The dirty mule

I opened the door of the idling 18 wheeler I had spent my last two days in and jumped with purpose from the lip of the frame. As I descended I scanned my surroundings and visualized my exact position on earth as it would appear to a great eye in the sky. On landing, a quick thought about how small I really am and how nothing really means anything anyway rips quickly through my head. It is dark, only the outline of a grand Eastern deciguous forest is apparent to my still adjusting eyes, I gave a sincere thanks to the trucker that had allowed me access to his lifetime of lessons learned and headed to my tree line to set up a home base for my upcoming explorations. Laying down for the night I entertained streaming dreams of food, fornication, and every primal desire that has been nearly eradicated from my life. In the morning poked my head out of a rapidly warming tent and stared down a purple sunrise recalling the nights feature attraction and justified my denial of those simple things I had given up in trade for new knowledge.

This new territory was intriguing it smelled like hasty progress, commotion and struggle. As I branched away from my home in the trees I was repeatedly stung with the reality of my new surroundings, I was an integral part of a hive that makes your local East coast truck stop one of the most interesting microcosms known to man, Ha Ha Ha! hitch hikers, truckers, prostitutes, cops, beggars, shoppers, thieves, attendants and hustlers. The dynamic is mind boggling, everyone looking for something different in this mad max mecca of debauchery. My attempts to avoid the mayhem reminded me of my childhood army games. Of course this time around I wasn't carrying my trusty squirt gun and my long unused hide and seek tactics only worked most of the time. When they failed the experiences were most definitely not easy to forget.

Exploring the East coast via hitch hiking was honestly one of the more difficult tasks I had undertaken since the beginning of my adventure. My rides came almost exclusively from truckers or police. The number of times I found myself in really bad neighborhoods was about five too many, of course I survived each time so maybe my badness meter was off a little. Equally scary were the times I found myself in neighborhoods far too decadent for the likes of me, these situations often leaving me on the brink of arrest due to the lethality of the tripod I carry with me. According to Ben my friendly New York police officer, it supposedly drew far to close a resemblance to a modern day rocket launcher? Alas, it was not all that bad, just challenging! I felt greatly privileged to be exploring a region that has over the decades helped spawn so many new degrees of freedom for “all” the people of America. Visiting the old world structures full of so much history and perseverance, engaging countless numbers of people, all of which were absolutely electric with the prospect of possibly electing a president that defied so many of the monotonous traditions we associate with modern politics. I can admit, I was actually feeling a little patriotic as I wandered through city after city full of historical significants. Seeing people doing! Not so much talking, but off of their couches working together to accomplish a unified mission. Kinda cool, politics aside.

Due to five Beautiful days of rain in Northern Virginia some of our computer gear has unfortunately taken on moisture. Regardless of precautionary measures that are "almost" always in effect my posts have been, well; non existent, as so many of you have so diligently noticed. Just to be clear I am alive and well, the computer is now fixed and we will continue our adventures as planned.

As a side note; I have received an overwhelming quantity of emails from loyal readers out there. I would love nothing more than to respond to each one individually as I have tried to do in the past. Time simply has not allowed me that opportunity and on that note, "no pun intended" Please forgive my recent silence.

A very special thanks and three very big hugs go out to Regina Smith, Dara Jezierny and Colette Henderson for stepping up and saving the day. Someday I hope to repay your kindness ten fold but in the meantime lets leave it to Karma, bless you all.

I have always been a fan of spice. When an adequately trained cullenist puts a delicate touch to a dish, it can sharpen humble food into a masterwork fit for kings and queens, which of course I am in my naive imagination. At least some days I am, and others...well, some days must simply be marked "other," a lame attempt at salvaging my drunken dreams of faultless nutriment. This weeks escapades were to be nearly faultless, except that to my wonderment I find myself refined like a simple sauce and served up as the dish of the day. Of course, all respects to the chefs, but I felt as though the flavoring used in this masterwork was although perfectly paired to the main course, a tad heavily spiced for my refined tastes.

Officially halfway around North America a new set of challenges gradually unfold as my wanderings inch ever closer to the Atlantic. The new atmosphere is affirming...You must adapt or be still. So quickly, I conform knowing that I must, if I want to move down the road with any efficiency. The anatomy of catching a ride among other details must change drasticly, stepping out on the freeway setting up shop and expecting people to stop is now, unlike past days...silly. My directional sign with a smile simply wont do on congested roadways ruled by absent minded motorists on missions. The answer a logistical one in my mind...Every day thousands of over worked, hungry, and habitually tired truckers across the country depart from filthy fuel stations, and greasy spoons turned halfway house and head in every direction conceivable. Most of these truckers distribute loads from one end of our continent to the other, and should be happy to have someone to talk to while they work, like myself! Sounds like a match made in heaven...right? Well not as perfect as you might think, but it works out. An interesting role these men and woman of the road play and we should all know it, these champions of the road bring us all of our precious "things," wherever we may be. But what they bring me today is something entirely different, an opportunity to move very long distances through the intimidating urban sprawl of the North East, in relatively short amounts of time. So I quickly learn the etiquette of the friendly freeway truck stop, and capitalize!

