Oh, Here I am, I think. (Mostly.)

22 states. 7, 927 miles. Yessiree.
Heaven on Earth.

I'll refrain from quoting those stale lyrics about trips being long and strange,but they're not far off the mark. Sometimes, travel is luscious and juicy and fresh and freeing. And sometimes, my friends, shit hits fans. In the last month, I've seen all of that stuff and more, and even though I'm back at home, it ain't really over.

I don't want it to be over.

If I were the praying sort (and, well, I suppose that I am), I would ask this: let me hold the space I feel now. Let me carry this love I feel into every day. Let me treat each day as if it is new and holds mysterious possibility. Let me not take things too damn seriously.

Back to tending the garden, to my practice, to my Portland life. So lucky that I have a life to come back to. So lucky for the support around me. Back to the old blog. And on to some new stuff. On to different beginnings, and on to other endings.

If there is one last sentence I should write, I don't know what it is.

where am i?

Dude. Sometimes life throws shitty curveballs.

I am in Portland.

This morning I woke up in Boise and realized this: Boise is a small town posing as a big city. Whereas, Portland is a big city posing as a small town. The latter works better for me, as it turns out.

Ready as I'd ever be to head westward one more day, I started the car and the engine light came on. So V and I spent three hours exploring the underbelly of Nampa, Idaho, while the Honda dealer performed "diagnostic tests," determined nothing was wrong, turned the light off, and hit me with a $160 bill.

In Nampa, we walked around. A lot. Went thrift shopping, and met an old woman named Rickie, who turned out to be the fairy godmother of Nampa. She invited me to spend the night if things with the car turned out to be overnighter-style bad.

Once we were rolling again, lots of mixed-emotion stuff came up for me about returning to PDX. I was real head-y, trying to synthesize all of these rich experiences I've had along the way, making myself nuts. So I turned off the Nick Cave, my friends, and things started looking up!

Lovely, spare eastern Oregon: I love you. Stopped quickie at the Pendleton Woolen Mill to ogle blankies.

Thought about my wishiest wish for forever-ever:

I wish my friends were like crumbs on a tabletop (stick with me, kids, it can be a fancy tabletop, ok?)

I wish my friends were like crumbs on a tabletop and that I could brush them all together in my palm. And then, instead of dusting them off my palm into the trash, I would do something nice with them, like fertilize my garden. Or something like that.

Gee, that metaphor really bites.

What I mean to say is this: you scattered people, all over this country, I have mad, mad love for you. I want you to be with me always, and I suppose that you are. If one's friends are a reflection of oneself, then I daresay that I am truly, truly the shit! Ya'll make me feel all soft and gooey.

I felt kind of numb getting off at the Lloyd Center exit and driving up 9th Avenue.

What was more numbing was coming back to the Hideout. The garden hadn't been watered, and many of my plants had died. When I went indoors, the numb turned to shock when I discovered the condition of the interior. I had a housesitter, a friend who had asked me if she could use my place as her "spiritual retreat" while I was away, in exchange for watering the plants. But something very bad has happened inside of this person, and the result of this inner chaos was that my house and many belongings had been trashed. I could go into details but those would embarass me and they would embarass you and your jaw would drop and maybe you would even cry, like I did.

So, like, welcome home, Emily.

I spent the next several hours cleaning and untangling the disaster.

I want to pretend like this last part never happened. I want to tell you that I drove up to my pretty house and it was just as sweet as I've always left it. I want to not write about it because it's still throbbing and because I wonder if I should tell about it while it is still raw. I want to not write about it because I don't want this thing to be the thing that capped off my whole amazing trip of fabulosity. I want to not write about it because in some way, I feel I need to protect the person who violated my space and my things.

But I am writing about it, because it is part of the story and because it is true.

It's only a part of the story, though.

The whole story, the big story, is something more. And right now the whole story feels like everything at once.

Make Amends With Yourself

Left Park City this morning with an open agenda, and quickly decided to aim for Boise, a city I've long held romantic notions for, even though I've never seen it. Before I left, I stopped for fair-trade coffee at the Java Cow and met a local boy with a wonderful t-shirt that read "make amends with yourself." All day, this has been my mantra, and it's a good thing to ponder on the road.

Rolled north through Utah and across Idaho on the 84, loving the stark beauty of this part of the planet. Outside of a town called Bliss, (Bliss!), a faded old train was parked along the highway, and some wonderful grafitti artist had painted the words "dear world" on the side of one of the cars. Mmm.

Also in Bliss, I found another cellphone. I am, it turns out, a cellphone do-gooder, and called around to make sure this one finds its way home, too.

Soon I was in Boise, all primed up to stay in some neato roadside motel. I found something that seemed to fit the bill, cute and weird and special, so I went in to get a room. The clerk quoted me a rate and we haggled a bit and settled on this: non-smoking room, no extra fee for the dog girl. But when it was time to pay, he tried to shaft me and re-neg our deal, so I politely left. Probably for the best, since I suspected he was doodling his wee-wee under his desk while he was talking to me. I got out of there stat, whispering the Serenity Prayer, and fell back on my trusty old standby, Motel 6. The room next to mine has a giant barbie head smiling out the window, and a birdcage with a yellow canary inside.

Showered off the road-funk, drank a beer (is it okay to drink beer and employ the Serenity Prayer?), and waited for the heat of the day to mellow out before exploring Boise. In the parking lot, I spied a bumper sticker I know well... my friend Chris from Portland created these little beasts a while back... and suddenly found myself a new friend named Rebecca, an English professor from Atlanta who's traveling back to Georgia after a spell at the Tryon Farm in PDX.

We decided to explore Boise together, checked out the wonderful Boise Co-op, and hiked up the butte in Camel Back Park for a view of the city. Dumb luck had us at the summit right at sunset. Well-exercised and hungry, we went on to explore the Hyde Park district and found a great pizza joint where we ate pizza on the patio, and chatted like old pals all the while. Lucky, lucky!

Tomorrow is Portland Day, better rest up.

Onward

When I left drove outta Winter Park, I was feeling kinda blue. Somehow, it seemed my trip was over and that all that was left would be an anxious ride back to Portland. So I tried to not make it so. Instead of hauling up to 80, I opted for old Highway 40 through Colorado and Utah. I stopped when I felt like it, first in Steamboat Springs... the town has changed a lot since I was last there eight years ago. In Steamboat, I found a cellphone, looked at the last text message to try to contact somebody, and it read: "casey, let's get some fuckin' french toast." Left the phone at a local fly-fishing supply shop and hit the road again.

Dinosaur, Colorado: gassed up and shared an ice-cream cone with V.
Vernal, Utah: more dinosaur fantasia. Who knew T-Rex liked watermelon? I bet Chris Herlihy did.

I think lots of people would've found the day's drive to be dull. Lots of tan stuff. But I like tan stuff, and quiet drives through quiet towns and reservations, so my blueness dissolved into quiet tan goodness, and then something else good came my way: Phillibuster called from Park City and then, suddenly, I had a couch to sleep on and some fun plans for the evening. Phil lives in a boy-style condo, complete with pool-table, with a ski-instructor roommate named Cowboy, who, apparently, is actually a real cowboy.

