unat '04--Day Fourteen

Lolo Hot Springs, MT to Bozeman, MT
Today's Mileage: 238 mi. Total Mileage: 7,147 mi.
TT: 6 hrs. TTT: 105 hrs.
Quote of the Day: "Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them...Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters."— Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It.
News of Note: "More authority to manage wolves will be transferred to the State from the Federal Government."—The Daily Bozeman

In the last twenty-four hours, we've climbed near the Continental Divide and covered hundreds of miles. The damp, volcanic soils and dense forests of the Pacific have given way to the clays and Ponderosa pines of the Rockies and there has been a lot of desolation and beauty in between. There have been nice people (some of whom do not know how to give directions) and bad food and an endless parade of trucks filled with every imaginable form of produce. Andy played guitar next to a granite cliff under a full moon...until his hands nearly flat out froze off. But today, I beside the foot of the Big Blackfoot River.

Well, technically we've camped at the bank of a creek that feeds the Big Blackfoot, but allow me my minute of romance. This is the first morning that frost has found us and Andy snores in his tent as I march up the hills that overlook the campground, the same site that offers canvas teepees for $25 a night. I've mistakenly elected to find deadfall to burn in the camp's fire ring (It's COLD) but will find nothing here that isn't too full of rot or water or both. The creek is cold and signals the unusual amount of fall rain they've received here. The wind, announcing itself far away in unseen trees, is biting and welcome

Thus, taking the same road (though now paved and much safer) that Norman Maclean would follow early on a May morning to identify his brother's murdered body, I drive with my own—as full of joy, frustration and mystery as Paul Maclean (or should I spell it MacLean, as in his byline in Helena). I've realized that the writers I most admire—Stegner, Welty, Lewis, even McCarthy—all write in combinations of surgical economy mixed with the improbably universal.

And then there's Dr. Maclean. River was his sole piece of fiction, a novella stretched so far over the autobiographical that there is no separating them. In it, I think he sought to do the thing closest to his nature as a professsor—to teach us something—but much like yesterday's encounter with Captain Clark, he cannot pull away far enough to examine anything other than what he has learned. All that is left is the tuition of his father, of love, of the hope that a fish will rise and yes, of death.

Then on to Bozeman and the love and enigma of my own family. Sorry that we've missed my uncle (appropriately, he's in Alaska at the moment), the time and laughs with Mary and Garrison are warming. We've taken a drive up to "Holy Cow" Lake and thrown stones into the water, the granite peaks that serve as Yellowstone's northern border reflected in the water. After dinner, I sit on the back porch and watch the sunset play with the colors in the oak and poplar on the hills.

At this moment, I am struck with the possibility of a lesson from Dr. Maclean (and perhaps Capt. Clark) after all. When dealing with those we love, we effort in so many impossible ways—as if the word "understanding" was so vital to being real and happy. Don't try to understand them any more than you have to. It just isn't that important that your family understand everything about you. Just be, I think. If you listen, you will hear the words, and some of the words are theirs.

The time is so short.

please note that three of the most peculiar spam comments ever follow...--mls

"My, how he does go on..." click here for more

unat '04--Day Thirteen (Indolence)

Trout Lake, WA to Lolo Hot Springs, MT
Today's Mileage: appx. 544 mi. Total Mileage: 6,909 mi.
TT: 11 hrs. TTT: 99 hrs.
Quote of the Day: "This day I completed my thirty-first year and I...reflected I had as yet done but little, very little indeed, to further the happiness of the human race or to advance the...succeeding generation."—Journal of Capt. Merriweather Lewis,18 August, 1805.
News of Note: None.

Around 8:30 the next morning, I sit in front of the aforementioned retired boot shop facing a pond and feeding a trout. The trout, a four-pound rainbow, is happy to be up this morning, rounding the leaf scattered surface and picking at the little bits of trout chow we've thrown in the water. The pond is a small, man-made one, dug for the purpose of giving Andy's former Alaska boss, his wife and their now-grown children a place to swim. The boot shop, as well as the main house and a remarkable tree house up the property are all built from wood milled from the property, all built by Andy's former Boss himself. The architecture of each is composed of what I call "Western Boomer," a style that I became very familiar with growing up in the Southwest—Natural wood tones, angles, stone floors and an affection for natural light.

Knowing now that our trek heads east (rather than the original plan to visit Andy-friends in Eugene) to Bozeman, Montana, I am reading the words of Captain Lewis'. Tracing part of the Lewis and Clark Trail is one of the selling points for the journey for me. Andy's former Boss has traced as much of the route as he can remember as we discuss the day's navigation over a map. Some of my thoughts turn to Lewis' fate barely five years after the above entry (written October 11, ironically also Columbus and Native American's Day) when the hope of those words is nowhere to be found. Mired in debt and swirling in the haze of what would clearly diagnosed today as clinical depression, Lewis kills himself on the floor of a one-room cabin near the Natchez Trace.

As with any good story however, it is not only the ending that gives the story weight and I think of those moments as well. The track we will follow (carefully marked along the way by the Highway Departments of Oregon, Idaho and Montana) will occasionally intersect with some of the most dramatic moments of the transcontinental Voyage of Discovery that defines Lewis' short life. Family drama (Sacagawea breaks down when she recognizes a brother she was separated from as a child), combat (the Corps sole violent clash with Native Americans, namely Blackfeet braves), near starvation and the few quarrels among the 37 men of the Corps of Discovery will occur along much of the route we take today.

And yet, with all the flights of the imagination that these moments can inspire, this morning I find myself rereading Lewis' "note to self" on his birthday. He goes on to write:

"I viewed with regret the many hours I have spent in indolence, and now sole feel the want of that information which those hours would have given me had they been judiciously expended. But since they are past and cannot be recalled, I dash from me the gloomy thought, and resolved in future to redouble my exertions and at least endeavor to promote those two primary objects of human existence, by giving them aid of that portion of talents which nature and fortune have bestowed on me; or in future to livefor mankind, as I have heretofore livedfor myself. (Emphasis is Lewis')."

It is striking that, here in the midst of what would become one of the most extraordinary efforts of exploration in U.S. history, we find a man, beyond the arcane prose, ruminating on the fruit of his labor.

Tired of sitting with Mr. Trout, I march into the forest to pick a fresh apple from a now-wild orchard Andy's former Boss tells me was planted by a German squatter long ago. I have long forgotten the pleasure of a fresh-picked apple until this trip. I wonder, what of Captain Lewis' questions? He is asking, "What are our personal gifts? What is it about my nature that prevents me from drawing them forth to the benefit of others? To the benefit of myself?" For Lewis, the very human (and VERY American) need for navel gazing and one's interior monologue suddenly overshadow the facts—that he has covered nearly three thousand miles of land largely unseen by a white man and has even farther to go. Breast-beating stifled by overriding questions of self and effort and identity. Then, what of these questions and my own decidedly less ambitious voyage of discovery? Frankly, I find myself short on answers, despite standing on the apparent cusp in my own self-efficacy. All career choices have reached their inevitable ends and after electing to finish the worthless degree I began in 1985, I've done so. As with some graduates 18 years my junior, I've discovered no new paths or answers hidden within my diploma.

