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.