We found the dog park, and Vesta played with the big, mutty, black dogs that pepper ski towns. Then some dinner at a local pub, the No Name Saloon, and a walk up the cutie-pie tourist strip called Main Street. I ordered a veggie burger with bacon, my fave! Then we rode up a scarily windy road to the top of the pass, and looked down over two valleys twinkling in the post-sunset barely-there light, before hitting Phil's bar for a drink and some live music. A real good folky cover of Billie Jean made my night (and guilted me about the Michael Jackson jokes I've been giggling over since Winter Park).

So nice to hang with Phil, and nice to see cute Park City, and happy that I wasn't all alone in a scrubbrush campground with mac and cheese. Leaving this morning and I'll decide the route when I get into the car and start driving. Home real soon, tomorrow morning-ish.

High Country Stampede

The High Country Stampede Rodeo was one of the highlights of my trip so far. Tony and I, and his friends Nigel and Pam (and baby David), watched the happenings with rapt attention, only distracted by the dinner that we shared. Good stuff, that rodeo.

On the way in, I took the best photo all month.

On the way out, we told our best jokes, and here's one of Tony's:

Why didn't the lifeguard save the hippie?
Because he was too far out, man.

I likelikelike it.

Then it was lateness and bedtime and readying for the last long leg back to Portland. Will share details on that stuff soon-ish. xo.

lost and found

I've lost those hazy, lazy boiling days, and as I write, find myself up high in the Rocky Mountains, panorama stretched wide in front of me, on Tony's deck.

Spent yesterday with Rina, hiking dogs around in Boulder, eating burritos at Illegal Pete's, and window-shopping on Pearl Street. Also spent a good part of the day searching for my lost keys, and had almost given up until a friend reminded me I might say a little prayer to St. Anthony, and quietly I did: St. Anthony, St. Anthony, please come around. Something is lost and needs to be found. And then, as a little addendum to that prayer, I prayed that if the keys were lost forever, please might I be graceful and let them go easily.

Naturally, I found them twenty minutes later.

With car-keys in hand, I was ready to drive to Fraser to Tony's place. It took awhile, winding my way over Berthoud Pass and down again. Then there I was at Mr. Terreri's condo, seeing my old friend for the first time in six years. Like most of us, Tony's grown better with age: still unshakably himself, still effing funny, still strong and still snarky, but he's softened up a little bit and grown up a little bit, and is warmer and gentler than I remember.

Rina and Todd came up for the evening, too, and we all laughed and joked about crazy old days, and did some catching up. Daydreamy talk about how to change the world, and hopelessness, and the greed of our culture, and how-could-we-change-things late into the night. Asking where our heros are. Learning about this one.

Good sleep, solid eight hours.

Chilling today, checked out a sub-par art and craft show in Winter Park, and headed to The Pub (yeah, that's what it's called) for some lunch in the sunshine with some friends. Now it's naptime. Need to get some rest before we head to..........

.........THE RODEO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Omigod. This is the luckiest thing that's happened in quite a spell.

rolling rolling rolling

My fantasy of deep sleep was replaced with big, slow-moving, raging thunderstorms that kept me up, and kept Vesta quaking, well into the wee hours. I'm not complaining, though... I love a good thunderstorm, and haven't seen one since Sturgis!

Woke up early today, walked V. around in the motel grass for her morning self-care rituals, and returned to the room with more chigger bites than you could shake a stick at. Aargh!

Drove on through Kansas with Boulder in my heart, and though I was tempted to stop at Prairie Dog Village, tempted to drive the extra hours to the worlds second largest ball of twine, tempted to stop at the Custer cavalry museum, or at various other highwayside attractions, I decided instead to take a side trip along secondary roads to seek out local life in the flatlands.

In a tiny town that isn't even named on the map, whose name I wrote down and promptly lost again, I stopped to walk around and take some pictures. Soon I was approached by a local character with wild hair and a face whose skin resembled polished, knotty wood. "Did you just take a picture of that house?" he asked me. I was a little scared, afraid he might tell me to get the hell out of there or smash my camera or something. I told him that I had, and the guy smiled as though this were the most thrilling thing to happen in a long time. I got the complete history of the place (it was once the home of the local newspaper), and some nice morningtime chit chat with this kindly gentleman. He was pleased at my off-the-70 approach to Kansas explorations, and I was pleased that he was pleased. Thank you, sweet sir, for making my day.

Kept on keeping on across lovely Kansas-- Kansas, I adore you!-- and into Colorado where I felt, at a rest stop, dry air once again. So good to breathe and walk outdoors without fear that I will swoon. (Swoon is such a buttoned-up, old-fashioned, romantic word. Don't you just love it?)

The front range appeared before me , and soon I found myself in Denver, checking in with Rina at the Children's Hospital and making plans for the evening. I had some hours to kill, so made my way to a dog park in Boulder, returned some calls, found a wireless hookup and then headed to Rina and Todd's place, in the shadow of the Flatiron Mountains. We walked dogs, got dinner, and now here I am, real sleepy, in a comfortable bed in their comfortable house, my old friends sleeping in the next room, my dog beside me, and my eyelids heavy heavy heavy. Must sleep.

The Kansas of Your Sweet Little Myth

In Topeka, prostrated in a well-air-conditioned cheap motel along I-70. Damn hot, following the theme of the last several days. 108. The Element is doing okay, but the A/C isn’t running real cool, so Vesta and I were glad to get here after a long, sweaty day on the road.

Rolling out of Kentucky and across Indiana, nothing much happened. I pondered important life details such as, "gee, the skin on my neck is getting a little wrinkly," while passing small towns named Santa Claus and Poseyville. Crossing Illinois, as the heat index and my caffeine level rose, my thoughts began to run further amok. I watched them and let them go alright. Return to Portland, to work, to eking out a living, is on my mind, and though I still have some fun destinations ahead of me, I’m well on my westward way. The month that once seemed it would stretch on utopian-forever, is nearing a close. It’s been fantastic, truly luxurious, to have this time to recalibrate my center. Amorphous ideas and musings I have pondered along the way have begun to come into clearer form and focus, and for me, that’s the most precious gift that travel can bring.

At this point, perhaps fueled by time on the east coast, I feel myself a bit more sharply. It’s as though this time away from the soft west coast has sharpened the blade that is me. And let’s see how I feel once things have settled back in at home, Portland home, but right now what I feel is this: I seek more challenge in my life. New learning. Maybe a graduate degree (gasp! Don’t hold me to this one, folks), maybe taking the reins of fiscal responsibility a bit more wisely (serious thoughts on retirement plans and health plans), and smaller changes, too.

Crossed that big Mississippi again with a view of the St. Louis Arch. In Missouri I passed a van filled with rosy-cheeked boys in baseball caps, strapping midwestern kids, and worried for them when I read the side of the vehicle: "Transporting the future of America’s Armed Forces." Tuned into a country music station for a spell, and sat back with it like a local in a pickup truck. Though those songs leave little room for imagination, their lack of obliquity or agenda matched the plodding, flat landscape, and brought me some refreshing reassurance as I drove through Kansas City and into Topeka.