Tired of sitting with Mr. Trout, I march into the forest to pick a fresh apple from a now-wild orchard Andy's former Boss tells me was planted by a German squatter long ago. I have long forgotten the pleasure of a fresh-picked apple until this trip. I wonder, what of Captain Lewis' questions? He is asking, "What are our personal gifts? What is it about my nature that prevents me from drawing them forth to the benefit of others? To the benefit of myself?" For Lewis, the very human (and VERY American) need for navel gazing and one's interior monologue suddenly overshadow the facts—that he has covered nearly three thousand miles of land largely unseen by a white man and has even farther to go. Breast-beating stifled by overriding questions of self and effort and identity. Then, what of these questions and my own decidedly less ambitious voyage of discovery? Frankly, I find myself short on answers, despite standing on what should be apparent cusp in my own self-efficacy. All career choices have reached their inevitable ends and after electing to finish the worthless degree I began in 1985, I've done so. As with many of the graduates 18 years my junior, I've discovered no new paths or answers hidden within my diploma.

While I certainly can't compare these two trips, I can't resist creating a few similarities. By now, tempers have flared on our trip, too—usually earned and each, I hope, equivalently dismissed. The amount of information we've tried to digest, while not as encyclopedic as what L&C had to contend with (they came back with the assessment of 24 native tribes, 178 plants and 122 animals) has been dizzying. To labor the metaphor, I imagine standing with Lewis as he stares into the bright sunlight at a bend in the Columbia, wondering, after the trials the last two years, what within prepares me for whatever that big river has in store (later, I will actually stand at one of those literal bends, trying to squint down the gorge)? As predicted earlier, thus far there have been no epiphanies, few glimmering moments of clarity. As for my own talents...

The apple was delicious.

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unat '04--Day Twelve (At the Foot of Mount Not So Doom)

Tower Rock, WA to Trout Lake, WA
Today's Mileage: appx. 80 mi. Total Mileage: 6,365 mi.
TT: 5 hrs. TTT: 88 hrs.
Quote of the Day: "I keep expecting an Ewok to run out of the ferns"—A. Nichols
News of Note: "Puzzled geologists raced Monday to place...instruments on Mount St. Helens after hundreds of small earthquakes continued for the fifth day—The Oregonian

Was the early-morning rumble Mount St. Helens clearing its throat? Couldn't tell you. As I pay for the site, the caretaker informs me of the rising number of small quakes from the mountain, the first real bit of U.S. news of any kind we've heard in six days. With a little smile from the fates, perhaps we'll see more than the debris of twenty-four years ago. Little do we know what an unnecessary media circus the mountain will become in the coming days.

As you make your way through the Mount St. Helens National Volcanic Monument, the scenery goes through a steady progression of changes—as if you were driving through an animitronic diorama at DisneyLand than a National Monument. While the first big view of the mountain comes at Bear Meadow (the spot where the famous time-lapse of the explosion was shot) but the setting is a strong range of coniferous trees and scrub oak with mountain poplar in the washes. The diorama then begins—another set of ridges, (near the Miner's Car site), and it occurs to you that the tops of many of these magnificent trees have been snapped off by something to the west, some massive shockwave. The trees are healthy, big but all have a funny haircut. Pass the next set of ridges to find dead trunks lining the hillsides (but near the ground, tiny spruce and fir (about twenty years old) rise up under the corpses of their parents.

Clearly, each ridge has been slightly protected from those in front of it—the next ridge confirming that we've reached the base of Mt. St. Helens. Following the next switchback, we've reached the surface of the moon. Andy spots a hawk perched atop the blackened remnant of a spruce. While he tries to take a picture, I realize that all the little rocks around me are actually bits of ash: compacted by time and weather into light, little pumacy pebbles the color of chocolate milk. By the time we reach the nearest point to the volcano by road, we've looked down on Spirit Lake, the former home of Mr. Harry Truman's lodge and twenty-four years ago, site of some great fishing, I'm told. Now it is filled with sulfur and a few trees (by "few," I mean "a hundred") still float, leftovers from 18 May, 1980. From the observation point at Windy Ridge, a few hiking trails can run you to the East approach to the crater. We can see about a third of the lave dome (which will grow considerably in the coming days) and could walk out to see the rest, if the trail wasn't closed by the Park Service. Apparently, in these states, Mt. St. Helens has a tendency to lob little hot rocks at the hikers on the trails. Which I'm told is bad.

In the time that we stand there, there will be somewhere in the neighborhood of 100-150 small earthquakes within the volcano (we won't feel a single one). Presumably, the temblors are the thing that shakes the thin but steady stream of yellowish smoke from the crater. Sorry kids, that's the extent of the drama for us...yellow smoke. Actually, I'm not sorry at all. I stood and looked down at the millions-of-cubic-tons-of-dirt tombstone for 57 people and wasn't a bit jealous of their real estate. Yellow smoke is good enough to me. The first big eruption of ash and steam will come six days later. (Traveler's Note: I'd recommend this drive over the north approach and urge you to get out each step of the way. It'll cost you $6.)

Beyond the travellogue quality of this leg of the trip, however, there's a little something else. As we stand at the overlook, I'm struck with a little of the same sensation I had yesterday in the Seattle Center. The eruption of this mountain was a pretty seminal event in my childhood, the first REAL American natural disaster. To stand here, well, you know...

On to Trout Lake. The drive out of the Gifford Pinchot is actually one of the best of the trip. To call these forests "arboreal" is to fail to do justice to the word. The tunnel-vision nature of the overhanging boughs doesn't change with the daylight (what daylight? These trees have shut it out). Ferns, dampness and a plethora of fungi are everywhere—even growing out of the tarmac on the road. (Note: a few of these roads are pretty much ONE LANE, so take it easy and keep an eye out for logging trucks). There's no questioning the Endorian quality that Andy described. Finally, while the winding drive takes a long time (we're not going very far very fast), we reach Bill's in Trout Lake. We'll spend the night in what use to be a hiking boot repair shop and have a fine dinner in BZ's Corner.

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unat '04--Day Eleven (Back in the U.S.)

Cache Creek to Tower Rock, Washington, USA
Today's Mileage: 425 mi. Total Mileage: 6,285 mi.
TT: 11 hrs. TTT: 83 hrs.
Quote of the Day: "WASP WE ARE SCARY POSERS"—scratched in ballpoint on a guitar owned and smashed by Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain
News of Note: At this year's Mississippi State Fair, fairgoers will have the opportunity to shake hands with or get an autograph from the Right Reverend Edgar Ray Killen, chief suspect of the 1964 murder of three Civil Rights workers—columnist Leonard Pitts, Jr syndicated in The Seattle Times

The sun rises behind the bluff against which we've camped. This bluff, by the way, has turned out to be a manmade, a carved mound of earth used to separate the RV's and tents from a cute housing development on the other side. The "brook" found in the campground's name is a simple culvert cut through the far end. We wave goodbye to Brookside knowing that Steve has scored a breakfast of eggs, bacon and flapjacks from the RV campers convened on the site.

The longest highway construction delay finds us near the Hell's Gate gorge of the Fraser River. This last stretch of highway in Canada doesn't fail to match the drama of the rest of the trek. By lunch (at a McDonald's in Abbotsford—don't ask why), scenery has given away to the exurbs of Greater Vancouver. We take a back approach to the U.S. Border (not for any reason other than I've missed the first exit) and again pass through the checkpoint without a search or any other delays. A few miles beyond the Customs station, an American flag and small Statue of Liberty on a berm in a dairyfield serve as the only reminder that we're back in the U.S.A.

