A Dog's Love (Train pt 4)

I have to say, even though I have only been gone for a little over a week, I believe that this trip will be beneficial.  Perhaps this is just the rationalizing of a mind that realizes that giving up a comfortable job to pursue the unknown is more than a little crazy but, even in the short time I’ve been gone I have learned and been reminded of some simple truths that make any life feel more full.

Greeted at the door at 6am by the beautiful smiling face of Kelley and her “vicious” guard dog Pearl, I immediately became thankful for friends.  Though I would like to imagine that I am a good houseguest, putting anyone up for a week is a kindness greater than most.   Thankfully I was able to, at least in part, repay them by taking care of their dog during their jaunt to sunny San Diego for a friend’s engagement party.

Now I know what you are thinking, that being left in charge of a snuggle whore like Pearl while having free reign of a house meant that I got what is, by far, the better end of the bargain, and I have to readily agree.  The best part is that Pearl shares my love of the outdoors and wanted nothing more than to go off on long hikes every day.

When I say that Salt Lake is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been, know that I do not use those words loosely.  Within five minutes of leaving their downtown front door, we were parking at the trailhead to the snow capped foothills of the Wasatch Mountains.  From here it is a short ten minutes before one can be lost wandering in and out of vast trails, searching for rumored “living room” chairs made of fallen slate or 25 foot towers perched high atop peaks of one of the countless mountains.

In my life, I have been around my fair share of dogs and I can honestly say that very few are as ideal as a companion as Pearl.  Sharing my love of all things outdoors surely helps, but it was more this brown and white bundle of energy and tail wagging’s ever present desire to love and obey that made her so great.  She would have made one hell of a 20’s housewife.

There is a LOT to be said about training a dog the right way.  Far too many dogs get a bad rep solely because their owners don’t do a good enough job teaching a dog right from wrong.  Due to this, too many dogs are labeled as difficult or poorly mannered when all a dog wants is to love and to play. 

From birth, this is what a dog is hardwired to do.  I cannot think of any other animal that possesses the same level of unconditional love.  Grab a ball and you’ll have a friend for life.  

Yet we punish or yell at these same animals for dropping that slobbery ball at our feet when we aren’t on a walk or for whining when they see us leaving the house without them.  How is this fair?

The saddest part is that it doesn’t take much more than a little time and patience, mixed in with consistency, to make any dog obey.  If you cannot see putting your dog ahead of yourself, especially after you have left them home alone all day, get a turtle.  A dog is not there solely for your amusement.  They are not the tv, ready to be turned on or off at your whim.  Dogs need to play, they need to be loved, they need companionship.  Even after a brutal day at the office, where all you want to do is pour a drink and take off your shoes, your dog has to come first.  

Take the time to train your dog the right way.  Give them consistent messages about desired behavior, proper punishment for momentary lapses, and treats and affection as reward.  Don’t allow your mood to dictate how you treat your pet, they are there because YOU chose to have them around.  Show them that you made the right choice and that you love them half as much as they love you.

Leaving Salt Lake, I thought more than once about trying to smuggle Pearl away in my backpack, but the thought of the revenge enacted by Kelley and Lewis, as well as the massive deuces sure to be dropped by the factory that is her digestive system, brought me to my senses. 

I am very thankful for loving, considerate, hard working and intelligent friends.  Without them my stay would have been far less enjoyable, comfortable or full of endless entertainment.  

Bums who don't Ski (Train pt 3)

I rolled into Salt Lake City at 6am, three hours later than anticipated.  Though this should come as no shock by now, the lateness of the trains is beginning to wear thin.  Having just spent the night intermittently sleeping, I had no real thought on my mind other than getting to Kelley and Lewis’ so I could wash off the stink I felt permeating my body and hop into a real bed for a little cat nap.

Exiting the train I did a little research and realized that their house was only a couple of miles from the station.  Seeing no cab conveniently waiting, I decided to hoof it. 

Bad idea.

Taking a wrong turn immediately outside of the station, the GPS of Google maps not recalculating accurately enough due to my slow amble, I added 15 minutes to my walk before I even got started in the right direction.  Finally off for what I knew to be a comfortable sleep I listened to the eerie silence of a city just waking up.

I imagined Salt Lake to be a quiet town full of kindness and homogeneity, so I wasn’t worried about trekking across blocks and blocks of downtown with countless dollars worth of gear and equipment.  Thankfully, at least at the present time of day, I had little to worry about as I saw no more than five people walking during my whole trip and all them gave me a curious look as they meandered about their way.

