Second Entry on a Long Journey

It is early Fall here and the tropical air mass has brought an unusual amount of rain. The ground is muddy, the air is humid and the low lying swamps have more standing water than usual. These inclement conditions are not putting a damper up on the start of huntin' season. I have seen more gun shops, taxidermists, meat packers, and sporting goods shops advertising great sales on deer paraphernalia than anyplace else I've been. Car dealership parking lots, adorned with large American flags, are filled with rows of pick up trucks that are ready to be purchased with no money down and e-z credit by burly looking outdoorsmen. Even the shape of the State of Florida looks like a pistol.

I have driven almost exclusively on rural highways. The original business district of most small towns has rotted away with few historic buildings gentrified. It has been replaced by one or two strip malls containing a generic gas station/"country" store and an assortment of pawn shops, gold and silver buyers, a Burger King, a beauty shop and, most important, the Dollar General. The surrounding land is either pine, cypress, or oak forested or plowed with crops of cotton, nuts or peaches. Interspersed among the scarcer brick or whitewashed-siding farm houses are countless single wide mobile homes, many in seriously shabby condition. It is confusing to me to grasp what goals and dreams their inhabitants have. Many of the residents are the people who attend  the hundreds of oddly-named churches which line the road which push goofy divine messages from plastic reader boards. I doubt these people are ever reached by Eastern establishment pollsters who ask questions to develop data on the nation's opinion of U.S domestic or foreign policy. Even though many are certainly eligible for public assistance and fall well below the poverty line, some pay dearly the costly price of participating in the system at large. Every bridge I crossed has been renamed and memorialized for a local fallen youngster, who saw his ultimate way out and to "salvation" by joining the military.

After covering many miles, I arrived late in the afternoon in Athens, Georgia, the home of the University of Georgia and immediately began experiencing a different environment than I watched roll by me during the day. I found it  pleasing and relaxing to see the stately antebellum buildings of the campus. I saw young people carrying books and heard them laugh. I saw billboards on telephone poles advertising dance troupes and theater productions. While I sought dinner last night in a local hangout, the waiter carried his Physics book along with my menu. These places produce people whose dreams I better understand. Tomorrow I leave for Tennessee and the Smoky Mountains. I'm curious about what I will find.

First Entry of a Long Journey

Two weeks ago I arrived in Fort Meyers, Florida, to visit and take care of my ailing friend Stephen. Today I am leaving and am about to drive to Orlando to visit my nephew and his family. In this almost finished snippet of time, I have chosen to not allow my emotions to emerge. I have been neither lighthearted nor deeply cynical. Aside from being annoyed by a predictable negative experience at a car dealership and once, when Stephen in his condescending, humiliatingly judgmental tone hectored me incessantly on the correct way to toast a bagel, I have rarely been moved enough to even respond passive aggressively or laugh heartily at anything. I have dealt more or less methodically and efficiently with every task at hand from taking care of my own health to making Stephen comfortable.

It seems that I have been coping in a calm, controlled manner with the traffic, the disorientation of being out of my element, the heat and humidity, Stephen's complicated personality, dealing with his severe medical issues, and my own physical discomforts. It is as if my own survival depended on diligent detachment. I like to believe that this behavior has become a useful seminal characteristic of my personality, a socially acceptable persona which depicts mature adult behavior. Over the years I have learned to cultivate this image to serve as an attractive veneer to cover the core of the incredibly frightened child I have always been.

Therefore I have little passion today to describe deeply or critically the world about me. I am writing from a Starbucks from one more generic shopping complex of anywhere, except its probably Florida, since the gardeners are gathering fallen palm fronds from the surfaces of boring ground cover. I find it particularly difficult to have a welling up of emotion while sitting by the window watching the traffic whizz by. Some drivers are from the wealthy waterfront sections of the town and many others are the folks I saw at Walmart the other day; namely, a bubbling stew of ethnicity whose lives swim in a sea of issues associated with poverty and ignorance. Saying more about my observations of Southern Florida means drawing conclusions befitting a psycologist, sociologist, historian, or monk. Today I lack the dedication, intelligence, conviction, energy, or purpose to gamble with words in an attempt to share thoughts.