Within a half-hour, Andy is negotiating Seattle traffic. On a whim, we swing into the Seattle Center and elect to visit Paul Allen's Experience Music Project. We park directly across the street ($8) and make our way through the light Monday crowd into the unusual building for our tickets ($20). Obviously, there are expansive exhibits on Hendrix and Nirvana. The Beatles (or their accompanying paraphernalia, anyway) get a big space. Rhett Miller, Steve Earle and Springsteen have all given notebooks to the songwriting exhibit. The QOD comes from a broken guitar affixed to the wall and the words are scrawled beneath an applique of the ModSquad on the body. I attempt to play keyboards with Ray Charles (bad idea), while Andy masters base and guitar with various other artists. We stay two hours (Traveler's Note: If the people you're traveling with are big music fans, you're going to need to allow yourself at least 2 ½ hours, not to mention the Science Fiction museum in the building, which I have no report on) and march out into the grand area that was once the World's Fair area that built the Space Needle. (Another synchronicity moment—see the NON today.) During a quick glance around, I am suddenly struck with an image—surprisingly, not of those who attended that Exhibition—but the other thousands gathered here in 1963 to protest the police killing of a black youth in Birmingham, Alabama on the day of the Sixteenth Street Bombing (I am reading Diane McWhorter's Carry Me Home now). In Olympia, we make a few phone calls (including one to Andy's former Alaska boss, Bill, with whom we're to stay tomorrow) and have dinner at a Shakey's clone on the eponymous Sleater-Kinney Road. Gasoline is already about $.71 cheaper.

Heavy coastline fog greets us as we travel west into Randle and then the Gifford Pinchot National forest. In an attempt to find a place to bed down, we drive deserted forest service and logging roads, their narrowness enhanced in the dark by the tree boughs hanging over the road, a new definition of tunnel-vision. Again by accident we find the Tower Rock campground and pitch camp. At three a.m., a strange rumbling noise that seems to come from the north wakes me.

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unat '04--Day Ten

unfocused north american tour '04 Day Ten: Dawson Creek to Cache Creek
Today's Mileage: 527 mi.Total Mileage: 5,860 mi.
TT: 10 hrs. TTT: 72 hrs.
Quote of the Day: "VanderBeek's after me!"—A. Nichols (see previous entry)
News of Note: "Malaysian Woman Sets Record for Living with Scorpions"— The Sunday Province(apparently, Canadians are interested in the Martha Stewart case, as well)

The day begins as all the others in the Great White North have begun—with the perpetual sensation of going downhill. Despite a mysterious insect bite on his arm from the stay on Mount WalMart, Andy sleeps a spell while I slurp down McDonald's coffee. We'll be covering the northern half of the Cariboo [sic] Range on this leg, hoping make Cache Creek after nightfall. It's been four days since our last shower. Our stench (since there's really nothing else to call it) is a mixture of Liard Hotsprings sulfur and trapper sweat with a sprinkle of campground. The nature of today's drive is identical to the last five—a combination of breathtaking beauty, polite people, exasperation with the endless highway construction and sheer terror at the Runaway Mine Train character of many of these two-lane highways.

A new wrinkle as night falls on the Cariboo Highway. Somewhere past Williams Lake, we're pulled over by a Sheriff's Deputy. It's obvious that we're his first Texan pullover when he asks for our registration (with no interest in that proof of insurance card) and we have to inform him that it is on that sticker in the window. As he runs Andy through the computer, we rehearse an elaborate fictional response to the obvious reason for the stop— we've known that one of our headlights is out for a day. On his return, we go through the steps of our little comedia del arte—1)register surprise, "oh, our headlight's out? Which one?"(thank goodness it's twilight); 2)portray ourselves as men of action, "Pop the hood," I tell Andy, and make a grand production of banging on the lens, checking the connection, etc. and 3)show our appreciation for his discovery of the unbeknownst defect. Nice cops in B.C. The sun finally sets as we pass cattle or llama ranches and ginseng farms.

It is after eight-thirtyish when we are being welcomed by the very nice lady (and her Llasa Apso) at the Brookside campsite in Cache Creek. After taking her $15, she tells us up front (but politely) that the showers are in the center of the campground. Any illusion that we don't smell is shattered. Internet access is available in the office (which I won't use) and our campsite butts up against a sandy bluff under an elm. With patience for camp food exhausted, we drive into Cache Creek (guided by our newly broken headlights) to look for something to eat. The options are limited (Traveler's Note: Most restaurants in Cache Creek, B.C. apparently close after eight in the off-season) but we finally amble into the Wander Inn, a Chinese place (after all, we're in British Columbia. Isn't that where you'd want to go for Chinese food?). At first I think this is a family place, as the presumed owner that greets us at the door is Asian. Then he says, "Looks like it's been a long trip, eh?" and the waitresses probably aren't blood relatives. In spite of the fact that my palate may have been hampered by the endless assault of Clif Bars for the last five days, I'll report that the food was pretty good (and there was a great deal of it). Andy watches billiards on the Canuck equivalent of ESPN and I vainly attempt to use the payphone tastefully ensconced inside a clamshell. In the parking lot, I trade pleasantries with a trio of professional archeologists from Vancouver. They're here to examine a construction site.

We make our way down the block to a bar, still stinking, mind you. At first glance, the crowd seems a little rough, but I don't intend to interact with anyone in my current state.

But within five minutes, we're racking up a game of eight ball with a young man named Steve. In his early twenties, Steve, is by trade, an apple picker (paid eighteen dollars per bin picked per day) but on hiatus as he currently hitches through B.C. to visit friends and see the sights. Originally from Alberta (much of which resembles the drab scenery of West Texas), he's trying to see his part of the world. We have a couple of beers (Steve's come from his backpack—they're cheaper) and, like so many other strangers in so many other bars, discuss worldviews. Andy tells an amusing bear story or two. Steve notes that the time to "grow up" is bearing down on him and this kind of trek won't be open to him much longer, so he took it. I say nothing much, realizing that despite the eighteen years I have on this kid, I'm in the same boat.

Steve is also staying in our campground, but we leave him behind to try his hand with one of the local girls still in the bar. At Brookside, we bolt for the blessed showers. Here I discover that the repetition of elevation change has destroyed my can of shaving cream. (Traveler's note: ALWAYS keep the shaving cream in a plastic bag. It works.) There's enough of it in the can to use as shampoo (which I left behind in North Austin) and get a blessed shave. Impressed by the site, Andy chooses to pitch a tent as well. With the shortwave droning in the background about Tech's defeat of Kansas, we are out quickly.

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unat '04--Day Nine

Liard River Hotsprings Provincial Park, B.C. to Dawson Creek, B.C.
Today's Mileage: 477 mi.Total Mileage: 5,333 mi.
TT: 10 hrs. TTT: 62 hrs.
Quote of the Day: "We are here and you are not. Now you are here and we are not."—Appropriately existential sign from Las Vegas in the Watson Lake Signpost Forest
News of Note: "James Says Campbell Needs More Women"—Headline in The Province (I don't know who this Campbell person is, but he needs to get in line behind Snoop Dogg)

While the time in the hot spring eased some of my aches and relaxed me, my knees hurt by the time the squirrels wake me (about 7:30). When I rise and strike the tent, I don't realize that Andy's had a bad reaction to dinner and didn't fall asleep until late, so we agree it will be a late start today. So I elect to wander the Provincial Park, which is filled with equal parts seniors in RV's and outdoorsy folks in their twenties (some nippies, others are departing wilderness workers like Andy.