Though I expected a city booming with the comfortable life I expected out of a town founded on religion, I learned over the course of the week that Salt Lake has a bit of a welfare issue.  It turns out being known for snow and ski resorts means that more than a fair share of people come here believing that the can make it as a ski bum.  I don’t know if it’s a lack of awareness that winter, even in Utah, only lasts a few months, or if they figured the glory and fame there were sure to gain from skiing was to pay for the remaining 8 months, but most if not all of them just ended up being bums.

Perhaps it is because I spend so much time in a town that pretends to be a city, or that my treks to other booming metropolis’ included cities with citizens indistinguishable as anything other than bums, but never in my days have I seen so many people in their early adulthood who look like they just came from the making of a meth commercial.  Holding onto what I can only imagine to be teen years filled with angst and turmoil, the amount of skater clothing, worn out hoodies and missing teeth made me curious as to whether there was an epidemic of monstrous proportions being kept secret.

Now, don’t get me wrong, Salt Lake City is one of the most beautiful areas I have ever visited.  Surrounded on all sides by mountains full of snow and a body of water so big you would think the valley is flooding, Salt Lake is a town nestled in a part of the country where finding God’s work shouldn’t be too hard.  Yet, even for the ever present church, or perhaps because of the overriding kindness of its churchgoers, I left the city wondering how so many people can exist solely by sucking off the teat of others.

I came away from the whole experience thankful in many ways for my upbringing, yet a little saddened to realize that, as I age, I seem to become more and more jaded.  Though I am one of the first to admit that I have neglected the whole “growing up” thing, I still believe that, once an individual hits their mid twenties, they should have the ability to provide for themselves.  It seems that too many of the people I came across longed to hang on to the freedom and simplicity their teenage years provided.  Who knows though, maybe many of them never moved out, for most of them surely have yet to move on.

This thought process saddens me though because, even though I know that some of these people truly have very little value, their lives a constant cycle of expectation and taking, I do not truly know any of them.  It is in this thought process that I realize that I have become, at least in that moment, the elitist I despise. 

Death by Suicide

I heard a few weeks ago about student on campus who committed suicide by jumping off one of the dorms.  While I was saddened to hear about it, that yet another college student would choose to end their life when there is so much time and opportunity ahead of them, I was shocked to find out that I knew the kid.

P took a soccer class from me and, by all recollection, he would be one of the last people I could have thought to take his own life.  6' 2" and built like a linebacker, P was a loud and incredibly outgoing individual who seemed to enjoy life to the fullest.  I guess I should have trusted my instincts a little more.  It seems I had overlooked that many of the loudest people are actually experiencing the most pain.  

No one can truly understand why someone chooses to end their lives.  Even a note can only begin to explain the reasons but seldom gets to the heart of everything going on.  I have heard that some people think that P's death wasn't a suicide, and I can see why they would want to believe this.  

While I am incredibly saddened to know that P's life is over, I get it on some level.  I have, like I believe almost everyone in the world has at some point, contemplated suicide.  We all have our demons and moments in time that feel like nothing will ever change, that there is no possible end to the feelings of hurt, anger, pain, loneliness or sorrow.  I get how anyone, even someone like P, could want to end it.  

What I wonder though is what made P (or anyone for that matter) actually go through with it?  What makes them unable to see that life is not only fleeting but momentary and that, in these moments, anything can happen and everything can be changed?  

Perhaps it is my age, maybe my brain has developed enough to allow me to accept this, but the knowledge that my life can change if I am willing to put in the work, has helped me through many a dark day.  

There is always a better option to suicide, even if you cannot see it right now.  No life in set in stone, no pain or sorrow everlasting.  It is up to YOU to let go of the pain.  No one else can control your life (not if you don't allow them to).  Though letting go is not always easy, especially if pain has become your norm, it can be done.  NO ONE deserves to be unhappy.  

Start by getting to the heart of how you truly feel and why you feel this way.  Get out of your own head and allow others to help.  A friend, a teacher, a counselor, anyone you feel comfortable talking to or trust can be a great option.  Though you may have to talk to more than one person, as not everyone is comfortable opening up about sadness and pain, there is always someone willing to talk and, most important, listen.

Nothing is worth dying over, not if you have the potential for a long and fruitful life ahead of you.  If it is a broken relationship that causes you pain, believe me, there are others out there.  If it is abuse or poor self worth that causes you to never want to look in the mirror, remove yourself from those that make you feel this way and find others that appreciate who you are and what you bring to this world. 

We ALL have strengths, we ALL have purpose, we ALL make a difference in the world around us.  Don't ever forget that you are important to someone.