I feel like average cat-eyed marbles stacked in a fragile glass jar. To the untrained eye the content appears solid, valuable and colorful. The fact is that I have been sitting on the shelf these past weeks self-contained, firm and cool in demeanor and purpose. I have been living, but not really in the large game. Perhaps this next episode with Mark and family will reorient me and help me get back into the the pot.

A Time for All Seasons?

I am disturbed by August and late Summer. My mood is impacted by a feeling of loss. I'm saddened to see that, other than sunflowers, most wildflowers, whose appearance had so recently gladdened me, have died off. In their place, shriveling brown stalks stand silently like hopeless indigents on crutches. No longer begging for sunshine nor even thirsting for water, these once lovely plants have reached their end, the waned essence of Spring mouldering in a tattered shroud of torn petals and wilted leaves. The few remaining flowers will also soon succcumb to the relentless attack by rapacious bugs, weeds, and heat. I will have to accept the fact that most visually exciting, fragrant and freshest time of year is over.

No less disappointing for me is the similar demise of my favorite rivers, creeks and lakes. Like a mad cook who works too many hours, the sun has become an obsessive baker, leaving the temperature on High, and overheating the pot. This causes the water level to drops and the fresh, cool, clear broth to become tepid. Where once, around wet, moss-ringed boulders, white water rushed noisily, and behind which, hungry sassy trout snapped at passing morsels, now languid pools form. Favorite jagged points, from which I had cast upstream and watched my fly and line drift by, are now the detritous of dull sand bars.

The fate of lakes has taken an equally unfortunate turn as well. Beaches now appear at shores that had been previously braceleted by charm ornaments of lilypads, cattails, submerged shrubs, and glistening moist tree trunks. Into this garden, I would launch my pontoon boat, peer down through crystal clear water to spy on the magical underworld and then push out into the open. It was quiet and comforting to pay out sinking line, retrieve slowly and wait for the tug to thrill me.

Likewise, Summer means my quest for such joy is interrupted by the influx of tourists. It brings with it a cacophony of barking dogs, shrill children, the hum of generators, the slamming of RV doors, the chatter of outboard motors and the splashing wake of numerous boats transporting the loud voices of inexperienced fishermen and kayakers. These sounds fly across the water great distances like an invasion of winged insects and even swoop down into secluded coves to mix with the osprey's call or the crow's caw to disrupt the tranquility of what had been my personal aviary.

A lengthy series of hot sunny days has transformed the woods as well. Yesterday, I hiked for several miles on a recently blazed trail through a mixed pine forest which was interspersed with bitterbrush and mounds of volcanic rock. The dust from the path, like flecks from disintegrating calendar pages, had filled in once fresh, moist, deer tracks and had left only faint silhouettes of halcyon days. A greyish brown sheen covered many of the adjacent rotting logs and stumps, giving the impression they were the crusted remains of unearthed mummies. Loping through this parched environment, I neither saw nor heard any living beings the entire time of my walk other than being occasionally startled by scurrying jaw-packed chipmunks. They, like me, but for different reasons, were already thinking and planning for the coming of Fall.

When I was young, the approaching Labor Day holiday portended a star-crossed future. The coming of Fall meant an ominous return to the classroom. Each year, the appearance of late Summer "Back-to-School -Sale" signs sprouted fears of academic inferiority and social conflict which since early June had slept dormant in me like thistle seeds under the soil. The end of Summer signified that joy, freedom, and security would be closed into a suitcase and returned to the attic or placed out of reach high on a shelf in the garage until the following year.

Now, as an oldster, I eagerly anticipate the coming of dew-drenched mornings, cool winds, back roads devoid of traffic, colorful Autumn leaves, budding mushrooms, elaborate spider webs, festive holidays, and clean fresh air. I know intellectually that the various seasons are like ice cream flavors and, by magical design, each are tasty and sweet. Yet, emotionally, every person has his favorites, and I, spoon already in hand, am looking forward to Fall to savor a generous portion of one of mine.

Casting for a Fun?