Thanks for your many calls, dear ones. They’re coming at just the right time. It feels good to know you miss me, and are thinking of me, since today was a bit lonely. I love love love you.

Time now for some dinner. There’s a Steak n’Shake across the street, a greasy midwestern delight waiting to be had. And a cool bedroom, and deep sleep I hope, and an early start for my long drive to the Rocky Mountains, where friends are waiting, and cooler, drier air, and some new lightness once again.

we'll miss you, Ivy!

everything cheerful

Tomorrow is my leaving-Kentucky day, and I am almost ready to go. I love hot weather, but not this kind. When I dare to venture outside, the heat creeps up my legs under my skirt like a sidewalk villain. I'm stoked on Colorado, for Tony's house at 10,000 feet, for cool nights when I might actually need to wear a jacket and socks.

Though I am going to be v.sad saying goodbye to dear mama, and dear Ivy, and dear Jerry, I am ready to move on to cheerier places and conversations: discussion over the last few days has revolved around an old family friend who was murdered (find the story here), and also around my mother's insistence that I must hire an attorney and draft a will (so the government won't get their "dirty paws" on whatever assets I've got, and "use it to kill anyone else for lies"). Though I agree with her, the thought of putting any of my money into any attorney's dirty paws in order to draft the thing isn't super appealing either (sorry Camille and Marja. Y'all ain't got dirty paws). Shit. I forgot to pay my quarterly taxes. Real life is getting closer, only 2400 miles away.

Anyway. Murders and wills and oppressive heat is the news from Lake Wobegon. That, and... some lovely free-speech capers this morning involving a banner and a highway overpass. Rock on, my dear sisters and brothers. I heart you all.

Still in Kentucky

It is hot here, hot in the way of the Ohio River Valley: sort of like walking into a steamroom. It's been hovering around 100, but the heat index is much higher, so we've been lazing around telling stories and keeping cool in the basement with naughtily good projects like the one you see up there. (Take that, Christian Right!)

Running some errands for mama.

Goofing around with dogs.

Hiding out in the movie theater watching feelgood Hairspray.

Sleeping on the sofa to avoid hades-style bedroom.

Planning next leg of trip, and visits with old friends in Colorado.

I'll be here for another couple of days... leaving on Wednesday, I think. Much love from the hotbed of laziness. xo.

westward restward

Driving to my mama's house, I knew I was in the Bible Belt when I saw a billboard advertising a "Bible Factory Outlet, Up to 75% Off" and when, soon after that, two billboards in quick succession: "Where will you go after you die?" and then, "Hell is Real." Creepy-eepy. I guess I'll find out how real it is when I get there.

Soon enough, though, I made it off the road and into Louisville. Vesta and I finally met Miss Ivy, my mother's dear little puplet, with whom I have utterly fallen in love. Ivy and Vesta haven't stopped playing and wrestling since we arrived. My mom and I have been talking a lot and laughing a lot and telling secrets and laughing some more. It's nice to be here with her now, in the summertime, outside of the usual holiday-in-Louisville context (which unfortunately, despite efforts to the contrary, tends to be somewhat robotic and stressful). This time together feels special somehow, in a way I can't quite put my finger on. I love that kooky lady.


I've had the chance to do a good bit of catching up with my friend Kentucky Todd. That boy is darn good with a banjo, and I hadn't seen him play since before he left Portland and came back home, so I was glad to sit with a beer while he and the rest of his band (boys named Hickory and Sprout, how beautiful is that?) played a lovely set. Today we went for coffee and ran around the city thrifting: I turned up some good finds, including a kinda gorgeous pair of cowboy boots. Real nice.

So, yay! Good times, good rest, family, friends, dogs, and shoes. Not too shabby. Feeling content. xo

atlantic and westward again

Up early today after a good sleep at Brian and Jaynie's place in Dover. Vesta and I snuck out before anyone was awake, with plans for a long haul drive west. But before really hitting the highway, we drove through Portsmouth to Rye, and found the dog beach! Vesta and I romped around at the Atlantic coast, and put our feet in the warm, warm water that asked us to swim, rather than asking us to run for a heating pad, as does the Pacific.

We got on the road and drove through Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York, and into Western Pennsylvania. Nothing much exciting to report, except a pretty drive along route 80 through the Pennsylvania Wilds, and a quickie stop at a Petsmart we spied from the highway... Vesta needed a special bone for being such a stellar and patient passenger.

I decided to skip out on New York City. Doors there weren't opening so slick, and thankfully I'm not into pounding them down right now: Cara's in Spain, Toddler a busy bee, and I wasn't too hot on driving myself, my car full of gear, and my doggie into hot NYC stressville. I want to get home to Kentucky and into my mama's arms and relaxing housey. Need some rest.

Plenty of time today to ponder life's big questions, many of which have been shaken up along the way of this trip.

Lots of caffeine. I know I've been gone from Portland awhile when I think Dunkin' Donuts and McDonalds' coffee is tasty. Patience with road construction that cost us a couple of hours, and we rolled into a Microtel (my favorite motel chain!) in Clarion, PA around 8pm.

Wireless again, after quite a spell. TV. Hot shower, clean bed. Getting ready for sleep, and ready for the haul across Ohio tomorrow, and onward into Louisville. Once I get there, I'll backtrack and catch up on the last few days, and post about 'em. love you all, xo.

Tuesday: making some rounds, quick in a hurry

I visited people I love. Shirley and Fred are kinda like my chosen grandparents. When I was little, I stayed with them while my parents went on hiking trips. Shirley taught me how to knit, and spoiled me rotten. Fred taught me about sarcasm. I LOVE them, and it has been way too long since we spent any facetime together. I saw old photographs, including the quite spectacular specimen above, and was reminded of some of the expressions I heard as a child (the politically-correct term for sunburn, "red as an Indian," and phrase to indicate sudden movement, "quick in a hurry"... that just sounds like rushing, doesn't it?).

Then it was on to Dover, NH, to visit my dear old friend and college roommate Brian, and his fiance Jaynie, in their gorgeous old colonial house. I hadn't met Jayne yet, and I absolutely adore this girl. She made me feel so welcome and loved and comfortable! Kevin came over, too, and we drove to dinner in his Volvo and talked about yuppiness and off-the-grid living. I miss those Massholes, I really do! Wishing I could see them, and their crusty-sweet goodness, every day of my life. Alas, one fun night with beer and laughing and barbecue, will have to fill me up for now.

Sunday: Sleepy in Montpelier

Leaving the Valley was bittersweet: bitter because it meant saying a real goodbye to my BFF Amanda, after reconnecting in our sisterly way. Bitter because it also meant saying goodbye to the whole crew, and to the dear sweet valley, and to the everyone-in-the-same-place-at-once-ness that likely won't happen until someone else gets married.

