My beliefs

God is real, but he (she, it, they) doesn't have a chosen path for us, nor a single religion that is the "true" or "right".

Everything happens for a reason, but quite often that reason is our own stupidity.

There is some, but very little, divine intervention. No amount of belief can free you from the fact that you have free will, and therefore the responsibility to know what you are choosing to do.

To truly love is the hardest thing in the world to do, to never try is the loneliest.

We all possess a soul, some are just more in tune with what it is telling them.

To kill in the name of religion is the biggest paradox in the world. All religions, at their core, speak of love, not hate.

Just because someone is different than you does not make them a potential enemy rather, it should make them a potential friend. The world would be incredibly boring if we all looked and acted the same.

Every human being has something to offer, telling someone they don't just makes it harder for them to realize what that something may be.

Taking advantage of others is the biggest crime a human can commit, you are telling that person that they do not matter and that you are better than they are. If you have the opportunity to take advantage of someone you have the same opportunity to help them realize and correct an area of weakness.

Money is, perhaps, the worst invention of all time. It turns people from a need based existence full of humanity into a want based one of self-gratification.

No amount of money, status, or power will ever fill the void in your soul, the warmth of a loved one's touch will do wonders though.

Writing, or a lack there of

I am not writing because I want to, not because I have to, nor because I am expected to; I am writing because I feel a innate opportunity slipping by. I watched "Into the Wild" and couldn't help but feel an intense sense of jealousy as well as a hand slapping me squarely in the face.

I went on a journey not too long ago, yet such a time has passed with little reflection upon the actually trip that its memory seems a lifetime ago. I returned from my trek renewed, so many of the questions I had been asking had been answered, but then a realization struck. In finding the answers to many of the thoughts pinging around in my brain I found that I now had so many more questions taking the place of those answered. And so I wonder, is that what life is about? Is life a journey of perpetual questions, a trek of unanswerable depth, or is this just a reality for those few unfortunate souls who truly wander?

When I say wander I am not just talking about the wandering of perpetual movement, no, sometimes one can wander more when the vehicle is only one's brain.

I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up. This was never a concern until my dad passed away two and a half years ago. For some reason my life's calling up until then never touched on any real concern other than just to be, just live life. And so I have lived, my chosen life has been one of extreme ease. I have made a career of college, six years of classes, parties, and friends gave way to more classes in a campus a little farther south. For the past 16 years all I have known is a true or a pseudo college existence, and that was always okay.

The change in this I guess came with the realized mortality I guess, though I cannot help but think it runs a little deeper, delves more into the soul than that, has more to do with never really taking the time to connect with my father and having to watch him pass knowing I did nothing about it.

Soon after the anger, the anguish, the mourning passed I began to realize that living my life with no direction just felt wrong, it felt like I was wasting everything: any talent I may have, other people's money, my time, my life. But in that realization came another of greater depth: I knew not, nor trusted, my talents.

Throughout my life I have always marveled at how easy the world was, how simple living life was. I had always asked and received; my life was seldom rife with struggle. Recently I have noticed that life doesn't seem as easy and I wonder, is it me asking for more than I deserve, am I being told I need to work before I can be handed what I want, or and I simply not seeing the answers, too clouded in my own malaise, my own self-inflicted state of wander?

And so I choose to write. Not something I am good at, having to create, putting my thoughts down on to paper, because they seem so much clearer stuck in my head. My goal is my book. I am struggling with what to write, and how to start. I guess doing this after three months off is a start.

Foreign Aid VW repair

Now that I was reconnected to the world I had left behind, I could finally focus on what really took precedent: fixing my speedometer cable so that driving would have a calculable speed and distance to it each day.

I know that few Volkswagens, especially those whose vintage preexists 1990, have little ability to travel fast enough to warrant even a first glance from a cop - and having VW's version of a minivan made that potential even less likely - but it was not Bessie's speed I was ultimately worried about. Knowing that it is against the law to have a faulty odometer, even for a car whose classic status renders mileage less of a concern, it was Bessie's faulty gas gauge and the subsequential guesstimates in calculating gas consumption that necessitated figuring out what was wrong with her.

The week's stay in Albuquerque prior to my flight home gave me ample time to research VW repair shops and I stumbled upon a promising one a couple of miles from Amberlee's house. Located on the corner of San Pedro and Constitution, a scenic 2.2 mile walk from Amberlee's house through the demographically diverse residences of Albuquerque's outskirts, Foreign Aid Auto was a bit of a graveyard for all things VW - a common sight I have come to find when dealing with any shop whose main job entails VW repair.

A towering, two story black building whose blazen, ten foot red lettering stood out against the brown and dusty landscape, loomed before me as I noticed that the shop's five garages were filled with numerous VWs of various vintages in various stages of disassemble. Walking through the shop's glass front door, I noticed the garage sale atmosphere immediately and, with a look somewhere between skepticism and awe, perused the gadgets and trinkets as I waited for a lady to finish her diatribe on the malfunctions of her bug.

Finally called up to the desk by Mike, an overweight 20 something whose black Metallica T-shirt looked as though it doubled as a napkin, I proceeded to explain my dilemma and my out of town status. Looking like he forgot to wipe chocolate milk off of his upper lip, the sporadic hairs of Mike's mustache moved lightly in the fan's wind as he listened with feigned interest to my tale. Telling me that they needed to take Bessie and run a diagnostic on her, I left her in his care and headed back to Amberlee's only to be called a few hours later and told that Bessie needed a new speedometer cable, a part that they could order but one that would take a few days to arrive.

Knowing that my flight home was leaving the next day, the timing seemed perfect and I informed Mike that I would bring Bessie back in ten days. Setting an appointment for the Monday of my return I left and thought nothing of the ordeal; I figured I would be back soon to a new part and a scheduled appointment, that Bessie would be fixed quickly, and I would be on my way, out of Amberlee's hair and off again along the open road.

Ten days later, upon returning back to Albuquerque from the needed break in my vacation, I entered Foreign Aid expecting a short visit that would end in a fixed van. Entering a shop that I now knew all too well, I started to get a feel for the workers and wondered silently about the level of competence and the safety of my rig. Though I have come to realize that most VW mechanics are a touch kooky, all of these workers had a uniqueness about them.

Some, like Paula, a frumpy but organized Mexican lady who was the shop's governing mother, had a common look and an ease of personality that allowed easy integration into any situation. Others stood out a little too much, such as the old guy whose constant short shorts, long black socks, glasses, and creepy eye-balling of all the patrons coupled with a grin only a mother could love made you wonder what convoluted thoughts pin-balled around in his mind on a daily basis.

When the store's manager, Paul, a slick Mexican whose glasses and always semi-buttoned shirt showcased limited tufts of graying hair and a single gold chain, went looking for my "hard to find" part, he found it hanging in the shop, along with two more exactly like it that had been on the shelf for over a year. It turns out that one of Paul's coworkers, the bearded, semi-stoned looking one, had accidently ordered a speedometer cable for an '82 Vanagon instead of an '81.

With his slightly slick black hair that was just starting to speckle with salt, Paul was nice enough, but his use of humor and slang quickly wore thin, especially since both increased with his ineptitude. I was told that it would take until Thursday to reorder the correct part and that they would call that morning when it arrived on the truck.

As 2 o'clock Thursday rolled around I called only to find that the replacement cable was in but they were "swamped" and wondered if I could bring it in Friday morning. I informed Paul that I would be bringing it in that afternoon and that it needed to be done first thing in the morning; Paul promised it would be.