Three weeks ago today, I left Bend. Predictably, my adventure has now brought me to one of my favorite places, a home away from home, Kamloops B.C., a town that I have visited each summer since 1981. Up until a few years ago, I would bring a motley group of unusual, disparate friends here to the supermarket to buy a week's worth of provisions to pack into the "Lake" to prepare for our annual fishing trip. Then, after staying the first several days at Juniper Beach, a rustic campground along the Thompson River, which we used as our base for a few days, we would then be shuttled by hosts into the mountains to a romantic, secluded dock protruding into the azure color of Lake Hi Huim, a natural tarn wrapped by a pine forest teeming with bears, deer, and occasional moose. Full of excitement and a sense of adventure, we would be given  little boats which we loaded with our belongings. Like make-believe mariners, would motor them three miles to our "hideout on a bluff" situated on Eagle Point, a spit which protruded into the water like a giant moss-covered log. Most of our days we spent fishing relentlessly and then, evenings after dinner, often past sunset at 10:30 pm, we cast our fly rods with deepest anticipation to lure large, sassy, chrome-colored trout to the bite. In the interim, we rested in the cabin, exhausted from our "toil," to the background sound of loons echoing messages of love across the water. Most important, our home had a large kitchen with an ancient wood stove, an ice box, and a large table, around which we would eat heartily and sit for hours telling tales of bravado, often exaggerated from the effect of shots from duty-free bottles of Bailey's and Wieser's Canadian Whiskey.

Of course, so much has changed over the years. I sit and stare at the screen of my laptop this Sunday and feel these special joyous memories of my life bob into my thoughts like treasured flotsam. Unfortunately, dwelling too much on past joy, often takes people down a river which makes the present feel choppy.  Many of the lake trip's alumni, my best friends, are now gone, incapacitated, or have other pressing commitments. The lake has changed too. A few years ago the pine beetle devastated the surrounding forest, making the once verdant green now ugly swaths of rust brown streaks of rotting trunks of dead trees. The original species of lovely fish which hunted the waters to feast for an, even then, rare species, the travelling sedge, have also disappeared. In their wisdom to maximize the resource, the province's wildlife commission introduced a more resilient, but duller looking, generic species of trout into the lake, with the effect that the original fish hybridized and then disappeared. Even the campground, Juniper Beach on the Thompson River, where we stayed before "going in", once private, and owned by a gentle Danish lady, who each year when we arrived, gave us slices of freshly-baked pie, was bought out by the Province a number of years ago and outfitted with water, electricity,and motor home and RV hook-ups.

An adventurer makes his own opportunity and doesn't sit still and fret. There are new lakes to ply and "new fish to fry". The cloudless sky changes to rain clouds, to be sure, but it is important to remember that it clears again   On that note, there are groceries to buy, supplies to be gotten, people to meet, and places to see. The day is moving on and then, before you know it, nightfall sets in.

Out Yonder!

Little did I know that the Calgary Stampede was in full swing as I arrived in this part of Alberta. It is a huge festival. The sidewalks are crowded with families dressed up in their finest Western clothing strutting their way over to the fairgrounds. I see fancy braids, buckles, bandanas, beads and butts. Under cowboy hats tilted downwards, I see faces of people who know about horses, hay, and a "hell of a time," a world so different than my own.

I have to admit that I am feeling tired and dirty today, which is understandable since I've been on the road for over two weeks and haven't had a shower since Sunday. My beard has grown into scraggly tumbleweed. I probably appear as an old cowpoke from the bunkhouse who has spent too many years sitting evenings on cheap tavern bar stools and standing during the day in too much cow shit .

I have seen so much since I last wrote. Memories and thoughts are stacked up in me like cord wood and are ready to be burned for anyone who cares to listen. My travels have taken me through the amazing and desolate landscape of Northern Montana, where dinosaur fossils slumber beneath the surface and the "Big Sky" stretches like a magician's cloak over verdant rolling fields of grasses and wildflowers. Under thunderclouds I spent an afternoon in Browning, MT, the heart of the Blackfoot Nation and hung around the trading post. I talked with people who spoke much with their hands, laughed toothy smiles, and told me jokingly the heavy weather was sent by the spirit to scare the tourists away. Undaunted, I moved on further north and found a quiet section of Glacier National Park in a rustic campground to overnight.  I knew that grizzly bears were foraging nearby since a couple who arrived shortly after me saw one in a meadow a mile away. In my imagination I referred to her as Ursula, a sow, who had lovely ears and a great digging nose. I decided not to hike until I had purchased "bear spray"-not hair spray- which of course I hoped I wouldn't ever have to use.