But sweet, too: sweet because I got to visit Bethany (look how purty she is, at the shack up on the hill) and little Siiri (who isn't so little anymore, as it turns out). Sweet because we went to get maple creemees at the sugar shack in East Montpelier, and sweet because I got a big long nap in the afternoon before we headed to Joel's birthday party, which was also, of course, pretty sweet.
It was a quickie visit Montpelier-way, but restful and chill, which is exactly what I needed after the weekend of debauchery and T-Rexing. Thanks, Miss B, for putting me up and chatting it up. Miss you already.

Saturday: People got Married!

Saturday morning: Hangovers for everyone at Big Buck. Coffee at the roasters. Farmers’ Market in the village. Saw the Tan Man, who charges $6 for a pint of raspberries these days. I gritted my teeth and paid up like a good little city girl. Ran into so-and-so and so-and-so. Avoided so-and-so and so-and-so.

Went for a swim at Bobbin Mill with the boys. Matty dubbed the afternoon "The Last Temptation of Herilhy," and we jumped into that chilly water and felt all good and clear. Amanda and I, crashing the bachelor party. Chris saying, "this is my kind of bachelor party," as he sat in the cold river with a Trout River Ale in his hand.
Then, the wedding. The WEDDING! (I'll be posting pictures soon.) The nicest, most perfect wedding in the history of the world, maybe. Truly, it was really really nice. Outdoors, behind the pond at Millbrook, under the lovely little Octagon, short, sweet ceremony, the rain held off just until the vows, and when it came it seemed just right, as if maybe, when Chris and Emily declared their love and devotion to one another, the world just needed to touch them a little bit... to touch all of us, reminding us that we were really there in that important moment. Chris and Emily were both beautiful, so glowy and ready and right.

Thom and Joan put on a feast, of course, and Emily’s brother and Barry gave good toasts before the Starline Rhythm Boys knocked out a couple of real good sets. Good friends and food and dancing and booze and a pretty tent and fancy clothes barefoot in the grass on a Vermont summer night with humid air and peepers in the pond and so much love all around was almost enough to bust my heart all open right there, but I contained it and soon it was over, over in just the right amount of soon-ness, and we all went back to the Big Buck again, with a woozy kind of loviness hanging in the air.

Friday: Valley, Wedding stuff, and the Big Buck

On Friday, Amanda came into town and we had breakfast at Khatouna’s with our old friend Stacy. Stacy and Amanda were roommates way back, and lived in that cutie pie apartment just over the covered bridge in Waitsfield. We ate Khatouna’s good food (that woman makes anything taste better than anyone else can), and gossiped about what people are up to. Before we knew it, it was two o’clock.

Hot and sticky, Amanda and I dashed down to the river for a swim before heading over to the Big Buck Lodge, to score ourselves a bedroom in our weekend digs. The Buck is Jesse’s weekend ski-house, and is well-appointed in the way of the weekend warrior. The only "big buck" appears as a tattery, taxidermed doe’s head screwed to the wall above the stairwell, old-fashioned tele-skis and boots are screwed to other walls, and six bunkrooms can sleep somewhere around twenty people. We scored the next-to-the-bathroom bedroom and waited for other folks to roll in, before accidentally crashing Chris and Emily’s wedding rehearsal. Sorry, y'all!

Then it was off to Flatbread for our favorite vittles and wine. The experience at American Flatbread is rivaled by none… only open on Friday and Saturday nights, the old barn and woodfired oven produce some of the very yummiest food around. There’s always a long wait, so we sit by the fire outside and drink wine and talk to strangers who become friends. Still the same folks tending to the inside, samesame, goodsame. A little on the tipsy side, after our vino and dinner, we headed back to Millbrook for cocktail hour and mingling. Cory and Annie, Philibuster, Matt Reilly, Shippee and JoAnne, and all of Chris’ siblings were there in full force, and by the time we got there the first keg was already tapped. No worries, there was more to be had. This was not a weekend for want of beer.

We played awhile there, under the tent at Millbrook, before heading over to the Hyde Away for another round. Oh, Hyde Away, you are still the same and I love you. Sean was tending bar there, still there, samesame. Nice to see him. When I found him tending bar the next night at the wedding, there it was again, samesame, littlevalley.

After the Hyde Away, a dark walk up the dirt road and back to the Big Buck, where two refrigerators of Magic Hat and Long Trail and Otter Creek awaited us. Talk turned to the old story of the T-Rex, Chris’ infamous dance of yore, topic of many years’ worth of making-fun-of-Chris Herlihy. T-Rex chatter went on awhile, and a debate ensued about where the photo evidence of this particular form of movement had gone. (Burned by Chris Herlihy, I think.) General consensus was that there would most certainly be some T-Rexing taking place on the dancefloor at the wedding.

I shared a room with Amanda and Matty, and when we went to bed we giggled and talked awhile before drifting off. "T-Rex!" I heard Matty say after awhile, "That is funny."

And that is what Matt Reilly talks about in his sleep, as he drifts off, dreaming of Chris Herlihy. Almost beats the original T-Rex story.

oh, i love my old valley.

Back in the valley again. The dear, dear Mad River Valley, home of youthful adventure and debauchery and learning and the good old days. The Valley is still the same. People are still driving around in the same pickup trucks with the same canoes on top (canoes this time of year, instead of skis). Everyone looks pretty much the same, but a few years older. "I heard you were in town," they say when I run into them, after I've been in town for less than an hour.

Rural Vermont living is great in this way, it is so so wonderful. And it's also terrible, because privacy ain't real easy to come by.

I ran into my old friend Jacob at the post office, and he is beautiful and doing well, building canoes and kayaks and healthier than I've ever seen him. He is vibrant and and happy and clear, his hair is incredibly lovely (go with your bad self, Jacob!), and we talked about those good old days, how we weren't so clear back then, and how great it is to know clarity and inner peace. I got rundown on old crew, J-Ham's baby, Chris' housebuying plans, etc. People growed up. "Kevin is still Kevin," Jacob told me. Good thing, since that boy is a sizzler.

Found out about a party on Sunday in Montpelier, for Joel's birthday, where I'll likely run into anyone I haven't happened upon already, and where I'll get my play on with some of the old cats. It's funny, as I was driving into town today, I felt a little bit lost. Wondering what I'd do, if I'd feel lonely, if I'd find enough stuff to occupy me during the non-wedding stuff time. But lickety-split, as is always the case in the Valley, I've got some good mellow plans, and the lovefest is on.

Went river swimming in the Mad, to cool off from the sticky day that I would never complain about, because these days are so rare around these parts. Nice and cool and clean, got the travel stink off.

Staying the night with Khatouna, my second mama, who is also lovely and vibrant and clear these days. With wine and chocolate, we can talk a whole night away until sunrise, and we have lots to catch up about.

Remember what I said a few days ago about not being an easterner anymore? I think I was mistaken. Still got it, can't shake it. So happy to be here. So so so content right now. Except for one thing. I need groceries, and all the stores closed at six. That's the valley, still the same.

with my pops

dad making popovers

garden and barn

I’ve spent the last few days at my father’s house, running errands and spending time with my Pops. Coming home is hard (I think a lot of people feel this way, a kind of retroactive childhood ensuing as we visit our parents). My father is getting old. He’s eighty-one, and he’s lived in the same huge house for almost fifty years. I noticed the backyard hasn’t been mowed, and the garden is weedier than I’ve known it to be. The house is getting to be too much.