In all of this the greatest realization I have is that I need to trust my own instincts.  Even in his happiness I could sense struggle in P.  I never took the time to talk to him more than just cursory conversation in class.  That is on me for I could have (and should have) done more.  We all can.  Trust yourself if you sense something in someone, the worst that can happen is that remind them that someone cares.

While the loss of a life is truly a waste, hopefully this moment in life will not be wasted.  Hopefully P's death makes us realize that even though every life has pain, any life can be changed.

A night's sleep wasted (Train pt 2)

It turns out sleeping on a train is not the most comfortable experience in the world. 

Whether this is due to the incessant noise of both train and passengers alike or solely the effect of the solid plastic divider just high enough to be noticed in the middle of the seemingly ample bench, sleep came in fits.  I tried everything I could think of in terms of shuffling my body, but very little helped.  And so, on three hours of sleep, I trudge on.

Arriving in Sacramento 40 minutes late wasn't a big deal since I knew I had three hours to kill but I began to realize that I should probably get used to train stations.  You see, little did I know that being late seems to be the hallmark of Amtrak.  I don’t know if it is solely due to the increased freight traffic, incompetent traffic control operators or lazy engineers, but I have a feeling I won't ride an on-time train this entire trip.

Disembarking I was struck by the length of the walk from platform to station and I realized that major hubs were quite a bit different than the tiny stations like Albany.  Making my way the quarter mile to the station I plopped myself down on a bench and set my bags down beside me narrowly missing the bird poop on the bench's back.  Looking up I noticed all of the scaffolding set high against the station's ceiling, it seems this was their deterrent for the pigeon population that loved to exist off of the trash left carelessly around by some of the station's less aware.

Having three hours to kill I did a little people watching and marveled at the wide range of folks waiting to catch the train.  From elderly couples getting out to see the country for what could be the last time to young kids whose parents may or may not know where they are, the hodgepodge of transients, poor and middle class alike swarmed in and out of the station.  God thing too as it turns out that, even though it was only 80 miles away from origination, the California Zephyr, my next ride, was already running an hour behind.  

Finishing The Lost City of Z, I started in on Sophie's World, a philosophy book I hope can expand the way I think as it reinforces something I have always know about myself, my ideal job would be philosopher.  I love to think about the world and the people within it, specifically how people interact with both the world and the people around them.  Around 11:30 I made my way back the quarter mile to the same track to wait for the Zephyr to arrive to take me to Salt Lake City and a couple of good friends, Lewis and Kelley.

45 minutes late, the Zephyr pulled in and we boarded, neither conductor seemingly worried about things as they were in Albany.  Finding the cabins to be packed much more than my first trip I made my way to the front of the car and settled into the very last seat.  Being that I had no one in front of me, giving me even more leg room, I thought the seat was perfect until I realized I was right next to the doors between cars and would have to listen to people come and go all ride long.  Settling in I pulled out my book and contemplated philosophy as we rolled through the poorer sections of Sacramento.

That is one great thing about the train, it gives you a great glimpse into many different aspects of life, both on board as well as in the landscape around the tracks.  Most stations are set in the industrial sections of town so you get a great feel for how well a city is doing just by noting how run down everything is.  As you pull out of the cities you get a glimpse into the lives of the working class as you roll past their houses.  Seeing all of the broken down cars and pseudo projects scrapped due to a lack of time or money, I realize that I wish I was more knowledgable about cars so I could drive around and pay people to take away the cars sitting dead on their property.  Being able to give them a shot in the arm financially as I fix up and sell the cars for profit would be a win/win for everyone.

As we rolled along into the beautiful desert mountains and tiny mountain towns of California, I couldn't help but reflect a little on my life.  It probably didn't help that it was my birthday and I was purposefully spending it on a train but, being that I wanted to get away from Corvallis and have some time to truly work on things and contemplate life, I could think of few better gifts.

Chasing After a Dream (Train Trip post 1)

It seems the universe is conspiring against me at times, either that or it doesn’t want me to leave Corvallis.  You see, our normally snow free town has had two snow storms this winter, the first of which dumped 8” of snow the morning of my ankle surgery. Calling the hospital at 7am, I felt a bit sheepish when my questions of whether or not I should come in were met with an incredulous, “of course, we are here, you can make it too”. 

The conspiracy theory was further expanded when, on the day I was scheduled to leave via train for a little jaunt around the US, the skies decided to open up and begin to drop what became well over 15” of snow on this quiet town over the course of two days.  Though I love snow, I began to question the timing of it all.  You see, I needed a little clarity and time away from distractions, and endless hours (223+ to be exact) aboard a train were things I hoped would help me find a publisher for my golf book and begin work on what I hope to be my opus.