Trusting Paul's word, I suspected something was amiss when noon rolled around on Friday and I had heard nothing. Picking up the phone I called and was informed that Bessie was done and that they were again were "too swamped" to call. Cursing under my breath, I stormed out the door for the half hour walk to pick up Bessie.

A short while later I arrived at Foreign Aid and had to wait for Paul to finish another phone conversation. Finally finished, he called me over and he started the invoice, his attempt at humor, "can I add $100 for me?" falling flatly to the floor when my response of, "no, but you can subtract $100 for me", was uttered and he silently handed me my keys.

Walking across Constitution to the shop's parking lot, my joyous adventure was not yet over as I noticed that Bessie was blocked in by guy loading a bug onto a trailer. By now I wanted to kill someone but I called Katie and waited, blood boiling, for the man to slowly finish.

Finally free of Foreign Aid, and with a working speedometer, I made my way back to Amberlee's, the late time now pushing Friday's departure date back to an early Saturday exit. After the entire ordeal, all of the hassles and mistakes, I came to realize that the worst part was what dawned on me when I was cleaning out Bessie, I had purchased a speedometer cable back in Bend.

Perfectly good airplanes

I did something last Thursday that I swore I would never do, something that the very thought of causes in me profuse, full body sweating: I jumped out of a perfectly good airplane. While actually contemplating this event is scary enough, having a girlfriend who's idea of excitement involves more than a couch and a good book actually schedule it onto our calendar elevated my fears suddenly from a laughable event to a forseeable future.

I told myself that I would never jump out of an airplane, but a misspoken yes to an assumed joke led me down a path I never thought possible. It was this path that led to a date with a parachute last Thursday.

My fear of planes is based upon a deep rooted fear of heights; this fear comes thanks to a ruptured inner left ear, the byproduct of an injury sustained during an uncoordinated mud football moment my freshman year in college. The resultant vestibular disorder makes balance a very precarious game for me; my mind is constantly trying to tell my body that it is tilting or falling. This false feeling has led to many envisioned free falls from planes, skyscrapers, and cliffs and, with that, all of the dire ends and mangled body parts these falls would include.

I honestly thought that I wouldn't be able to sleep the night before, that in the days leading up to jump day a building of nervous energy would culminate in restless fits of nervous sweats and tremors. Oddly enough, I was calm the entire week leading up to the jump and slept peacefully Wednesday night. Surprisingly still, I even found myself looking forward to it from time to time.

That Thursday Katie and I woke at our normal 11 o'clock hour and hurriedly packed the car and left for Molalla, stopping off in Albany to pick up Katie's brunette haired friend and fellow grad student Amanda, a one time veteran of skydiving. The drive up was filled with jokes about my demise and calculated probabilities of my survival. Pulling into the gravel lot of Skydive Oregon we were greeted by sight of people on their final descent and I noticed nary a dead body anywhere on the grass landing strip (which part of me took to be a good sign while the calculated percentage part of my brain screamed that someone, somewhere soon had to perish). With smiles galore lighting up their faces, across my mind flashed an image of the contorted expression sure to cross my face should my parachute actually deploy and I land safely (gruesome would be the expression should it not).

We spent the next half hour wading through a mountain of paperwork, signing our lives away along with our right to sue for anything. No joke, the paperwork included the sentence, " I hereby sign away my right to sue for any fault due to negligence on the part of Skydive Oregon". Odd to me that this would be legal, that even when the fault lay in them, their employees, equipment or training, Skydive Oregon was without blame or responsibility. To say the lawyers had a field day creating that contract would be an understatement for sure; I somehow find it hard to believe that many, if any, lawyers choose to jump from this locale.

Paperwork finalized, and our lives now in the tenuous balance of life and death (with no financial windfall for our heirs should our demise come within the day), I met my tandem partner, a burly, blond headed and long goateed dude named Tim. Shaking his massive hand briefly - and confessing my sins in hopes of forgiveness and a smooth ride - he briefly covered safety and strapped me in to my harness and promptly showed me my waiting spot outside.

I began to worry a little about the breadth of my training as I realized I was outside a full 15 minutes before anyone else.

Finally the group ahead of us landed and we were off on our death march to the field (though this may have just been me as everyone else, including Katie, seemed quite content; some were even smiling - damn them and their audacity). After being held like anxious puppies by our harnesses to ensure we did not bolt out into the prop of the oncoming plane (Warning #2 of 6 from our "thorough" training), we climbed a steel ladder up into a rackety old, single prop plane that looked and felt as if it would fall apart immediately should the wind pick up past a stiff breeze. My only consolation at this time was the knowledge that we did have a parachute strapped to us should anything go wrong.

Making our way to the end of the runway, we bolted off and climbed our way up to our jumping altitude of 13000 feet. Perhaps it was a case of nerves playing tricks on my mind, but it sure felt like we toured half of Western OR before finally circling back towards our jump point.

Though my palms were sweaty, my nerves were surprisingly under control, and I gave Katie a couple of last kisses just in case (much to the chagrin of her fat tandem partner who took a little too much pleasure in strapping her close). As my partner and hers joked about tips in hopes of bulking up their day's pay, the red light came on indicating our need to ready ourselves for the jump ahead.

Before I knew it Amanda and her friend Gary were out the door and Katie's fat instructor was racing us to the exit. As the last ones out, I had a moment to look down at the world below and contemplate what I was about to do. In that instant, time stood still and my focus rested solely on the grassy field far below, when suddenly I felt my legs get thrown out from underneath me and felt, for a brief second, my stomach float to my throat.

Uttering a silent and quick "oh, shit" (silent at least in my own mind, it may well have been bellowed for all I know) Tim proceeded to twist and turn us in a procession of somersaults and spins; enough to make me queasy, but not enough to raise my fear level. Within ten seconds we were in an arched position and I was staring out at the clear skied expanse a July day offers as I watched the ground edge closer and closer to my frame of reference.

For an instant, as the ground and runway below loomed larger and larger, I feared Tim had suffered an unfortunate heart attack when I felt his legs wrap around mine and the parachute deploy. Instantly, we were floating serenely over the exact spot we took off from and Tim quickly taught me how to maneuver and control the chute and I was free to steer us down in spins and loops.

As the last one out of the plane but first ones down (the more you spin the faster you drop), we edged towards the ground and I was warned to put my feet up. Before I knew it, we were down and the journey was over, I was again on solid soil (thankfully, without so much as soiling myself). We had dropped 13,000 feet in a little over five minutes (8000 of them were in 55 seconds).

I don't know if I expected some giant epiphany, I know I at least expected nerves, but I felt no real fear until after we were driving off and I had a moment to contemplate what I had just done.

One of the greatest things about having a girlfriend who likes to try new things is that I am never bored, one of the worst (and this is only because I am a wimp) is that I am actually forced to go through with them all. I have had an eventful year and plan on letting Katie continue to challenge me and force me to do things far out of my comfort zone, as this surely was never close to my radar before meeting her.

I have to admit, I never thought I would be saying this, but I would recommend everyone try and jump out of a perfectly good airplane at least once, the feeling is unlike anything you will ever experience.

Going back: April 24-30

As much as I enjoyed Amberlee's company, by now my brain was so fried from the previous four days that all I wanted was to be back home. The allure of a cozy bed, a new girlfriend, and the knowledge that home held limited surprises proved too great a draw, and I spent the next day and a half looking for a ticket back. This endeavor of course, garnered nothing but endless jokes from Amberlee, but I knew that she understood my reasons as our conversations about her last boyfriend, Ari, let slip her true opinion of love.