At dinner the night I got here, my dad told me he’s thinking of selling the place. He’s got some plans brewing, and although this stuff is hard to talk about, and hard to think about, and hard to do, I feel some relief that the elephant is being spoken of. Nothing too urgent, no swift maneuvers: "I’ve still got enough wood for two winters in the shed." My dad is a DIY-er, in the truest sense of the word, and still, with his bad eyesight and compromised balance and slowing-down-ness, chops his own wood, bakes his own bread (with grain he grinds himself), and makes strawberry-rhubarb pie with homegrown goods.

We’ve had a nice couple of days. I’ve gotten caught up on some errands, cleaned the car, done laundry, and spent many hours finishing up Chris and Emily’s wedding present. That feels good. We went to farmers’ market, on walks to the post office, and on little drives here and there. On Tuesday we went to see the Big Apple Circus, a longstanding summertime ritual for Dad and me, out on the Fullerton Farm. (Thankfully, this time, unlike one unpleasant circus experience while I was in college, I wasn't tripping.) Yesterday we rode up to Farm-Way in Bradford. For those of you who didn’t grow up in rural New England, the nuances of what it means to visit Farm-Way might be lost on you, but I’ll do my best. Farm-Way is the place you go to if you need a hose, any sort of gardening tool, grain for your cattle, work boots, Carhartts, or attachments for the milking machines. You also go to Farm-Way if you want Patagonia clothes, Dansko clogs, or good camping equiptment (a la REI). Sort of a one-stop shop for yuppies and farmers alike, way up to Bradford. ("Up to," around here, is used to denote anyplace upriver, or up a hill, or north. Sometimes, it means somewhere down a hill, or south, or downriver. It’s really pronounced "up tuh" and as long as you pronounce it right, nobody gives flack.) Anyway, around here, yuppies and farmers have a strange sort of symbiotic relationship, and if you want to understand it better, you have to live here, or at least take a trip to Farm-Way.

Anyhoo. I had a nice time at my dad’s house, I found a couple of big boxes of books I’d forgotten all about, poetry mostly, and all my Kerouac (nice timing!) so that’s pretty exciting. I’m on my way up and out just now, though, stopped in Hanover at the Dirt Cowboy Café for a coffee and wifi connection. Trying to update Flickr, I should be almost there. Ready to have onward motion again, I’m driving to Montpelier to meet miss Bethany for some lunch or somethin’, then on to the valley this afternoon, where I’ve got some massage work waiting for me, I think. I definitely have friends waiting for me there, and that makes me real happy. Old friends, good times, good snuggles and love.

More soon, maybe. I’m getting less and less inclined toward blogging/ emails/ phone calls the further into my trip I’m getting. If I haven’t returned your call, you’re not alone. Spotty reception and busy and feeling free and oaty don’t bode well for phonecalls. But I feel the love in your messages, and I’ll be back on the radar in another few days, once I’m done with valley and boston and NYC (hee haw!).
Xs and os. e

all the way home.

I am sitting on the bottom bunk in the bedroom in the old stone house where my Dad lives, the first of many bedrooms I’ve called my own. I am pretty sleepy. Amanda and I pulled into the Upper Valley this morning, after a long haul drive yesterday from Ohio to upstate New York and one last night of camping together.

We had a good run, Amanda and I. When I dropped her off today at her brother’s house, just a few miles from my Dad’s, we both felt bittersweet: it’s been a fun trip together, but we both were ready to get off the road and to have some quiet time alone. Of course, when I drove away from her, my excitement at the alone time I’d been lacking quickly faded away, and I felt a little bit lonely.

One of the things about traveling is that it’s not easy. Vacations are sometimes easy, but this really isn’t a vacation. It’s travel, it’s work of sorts, it’s a practice, it’s an inner journey as well as an outer one. Driving across this big wide land of ours, with silent hours to contemplate the shit that just doesn’t get mucked through at home, with all of home’s distractions, is no small task.

For me, possibly the most difficult element of this eastward odyssey has been really feeling, in a temporal and visual and tactile manner, how very far I am from New England. As we drove, I felt homesick, but it was a strange sort of homesickness because I wasn’t sure exactly where it was I was homesick for. This is a big, wide, lovely land, folks, and it took us nine days to drive across it. I feel settled in Portland, and happy, and rooted, and comfortable there. I feel at home there. But when the land begins to change in New York State, when the hills start rounding soft and small and blue, looking all fat this time of year, when we get out of the car and smell the grass and it is familiar in some old place deep inside of us, when we cross into Vermont and pass Killington on Route 4, and come down the mountain into Woodstock and see the barns we saw when we were small, I feel at home here, too.

It’s a little confusing, to be honest.

Anyway, Chicago was cool. Huge. We walked around and got kicked out of a public park because Vesta was with us. Then Vesta took a poo on the park, and I didn’t have a baggie, only a tiny piece of cellophane wrapper in my purse. So I picked up the poo all careful-like, but the cellophane was so small it would have appeared to any passing pedestrian that Miss Emily was carrying a log of shit in her bare hands! Unfortunately, this was quite a busy sidewalk, and the nearest trash receptacle was quite a distance away, so many Chicagoans are under the impression that I am a bare-handed shit-carrier.

We found, thanks to Roadfood, a spectacular drive-in lunch place called Superdawg, where we ate red-hots with relish and mustard, fries, and vanilla milkshakes, served to us while we sat in our car. I felt very American as I enjoyed this rite, if a bit of a lardass. After our Superdawgs, we drove onward through the rest of Chicago (did I mention Chicago is a BIG city?), and into Indiana.

Indiana was mostly a blur, because at this point we were on the get-back-to-VT mission. But one noteworthy interlude, with a noteworthy character, demands mention. With no imminent rest areas and full bladders, we got off the highway and found a KFC at which to relieve ourselves. While leaving the single-stalled bathroom –together, I should add, but only due to extenuating circumstances—we must have caught the attention of the aforementioned "noteworthy character." Naïve to this, we returned to our vehicle and were puttering around, getting a soda out of the cooler, whatever.

"Holy Shit!" the noteworthy character screams as he walks toward our car, "Hooooly SHIT!" He is talking to his wife, who is sitting in their older, boatlike Cadillac, smoking a cigarette, with curlers in her hair. "These people are from Ore-gone."
Then the noteworthy character engaged us in some chatter about holyshithowlongdidittakeyoutodrivehere, and so forth. Then the noteworthy character got into his boat and began to leave, as I put Vesta on her leash and began walking her in KFC’s greenery.
"If my wife weren’t here," he yelled out the window, "I’d ask you to put me on a leash!"
I feigned a smile.
"But don’t worry," he added, "That’s just a fantasy!"
Indeed.
So that was Indiana.