Thankfully, this being Oregon, the cold snap broke and by Sunday the roads were passable enough to not worry about ending up in a ditch and so I called Amtrak for the third time in four days and re-booked my ticket, determined to head off that afternoon for the train station.  The one big positive of it all, and maybe the universe is in my favor, was that the delay allowed me to reorganize my pack and the cold and snow gave me time to test out my new hiking gear. 

Knowing that only the main roads were plowed, my friend Abbie, a fiery but incredibly kind ginger, and I decided to be smart and take only the main arterials.  Sadly, not everyone had the same idea.  Shortly before we hit Albany we watched as a maroon Ford Focus driven by a twenty something determined to get his family home decided to try to jump over the plowed snow onto a side road and become high centered.  Realizing he was going nowhere fast, even with chains, I flipped a Uey and pulled over.  Though it took me out there  struggling to move this car by myself before people stopped, quickly enough there were four of us pushing and the Focus was on its way.

As we turned off onto less maintained roads we realized that the parking lot was going to be off-limits for my Maxima.  Making a quick assessment of the over a foot of snow in the parking lot, I knew that if I tried to pull in I would end up needing to recruit at least three people myself to help Abbie back out.  And so, much to her chagrin, I pulled over on the on-ramp leading back into Albany and flipped on my hazards. 

Thanking her for riding with me, I told her to take care of my car over the next month and went about sloshing my way to the terminal, the melting snow soaking my suede pumas through.  At I sloshed along and could feel the wet and cold permeating my socks, I was left to contemplate why I had my waterproof boots tied to my pack instead of on my feet.  But, knowing that I had seemingly endless hours ahead of me, I gave up worrying about it and continued on the short trek to the station’s front door.

Upon opening the heavy wood and glass door I was transported back at least three decades.  It seems the massive remodel undertaken in 2004 neglected to update the station’s interior to the 21^st century and it’s brick and light wood motif felt like I expected it to, a poor man’s version of an airport.  As I sat there waiting for the station attendant to reopen the ticket window so I could print the ticket that signified the start of my adventure, I was struck at the truth what I had read, people riding the train are indeed friendlier than most.  Perhaps it is due to the fact that the pace of travel is so slow or maybe it is because no one believes they will ever see the people they run into again, but it seemed as if everyone wanted to chat about travel plans and the weather.

Being a fairly talkative man when the mood hits, I probably offended a person or two with the shortness of my answers, but I was more focused on processing what lay ahead of me and so I choose to sit back and casually watch the interactions around me.  I do wonder though  if it was my quiet demeanor or my attire of colorful fleece and greying beard that generated more attention, but I witnessed more than one glance shot my direction followed closely by whispering.  Though I have felt it before, it is always a strange feeling to believe that everyone is talking about you.

After two hours of catching up on my “Traveling the US by Rail” book and earmarking pages of interest, the Coast Starlight finally pulled in an hour late from Portland.  Sloshing once more through the snow (I guess plowing parking lots or shoveling walks are not it the Amtrak job description) I showed my ticket to the first conductor, a bespectacled man who looked more comfortable in a British comedy than checking people onto the train, and hopped aboard.  Walking my pack upstairs I was directed to a seat already occupied by a middle aged woman who seemed willing to share.  Being that not only she, but also myself and yet another gentleman all possessed the same seat number, I looked around and noticed plenty of extra seating.  Forgiving the apparent fatigue laden decision making of Vickie, the 80’s styled conductor who gave us our seat numbers, we all found ourselves an empty row and went about getting settled.

Placing the cheap, Orange 45 liter pack I bought for the trip overhead and my computer backpack beside me I lowered myself into the moderately comfortable blue and grey seating and waited for us to depart.  Within a couple of minutes the train’s whistle blew and I was on my way.  The train's steady pace and the clicking of wheels on rail was hypnotic and 30 minutes into the journey I was struck by an odd sense of familiarity.  Taking anything even slightly resembling déjà vu to be a good sign I smiled and settled in, but soon the familiarity was explained when I realized that the interior reminded me of a roomier version of the ski buses I took to the mountains as a child.

A bit remiss, but still quite content I settled in for the 14 hour haul to Sacramento and began to read the Lost City of Z, a thrilling mystery about an intrepid explorer back in the mid twenties who went missing with his son deep in the Amazon while chasing after his life’s work, the lost city of El Diablo. 

I prayed it wasn’t a sign.