Though I knew that I would again be running away from the experiences and ensuing drama needed to learn and to grow, my tail tucked sheepishly between my legs like a dog that just tore apart his owner's favorite slippers; for my sanity, going home was something I had to do.

With a flight booked for a week out, it turned out that my anticipated time catching up with my friend was to be shared in equal parts with an unanticipated guest, as Jenn's love of her roommate became painfully obvious in her puppy dog affinity for anything Amberlee. Though extremely sweet, the concept of space was something that seemingly never crossed Jenn's mind, and wherever we went, so did she. Through conversations I could tell that she was an intelligent girl, but her desire to be involved often trumps her common sense, even when aware that two friends long separated may want a minute or two of unaccompanied time.

It was later on in the week that I met another of Amberlee's disciples, her neighbor Will, the other curious stand in from the front door conversation the night of my arrival. At 30, Will's biggest claim to fame is something most people would be remiss to have as common knowledge, he has not had sex in a decade. Obviously intelligent, and not an ugly man, it is perhaps Will's chosen life path that does him in.

Choosing employment at a job normally reserved for pimply faced teenagers, his pizza delivery pay affords him no other luxury than residence in the garage of his parents' home. Though decked out in the latest of technologies, and an obviously comfortable, laid back room in which each visitor is given a marker and his or her own brick to create their own unique mark, nothing about living in such close proximity to one's parents shows a desire to change one's reality.

Through all of this, neither his lack of drive nor confidence has slowed his attempts at courtship of Amberlee. By the end of the week my jokes of "charity work" done by her on his behalf had worn as thin as hers about my sheepish return home.

Thankfully, during my stay, Amberlee had limited responsibilities, a rarity for a girl whose inability to say no is legendary. Over the week we passed the time watching bad Mexican soap operas, rock climbing and philosophizing about life, relationships, and our friendship. Knowing that she was about to embark on the draining experience of nursing school, and wanting a get away from all things Albuquerque for a short while before a self-imposed exile to focus on school, we planned a trip to Carlsbad Caverns, a destination she had visited as a child and desired to see again.

We left Saturday morning around noon, our goal the southernmost part of New Mexico. The drive was scenic - in as much as looking at open expanses of nothing but dead or dying brush and dirt can be considered scenic. Though the huge skies and dark, rain soaked clouds left over from the night's storms were beautiful, the biggest debate - and perhaps Amberlee's greatest gift - was the conversation about what constitutes life and therefore our interpretation of scenic beauty. For Amberlee, though dry and barren, the desert is alive with plant and animal life; for me, something with a hue other than brown has to actually block my view of the horizon before I can truly consider it beautiful and alive with life.

Through a seemingly endless desert, we arrived later that afternoon in Roswell, home to famed Area 51. Much larger and more modern than I would have ever guessed, with new buildings and strip malls housing all of the latest offerings popping up everywhere, Roswell took me by surprise. We stopped off just south of downtown for some food a mile or so away from the New Mexico Military Institute at a large wood and glass restaurant called Farleys. Farley's was a modern, messier version of Red Robin, perhaps due to its location in the middle of the New Mexico desert but probably more so for the massive boost of testosterone from the local base. Because the Military Institute made the guy to girl ratio in this part of town 10-1, I had a difficult time convincing Amberlee to leave, as a night of free drinking crossed her mind more than once.

After a meal of a huge, greasy cheeseburgers, interesting artwork, and great people watching, we again hopped in Bessie to finish our drive. Arriving at the northern gate to Carlsbad around six, we took note of a campground just outside of the Park's boundaries and headed up the road to the Park's entrance. On the drive up we realized why the campground was full as we noticed numerous signs banning overnight camping.

Both tired from a long day's drive and with a belly still full from a meal of greasy food, we decided to take a nap and woke just in time to see a ranger making his rounds through the parking lot. Pulling up next to Bessie the baby faced, blond headed ranger swung his legs out of his truck and made his way over to us. Young enough to look as though he just finished his Junior Ranger training a year ago, and knowing Amberlee would have much more luck avoiding any wrath, I left her alone to head him off and converse.

Through her wiles and charms, we found out his job was to kick us out for the night, but he was now rethinking this task. Seemingly smitten with Amberlee, he told us that if we stayed longer he would not "notice" if we slept there, though his warning of his boss' legendary tirades made us rethink the possibility. I tried to convince Amberlee that she could have as much success convincing a female ranger, but she seemed to think it would be a better idea not to try.

Driving back down in the dark to the campground we spied earlier, we decided on a dinner of tacos, chased down by SoCo and ginger ale. Later that evening, after cleaning up the spilled taco meat fat lost in a poorly executed balancing act, we decided on a walk through the Park and wandered lazily out to the road. On this moonless night, the sky looked as though someone had poked thousands of holes in a black canvas as we walked and talked about life and relationships.

It was during this conversation that my phone rang, Katie was calling to say hello and see how the drive was. Sensing that Katie may be wary of me spending the night alone with another woman, Amberlee grabbed the phone out of my hands and introduced herself with the ease of an old friend being reacquainted with a long lost best friend. Before I knew it they were already planning on hanging out in July during Amberlee's annual trek back to her beloved Corvallis for some tree hugging; the strangest part was they were going to hang out whether I was there or not.

Waking the next morning we arrived at the Park's headquarters to find out that the reason so many cars were still in the parking lot at dusk the night before was the nightly feeding of the thousands of Carlsbad's resident bats. Saddened by the missing of such a rare event, we checked in at the Park's counter and, with my National Park's Annual Pass, we covered our costs and strolled off towards the cave's entrance. On the way we were stopped by a female ranger no older than 20 whose job entailed reciting the same dry dialogue about the caves' rules over and over every day. Sheepishly holding my pack full of contraband tight to my back, we bee-lined it for the cave's mouth and made our way into its depths.

Words cannot adequately describe the wonderment of below, 754 feet of cave walls and formations formed in a blackness so profound that no amount of time would allow a human's eyes to ever adjust. Found by a teenage cowboy, Jim White, in 1898, Carlsbad Caverns have been explored by countless over the years. Lit up by recessed lighting, the formations, crevasses, and shelves create a picture of serene beauty; much like a sky's clouds, the walls and formations hold images unique to the eyes of every individual. The craziest part of the caverns were the bathrooms and concessions built into the rock walls at its extreme depth, bathrooms and even a concessions stand meet you before taking the elevator ride out as a means to avoid the long walk back up.

We left that afternoon on the long drive home, leaving ourselves just enough return time before her soccer game when Bessie started acting up, coughing and sputtering on the uphill portions of the drive, the load seemingly too great for her 67 horses. We arrived with minutes to spare and Amberlee rushed off to change. I chose to stay home and talk to Katie, a decision based upon a missing of her voice as well as Amberlee's stalwart no to my offer to come watch her play.

The next couple of days were rife with talk, wanders around town, and roommates until Thursday's flight. By now, I think Amberlee was needing a break from me and, with one last poke at my failed independence, I gave Amberlee a hug of thanks for the ride, as well as the hospitality, and made my way through an empty Albuquerque airport, longing for the next four hours to vanish rapidly so I could be home.

Reconnection: Albuquerque - April 23

I spent last night more alone than any other on this trip as my usual telephone conversation was relegated to the blinking black letters staring back at me from a computer screen rather than through the compassionate, loving voice I had grown so accustomed to hearing. Surprised at my need to possess a phone that's operations expanded beyond emergency use, I quickly set about finding a T-mobile store to reconnect both my phone and my mind in Albuquerque.