We camped that night in a town called Milan, doesn’t that sound swanky? It’s in Ohio. We stayed at the Milan Travel Center. The very sweet boy at the counter said dogs aren’t usually allowed in the tent area (see pic), because people don’t pick up after their dogs’ "mess." I told him about the cellophane incident in Chicago and said that if that doesn’t prove I clean up after my dog, I don’t know what will. We got the site, of course.

While at the Milan Travel Center, we met an old man and his dog. The dog had purple barrettes in her hair. The dog’s name is Jolie Le Fille. And if you speak french, you’ll know why this is funny.

The rest of our trip was pretty uneventful. We talked a lot, and last night camped at the Glimmer Glass Lake in Cooperstown, NY. We made one of those delicious, only-think-of-this-if-you’re-camping meals, and drank the second bottle of champagne from Becca and Eric, and then we went to bed early.

On homeward, we stopped quickly at the VT border before busting out the rest of the trip back to the Upper Valley.

My Dad's house is a great pitstop, chance to get laundry done, car cleaned up, rested, and fed. I met Amanda and her brother Marcus for a drink at Jesse's after work, and met his fiance Erin! I haven't seen Marcus in years and he is all grown up now, with a lovely wife-to-be. So nice to see them.

Then it was home to a delicious dinner with my pops, and some hard talks about aging and the future. Still simmering on that stuff, more on that later. I love you all!

big-hugginess

You’ll have to forgive these lengthy posts: we aren’t often in a position to find a wi-fi connection, and are more interested in experiencing the goods of where we ARE than in seeking out internet cafes, so there you have it: long posts.

As I write this, it’s Saturday. We’re headed east on the 90, passing the town of Beloit, Wisconsin. This morning we’re driving into Chicago, with plans to walk around downtown along the lake, keep our eyes open for Oprah Winfrey, and get some lunch before busting out the rest of the trip eastward. (Amanda and I have both seen our share of Indiana/Ohio/New York highways, and we’re ready to get off the road for awhile.)

We woke up on Thursday in Mitchell, South Dakota, home of the Corn Palace! The pamphlet we found in the motel lobby promised that the Corn Palace would be "A-Maize-ing!" Indeed, it’s true. I love that place. The corn murals change every year, and this year happens to be a tribute to rodeo. Everyone knows the rodeo is my favorite guilty pleasure, so I was pretty stoked on the a-maize-ing coincidence. The palace, on the morning we were there, was still a work-in-progress, so we got to watch men in cowboy hats and cowboy boots stapling bundles of wheat on the sides of the building. I got a bumper sticker and some postcards in the gifte shoppe, and sampled some popcorn from the vendor lady. (The sign next to the popcorn was a stern "Only take one sample," so I needed to choose wisely. When I asked her why one particular sample was a shade of aqua green, she replied, "it has a marshmallow base." Oh.)

After taking in all the a-maizement we could handle, we walked around the town of Mitchell, got some coffee at the local java place, and did some window shopping along the main street. Storefronts included KQRN (very cute), the local radio station, a taxidermist shop, a costume rental place, and various other necessities. Beautiful old signs on the jewelry shop and drug store. While we were walking there, I got a wild hair and for the first time in a long while, felt the itch to do something real impractical, like move to Mitchell and work at the popcorn stand. (I have had these ideas once in a while, ever since childhood. The same inner wiring that had me proclaim, when I was six, that when I grew up I wanted to be a migrant worker.)

Anyway, suffice it to say that we loved Mitchell, Amanda and I both.

The rest of Thursday we spent driving across what little was left of South Dakota, and Minnesota, stopping for lunch in a cutie-pie town called Luverne. We talked a lot about the friendliness of the people, and how we really like the midwest and also, how we don’t quite understand it. The family values, the big-hug generosity and warmth, the tolerant churchiness of the people we encountered, the landscape and architecture and pace of living are just different from anyplace else either of us has lived. Which, between the two of us, is pretty much every other part of this country. What I do understand is that I love the big-hugginess of the midwest, and I want more of that in my life, wherever that life takes me. I want to bring the big-hugginess with me, and I want to find it in places I didn’t notice it before. If that’s what I take from the midwest, that’s worth this whole trip.

We camped that night at a fully gorgeous state park called Big River Bluffs, on the far eastern side of Minnesota, up on the bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River. The weather had cooled off plenty, and that felt great after our hades-beginnings. We drank wine and played scrabble and met some folks with some very loud little dachshunds whose yappiness Vesta found rather dull. They recognized me as an Oregonian-influenced person via my Beavers sweatshirt (thank you, Grant! It’s the only warm thing I brought on this trip.)

On Friday morning, a little hike along a ridge for some views, and then back into the car for the day’s journey. We crossed into Wisconsin and took a small road along the river from La Crosse to Prairie le Chien (pronounced "sheen," like Charlie), and then across a county road into Madison. This was a lovely jaunt and got us thinking up questions about the history of the settlement/ exploration of the US that made us wish we’d paid better attention in grammar school, instead of passing notes to each other and making fun of our French teacher (that poor woman, Amanda and I were terrible!)

Another thought struck me as we went over the great Mississippi: I am not an easterner anymore. When I was young, out on my first big westward adventure, I crossed the Mississippi in St. Louis and felt very much that the river was the gateway to the west. And this trip, I felt a sort of opposite orientation for the first time. And that thought led to other thoughts that are still percolating, and that I’m sure I’ll explore later on during this month, thoughts that have to do with place, and time, and the question of what it means to feel settled somewhere, or in oneself

I met a rancher while we were pulled off at a roadside farmstand, and he was so proud of this beautiful place he lives. "Long way from home," he said, and grinned wide when I told him how beautiful we found his land. "Yup, most people call this land ‘fly-over’ land, nobody much wants to drive through it." He was clearly tickled that we weren’t most people, and made some friendly chatter before sending us on our way.

In Madison we found a big street sidewalk sale going on, and wandered from the capital down into the University area, people watching and getting some sun. Vesta got a lot of attention: "Winn-Dixie!" people were calling out. Or, "Mom, look! That doggie looks like the doggie in the movie!" After deciding that Madison is probably pretty cool, but we hadn’t found the real cool stuff, and deciding that it would be an okay place to go to grad school, we hit the road again and found a motel for the night (all the campgrounds filled up, unfortunately, for the weekend.)

Now we’re in Chicago, so I’m signing off. Stay tuned for the next installment, I'll include a saga of Vesta's brush with the law in the windy city. Much love, folks.

Montana. Wyoming. South Dakota.

Our last morning in Bozeman went slow as honey, and just as sweet. We walked around downtown and found a good camping-skirt, the Roadfood book we’ve been coveting, and made some friends here and there. I talked to Amy, who was happy to hear that we’re in "Mantana." Man-tana, indeed. Nice boots, boys. Nice sideburns. We like it here.

We closed up Chris and Emily’s house, filled up on ice and groceries, got some ice cream before meeting up with the 90 again. Icy treats were welcome respite from the Hades-style heat we’ve encountered during most of our roadtime thus far. Amanda has the lyrics to "Highway to Hell" stuck in her head, and said we might as well be on it: "it’s hot enough for us to be headed to hell," she said this morning as the thermometer rose above 90.