I have run out of time to continue writing. I must leave Calgary now and drive many miles or resign myself to find some campground nearby replete with RVs, trailers, and noisy people. I am at the northern and eastern end of my journey and, by heading west, I am on my way back toward my journey's end . After noticing the names of Red Deer and Saskatchewan on a road sign, I felt drawn to abandon all reason and give into the lure of turning East and exploring further. After much consideration I thought better of it. My mother advised me to eat smaller portions and claimed the food tasted better. With her words forever hanging around my neck like a mezzuzah, I may already be stuffed. It is time to digest this sumptious meal and head home.

Two Weeks Today

It is Sunday and I have been on the road for two weeks. I have camped out every night in a variety of improved, unimproved and improvised campsites. I have experienced a variety of weather, from near freezing temperature, annoying heat, pounding rain with thunderstorms, and, of course, the howling bellicose wind, hammering the sides of my tent. It may sound like I've been roughing it but, in comparision to historical descriptions that I have read on signboards along my route of early pioneers who rode on horseback or wagon, I am living a life of pleasure and ease.

I am writing today from a Safeway Starbucks in Bozeman, Montana, where I have stopped to buy supplies for my trip north to Alberta. Since my last post I toured parts of the northwestern portion of the Grand Tetons, visited Yellowstone Park and fished a breathtaking stretch of the Madison River near Ennis, Montana. At almost every turn, I have seen the grandeur of amazing vistas of mountains or rivers, or the vast stretches of wide open plains and sky.  As I ride along, I experience a sense of elation, peace and awe. These feelings squash, for the most part, the little pests of loneliness, insecurity, and doubt which have been too often the uninvited ants at my life's picnic.  

On the surface of a cool, crystal clear river with its water teeming with life among its smooth rocks, I, a well-tied, colorful fly, bob along downstream. With all such adventures, there is always the risk the capricious trout emerges for its tasty meal. That's the way it is. In the meantime, I am flowing with a full-bearded head, feelers extended, tanned-colored wings and legs, and weighted with impressions to share.

Into the Wild.

This morning I took down my tent and left the rustic campground where I had been staying. Earlier in the week I had followed a dirt road into the Wind River Wilderness of the Bridger-Teton National Forest in Wyoming. This route followed the rushing, and sometimes slow, meandering Green River to its source, a large emerald-colored lake. On a bluff overlooking the water, the Forest Service established a site for backpackers and outdoors enthusiasts to overnight. I chose a site in it which came equipped with a special metal box in which to securely place a cooler. This apparatus is necessary to discourage eager-food-sniffing grizzly bears from joining the party. Shortly after arriving as dusk was falling, I examined the lake. It lay nestled beneath groves of pines and firs, verdant meadows of wildflowers and huge towering basalt peaks, which were still streaked with snow.  Like a speck in a serene ever-changing kaleidiescope of reflected color, I placed myself on its water in my pontoon boat and fished for wild rainbow and German brown trout.

The following day I decided to venture out alone on an extended day hike to a remote spot in the back country, to a place where a large feeder stream had chiseled its way through a large rocky outcropping to create a natural bridge. The "moderate in difficulty" trail crisscrossed so many different environments, including spots where I had to wade across crystal clear streams to continue my way. I walked over 12 miles through the most pastoral countryside I had ever hiked and returned completely pooped. I thought often of my son Adam who had given me a quality backpack for my birthday and heard his admonishments to drink lots of water from its built-in pouch. Also I heard the approving voice of my friend Bill, the relentless backpacker, whose example encouraged me onward, and would have approved of my performance. Most of all, I listened to my inner voice of determination, along with all the sounds of birds, wind, rushing or gurgling waters. I wanted to achieve this at my age. This was my time.

Now I am back in civilization in Jackson, a thriving tourist resort on steroids. I am back from what may be the apex of this adventure and I feel joyful. Yet new challenges lie ahead. I need to buy supplies and find a place to stay tonight. It is 4th of July weekend and camping grounds are full. It is time for me to move on, test my fate, and continue to celebrate my independence.