Cresting over a hill, the scenery of desert and dead brush finally gave way to an expanse of concrete and metal rising out of the seemingly lifeless ground, as the city's skyline and freeways spread out before me. The long, lonely four lane interstate quickly became a spiderweb of red clay lanes as the city's roads struggled to keep up with the exploding population.

Though catchy, I had come to find that AT & T's slogan of "More Bars in More Places" is much more a marketing catchphrase than an actuality as their 3G network paid off only when near a city, the remainder of the time I was forced to wade through dial-up length downloads or no connection at all. Thankfully, being in Albuquerque, I was able to locate a local T-mobile store and bee-lined it north using the flow of cars as my speedometer.

Having spent so much time on the endless, open freeways, battling traffic was something I was unaccustomed to and I slowly went mad weaving my way in and out of all of the vehicles, eyes peeled in earnest for the purplish hue of a T-Mobile sign. Spying it on my left, I used Bessie's bulk to force my way into the turn lane and pulled into an all too common strip mall of concrete, steel, and glass and parked in a corner spot.

Excited to be so close to hearing Katie's voice again, yet weary from the past few days' turmoil, I exited Bessie and ambled slowly towards T-Mobile's front doors. Entering, I was surprised to see six employees milling about shooting the shit, the economy obviously taking a toll on customers but not factoring into managerial decisions.

A cute, dark haired girl, wearing glasses that spoke to either a possible college education expected of her age or just a stylistic need, broke away from the pack with a gait that spoke of pulling the short straw.

Listening with feigned interest to my tale of woe and need she immediately pulled out a prepaid phone and set about unnecessarily explaining its operation. It must have been something about my sarcastic questions surrounding dialing protocol that caught her on to the fact that I was telephone savvy as she finally rolled her eyes with a look somewhere between thanks and annoyance and walked me over to an unused store phone to connect me with the T-mobile.

I guess my assumption of competence out of T-mobile's service line was overzealous, as I spent the next twenty minutes trying to explain my phone's problems to a girl who obviously wasn't listening, as her ideas of a fix involved operations beyond the phone's current capabilities. Perplexed that I was unable to even access the menu, she walked me through an obvious corporate protocol designed to find fault in the phone's owner. Relying on patience and humor it was finally understood that the issues lay in the phone and decided that T-mobile would send me a replacement for a "nominal" shipping fee of $19.99.

With a promise of the phone's arrival within three days, I realized that I could get by using Amberlee's phone while in Albuquerque and set about finding the fashion conscious salesgirl. Chatting briefly with her, she promptly informed me that, once bought, nothing could be done about returning the prepaid phone, even though it was never used. Shaking my head in disbelief I left the store fighting back a desire to question the logic of a faceless corporation and hopped into Bessie to call Katie, a need to hear her voice ringing in my ears and guiding my steps.

Relaxed finally and pulling back into the throngs of traffic, a list of items forgotten in a hasty departure days ago flashed through my mind. Spying a poor traveler's beacon of hope, WalMart, a few blocks down the road, I pulled into the parking lot just as my ex's name and number flashed onto my replacement phone's screen.

Tired and frustrated from the past few days I answered, my voice ringing with frustration, and she quickly realized that talking to her was not high on my list of priorities. Apathetically, I told her I would call her back in the next few days, my lack of apology for my haste falling with a thud on the other end of the line and set about my shopping.

Finally feeling like Bessie was completely ready for travel, I made my way through the outskirts of Albuquerque and arrived a short while later at Amberlee's street, a nice residential area filled with trees and stucco houses. Rolling down the road I set about checking the fading addresses on the curb to find her house and edged past what I thought was an empty lot as the trees, vines and weeds covered all I could see. Noticing the faded address on the next drive I realized that I had rolled right past her home and backed up to a spot in front of her house.

Laughing to myself about her gardening skills, and knowing that she would not be back from work until nine, I planned on spending the next few hours killing time by giving Bessie a long overdue cleaning. My antisocial nature took over and left me feeling a little odd as my lack of a courtesy hello to either her housemate or neighbor - both of whom stood out front of her house chatting for a good 15 minutes hoping to coerce this recluse out of hiding in some form of assurance that I was not a complete creep - left me realizing the extent of my fatigue.

A couple of hours later, finally done cleaning and in need of a bathroom, I headed for the front door to introduce myself just as Amberlee's roommate, Jenn, a shorter, pudgy girl whose desire to fit in fell short of fitness but was apparent in her attempts at fashionable dress and hair styling, was leaving for a friend's house. We chatted for a short while and made our introductions, our conversation giving her hope that I was not a complete whack job, and I headed inside to use the facilities.

I was impressed at the house's size and cleanliness, something I was unsure of after seeing the overzealous nature of the vines climbing over the windows and walls. Making my way back out to Bessie, I was cleaning up from a dinner of tacos a short while later when I heard a gleeful voice yell my name and turned to see Amberlee joyously jumping into Bessie, her blond hair and pretty, white smile lighting up the darkness.

Immediately making herself at home, she plopped her skirted, athletic body down and we spent the next half hour talking and telling stories until her need to pee forced us inside to indoor plumbing - for some reason my offer to share my bottle did not sit too well.

We spent the evening catching up and planned the next few days. I fell asleep later that night happy to be in the company of friends, and happier still that I could actually hear Katie's voice.

Here and now

I sit in Katie's apartment contemplating life and the next step within this blog. I have thoughts and writings and words swirling through my head, but not the voice necessary to put them to paper. Within the week I will begin turning my 35 drafts into posts, and do hope that most will keep you entertained.

I thank you all for the following, as well as the patience.

A short synopsis

And yes, I note the redundancy of that title ... =-)

I have neglected to post anything in quite some time due to numerous factors, the most prevalent of which surrounds a desire to see and experience rather than rehash.

I left you all in Gallup, NM, with a Navajo population taking its anger out on a naive white kid whose middle class upbringing has molded a mind not closed, but not fully open.

Since then I have traveled extensively - though, sadly, nowhere near as far as planned as a broken auto has been the bane of my trip and the focus of far too much of my energy. The Atlantic Ocean was to be my turning point North, but fate (or just poor mechanics) have changed that to the Mississippi.

Though disappointing, this setback has not detracted from the journey as I have still visited, and hopefully reconnected with, good friends along the way, traveled with a great companion whose ability to withstand in close proximity all that is Andrew provides me hope, and have asked for and experienced challenges previously unknown - though, I wasn't aware that this request was to be taken so literally (or so extensively).

So far this trip has taught me a great many things about myself, the most important of which is the recognition that growth in self-awareness is a perpetual journey.

This growth has illuminated numerous flaws and strengths, the easiest of which to identify has been my extreme lack of patience - a character trait obviously more prevalent in myself than I realized - as all of your postings and recommendations to "just sit" have shown me.

I have found myself constantly on the move, always "go, go, go" instead of slowing to enjoy not only the ride, but also the view. I thank you all for that awareness, as it has helped me to slow down and has forced me to apply the brakes to not only my body, but my mind as well.

There are, of course, repercussions to newfound awarenesses, in this case they are manifest in the form of about 25 drafts sitting in my folder - daily notes and reflections on the journey that has been thus far.

I do forsee a schedule ahead that is lighter on travel and heavier on wireless availability, but will not commit to anything. As they say, patience is a virtue...

Gallup - April 23

Driving on a spare that I knew had a limited life span, I began to search for the next town to change out my tire. Entering into New Mexico I quickly came upon a little town called Gallup that happened to house the largest Indian reservation in the world, and was the largest Navajo reservation in the land.