The entrance to the Park that we've camped in faces a set of foothills (what we, in Texas call "mountains") that run concurrently to the Liard (the frenchy-french word for the river-hugging poplars everywhere) River. The highway's been following the Liard since Watson Lake, and as night fell, we looked over the guardrails at what The Milepost tells me are Class IV rapids below. Andy's friend the Park Ranger tells me that nearby patches of soapberries have prompted numerous brown bears to line up in these hills like Rotarians at a Sizzler. Bears, bears everywhere and in four days, I haven't seen one. I've seen an occasional doll sheep, a caribou and a lot of scrawny squirrels and ravens. I'm not complaining about the scenery, mind you. It has been late fall for the entire trip and the foliage has been, well, the word "remarkable" really doesn't get it. The vastness of these spaces, the animus of their 'wildness' (I can't come up with a better word) is palpable. And overwhelming.

Traveler's Note: Just because you purchase a phone card that says it works in Canada, doesn't mean that's actually so. Check it (by calling the number attached before you leave) and make sure it works. As I try to dial from the payphone at the park entrance, my level of frustration is palpable. Rookie mistake—don't make it.)

Eventually my brother rises and we break camp and make our way back to the hot spring. In the daylight, the creepy factor is gone—those indulging the waters include families with kids, seniors and a couple that worked at Denali. The deeper hot spring farther up the trail is closed (due to those gluttonous bears, of course) and a gate blocks the boardwalk. We elect to go under the fence and bravely march up the trail (though we're both making a lot of hopefully ursine-frightening noises). Andy's right, this pool is great. It's deeper and a little cooler than the man-made spring down the hill. It's also covered with leaves (after all, it is supposed to be closed). An older lesbian couple joins us and we chat and swim. Apparently they're making their way back to Alaska after summering in the lower 48 (I'm not sure why). I finally get out after cutting my foot on a sharp rock (see shower shoe note, though they don't work too great when you're swimming), smelling even more like the sulfury Devil himself.

Getting back on the AlCan, we encounter a reversal of fortune (and a chance to improve my karma). Passing the Liard Hotsprings Lodge, we're ready to backtrack to Watson Lake and assault the Cassiar Highway. Frankly, a long, late day of driving isn't anything new and the Cassiar Range is something new for both of us. But Andy recognizes a truck and trailer of another Denali alum parked in front of the lodge. Peter and Shannon, a couple from Pennsylvania, greet us warmly. I seize this opportunity to right a previous wrong—I forgot to tip the waitress/attendant (whom everyone seems to call "Happy") for my coffee. Knowing that the Cassiar will be the most challenging stretch of road so far, I balance the harmonic scales with a five-spot.

But we're not going to take the Cassiar after all. Peter and Shannon (who are heading for Washington just like we are) have heard the same stories about excessive rain along the highway that we've been hearing for three days. Washouts, delays, etc. In an instant, the trek stays on the AlCan all the way to its beginning in Dawson Creek.

A Caribou buck, his harem and a couple of their youngsters stand in the middle of the road along the Liard River. The road winds dramatically through the Stone range of the Northern Rockies. After about three hours we drop out of the mountains and you're struck again with a recurring (and remarkable) feature of the Great Northwest—the collision of the extravagantly pastoral with the abruptness of the industrial. Refineries and turbines rise from frosty rivers with immense snowy peaks in the backround. Long after dark (but under a filling moon), we arrive in Dawson Creek. (Note: It is NOT "Dawson's Creek." Do not incite the anger of the residents by confusing them with the overrated WB drama). This city is a great example of this clash of manmade/Godmade vistas I'm describing. By day, this town is wrapped in the light of beautiful country. By night, under the lights of commerce, it looks like Midland with hills.

Traveler's Note: Canadian cigarettes taste like ass. I understand, that for most readers, ALL cigarettes taste thus, so let me explain. It is the difference between smoking your turd vs. smoking mine.

After dinner, we've elected to sleep in a WalMart parking lot tonight. Thus, Andy decides that I'll sleep in his space in the back of the Bronco (despite the fact that he won a coin toss) and he'll take a spot at the top of a mound of construction dirt a hundred and fifty yards behind the store. By five, he's back in the front of the car, trying to get comfortable and sleep. It's pretty cold outside.

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unat '04--Day Eight (In The Soup)

Lake Kluane, Yukon Territory to Liard Hot Springs, British Columbia.
Today's Mileage: 575 mi.Total Mileage: 4,886 mi.
TT: 11 hrs. TTT: 52 hrs.
QOD: Me: "Man it's hot on this end." Unidentified woman to someone else: "Mmm, it is over here, too."—at Liard Hot Springs.
NON: "A Whitehorse man, traveling in his car saw another man jaywalking downtown and pointed out this fact. The man answered the driver with an obscene gesture. The driver stopped his car and the two began shoving each other. A Whitehorse Police Officer arrived at the scene and the two men were spoken to. No charges were filed."—Verbatim from a Canadian radio report from Whitehorse, Yukon Territory.

Ravens chattering on the shores of Lake Kluane stir me out of the tent. The flap opens to a National Geographic-worthy Arctic Lake ringed by peaks. I walk the .7 kilometre (.58 of a mile, for those of you keeping score at home) to a decked overlook on the lake. The wind is still high and the waves in this immense lake are whitecapping. For a little while, a bird (which Audubon and Andy both identify as a White-Headed Nuthatch), follows me down the path, wondering if there's a little Clif Bar in it for her, but I'm not going for it. I could easily spend a day, six days here, but its time for us to get back on the AlCan. (I say he's ready, but he sleeps for the first forty minutes in the back of the Bronco of Death while I drive. Wise, given that he's been up all night with a stomach ailment and I'm ready to drive).

We stop for breakfast at the Bear Creek Lodge (knew we'd find one somewhere on this trip, right?). The folks are friendly, very Canadian and the prices expensive ($7.50 Canadian for two eggs, $5.78 U.S.). I think the old guy in the corner smoking over his coffee is the owner (or somebody left over from last night). I've been sitting down in my first Canadian restaurant for only about five minutes (that's about seven minutes, U.S.) when we hear Loverboy on the radio. Rush follows soon thereafter. We're definitely in Canada. The young guy cooking and waiting on us (we're kinda early, God Bless them) says they'll board the place up for the winter in the next couple of days. This has been, and will be the condition of most touristy-type places for the majority of the trek—we're late for the tourist season, which makes everything a little more homey and a little less uncomfortable. After all, Andy is one of them now.

The original plan is to take the AlCan only as far as Watson Lake and then swing south along the Cassiar Highway toward the Washington/B.C. border. It's a road that Andy's never driven before and he's looking forward to it. But first, a 250-mile detour to Liard Hot Springs, a stop Andy's jazzed about because he always has to stop there on a trip through. In Watson Lake, we find the infamous Signpost Forest, where there must be thousands of license plates and homemade signs from every continent. Some of the markers are very elaborate (obviously made long before their bearers took their trip) others hastily scribbled on cardboard. Some are sad ("In memory of..."), many are stolen (from the population listed on the Lubbock City Limits sign, it was taken some time in the '80's).

