by the company I was with, and vowed to return one day soon. After a bit of deliberation, I had decided my next destination was Franklin, TN. My aunt and uncle live out there and they were always good people to me as a kid and the house they own out there is enough to make any boy or man’s dreams come true. Movie room, outdoor basketball and pickleball court, pool table, beautiful wood floors and spacious living room and some of the nicest people in the world inhabiting it. I had not seen this house since I was in middle school and wondered if perhaps I had built it up in my head since then and it wasn’t as incredible as I remembered it. I had not. I learned very quickly that even as a man, it is still a veritable playground of toys and things to do. I enjoyed it so much, I decided to stay an extra day, greatly in part due to the graciousness of my hosts. But I knew it was soon time to leave and begin the true bulk of the trip. We would soon be entering territory that I had never explored. Paducah, Kentucky was as Northwest as I had ever made it and I was very aware of this. Excitement really began to creep in and take shape within me.

In a last second decision, I decided St. Louis should be the next destination. I found a hotel in O’Fallon, very near the Air Force base and settled in for the night. In what was a smart move on my part, I found a Target and decided to stock up. I bought about as many prepackaged, microwavable cups of oatmeal and ramen as I could fit in my basket in addition to the all important PB&J supplies for lunches. Food on the road began to become my largest expense so I decided that I would cut corners wherever I could. I also never get sick of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It’s simply not possible. It is the perfect combination of ingredients, made better by the occasional banana slices if I’m feeling fancy.

The next day I woke up early to explore the city. The arch of course was top of the list but I feel at this moment I must also detail a secret assignment of mine while on this road trip. For anyone that knows me, they know that one of my great, deep passions in this life is rock climbing. This section will pertain to that so if it doesn’t interest you, skip to my next chapter.

I picked it up somewhere in college and I’ve been going (intermittently) since. I had to cancel my rock gym membership before leaving home but I did not want all of my progress to lay waste as a result so I concluded that I would “climb across America” and stop at a gym in any major city I visited. Raleigh and Franklin had already been visited, so I was looking forward to a truly big city gym and the resources that might accompany as a result.

It is possible I visited the wrong one or on a bad day but out of all my journeys, this city had the worst climbing. Terrible use of space, erratic route setting, and questionable management (20 route setters with their thumbs up their butts while one overworked front desk employee fields calls while having to try to complete orientation for new climbers). It was easily my least favorite. On the other hand, oddly enough, Franklin might have my favorite American gym. Being the only one in the city at the time of writing, The Crag had great reviews so I decided to try. The floor was so clean and shiny I had to switch out my boxers for briefs. The routes were tough but fair and always worked another key component while still remaining interesting. I went alone and so was exiled to the auto belays, all of which were extremely taxing while still remaining fun. I am a 5.11 climber steady and true with a few lucky breaks getting into the 5.12 and 5.13 range but the 11s feel like my bread and butter. Looking impressive while not being too difficult anymore. This gym had plenty of them: one crimp heavy, one sloper focused and even a few with a dyno or two. If ever in the Franklin area, be on the lookout for the Crag. It is worth a drive and the staff are incredibly friendly. Raleigh’s was just okay.

After climbing, I was (unfairly) put out with the city and decided to just move next to Omaha. More family was waiting and I was ready to lose the Eastern traffic in favor of the empty, endlessly sweeping midwest roads. The drive was one of my favorites. At just five hours, the first 3 are spent heading East to Kansas City, at which point you may finally head North on that sweet, beautiful highway 29. The moment you aim to head further north than Kansas, it seems the other vehicles on the road hear and grow anxious; choosing instead to remain in the safety of the crowded Eastern roads. Straddling the border between Iowa and Nebraska, it is quite possible I met only 10 other cars going the same way as me. Stopping in gas stations was now a sacred event as the attendants seemed to welcome my presence a great deal more than ever before and were seemingly interested in what I had to say. They spoke in earnest, not a word was spoken they didn’t feel was genuine. I’ve lived the great deal of my life through “Southern Hospitality”, a mannerism in which conversation with strangers is spoken in syrupy, artificial tones and there is no great sense of well-wishing occurring behind the eyes of the speaker in my opinion. They are sweet up front, but have no desire to go any further than that. Nebraskans are different. Maybe it occurs as a result of being so spread out and so want to make the best use of time spent in social situations seeing as they aren’t sure when the next one may be granted to them. Maybe they are just bored and the intrinsic good found in humans is their first conversational instinct. Maybe they secretly do hate outsiders but they are even better at lying than the average man. Wherever the answer may lie, I still felt very welcome in the state. Faces began to feel friendly again.

Omaha was truthfully a pleasure of mine that I might never have expected. It felt as though a major town with small town energy. I found it to be quite clean, the people to be gracious and helpful hosts and plenty of culture I would not expect to see located in an area like that. I have come to realize that a town’s happiness can be described by the way in which people drive. For instance, Orlando is the worst driving I’ve ever had the displeasure of slogging through. Driving like a bat out of hell, cutting off pedestrians in favor of gaining 10 feet and offensive driving have led me to conclude that no one wants to be there. Talk to someone who actually lives there whenever you have the chance. They will admit they hate it just as quickly as you may ask the question. In Omaha, I felt like a king driving on the road. No one riding directly on my bumper, no one cutting me off and then courting some displeasure with me for my perceived slight; all I found were people who had time to take their time. From Omaha to Bozeman I found this to be the case and it was refreshing. In fact, the worst part of the entire road trip was having to drive back down south from Omaha a month later. I had gotten so used to this ease of driving that I was quite unwilling to give it up. I still am.