Now please take what follows with a grain of salt: I full well know that this was only one day and one limited experience, and in no way can I ever truly KNOW what it feels like to be prejudiced against, ignored, shunned, or made to feel anything less than worthy due to my color of skin on a daily basis, but I at least now have the perspective.

Walking into the Pep Boys - chosen for its reputation as a franchise over a local, referred tire shop - I stood by the counter waiting patiently to be helped. What followed was an experience that opened my eyes.

I now know what a black man feels like. The level of purposeful neglect was unbelievable, and unexpected. I felt like I was being judged as if I had actually participated in the decision, creation, and acceptance of the reservations.

Ignored in favor of natives who walked right past me as if I did not exist, I finally had to stand gut to the counter and ask loudly for assistance. The first employee looked at me with a level of dislike normally reserved for in-laws and passed me on to a kid who was probably only 20 but was trying really hard to look important and 30, his uniform crisp and sharp and a self created air of importance surrounding him.

Talking to me as though I were wasting his time, he told me to pull my car around the back and that someone would help me shortly. Obediently following his instructions, in complete ignorance to the anger directed towards me, I pulled in front of an open bay one, "Tires" boldly written across in red letters contrasted against the white building.

For 15 minutes I waited as I watched and chatted briefly with a 16 year old who, though obviously working in this bay, had nothing better to do but come out periodically to look quizzically at Bessie, ask a couple of questions and walk away. Finally, after his third visit, I asked if he had any plans to fix my tire and he tilted his head sideways and peered at me as though I was growing a second head.

He then asked me for my work order and I shot him back the same look.

"Work Order?"

"Yeah, work order. If you don't have a work order I cannot do anything."

"But you're NOT doing anything." My obvious frustration seeping into this conversation.

"Can't do anything without one, you have to go back inside and get one."

By now I realized I had been duped and made my way back to the counter, this time helped by a managerial looking middle aged man who, though his apparel and balding head spoke to knowledge, his flustered speak and stacks of paper warned me that I was in for a long day.

Explaining my situation he took my name and keys and told me someone would get right on it. I begrudgingly made my way back to Bessie figuring that I could at least use this time to clean out the various piles of paper and bags of garbage that had accumulated over the past few days.

Something about me hanging out in the van - perhaps the assumption being that I did not trust them - continued the day on even further unsure footing. 30 minutes after pulling Bessie around back, the same kid who had sent me off without a work order came trudging over to Bessie and hopped in, shooting me a look of "fuck off" as he did, his air of importance lessened as he now knew I knew he was nothing but a shop mechanic, his crisp uniform the product of the start of his shift and nothing less.

Grinding her gears he struggled to find reverse and, not wanting to have to replace a gear box in addition to a tire, I calmly walked over and explained it that you had to push down first before up in order to get her into gear. Without so much as a grunt of acknowledgment he slammed her into reverse and drove off to another bay.

Instead of waiting inside I chose to sit out in the sun, as much to offer any help on figuring out Bessie's quirks as to enjoy the rays offered up from an infrequent visitor to my native Oregon. Looking back I think that they thought I was again watching over them, their distrust or anger not allowing them to see me leaning back to enjoy the warmth.

The whole time in Gallup one local was friendly to me, a woman of about 25 who, while walking by with her friend obediently in tow, asked me if my car was in the shop and, upon hearing that it was, warned me that I would be there for awhile. I spent the next 30 minutes pondering this a bit until she came back out and told me that my fair skin needed to get out of the sun, reminding me again of the wait I was in for. Explaining that I was from Oregon and seldom saw the glowing orb and wanted to soak up as much of its rays as possible, she laughed at me, shaking her head as she and her friend walked off.

I guess I really should have paid more attention to her as two and a half hours later Bessie was finally finished. Granted, I did have them take care of the rear alignment issue as well, the cause for the tear, but I could not believe the extent of the delay and by this time had given up caring.

Walking back in I paid for the work, my mouth shut except to answer questions, my fear being that should I open my mouth my true opinions would come flying out. Hopping back into Bessie I drove off back towards the 40, a newfound buzzing ringing in my ears.

It turns out the buzzing wasn't from the headache and I searched high and low on my steering column for its origin. Finally pulling over I took apart part of the dash and finally located a little piece of paper left as a gift, a parting reminder of their love for me and my kind.

Driving a little further I looked to see how far out of Gallup I was, to see if it was worth it for me to turn around and give them a piece of my mind, and noticed my odometer wasn't working, the product of a severed speedometer cable. Another gift. Boy do I feel blessed.

The tire fiasco - April 22

With the flub, flub, flub of a problematic unknown emanating from the rear of Bessie, I looked for a place to pull over only to find that the next exit was 10 miles away and the shoulder was non-existent. Inching her along the highway, cursing at anyone and anything, I finally exited up a ramp to semi-level shoulder on the opposite entrance ramp and set about to find out what was wrong.

Walking back to the rear tire I saw nothing that would cause the noise until I ran my hand along its entirety. Smooth, treaded tire gave way to a foot and a half long by two inch wide tear all the way down to the steel belt.

By now it was somewhat funny, I mean, EVERY day? Sometimes ALL day? What had I done in this life or a previous one to deserve this? Angry at God, angry at life, angry at this trip, I set about doing the only thing I could, changing out the tire.

When buying the van one of the selling points was the overabundance of tools and equipment that came with her. Leaving the house I knew that I had everything I needed but, upon taking it all out, I found that one really important piece was missing, the tool necessary to remove the hub caps...

I tried everything, kicked at it and swore at it, until I finally grabbed my hatchet, some damage to inflict the only thing on my mind. Thankfully, right before I took the first swing, I realized that I could use the edge of the blade as a pivot point and the heel for leverage. Giving it a good whack, the hub came flying off.

Turns out the lug nuts were rusted on (another little tidbit I have learned, always check your lugs before leaving, use WD40 if they are rusted) and it took every ounce of my leg and arm strength to loosen them. Again cursing up a storm (I think I must have been a sailor in previous life), I started to jack her up only to find that the jack that came with her was 2" too short. I tried every possible, jackable point but nope, each one was too short. To make matters worse, three truckers rolled right on by and not even one stopped to ask if they could help or offer up their hydraulic jack.

By now it had truly become funny and I could not help but look up and say "Ok. Forget it. I won't ask for any more favors."

Out of divine intervention or blind luck I realized that my mom had given me a book before I left, "1000 things to see and do in the US and Canada before you die", that happened to be 2 and a half inches thick. Using the book for a purpose other than its intent I was able to free the tire just enough to remove it and replace it with my old, worn spare.

It felt good to have accomplished it all and the beautiful blazen red and orange sunset made for a fitting end to the evening, too bad it would all start over again tomorrow.

The last four days - May 17 - 20

It seems all I have been doing the last few days is driving.

Once out of New Mexico, just East of the border into Texas, the terrain flattened out and hasn't hit a bump since. Sure, they have some mountains here, though I think anyone who has stepped foot anywhere West of Colorado can tell you that their mountains are more hills, and small ones at that.

I have driven through the dry and the heat of Texas, never straying any further south than hwy 40 - my goal to make it through this dusty land as fast as possible - and headed north into Oklahoma and Kansas, the lower 48 in their entirety driving me.

While it is true I stepped foot in Kansas, I have a hard time saying I have really seen the state as I hit a point 10 miles north of the border and U-turned it southeast back towards Oklahoma. When you can look straight ahead and see nothing in front of you but grass, cows, clouds, and the horizon, you know that it is time to head for something a little more scenic.