Rolling across Montana is like taking the train to eye-candyville. I’m not just talking about the boys, either. The hills roll along and shift and change: green, brown, parched-wheat; soft, round, craggy, small, tall; bare, tree-lined, rocky, cow-speckled. As the landscape shifts to quiet plains east of Billings, something inside of me quiets down a little, too. We say "cows" when we pass them, and Vesta stirs from her special homemade perch to growl and lunge at the window. She’s a funny girl, that Vesta.

We stopped for some gas at the Kum-n-Go.

Met some folks from Jersey at a rest stop someplace.

Ate pesto, cheese, and tomato sandwiches for dinner.

Amanda made up a new name for my friend Todd Zeranski in New York (sorry about the phone tag, Toddler, we’ll connect soon, I promise): T-Zer. Amanda says that’s your rap name, bro.

Making up I-tunes playlists, singing aloud. Snugging a little scruffy mutt. Watching with attention the ways our inner landscapes mirror the outer ones. Forgetting all about Hades as we roll up all sticky-like to the site of the battle at Little Big Horn. We didn’t go in, though. I guess Custer had a thing about dogs.


Instead, we drove through the Crow and Northern Cheyenne reservations on the 213. Beautiful, clean, quiet land. Tidy prefab homes. Again the question, what would it be like?
We drove till late, through hundreds of miles of not-much-in-the-way-of-human-life-ness. Suddenly there appeared a strange fenced happening to the side of the road, and we saw, out there in the middle of noplace in the corner of eastern Wyoming, several missles lined up, ready for launch. Soon after, we passed a stash of Halliburton plants, mining for Bentonite… coincidence? we thought not.

Eventually we stopped for the night in Sturgis, South Dakota. Because we are biker chicks. Because we were exhausted. Because we wanted to get biker chick tank tops in the morning, after a restful sleep. We asked some locals for a good camping spot, and a sweet gentleman with a wad of chaw in his lip told us about a great place on national forest land. "Go this way," he said, pointing to the right-ish, "then take a dirt road that way for four miles, then go this way about two miles. You can’t miss it." Those country directions turned out great, and soon we found ourselves unloading our gear at the Black Bear Lake Campground, watching heat lightning off in the distance.

We dove into those tents so, so ready to relish a good night’s sleep. And we slept great, just wonderfully, until the thunderstorm-of-the-year rolled on in over the Black Hills and across the plain where we’d set up camp. My tent was flapping and shaking, the sky was cracking open, and before I had a chance to orient myself to this new reality, I heard Amanda outside in the din. "Em Gilbert! I need the car keys. My tent is going crazy in the wind and I cannot sleep."

Vesta and I joined her in the Element awhile, waiting out most of the storm and laughing as we watched Amanda’s tent undulating as the wind ripped through it. I went back to the puddle that was my tent, and zonked out till morning, while poor Amanda got gnawed by mosquitoes in the back of the rig and then crawled back into her tent early in the morning. See the aftermath:

Today we were up and at ‘em Sturgis-style, did some shopping at the swanky t-shirt tents around town, drove to Rapid City and down to pay some quick respects to our forefathers at Mt. Rushmore. Then, hit Wall Drug before exploring those lovely Badlands. South Dakota is so full of gems, I could easily and happily spend a week exploring all of those activities advertised on billboards along I-90. The billboards implore us to "discover" various ghost towns, reptile petting zoos, creeks with gold to mine, strange little museums, buffalo burgers, saddle stores, etc.
We’re road-sticky and our clothes are dirty, and thinking a bed might feel real good tonight, so we’ve lined up a room at Motel 6 in Mitchell. Motel 6 likes dogs, so we like Motel 6. It’ll be great to shower, get a real dinner (even if that means chain-style), and wake up in the same town as Corn Palace. Sounds like heaven.
xoxo.

For The Love of Four Eyes

Day 2. Bozeman, MT.

Summer road trip in full swing. Little anxieties about leaving usual-life rolled themselves off my back yesterday as we drove eastward on I-84 through Oregon, north to Spokane, and east again on the 90 into Idaho. Windows open, hot wind on our faces. By the time we settled ourselves in at the Bumblebee campground in the Coeur D’Alene National Forest, I might as well have been gone a week.

Before we left, people kept asking us what our plans were, and the only honest answer we could give them was that we didn’t have any plans. East. East was the plan, and we’re following that plan pretty nicely. We’re aiming for about 400 miles a day, give or take. Talking about what we want to do next along the way, making sidetrips and stops as our whims implore. An easy way to loll across this beautiful land of ours.

We’ve been entertaining ourselves in the Emily-and-Amanda way. The you-really-had-to-be-there way. We won’t bore you with too many goofy details, suffice it to say we’re happily passing the time in the following ways:

*giggling at the names of strange little towns, and debating proper pronunciation of said town names. Wondering aloud, elements of egocentricity and naïve curiosity in equal measure, what do people DO in these towns, anyway?

*laughing endlessly at various amusing billboards and bumper-stickers. (Favorite billboard so far? "The Testicle Festival" outside of Anaconda, Montana. Pictured on the sign is a cartoon bull holding it's legs together.)

*making up ryming songs for Vesta, involving words like Vespucci, Susan Lucci, Hoochie, Vestini, Lambourghini, Fettuccini, and laughing our booties off.

*changing song lyrics to suit our funnybones (katchafire's "for the love of 'Fari" has become "for the love of four-eyes.")

*Reminiscing about the time when… (if you’re an old friend of ours, we’ve talked about something funny you did once.)

*Playing scrabble while swatting mosquitos while drinking champagne (one of the treasures in Becca and Eric’s going away care-package) while eating a keebler elves’ cookie.

We didn’t have cellphone reception last night and it felt like freedom. (But also, I miss you guys, you should call me.)

Today we woke up early (very early, thanks to Vesta’s 4:45 wakeup camping schedule), and lounged around the campground with our coffee a little while before heading out to cross the top of the Idaho panhandle and head into Montana. We’d been talking about finding some hotsprings, but it’s darn hot here, so we bagged that idea. Instead, into Missoula for a walk around town and bookstore stop (looking for Road Food, ain’t found it yet).

Outside the post office, we met a sweet local boy (he caught me taking photos of his beautiful fixie and beamed with pride) who gave us insider scoop and directions to a nice swimming hole along the Blackfoot River. A refreshing little dip before lunch made us happy and ready for the next leg to Bozeman. Along our drive, we encountered port-o-potties IN the highway, fallen from their truck. Coulda been real nasty. We also picked up a tumbling little hitchhiker:

Chris and Emily, the folks whose wedding spurned this adventure in the first place, have an empty apartment sitting in Bozeman, so we called at the last minute and finagled a stopover. I visited them last summer, so remembered the co-op only three blocks away… Amanda and I hurried over there for a six-pack asap, met another travelling fellow (who was headed from Seattle to New Brunswick), and headed back to Chris and Emily’s for a quick beer-pounding session. Chris and Emily called to give us directions to some hot springs an hour away (near Yellowstone), local taverns, bookstores, and dog park. We got some burgers at the Montana Aleworks and now we’re full, and real tired, and headed to bed.