We reach Liard a little after nine. The guy that runs the place remembers Andy immediately from previous visits. For good reasons, mind you. (Note: Mr. Park Ranger will sell you a bundle of firewood for five bucks (about $3.85...oh, f&%# it), if you're ever this way). They trade pleasantries—everybody loves Andy—and $17 for the campsite. We change quickly (I've neglected to bring trunks and will have to live with cargo shorts) and make our way down a boardwalk in the pitch dark. There is no artificial light at Liard, including at the Hot Springs themselves. This will serve to be both a blessing and a curse. Famous for my nightblindness, I've already walked into a railing before we even climb in the water. I then nearly wade into a couple copulating on an underwater bench in the center of the pool (later, Andy comments, "I never noticed," which I believe). Even in the dark, it's beautiful and tranquil, when it's not unnervingly pornographic, that is, and man, it is HOT. After a half hour in the water spent looking at stars, even passing the test of placing a stone on a cairn at the hottest point in the spring, I'm still finding the vibe a bit on the creepy side. It's pretty cold outside the pool, but pleasant in the balance to the hot water and I air dry. Andy eventually joins his wet blanket of a big brother and we make our way back, stinking of sulfur. A dinner of soup, a delicious Alaskan ESB and sleep follow. (Note: there is nothing wrong with you wanting to wear pool shoes into the hot spring. The pebbles at the bottom aren't uncomfortable, but that depends on your sole sensitivity)

I close with a word to those of you that find the above description a little puritan. I have never associated public nudity with perversity. I have no judgment of those who enjoy the occasional nude beach or hot tub. However, the very nature of being naked, is to me, married to a certain foundation of intimacy and safety that I find difficult around strangers. There was only one naked person that night and I didn't even see him. So there. I just don't like standing next to folks humping. Not even at frat parties.

You've been very patient kids, but we're only halfway through the tour. See you soon. Hopefully there are pictures to come, too.

"My, how he does go on..." click here for more

unat '04--Day Seven

Anchorage, AK to Lake Kluane, Yukon Territory, Canada.
Today's Mileage: 590 mi.Total Mileage: 4,311 mi.
Time in Transit: appx. 13 hrs. Total Time in Transit: 41 hrs.
Quote of the Day: "I was worried this road wouldn't be scenic."—A. Nichols
News of Note: "A convenience store clerk thwarted a would-be armed robber by throwing cartons of cigarettes at him."--CNN Headline News.

Anchorage is still rainy when I finally rise at ten (ADT). A sightseeing trip to Ternagan Arm is scratched because the weather will allow no sights to be seen, thus we're on to the business of transit. After paying Mohammed Aidid-level prices for food, gas and an oil change, we head north. That's right, I said north. You must go north from Anchorage to get through the arm that is Alaska to reach the rest of North America.

A brief explanatory note: My brother, Andy, has worked in or near Denali National Park for the last five years. He's driven up twice (once alone) and back once before, thus the trip is usually powered by the miracle of mechanical flight. Logically, when driving back, he is usually begins from Fairbanks, which is much nearer the park (and from which we are not) and [ ] miles from Anchorage and takes the shortest route home to Texas (which we are not). Thus, the novelty of the beginning of this part of the trek makes me feel microscopically less guilty about his having to schlep up to Anchorage to get me. It also explains the QOD, which Andy fortunately turns out to be wrong about—read on.

Alaska Highway 1 carries through numerous mountain ranges, all of which might make Tenzeng Norgay simultaneously choke up and want to try a new line of work. Grinding through one is a massive glacier (my first real glacier, I might add). The moraine field alone is at least a hundred square miles. "Oh," you think, "I could see THAT making these mountains." The trees (spruce, some fir, a lot of scrub) are remarkably close together and again, you understand the supreme differences between the southwestern forests of my youth and here.

The truism of "other people's driving" comes into play here. As AKH 1 begins to raise it's level of technical difficulty (which happens shortly after Chuglak, 35 miles past Anchorage), accompanied by rain and the presumed high center of gravity of Andy's trusty Ford Bronco, I find myself starting to tremble a little at Andy's driving. At one curve, he feels obliged to tell me, "I've been driving people on roads more dangerous than this one all summer." Admittedly, my interior reply is "and they tipped you? Before or after the defibrillator was back in its case?" However, as the drive progresses (and I have to start navigating these roads myself later) I realize that I'm being a wussy. Andy does happen to know what he's doing and I need to shut the f@#% up. It is a matter of perception (See #3 under "The Rules"). In Tok, we meet a nice couple, kayak guides also making the late trip to the lower forty-eight.

Just before crossing into Canada (and despite some lingering clouds), I am treated to a small dose of Aurora Borealis. An enormous bracelet of white light spans a third of the northern night sky, shatters for a moment and fades. By eleven (ADT, or ten, (PDT)), we reach the border. The Canadian Customs (or "Duane," if you're from Quebec) Agent takes our ID, runs us through a computer and we're off. All of Andy's stories of Draconian questioning or long delays at a Twenty-First Century Check Point Charlie do not materialize. The lack of anyone else working at this border station may have been a contributing factor.

At 1 a.m. (PDT), we accidentally discover Congdon Creek Campground (which, according to The Milepost, was named by a Nineteenth Century miner after his favorite Canuck politician). At the first entrance there is a formal note posted that reminds campers that there has been bearsign at the site two days ago (Would be Brown, not Grizzly. We're too far south, I think). Another hastily scrawled piece of notebook paper at the pay center specifies that a sow and her two cubs have been going through camp garbage. As we pull into our pitch black site, I tell Andy I'm thinking of perhaps sleeping in the Bronco with him tonight. "You're not afraid of bears, are you?" he asks, all the while helping me pull my gear from the overloaded back of the Bronco. No, I think, I just want to be a little smarter than them. Which is when I remember to put my daypack (and its contents of airplane peanuts) back in the car. And I pitch the tent. It is dark, dark here, bears or no bears. Also, it's very windy and about 36 degrees (that's 2 for Canadian readers). I sleep warm and safe, not having the first clue what is outside my tent flap beyond Andy's snoring in the Bronco.

"My, how he does go on..." click here for more

unat '04--Day Six (To the Skies!)

unfocused north american tour '04 Day Six: Lubbock, TX to Albuquerque, NM to Seattle, WA to Anchorage, AK (Western Airport Inspection)
Today's Mileage: 2,886 mi.Total Mileage: 3,721 mi.
Time in Transit: appx. 19.5 hrs. Total Time in Transit: 28 hrs.
Quote of the Day: "You're a Winner!"—Anonymous
News of Note: "County Commissioner Denies Sexual Harassment After Publication of [Unwanted] Love Letters to Assistant."—Albuquerque Journal(so why do I feel so dirty?)

I have a love/hate relationship with airports. I love their people-watching potential and the way they somehow facilitate easy conversations with strangers. I even enjoy the hyper-expensive food and drink. However, they have the fatal flaw of having airplanes in them. Airplanes I must board. An additional question: Am I the only one that thinks the TSA screening process resembles a dishwashing station at a busy restaurant?

•LIA: The hour in the Lubbock "International" Airport is distinguished by the fact that this is the only airport (including SeaTac, fer chrissakes) that I am forced to purchase evil Starbucks coffee. Also, the TSA guy lies to me ("I'm not searching you because you're on a one-way flight. We just pick people at random." Riiiight.). In Lubbock, I meet a very kind couple from Lubbock. "Rich" and "Joan" are a retired USAF couple that are going to visit their three sons in the Seattle area.