All the days have seemingly melded together, much like the landscape - if there weren't convenient little state signs I would have no idea where one began and one ended. I cannot fully recall where I have been, or at least not in what order. I recall various camping spots, can tell you what I have seen and what was special about each, but I cannot fully recollect the when of it all.

I wish I could say it was due to the drink or the drugs, but neither I have had so I have to blame it on the mind and its prediliction to wander. I have had so much time to think but have found that worry occupies most of my time.

The worry centers mainly about Bessie - being a Westy she loves to act up and, seemingly no matter how much money I pour into the gas tank and its various fuel line components, she still wants to have fits. So I'll let her. She and I have come to an understanding finally - I won't fret so much about the lugs and bumps, knocks and pings, and in turn I won't ride the accelerator so hard nor push her so far each day.

This of course brings me, in a round about way, to my other focal point of worry: why am I here? Not the cosmic what is my life about (though, with all of my other thoughts and posts I am sure that is where most of you went) rather, why am I headed to all 48 states? What is driving me to take on a task that is maddening in pace and long on solitude?

I know the goal was to see the country in its entirety - even if that does mean one small step in certain areas - and to witness what separates and makes unique each part of this country, but I have found that this has started to defeat the original purpose of my trip.

To get away, to RELAX, and to think - about me, about my father, about my direction for this life - these are what propelled me on this journey in the first place but they are things that I have had little time to focus on as I am more hell bent on fitting everything in, dashing for each state to say I did it rather than enjoying the ones I am in.

And so I am beginning to think that maybe I will head back West, to all of the parks I have missed in my Easterly dash. This will shorten the trip's distance, but there is no plan to alter the time frame.

Perhaps it is longing for the comforts of home, or perhaps we truly appreciate what we have left behind, but I have found that the West has so much to offer, maybe I should spend more time appreciating.

Petrified National Forest - April 22

No matter how nasty the bed is, sleeping on an actual mattress and covered by real sheets does wonders for the mood; the ability to take a shower, especially one after waking up from said nasty bed, just enhances the goodness.

Leaving Flagstaff, I headed East for Petrified National Forest, my mind wandering to the journey ahead and the days behind. Texting hellos and talking about the day before me with Katie, I was finally relaxed and happy again and, an hour into the drive, I decided to stop in at Wal-Mart for some odds and ends that I had neglected to purchase earlier.

Walking into the store in Two Guns, AZ it was interesting to see how the local's eyes glanced my way and grew big in fits of wonderment or amusement. Perhaps it was my Nike attire, soccer short and Dri-fits my daily wear, or perhaps it was my city boy amble, but the locals kept glancing in my direction, their attention diverted away from their weekly shopping trip for a brief moment.

The looks directed my way harbored no anger, nor did they have any semblance of hostility rather, I felt the way a B-movie celebrity would feel, the averted eyes and whispers carrying just far enough to catch my ears and telling me I was the focal point of that moment.

Before entering into this enclave of ranchers, I had sent a picture message to Katie and had placed my phone in my cart with the hope of receiving a reciprocal picture back. Throughout the 30 minute walk around the store - my goal to buy groceries, hats, and sunglasses - my phone remained mute, not a ring or beep out of it until I hit the checkout line and was mid conversation with the middle aged, slightly overweight Indian lady so obviously underjoyed to be working at WalMart.

The screen flashed a message that I only caught a glimpse of, something about "failure to send due to insufficient memory", and I set my course for Bessie, my newly purchased fedora protecting my badly burned scalp from future damage. I needed to delete all of the old messages from my phone's Inbox and set about typing in the request. While waiting for the phone to finish its short and simple task, I began to tidy up the mess of books and clothing that had shifted and fallen during my travels over hills and around windy bends.

Picking up my phone to check my messages after a few minutes of cleaning, I was confused to find that it was turned off. Pressing the power button, the phone fired up slowly and I was presented with only partial control: though I could see the screen and scroll through my menu, it would not allow me access to any messages or calls.

Just like that it was dead. No outgoing or incoming calls; no texts or any kind; nothing. Angry again at the world, God received my wrath, my mouth spewing forth curse words at a rate an auctioneer would find difficult to follow. By now, after the past few challenges that were my previous two days, I was angry at God, wondering why He chose to challenge me so. How was it that so many little choices could go so awry, so many seemingly simple tasks could be made so difficult? How could a brand new phone, my only means of true communication and safety net should something truly go amiss, just die?

The question has arisen, from various sources, as to what my rationale for questioning and blaming God during all of this is. To answer this question is a task that deserves, and will receive, its own post later. For now, I will attempt to summate my thoughts so that any of your personal anger or amusement over my words may hopefully be dissipated, even if only slightly.

Over the past four or five years of my life I have become aware of a feeling that I have a larger purpose in this life than my current existence and that I am being led to find this true path by signs that are sometimes easy to see and sometimes so difficult that they are overlooked. It is through this feeling, no matter how misguided, that I have chosen to let fate be my guide during this journey. In trusting fate I was trusting that things would work out without realizing my own role in their workings. It is from this lack of knowledge of my part that I am angry and lost and therefore blaming.

Just East of Petrified Forest, driving in anger and desperately trying to fix my phone with every trick my frantically spinning mind could conjure, all the while intermittently questioning and cursing God's role in this, I heard the flub, flub, flub noises associated with a flat tire emanating from the rear of Bessie.

Looking out my side mirrors I saw nothing to indicate a flat and pulled cautiously into the Park. Heading directly into the first turn off I pulled out my lap top and wireless card and immediately went on-line to see if Katie was on Facebook so I could explain why I had so mysteriously vanished.

Not finding her on-line I left the Facebook tab open and opened my Hotmail account to send an e-mail when I heard the "ding" of an opened chat window. Clicking back over I saw that Erin, my assistant soccer coach from CV, was on-line and saying hello.

Erin's sweet nature is enhanced by her beauty and intelligence, she is truly one of the kindest people walking this planet. I coached her six years ago when she was a shy, non-conforming member of an OUSA team whose 16 year old members attempted daily to exhibit more knowledge about soccer than their coaches. She and I became friends when she joined CV's staff to coach her sister - a difficult choice being that her playing days were spent on the dark side at CHS. She enjoyed the experience so much she has stuck around for the past two seasons, alternating in her role as coach and team mom.

Seeing that I was on-line and curious as to how I could spend so much time connected to the web while away from most electricity, she was checking in to ask about my trip. Knowing that she and Katie were friends and surmising that she had a phone that worked, my quickly typed words must have practically begged her to make a call I couldn't.

Immediately sensing my frustration she set about calling Katie and I was quickly rewarded with the ding of a new chat window opening. Seeing my errors in typing and the speed of my writing, Katie could tell that I was angry and calmly told me to slow down.

Again, the familiarity of voice, even if over a computer screen, calmed my rambling mind and she was able to talk me down again, her mix of genuine concern and humor eliciting a smile from me within minutes. Feeling the tension slowly ebbing from my body, not fully gone but me no longer wanting to kill anyone, I thanked Katie for her patience and told her I loved her, my mind now capable of settling back into an attempt at relaxation.

Contemplating life again, I put up my blog address in 2" white letters purchased from Wal-Mart on the back of Bessie and sat back down on my rear bench to read about the Forest and find a camping spot. Unfortunately, but somewhat expected after the past few days, I found that the Park offered no overnight campground ammenities and would be closing within the hour.

My plan to spend the night camped in Bessie shot, I again headed East, my goal to shorten the distance between me and Albuquerque. Back out on the road I was focused on the drive ahead, half cursing my existence, half relaxed from the words of calm instilled by a kindred spirit when I again noticed the consistent flub, flub, flubbing of something seriously wrong coming from Bessie.