Day 3. Bozeman

I awoke early again, so Vesta and I let Miss Amanda sleep while we walked to the Co-op for a cup of coffee (good coffee, says the Portlander), then wandered to the dog park where we met a nice lady and her big dog and spotted many magpies. I think magpies are so cute! The lady with the dog said magpies are "rats with wings." Maybe that lady wasn’t so nice, after all.

We’re planning to do some shopping this morning, pick up some stuff we’ve forgotten (butter, trash bags), and I would like to get a pair of loose summer pants or a skirt, cause it’s hotter than Hades and we’re heading into the flat middle. We’ll get a late start today, and we’re fine with that. We like Bozeman and want to explore it more, this town filled with rugged men and their big dogs.

leaving portland

We still don't have a route planned, but we're heading out of Pdx in about an hour. Heading east. Stopping at some hotsprings in Idaho, most likely, for the night. Yesterday was busy with last minute preparations, like getting sno-cones at the Mississippi Street fair with Josh and Michelle.
Brett Superstar reminded us that West Coast and East Coast equals "WE."

We're feeling the bi-coastal love right now, folks. On the way outta here, after a stop at the dogpark and a cup of coffee. We love you, pdx. Smell ya later.

preparations

We're spending the day getting some loose ends tied up before we hit the road on Sunday... lookin' at good old Rand McNally and planning a route, talking about hotsprings, sharing our clothes like sisters, getting loads of cash from the bank because travelers' checks are for grandmas, hitting up AAA for camping guides, and packing important items up such as corkscrews, toilet paper, and a frying pan.

We're taking it easy since I'm still recovering from satan's illness, but I actually think I'm on the mend.

Plans for the next couple of days include a walk to the Mississippi Summer Sidewalk thingy. Also on the agenda, a visit with our old friend Josh, who was a neighbor of ours back in the undergraduate days at UVM, and who I ran into at First Thursday a couple of months ago. He's got a PhD now, and has grown up a lot since the days when he owned that divey basement bar in Burlington called The Last Chance. Aah, the Chance, site of bygone latenight drunken escapades that we would probably not want to remember, even if we could. Amanda flew in to PDX last night. Look how excited Miss Vesta was to see her autie, ears back in I-Love-you mode!
Our first leg of the journey, up Columbia Boulevard.

Packing up the camping box!

getting closer!

Miss Amanda just called and got me thinking about the big trip! She'll be flying in from the east coast on Thursday (less than a week!) and then our planning will begin in earnest. There was a thought to start out the trip with a stint working the Oregon Country Fair, but that's not happening and it's for the best. We wouldn't be in top form for a 3K drive after three days of eggroll-rolling, all-night hallucinogenic romps, and hippie-fest mosquito-swatting anyhow, no matter how much fun we would've had. Instead, we'll get cozy in my house, pack the ride, buy a new cooler, and lay out the atlas on the kitchen table, fueled by coffee and wine and cookies and girl-giggles. I can't wait to see my Amanda-sister!

We've had input here and there, and new agenda-items include a stop at the world's largest ball of twine (how could a knitter resist), a cherry on a spoon, Niagara Falls (we'll ride over them in a barrel and tell you all about it). Aaron Draplin suggested taking Highway 20 for a good portion of the trip ("slow and mean," he reports), and sent a link to a website filled with gems: roadside america. Check out Aaron's blog, it's tight and worth a daily visit.

More to come, more to come.

unplanning

I'm an unplanner. The ramifications of this sort of (non)methodology can sometimes be uncomfortable, and often I find myself in trouble, or late, or forgetting about something important, like taxes. With travel, though, my unplanning usually serves me well: with just a skeleton of a plan in place, I can let the rest of the journey flesh itself out sweetly, without effort or forcing. I take the ride, I don't make it.

Amanda and I seem to be on the same page about the skeleton of the first leg of the roadtrip: make it from Portland to the Bad Liver Valley in 7-12 days-ish. Take northern-ish roads, two-laners when we can, and hit a few sweet spots along the way: Corn Palace, Mt. Rushmore, Paul Bunyan and his ox, and whatever other goodnesses appear. Camp, mostly. Eat cheap and fresh and lean, plus chocolate. Hit divey bars for beers once in a while, and feed quarters to the jukebox. Laugh a lot.

Still, in the middle of all of this unplanning, I'm looking forward! Excited! Can almost taste the hot pavement ahead of me! I'm unplanning for fun, for freedom, for love, for my back upon the earth, for adventure, for the timelessness of travel without expectation.

seed stages

The road is in my blood. When I was a little kid, my parents and I took off for a month every summer, crossing the States or Canada, camping, visiting old friends. In our powder blue Chevy pickup truck, with a homemade wooden cap on the back, we would pack up and head out of New Hampshire in search of adventure. Destinations weren't the point, the journey was.

Memory works in unknown ways, and the strongest images I hold from these trips range from the mundane (seeing a double feature of ET and Annie at a KOA campground in New Paltz, NY) to the dramatic (watching our tent get caught up by a storm someplace in Kansas, my father's wiry muscles bulging as he tried to hang on to it, watching him lose to the elements as the stakes pulled upward and out of the ground, watching him finally give up and let go, the tent twirling into the sky like Dorothy's house).

As I grew into adolescence, I brought stacks of teen novels on these journeys, Sweet Valley High and Nancy Drew, and closed myself off from watching the land move past. But after my teenaged ennui had largely left me, I was once again drawn to the road.

As college graduation closed in, I found myself without a plan or direction, so I struck out on my own journey, all by myself, seeking to find every answer to every question I had about who I was, and what I should be doing. For several months, I crisscrossed my way about the United States, looking for THE PLACE TO BE, camping and hiking and eating power bars and powdered gatorade and kraft macaroni and cheese with canned tomatoes or tuna. I visited friends, stayed in youth hostels in cities, wrote in my journal, and wore the same shorts every day.

At Bryce Canyon, I was struck with a simple notion: this here is a planet we live on. And strangely, during this and other private moments along the way, I discovered a sense of home within myself. I ended up back where I'd started in Vermont, fancying myself tough and wise. Looking back, I feel affection toward my girl-self: bemusement at the way I took things so seriously back then, and also admiration at the guts I had to really, really go for it. When I was 21, I was too naive to realize that the world can be a dangerous place for a young woman alone, but my open trust turned out to be my greatest protector and ally. Knowing I would be okay made it so.

Since that time, I've done my share of pavement rolling, lived in three corners of the country. Now I find myself pretty settled in Portland, and on the brink of 30, and longing for a solid summer road trip. So... I'm doing it!

Dear old friends Chris and Emily are getting married in July back in Waitsfield at the dear old Millbrook, the perfect reason to pack out of town. Amanda, that lovely BFF of mine, is heading East with me, and Vesta's coming, too. We're psyched to explore the goods of Americana, and reacquaint ourselves with ourselves and each other and the land of our country, and make a pilgrimage back to the homeland, where summer smells better than anyplace else.

So, coming Mid-July: Trans-American Roadtrip Kitsch. Stay tuned.