•ALB (two hour layover): On approach, I can pick out my elementary and middle schools in Tijeras (along with other childhood landmarks) and note from the air that my home town's gentrification appears complete ("Resistance Is Futile, You Will Be Assimilated"). After landing, I stroll out onto the top level of the parking garage to look around. Sandia Crest is shrouded in cloud and the West Mesa's line of McMansions resemble a shooting gallery. In the diner (while I enjoy a microbrew at 10:30 in the morning with my eggs), I must have seen more than ten presidential campaign ads in the span of an hour. Oh, to live in an Electoral College-swing state. I leave the diner (and my boarding pass) and return to the gate an hour early. There I have another nice sit-down with Rich and Joan.

Eventually, the inevitable "what do you do?" question surfaces and without thought I answer "a writer." This is a potential moment, a glimmer of possibility in those aforementioned expectations for this trek. Why? Because of my weak personality, that's why. Despite my protestations, I have spent the last eighteen years of my life attempting to define myself to others through 'what I do,' especially since the return to college and subsequent post-graduation unemployment. "I'm a [former] brewer/talk show host/restaurant manager/beekeeper/whatever" is always at the forefront of my response rather than the truth. Yet the one thing I've been doing for the last three months, writing, is consistently omitted from that response. Questions accompany this watershed moment: Do I really see myself this way? Is the fact that I have no need to impress these people that I answer this way? Or is it the only way I have left? When (If) I return, will this be a track to follow? Questions, mind you, not answers.

We queue up for boarding, and I realize that I've left that boarding pass behind. I get my mad dash through Albuquerque SunPort (a la O.J.). It was thrown away, of course, by the bus-lady (logically, they don't see many boarding passes in an airport diner). Turns out I don't need the damn thing anyway and we're off to...

•SEATAC (EIGHT hour layover):

Hour One—Call Cisco and whine about having seven more hours in SeaTac. Find a place to put your bags (Ken's Baggage Claim).

Hour Two—Try to find a way out of the labyrinthine, under construction SeaTac Airport (It's called a 'sidewalk' Mike, but if you'd rather wander through the rat maze of the parking garage, so be it. Reach "Roasters" Draft House tucked among the airport hotels.

Hour Three—Hang out with Pat, the bartender; Rob, the airline mechanic auditor and Hugh, the guy that just dropped his wife off. Tell a few stories. Hear a few. Enjoy an India Pale Ale (the boys and girls over at Snowqualmie make a fine IPA, by the way). Discover today's QOD. Apparently, business cards are the big thing at an airport draft house. Most of the tables have laminated business cards all over them, hundreds of them. Last night, someone used their cell phone to call every one of the numbers on the table and informed the appropriate voice mailbox that its owner had won $1000 from the restaurant. By two p.m. (PDT), Manager Bill had fielded ten calls from the "lucky winners" wondering when they could collect their grand.

Hour Four through Eight—Head back to the airport (much easier, now that I know the way). The tiny food court is empty as I write much of this. One table is full of retired germans telling gokes. Another table holds a young man stretched out in deep slumber (I worry about this guy. He was here when I left two hours ago. Did he miss his flight?). After a ten-dollar bowl of chili, I finish David Halberstam's War in a Time of Peace (at last) and try to nap.

PERSONAL AD--To the girl in four-inch heels and painted-on jeans in the SeaTac loading area, 9/21, late afternoon. Thanks for the plumber's crack. Y'know, the one your tattoo pointed to? Kinda icky, sweetie.

ANC: 12:30, Alaska Time (thus, I left Lubbock nineteen hours ago). I'll have to remember to write a check to Six Flags for the ride Alaska Air just gave me. Which was compounded by the droning of the freaky swinger girl in the seats behind me trying to hook up with the guy sitting next to her. Also icky. Andy, whose hair and beard are trimmed but still resembles that of John Walker Lindh is waiting. All luggage clears the journey. We drive across Anchorage to a friend's house where I bed down in the recycling/trash area of their kitchen. Blessed sleep. And the next (final and longest) leg to go.

"My, how he does go on..." click here for more

unat '04--Day Five (An Intermission)

Austin, TX to Lubbock, TX
Today's Mileage: 390 mi. Total Mileage: 835 mi.
TT: 7.5 hours TTT: 17.5 hrs.
QOD: None.
NON: Apparently they're selling really good beef at the O'Reilly Auto Parts Store in Brownwood, TX.

There's really only one way to sum up the first leg of the trip:

To My Friends (you know who you are)—You're all very smart and very funny and I often find myself filled with regret at underestimating you. At all times you're challenging (which I mean in a good way) and giving. The trip to Austin was not really about seeing the Pixies or Elvis Costello or anybody else for that matter. In my little head, I harbor the notion that this trip was probably the last chance to do something like this with you—all at once, that is (I happen to be one of those people that likes to have his friends in a herd). This leg of the trip was about satisfying my need for you. The heat that all of you radiate is an exponential factor of that bare, ACL sun (I think we can all admit that we sometimes generate more heat than light). I had four days to bask in it and I thank you for it.

On to Anchorage tomorrow.

"My, how he does go on..." click here for more

unat '04--Day Four

Andrew Zilker Park, Austin, TX
Today's Mileage: negligible Total Mileage: 445 mi.
TT: 1 hr. TTT: 10 hrs.
QOD: "PornStarch" –S.L. Sanderson, or, "Car Wreck! Hurt Myself!"—Mr. James Brown as interpreted by Jefe.
NON: None

At breakfast, I run into a meeting of the WWII China-Burma-India League. I can't resist hollering "Are there any "hump pilots in the room!" at them (which may have been unwise, given their advanced age). I get a wave. My grandfather was a member of CBI and I get pleasure that morning from being reminded of him. More huge weekend crowds wander toward ACL. Sunburns are in abundance. I've gotten lucky, with only one intense red strip where the collar of the "Pedro" shirt rubbed my excessive applications of SPF 30,000 off. Sherman has decided to forgo the sunscreen altogether today, proclaiming it an even match of "me versus the sun."

On My Being Middle-Aged At a Music Festival—One would expect my Outer Curmudgeon to intensify surrounded by the young people at this event. A reactionary response to the rampant drug use, the clothing, the wanton "WOO!"-ing. But instead many of these "kids" strike me as smart and able to view ACL in a centered context. As if to support my notion, most of the stupid things I see people doing are being done by those closer to my own age. Often I believe that distaste with those less advanced in age is a manifestation of jealousy on the part of the observer. "Youth wasted on the young," and all that. After spending a year returning to college, I find the moments that American Youth puzzle me more of an extension of my own ignorance than their insolence.

Oh, and my knees really hurt.

To MoFro and Mindy Smith—On the last day of ACL, I was afraid that I would not find anything new to stir me. Thanks for proving me wrong. MoFro can play any party I have in the future (when I'm a millionaire, of course). It was dirty, loud and appropriately funky. Ms. Smith has the potential to surpass Mary Chapin Carpenter. And sorry about your mom.

On Elvis Costello (not his real name)—He rocked. He made the crowd very happy. Jefe wonders if he's going to a costume party as the Joker after the show.

On Ben Kweller (shouldn't be anyone's real name)—Pleases half his audience with a half-hour solo 'emo set, then the other half with the fun of the new album and a band. And the entire audience muses on the talent of a fourteen-year-old.