The longest day - april 21

Roused by the sun's warmth beating through my curtains, my dreams of crawling bedsheets were interrupted at an hour normally reserved for military personnel and I stepped outside to a shimmering, completely still river. Like a slate wiped clean, the ugliness of the night before had vanished with the dark to be replaced by a scene of pure beauty.

Reflecting on the night I found solace in my thoughts. I was thankful that, though hellish, the flies were not mosquitos; the tearing of skin, though bloody, elicited no pain and I was prepared with an arsenal of band-aids and ointment - gifts from a thoughtful five year old concerned about my well being; and, though nasty the night before, no bugs roused me from my slumber nor were waiting to greet me in the morning.

The campground's store being closed, I left without buying a bumper sticker for my desired collage and ventured towards Hoover dam. The dam itself did not call me, but a sense of guilt at being so close to one of America's marvels of engineering propelled me down the highway.

My wheels' vibrations echoed off the canyon walls as I weaved my way to down to the dam and I found myself awed more by the towering buttresses of cable and concrete slowly becoming the new highway bypass than the dam itself.

Hoover dam turned out to be much smaller than I imagined, the picturesque filmmaking of Transformers obviously skewing my sense of size. I had envisioned a quarter mile stretch of concrete, towering over a river below, but was sad to see what felt like a minituarized version, worthy more of a train set than in American folklore.

My camera's memory card near full I ventured back across the dam, marveling at the high water line so vibrantly contrast in white against the dark cliff walls, and drove into Arizona. Pulling into a parking lot buttressed against a hill of stone, I set about taking a picture of the "Welcome to Arizona" sign to add to my collection. Sitting there fumbling for my camera I was approached by an elderly couple looking for a coat hanger. Struck by the seemingly randomness of this request, I stammered for an answer until I recalled the vehicle I was in.

Though all cultures have many different traditions, locking your keys in your car is definitely a worldly phenomenon. The elderly couple had been searching for the coat hanger to help a wide-eyed Chinese couple from Shanghai that had accidentally left their keys in their late model Mustang while out taking pictures.

I used my AT&T wireless card to find a locksmith in Boulder City, a trick of technology that surprisingly amazed the Chinese (it seems I am not knowledgeable about what is available in China). A quick call and a $100 quote spoke to the greedy nature of businesses praying on tourists and the couple instead chose to try their luck with their car company, Hertz, in hopes they had a service for this type of ordeal.
Leaving them to voluntarily fend for themselves, a handshake of thanks and a 'good luck' waved out the window, I headed Bessie in the direction of the 350 mile drive to the Grand Canyon.

Coming to the intersect of Highways 40 and 66 I was forced to make a quick decision between a seemingly more and more common choice: do I take the route of speed and stay on 40 or do I veer off into the history of one of the most well know Highways in the land and choose 66? Indecisive, and oddly feeling like a 'meant to be moment' was imminent, I flipped a coin: Heads practicality, Tails history.

Within miles of passing the turnoff for 66, and countless cars zooming by, I longed for the slower pace of a less used highway and pulled over to see if I could find a connecting road. Perhaps the 'meant to be moment' came when I noticed my oil light on and realized that Bessie needed sustenance.

My research turned up a little connecting road off of highway 93 just a short jaunt south of the 40; the only hesitation was that the atlas did not show what type of road this connector was. Being that this was my only means of getting back to 66 without backtracking 15 miles, I pulled off of the 40 for what I thought was a couple mile drive south. Ten minutes later, and hardly a turn in sight, I decided to back track instead of continuing on and looked for the next available turn.

As luck or intervention would have it, the turnoff I chose proved to be paved. Sensing something, I pointed Bessie's nose north and drove off. Within a few miles the pavement began to give way to dirt, the dust and sand from the desert lining either side obviously blown by a constant wind. Within eight miles the dust and dirt had completely taken over and the road was no longer a road, rather it had become a dirt trail rife with dust, cattle, and the guards necessary to keep the livestock from roaming too far from their owners.

Worrying that Bessie would die out here in the middle of the desert, and not having seen a car or person for miles, my mind began to conjure all of the worst case scenarios it could muster. I again realized that I was living my life in fear and, angry at myself and at God again for this turn of events, I yelled as loud as I could five times out the window and decided to stay the course, my outburst of emotion calming my mind for the moment.

Perhaps intervention and luck are the same, either way my guess proved right and I arrived at 66, car dusty and heart aflutter with the giddiness of another adventure overcome. Turning East I soon came upon a middle aged man in search of a ride jogging to the side of the road from his old Mercedes. Picking him up, he introduced himself as Bob Gerschweitz and told me he was headed back to Peach Springs, a little town 15 miles up the road.

As soon as I set the car in motion Bob's mouth began to match the pace of the engine and he weaved tale upon tale about the land around us. Proudly professing to be the only white man on the reservation, I felt obliged to ask him how a member of the Gerschweitz clan ended up here in the middle of the desert on Indian land, but decided that his tales were far too entertaining and instead relaxed down into my seat to listen.

A couple of miles into the drive we saw the flashing lights of police cars ahead and feared a driver had fallen asleep at the wheel and crashed. It turns out we had come upon an Indian relay honoring the "Trail of Tears" and we passed members of local tribes lined up every quarter mile on the street's edge ready to take their part in the ceremonial relay. Gauging off of what I could see it looked like each member's part was to carry for a quarter mile an honorary flame as a symbolic gesture to all those that had suffered along the journey that brought them to this place.

Being that Bob's stories never ended it did not surprise me to hear him profess that he knew all of the kids in the relay. Sticking his head out the window every 30 seconds to yell a hello he then popped back in to let me know what student, relative, or friend's kid was standing on the side of the road. His lack of knowledge about the relay's set up, as well as the lack of response from most of the kids he yelled at, made me wonder about the validity of his statement, but I again let him weave his tales, the entertainment value far too great.

Pulling into Peach Springs, a tiny town that he claimed his father had once owned half of, I let him out with a thanks and a handshake. I noticed the ceremonial potluck, celebrating the end of the relay, and wanted to stay as the locals were dressed in the traditional garb more native to a time long ago. But, with no real offer of invite, save for from the mouth of a man seemingly so out of place, I instead continued on towards the Grand Canyon.

Many hours and countless miles later I pulled up to the south rim's gate and was greeted by an overzealous park ranger who obviously was bored and wanted to chat. Politely bantering back and forth, I quickly found my National Parks Annual Pass and sped along my merry way to the south rim, his questions and comments trailing off behind me.

Parking in a prime spot right next to an overlook, I stepped out and headed for the canyon's edge. No more than 10 steps into my journey I was approached by the same balding, plaid shirted elderly gentleman who had earlier asked me for a coat hanger. We walked over to his wife, a lovely, short little plump lady who's high pitched voice gave her comments a cartoonish flair and their 30 year old son who looked comfortable tagging along with his parents for Spring break but, probably only because he knew it made them happy.

We began to chat about the craziness of timing and I inquired as to their home, her shrill voice carrying a distinctive southern twang. Finding out that they were from Tennessee and knowing that I would be headed that way with absolutely no knowledge of what I was in for, I asked them for any suggestions. After countless answers, and in a genuine gesture of kindness, he handed me his business card and told me to call when I had reached that far East.

Thanking them and wishing them well on their journey home, I stepped out onto the canyon's edge and I was stopped in my tracks by the unbelievable views of towering cliffs of red, white and vibrant orange carved over the ages by the lonely river far below.