I met with some family of mine while in the city that I had not seen in quite some time. The last time I had seen the young couple, they had one infant and another baby of no more than 7 months. Upon arriving, there were three kids, aged seven, five and four. Time left its great, grasping imprint on me in one of those ways that is quick and unhesitating. I did not realize it had been that long since I had last seen them and I became suddenly aware that I was now five years older than the memory that seemed so very recent. It was more than a little shocking but still enjoyable nonetheless. My cousin was still in deployment in Jordan so I was greeted by his wife upon arrival and spent a very comfortable night in the quaint suburban Omaha home playing with the dogs and catching up on news since we had last seen the other. Being only able to stay for a night, I grabbed a hot shower and an incredible homemade meal and fell quickly asleep. The next morning, promising to be back as soon as possible, I headed out for the climbing gym still unsure of the day’s ultimate destination.

It was by this point the road had begun to wear on me. A man is capable of a lot, not the least of which being his ability to adapt to circumstances and find home in whatever environment he may rest his head for the night. However, it had been nearly two weeks since I had left home. I am very secure in being alone. Before Edelweiss, I preferred to live life by myself (this has changed a bit admittedly as the seasonal job forced me into more of a social creature), but the loneliness I felt from Omaha to my final destination was not something I ever could have truly predicted. The sights mattered very little as I felt I was sharing them only with my car and the ghosts of the country around me, I felt blind to the true beauty of many of the wonders I witnessed I am ashamed to admit. I just wanted the journey over and to have a permanent place to rest my head and unpack my car. This was unfortunate as the drive from Nebraska to my stop that night, Kodoka, South Dakota, was quite possibly the loneliest I have been in my entire life. The road slowly traversed upward mile by mile with nothing but rolling, solitary hills and cow pastures held together with rotting, grey wood fence posts and rusty barbed wire just swaying gently in the strong Western winds. I was clearly a visitor, a pilgrim in this land of movement.

Everything in South Dakota is built on the continuous flow of the world; most people being temporary and just passing through to their final destinations. The few locals seemed eager to leave as well, as though the world was moving without them and they were keenly aware of this fact. There seemed only one major city in this whole winding state, the rest being pit stops for travelers who couldn’t make it through in one day. Kodoka was one such town. About twenty miles East of the Badlands, it was founded with no real purpose, the city being merely a small strip of gas stations, chain restaurants and law offices. Large silos encompassed the towns on all sides and an eerie silence enveloped the town at night.

I found a stay at a recently refurbished, very old school motel known as Grandpa Joe’s. I felt as though I had stepped back in time upon arriving. Comprised of a small strip of rooms on either side of the office, the rooms were simple and what you would expect of a cheap motel but it was still comfortable. What seemed to be old movie theater seats stood guard outside each room, a perk I readily took advantage of as South Dakota sunsets were quite a bit more spectacular than I thought possible. I made some calls, read, enjoyed a couple beers and sat outside watching the sunset until the flies forced me back inside. I found the place to carry a charm that is indescribable and very often remember this night vividly above all the rest. It felt simple and nostalgic and was a nice pause on the journey. It felt as though I was living my No Country for Old Men dreams that night. But, unfortunately, the sun again rose as it has done countless times before and my rest was over. It was time for the Badlands.

The Badlands were a curious experience, and not altogether pleasant if I might add. Up to this point, South Dakota had been a large mass of rolling hills and green pastures. The Badlands changed all that. Foreboding, clandestine crags of sandstone dug from the earth formed millions of years ago as a result of ancient rivers snaking their way through the land, leaving for us only the dry, cracked dirt. The national park was eerily quiet, it felt as if the land itself was actively resenting my presence and warning me off; as though there were too many secrets being held in the mudstone under my feet and any moment the ground may cave in from the enormity of the weight of its personal burden. I hiked out on the .3 mile trail that led into the center of the formations and sat upon a ledge for 30 minutes or so, peering down into the valley below me and listening to the complete absence of sound.

I have climbed several mountains and been on many remote hikes and so I recognize that no surrounding noise is natural and to be expected; yet still, it felt as if the noise was actively being stolen from my ears. I felt uncomfortable, and so quickly hiked back. I understand that this was probably just a figment of my imagination but I feel as though sometimes the Earth can give vibrations and some subconscious mechanism in the human can pick up on it as a necessity of survival. While in the Wind River Reservation, I felt calmness and a sense of assuredness rising from the ground inexplicably but I felt no such security in the sinister formations of the Badlands. I drove away quickly and found myself reminiscing on Iceland, the steep outcroppings reminded me of the drive from Reykjavik to Vík with the sheer mountain drops on one side and the coast of the Atlantic on the other.

I found an abandoned area overlooking the plains some miles down the road. I walked with my guitar to the bench located a few dozen meters within the plains and sat upon the ground as thousands of Plains Indians had done before, perhaps in that very spot. It is said that Sitting Bull walked across the area while marching on to the Battle of Little Bighorn. In any regards, that land felt more peaceful than the rest of the national park. I played guitar for a while while I watched the wind blow the grass into green rivers. Soon I was joined by a few more people and they crosslegged like me sat for a while before thanking me for the music and continuing on their way.

Soon I felt my poor, pale skin burning in the direct sun and made my way to the car as well. I ate a bite at Wall Drug and continued on my way to Wyoming. I secretly felt a bit glad to be on my way, I had been on edge and white knuckling my steering wheel without realizing it. I still don’t quite know what was going on with me that day but I have no desire to return to the Badlands any time soon.