To Wilco—Rehab or no rehab, Jay Bennett or no Jay Bennett, every live performance from Wilco sounds alike. Your last album informed me that you were done with the fans—allow me to reciprocate. Oh, and I didn't get the Yankee Hotel Foxtrot joke until today. Hooray for me.

On the Austin City Limits Music Festival—It's good to spend time with friends and a consistent barrage of quality live music. It's good to get some sun (though, perhaps the amount we got was medically dangerous). It's always nice to see Austin, be insulted by its residents and shell out sixty-four dollars for eight ounces of water. It was a pleasure to smell 215,000 other people. To boost my courage, I generally approach the Port-O-Sans on Sunday with the pluck of a National Institute of Health Emergency Team worker entering the Hot Zone. Yet with all these selling points (found on the ACL brochure if you know where to look) I had a great time and think that 215,000 other people did as well. It is important to note that the Austin American-Statesman reports that there were NO arrests the first two days. (Am I making a leap of coincidence that it took Sunday's arrival of Pat Green fans to finally give the cops something to do?) ACL is not only a test of your musical choice-making or your friends' patience but an actual physical trial—a concert fan triathlon, if you will. I may see Zilker Park for a day in September in the coming years. I doubt I will see it for a full three-day weekend ever again.

We return to the North Austin hotel for one final night. There we find: 1) That Mexican-American weddings are fun in any city (and LOUD); 2) My ex-girlfriend's brother is still an undependable goof (don't worry, John, Sherman isn't standing in front of the hotel anymore); 3) ESPN seems to have an aversion to showing the at bats of former Texas Tech Baseball standoutss on Sunday Night Baseball (sorry, Mr. Ginter) and; 4) the guy at the only other table at Bucca Di Beppo will NOT get laid tonight.

Tomorrow is half time for the journey (in spite of the fact that there are actually eleven days to go. The trip back tomorrow...on a very special episode of unat '04.

"My, how he does go on..." click here for more

unat '04--Day Three

Andrew Zilker Park, Austin, TX
Today's Mileage: negligible Total Mileage: 445 mi.
TT: 1 hr. TTT: 9 hrs.
QOD: "Is it humping me?" –M.L. Stephens
NON: "The 'Baby Girl' Look Hot in Japan"— Wall Street Journal

Today, in attempt to appear hip, I'll be wearing my "Vote for Pedro" shirt. I already saw one yesterday and will have anyone wearing one or commenting on the shirt sign it with Magic Marker.

We arrive at Zilker after improvising a parking space (as the Austin Contact's car remains there from the previous day, natch) and getting play-by-play of the Tech/TCU game from Jefe's transistor radio. The crowd arriving at the venue is already exponentially bigger than yesterday's (we'll learn later that this is the first sellout day for ACL, 17,000 strong). Dex and I break from the group (which now includes Kebig, Allison and other members of "Camp I Belong") to the SBC tent, where we watch much of the game on a television that sits next to another showing The Soundtrack of Our Lives performing live. Thus, the following notes:

On The Soundtrack of Our Lives—They would like to be U2, if U2 ate herring.

On Watching a Concert From a Tent About a Hundred Yards Away From the Actual Concert—It seems like cheating somehow, yet since I'm already hot, I don't really care.

On Clever T-Shirts— Having a proper amount of ironic disdain for the need to display an "individuating" message on your chest is, I'll admit, healthy (I am very fond of Kebig's shirt that simply reads "someone famous"). Nevertheless, as the bearer of one such message, I spend the day reading as many of these signs as possible. Maybe it's the amateur anthropologist in me. Maybe I'm just a dork. Nevertheless, there are many interesting messages. One that catches my eye: a cartoon of E.T. telling the late Elliott Smith that he's his "favorite Elliott." I find myself a little puzzled at the communist chic found on so many young people. Red stars, images of Mao and Che, etc. had a particular note when I was twenty-two and the war at hand was still cold. What could it possibly mean to them now? There is an overwhelming number of couture assaults on the Bush Administration (which, I suppose is to be expected in this "Most Important Election of Our Lives"). In fact, I believe largest number of people that express interest in my "Vote for Pedro" number aren't looking for a pop-culture reference, but instead have Nader and Kerry shirts on themselves. Many of them are closer to my own age, and I imagine them musing on where this mysterious 'Pedro' might stand on Capital Gains Taxes or handling the Iraqi Shiite insurgency. By the end of the day, I have twenty signatures on the shirt (some of which my excessive sweating has begun to fade) and spot nine other people stumping for Napoleon Dynamite's diminutive friend. One woman frets angrily to her husband (as she signs the shirt) that the idea wasn't an original one (I'm glad that I can help teach her this valuable McLuhanian notion).

Additional NON: "What's that sound, Daddy? It makes me sad." "That's Mr. Met, honey. He's crying for us all."—The New York Times sports column

On "Camp I Belong"—As with many large groups at festival concert settings, Kebig and company have elected to create a standard from which the group can find their location in an enormous crowd. Usually, the standard consists of a colorful flag or effigy by which sweat-soaked drug-addled nippies may locate their cache of bottled water and ecstasy. Here too, is a flag: a white banner labeled "FLAG," which flies over a series of mylar balloons (one of a horse, another urging the viewer to "Get Well Soon" and the lead character of the upcoming Pixar film, "The Incredibles," a lower case "i" stenciled on his chest. Throughout the day, I seem to find the location whereby the hot wind will blow the balloons and flag into my line of sight (or the back of my head). In a moment of frustration, I grab Mr. Incredible and decide to assault him with the Pedro Marker. After considering what to write on his chest below the "i," I decide on the self-effacing word "BELONG." Thus, the moniker (solely ascribed to the site by me) "Camp I Belong." By the way, the QOD was a direct result of the windblown horse. And it was humping me.

On the Old 97's—Still one of the best live bands from Texas and consistently getting better. Rhett Miller is also, for my money, one of the best songwriters in music, much less alt-country today.

On The Gourds—Still true to their mission statement. Still fun. Still VERY sweaty. Still no "Gin and Juice."

On Modest Mouse—My first time to see them live. I wish they'd play more of the old stuff I've heard on my brother's CD player, but they still meet your needs. Perhaps I spent too much time during their show needing to pee.

On Abra Moore—Still think she's the best thing to come out of Poi Dog.

On Dashboard Confessional—Still 'Emo. Still making me ask, "what's the point?"

To G Love—Where the f@%! were you? Shelby and Sherman were very disappointed. At least The Wailers showed up.

On The Pixies—There is no denying the old saw that sometimes the best thing a band can do for its legacy is to break up (although doing it by fax may be pushing it a bit far). Regardless, they were magnificent. Businesslike, the antithesis of intimate (I am skeptical at what level of intimacy I expected in a group of 17,000), but magnificent. This year's "Game-within-the-game" is a pool attempting to anticipate their opening song (no one wins). This is a much less cynical version of the game than last year's—an over and under on the number of times REM's Michael Stipe would rub his head (Jefe won).
Black Francis (or 'Tubby,' or whatever you want to call him) has made no bones in the press about the commercial necessity of this tour, but somehow I think that the crowd assembled couldn't give a shit. They're deserving of praise and worthy of the influence on music ascribed them. End of discussion.

Exhausted, we make our way back to the North Austin Motel. One more day in Park to go.