I had visited the Grand Canyon once when I was 14 but was more caught up in a revenge plot - the product of a fistfight the day before my family's vacation with an oversized, friendless oaf - and did not recall any of this beauty. Words cannot describe, nor can pictures adequately portray, the grandness and vast power spread out before me in so many colors.

Ambling away from the rim, my mind still processing the images etched into my eyes, I set off to embark on my journey to the Park's campsite a few miles away and ran smack into the Chinese couple I had attempted to help at Hoover. Wide-eyed for a different reason, their awe at what was spread out before them obvious, we stopped to talk and they filled me in on the friendliness of the Hoover dam police and their amazing door opening toys, and we took pictures of each other to commemorate the day.

While holding this conversation I could not help but wonder about the workings of the world. How is it that with 350 miles of distance and starting times from Hoover at least two hours apart (not to mention the six hours of driving and many side trips and roads we invariably all took), multiplied by the Grand Canyon's ample number of places to view the vastness, did I run into not only the elderly couple, but the Chinese couple as well, all within a 20 minute window of time?

Lost in thought, I started Bessie up and backed her out of her spot, accidentally shifting her into third. Gassing it when I felt her lug, she died on me and started to roll down the parking lot's hill, my furious attempts at starting her back up failing.

Finally coming to rest in front of the only open spot in the entire lot, I was honked at and then sympathized with as car after car drove past and saw me struggling against my rage. Knowing that I flooded her, Bessie's 28 years coupled with the low oxygen content of a higher elevation making for a difficult ignition, I called Katie. My frustration was obvious and she quickly set about talking me down.

There is something about a voice of familiarity and reason that soothes, and within seconds I was able to forget about my misfortune and just fell into talking. 20 minutes later the gas had settled and I fired her back up, finally able to clear the parking lot of Bessie's bulk.

My plan was to stay that night at the Grand Canyon's campground but the $18 charge to sleep in my van pushed me on. I drove south towards Williams recalling a beautiful looking campground in Kaibab National Park and set my sights on a night amongst the pines.

Pulling in amongst the trees I came to a lake as brown as chocolate and envied the people fishing as they looked as though stress was something that gauged fishing line durability rather than patience. Wanting desperately to stay here and hoping to learn some techniques of relaxation, I drove around only to find every campsite closed. It seems that the Arizona Parks department, in its infinite wisdom, had their parks closed for the season, even when the mercury pushes 80 degrees.

Weary after another long day, filled again with more driving than relaxing, I pushed on the additional 25 miles to Flagstaff and pulled into a Motel 6, the thought of a real bed and actual shower sounding like the only fix for my tense body.

Stepping into my room on the second floor I was flooded with images of shady drug deals and hourly rates and almost chose to crawl back into Bessie for the night. Knowing I could shower and charge my phone and computer, I decided to stay and treated myself (if clogging one's arteries can be considered a treat) to a dinner of Burger King - though stress again befell me as I had to worry about a spitter, the HS aged kids cooking my meal looked bored and laughed as I took the bag.

Exhausted and worn, I shuffled off to the shower and let the warm water wash away the dirt and grime from three days of hiking and travel. Watching it wash down the drain, I was struck with the oddity that had been my day. Filled with moments of pure joy as well as absolute frustration I longed for ease of travel and prayed the next day would grant it to me.

The beginning of the end - april 20

Having pushed my body past its comfort zone, my soul felt invigorated and my mind awake to the possibilities of this trip. Aiming Bessie north towards Hoover Dam out of twinge of patriotism I planned on camping around Lake Mead until a billboard touting $20 rooms in Laughlin, NV caught my eye. The chance for a cheap bed - and the opportunity to add Nevada to the growing state sticker collection adorning Bessie's rear driver side window - drew me to the small town tucked in the farthest southeast corner of Nevada, just a short jaunt across the river from Arizona.

Laughlin turned out to be much like the whole of Nevada, nothing but casinos and dirt - it seems that mining for silver and gambling away your daily find is the Nevada way - and I decided to push on with my original plan. Turns out expectations can warp your perception of reality pretty easily.

Missing a non-existent campground just outside of the infestation of casinos - my Rand McNally atlas' strength lying in arterials and not side roads - I pushed north for a campground called Temple Bar which, with its proximity to Lake Mead, brought forth images of white sandy beaches and peaceful rests.

Driving all day can be torturous; I have seen more desolate, open expanses of desert housing sad little towns than I care to ever lay eyes upon again. The saddest part of this existence is that these are not structured towns, just dirt roads with the possibility of indoor plumbing sprouting from the open desert. Though some of these towns were large enough to have their own fast food joint (note the singularity, grocery stores were a seemingly frivolous want) I wondered what type of person would call this existence home.

The debate waged over this existence is one of love versus drinking. The argument reasons that if you have someone you love it would surely make this lifestyle worthwhile - at least until the heat and the lack of anything to do but each other wore you out. If you didn't, your day would consist of work, picking up at least a half rack of beer, and drinking; only to wake up the next day to do it all over again.

My mind attempting to rationalize such a seemingly difficult life, I pulled off the highway for the 30 mile drive to Temple Bar. It turns out names can be incredibly misleading, a tidbit I have often heard but was drilled home when I found that the actual campground was a half mile from the beach and provided no view of the water. There was no Bar in sight - neither the watering hole necessary to cleanse my palate and wash the disgust from my mind, nor the soft, sandy beach necessary for lounging during times of contemplating how names are chosen.

Thankfully, a road once driven is often faster than one unknown, and I tore my way back to the highway for a short jaunt down some windy hills to another campground called Willow Beach. It turns out looks can be just as deceiving as names.

Pulling in as the sun was setting I found the perfect spot adjacent to the river. Clear and calm, the river looked as though it was posing for a postcard and the stars were just starting to twinkle, making the sky big and beautiful. I could feel the tension ebbing from me as I felt that the agony of that long ass drive was finally worth it.

Mind abuzz with the expected joys of a night spent star gazing, I set about preparing a dinner of rice and sausage. I hooked the lantern onto my canopy to fend off the oncoming dark, and within minutes the inside of my camper was teeming with hundreds of flies and moths hellbent on their own demise as they buzzed my light and fell in my dinner. Deciding that having the lantern outside would lessen the amount of unwanted protein dive-bombing my meal, I moved to relocate it to the curb and tripped over a pair of my shoes that I had senselessly placed in front of my sliding door and tore the skin off of three of the toes on my left foot.

During cleanup, and after the decapitation of a large beetle that fell from my pot of rice, I decided to move out of the streetlight's glare to a spot in a darker corner of the lot that some HS kids had recently vacated. Enveloped in the dark I again began to relax until my peripheral caught sight of the sand moving.

The beach was alive with roaming cockroaches just starting their ever present quest for scraps. Seeing the garbage cans to my left I flashed on the image of Will Smith in Men In Black and bee-lined it back to my original spot, my rationale being that the farther away I was from the source, the less likely the cockroaches' path would extend. It seems my rationales need some work as the cockroaches were seemingly endless in their hunt.

My mind again ran rampant and I feared cockroaches would infiltrate my van that night in search of food, procreate like mad, and eat everything in sight; leaving larvae everywhere they stepped.

I went to bed cursing God, more angry than I had been in years, visual and auditory hallucinations of scurrying little feet dancing through my mind. What was such an invigorating morning had turned into a challenge of another kind and my mind and soul's energy began to drain. I fell asleep, tired and bloody, my imagination conjuring images of insects as I struggled to understand the reasons for this night.