"My, how he does go on..." click here for more

unat '04--Day Two

Cisco, TX to Andrew Zilker Park in Austin, TX.
Today's Mileage: 231 mi. Total Mileage: 445 mi.
TT: 5 hrs. TTT: 8 hrs.
QOD: "Sweet Chocolate Jesus!"—S. L. Sanderson
NON: It is recommended that we not bring weapons, spiked jewelry or Komodo Dragons to ACL this year.—Today's Austin American-Statesman

We proceed to the Capitol City with an additional passenger: my enormous hangover, a seemingly bad idea while the various systems of my body are now officially at war with each other (the everpowerful endocrine system seemingly winning many of the battles). Despite forecasts to the contrary, we're greeted with cloudy weather on the drive down. Last year's festival was a balance between cool breezes and light drizzle, but this year we're warned that we'll find the hottest temperatures of the summer in Austin.

Solid planning by the rest of the crew results in a totally seamless hotel and parking transition while I continue to ignore the little voices in my head telling me to put a very sharp No. 2 pencil through my eye to stop the agony. This year, we're using the parking site our Austin contact has found to park Shelby's car near Zilker. We're trekking to the park by 12:30 and are right on schedule. A ticket snafu appears to slow me down when Dexter's skills of salesmanship saves the afternoon, and we're in. Now is usually the time the collective will break into differing groups based on musical taste, but we stay together for The Killers set (which shows solid musicianship without much showmanship. They may "got soul" but don't go to much effort to show it this early in the day. Maybe I shouldn't be to disappointed at their superficiality—they are from Vegas, after all).

Finally, the groups begin to break off. The crowd in the park is typically Friday Light. Little do we know that ACL will reach many of its capacity numbers by the time the weekend is over. As the afternoon wears on, Jefe and I see The Slip, The Pierces and a touch of Neko Case (who certainly bears distinction for being the first act I see at ACL without an article in their name, but doesn't live up to her hype). The heat is starting to make itself known. All of the group (which by this point has become Shelby, Sherman, Dex, Austin Contact & Jefe) reconvenes for Patty Griffin. In spite of the unnecessary play-by-play during the show, Patty does satisfy.

After a catching a couple from Broken Social Scene (I have a rule that I must hear at least three songs from an act in order to say I saw them at ACL), I have to make my way back to the parking place to meet my Dad. He's waiting there when I trudge up the hill, soaked in sweat and afraid he won't be able to get my stench out of his Audi long after I leave. We make a mad dash to Round Rock to catch what will eventually become the Express' final game of the season at the Dell Diamond.

Round Rock's transformation from lazy little town near Austin to enormous suburb (or exurb or whatever) is nothing short of staggering. As we make our way through overwhelming highway construction and the long line of Hooters, Chili's and Blockbusters to the ballpark, I can't help but simply see this as a Twenty-First Century extension of the company towns in the Deep South. Without the Tech Bubble (and the success of Dell beyond it), none of this happens. In essence, I see little difference between Birmingham or Coalwood in the 1930's and Round Rock or Plano today—The Big Mules of Industry have different haircuts but still make the same demands of their employees and still build around them. All that has changed for those employees is that Black Lung or Asbestosis have given way to Carple Tunnel Syndrome. The machine has become global, but the local impacts, the boomtowns, even the corporate ballfields remain. This, of course, is neither good nor bad. It simply is what it is.

The Express fans (including my dad) are a delight and I have the privilege of finally seeing someone attempt to steal home for the first time in my life (although I'm still confused at the decision). I reach the hotel long before the others (they're still attempting to find our Austin Contact's home so that they can pour her through the front door), finally get a blessed shower and fall asleep. Good day—music, baseball, friends and family. Not bad for an unemployed goofball, eh?

"My, how he does go on..." click here for more

unat '04--Day One

Lubbock, TX to Cisco, TX.
Today's Mileage: 214 mi. Total Mileage: 214 mi.
Time in Transit (TT): 3 hours Total Time in Transit (TTT): 3 hours
Quote of the Day (QOD): "Whoa, you workless piece of funky f@#!"—S. L. Sanderson
News of Note (NON): A large black metal sign affixed to a deer processing shop in Moran, TX offers "Hambugers" [sic]. Mmmmm.

By the lunch hour, Dexter, Shelby and Sherman (yes, many of my friends have unusual names, like B Movie characters) arrive in Shelby's Vehicle-That-a-Hotel-Salary-Pays-For and after a meal of al pastor-like meats, we head on to Cisco by 1:30. The QOD was a result of simple road rage (okay, it was only a case of road annoyance) on the part of Mr. Sanderson before we've even left the city limits. The trip is uneventful and my parent's place in Cisco awaits, where we find pasta, the family, hike the property and proceed to drink all the beer that Milwaukee (or Golden)can manufacture.

This evening, the boys learn not to play any games with my stepdad (he has a tendency to cheat). I personally learn never to play poker with Sherman—he cleans everybody at the table's clock. During the hike down to the creek, where there are bones and bass and laughter, I have a thought. It's funny, I came to Texas in 1980 as a pretty rural sort of person, yet my friends have generally known me in an urban context. I wonder it they can tell that I'm more comfortable here. Or maybe they think it's just the beer. We all fall asleep with the satellite 80's channel droning in the background 'til the wee hours. I wonder if I'll ever get Kim Wilde out of my pounding head.

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unfocused north american tour '04--Prologue

Prologue

There is something comforting about packing for two trips in one day. A feeling of preparedness that I've rarely experienced. Nevertheless, the first leg(to Austin City Limits Music Festival and back) and the second (to Anchorage for brother and back) are both planned, overplanned and need to be excecuted.

Sadly, I'm one of those individuals with expectations. At the onset of any new event in my life, no matter how small, I harbor hopes of lifechange or epiphany. Thus, as I begin to cover a travel line that stretches from the Texas Hill Country to the Arctic Circle and back, I wonder if I'll encounter the answers within to tackle new career choices or how better to improve relationships. Perhaps a chance meeting with Larry McMurtry (whom my step dad has already encountered and thinks is named Hilfiger) will put me on the trail of publication. I may develop Toquevillian insight into the American Experience by standing near the footsteps of heroes—undeserving and living (Elvis Costello) or deserving and dead (Lewis and Clark). New, wild beauty will ignite a previously undiscovered muse. On the trip I will learn to appreciate friends and family in new ways and express my appreciation.

But deep down I fear that all this trek will amount to is the coverage of nearly 10,000 nautical miles and nothing else.

So, while the trip unfolded, I would not call any of the moments epiphanic—it is a long way from the Road to Damascus to the AlCan. However, there are moments of remarkable clarity (to go with a few of abject terror and embarrassment) and choices will be made as a result. There were news items that would make The Onion editorial staff jealous, music that surprised or transported the listener and things people said that I don't want to forget. The wonder of wilderness and the prevailing generosity of strangers was unmistakable. The opportunities to step into history or watch it unfold presented themselves with staggering simplicity and surprising frequency.

So, as I do my best to bring it all back, I appreciate you're wandering along with me, such as it is. The itinerary is thus: Stage One: Lubbock to Cisco to the Austin City Limits Music Festival and back to Lubbock. Stage Two: Lubbock by air to Anchorage, AK. Stage Three: Anchorage back to Lubbock by car.

Packed yet? 'Cause here we go, day by day.

"My, how he does go on..." click here for more