So how exactly does a peaceful stray such as myself find himself the overly flavored main course on a buffet line of buffoonery? Well, my first ride in the big rigs nets me a meager 1000 miles; from Billings, Montana into the shiny metropolis of Minneapolis, Minnesooota. It is here, in this converted kitchen of middle America that a spicy dish of Republican National Convention is being served up in substantial portions. Ohhh Mike, what have you wandered into this time...? Lets be clear, It was an absolute privilege and pleasure to shuffle myself and entourage, into a sea of 10,000 peaceful, planned protesters, marching to their cause of the day. Ye ha!!! Right? Well not really. Not that I mind being in proximity to these faithful Americans as they exercised their freedom of speech, but I have always thought that this attention getting technique is, while understandable generally a fruitless affair in the end. But today I foolishly resolve that this bit of dissent could be an exceptional bit of footage for my movie, so I join the countless journalists, amateur photographers, and newscasters standing street side to document the proceedings.

The emotion in the air is one of exclusion, I can feel the separation that lingers between the mob and their opposition. The polarity of Ideas and belief now being whittled down to a confrontation, the energy lays patiently, waiting for its moment, like a lightning bolt in a box it cannot be contained. The mob believing that it is their right to be there in rejection of the show of force, the opposition amping up for that instant the dissidents blow through the carefully contrived conceptions of what is O.K and what it means to go to far. Standing in neutrality I decide that these two forces had been doing a pretty decent job of allowing each other to exist, regardless of the tension and angst pulsating from within, but surely this kind of energy wont stand up to the test of time, I can feel it. And the moment comes, like gods voice over the radios of grenade clinching, club popping cops in limbo. THE PROTEST ACROSS THE CITY IS OUT OF HAND, never mind where exactly. IT JUST IS! In hundreds, the shield wielding fleet of night draped shepherds move in unison to master their flocks, they begin manipulating the pulsing mass with shields as if to imply, DISPERSE! The mob acknowledges the prods with a myriad of responses, some sitting, some yelling, some running. I simply maintain my spot to the side in quiet fortitude, running my camera and shaking my head at what I would call typical responses from both sides, all of them caught in the intensity of the moment. As events unfold, escalation becomes the monument to which everyone bows and the day becomes dark as a superior force unleashes their tools of destruction. The mob is now carved down to simple die hards and martyrs wishing to roar to the world what moves them and you know what happens next, heads are bashed, smoke envelops everything, and reduction of pepper flows freely in the eyes of all who find themselves within a half mile of the mayhem. What one could not have known is that the direction of violence was now rolling like heavy freight into the media section where I sit in supposed safety. Through my sub conscience I am made immediately aware of my appearance, my cargo pants, and looming backpack full of god knows what? They essentially manifest a target on my back, I defuse my pending predicament by calmly placing my hands above my head and attempt to explain my position as they converge. After unloading the contents of my bag I am asked to relinquish the contents of my camera under threat of sure handed violence, by a shield faced boy at least 5 years my junior. I, unlike many of my neighboring camera holders oblige and was sadly gratified by my decision, as camera fall to the ground and I watch frenzied cops haul kicking and screaming members of the media to their new confinements. I walk off half blind and awestruck at the retardation I had just witnessed. I quickly found the nearest hydration station and closed my day washing the remnants of spices gone awry from my enraged eyes.

Having had my fill of city life I clamored back to safety and staked myself out at the nearest truck stop oasis in the area and posted up for the night and a glorious night it was. Sitting in deep thought, slightly itchy, still trying to swallow the serrated pill I was forced fed early in the day. I was forced to ponder the state of things as they were. I began the long process of untangling the numerous questions now fittering through my overly seasoned brain. What do you say about such an experience? I escaped with the realization that we should all be questioning our status as "citizens." What is a citizen? What rights do we have? Do we watch as our fellow commoners are attacked by protectors? What if I were out there for something I believed in? Should these atrocities go unpunished? Do I live in a free society? These are questions that I know the answer to. Do you?

I suspend the meaning of life in front of my nose like uncatchable prey, again chasing illusions of purpose and purity. Same story, find it, loose it, find it again, loose it, like a child with a new pet I repeatedly find novel satisfaction with my transient achievements, I ask myself... will you let it end? My answer a flaccid, No. I desire this game, and my surroundings only encourage me and my toying. They bait me with these enthusiastic exploits, perfectly willing playmates, and whispering landscapes. Alaska is my new playground, and the air is pulsating, raw, ripe with providence.
These are my conditions as I stagger into my home town of Anchorage Alaska, boots beaten, bag ragged, 3 months of strain showing through without discernment. The condition of my tools are at their worst, at the absolute brink, they are ready to submit to their fate as landfill. Me, and my gear are again in desperate need of restoration, Keeping with what has become a fortunate tradition, my many needs were again fully met. This time it is my steadfast family that offers an understanding hand, my father and sister both opened their homes and put their skillful hands to use helping to rebuild each of my instruments of survival one stitch at a time. All of my downtime enthusiastically filled by my younger brother with as many mini adventures as he could compress into 24 hour day.

My core rejuvinated with as much laughter and love as I could possibly endure it was time to conjure up all my restless energy's and start thinking Easterly. As I chewed on thoughts of my next trek to the Atlantic, I could not have known that a monster of sorts was slowly creeping into the waiting wing of my future. 30+ft long, army green in color, and smelling of french fries. What? Yeah, french fries. So it wasn't really a monster, but the way people stared at the thing you would have thought it was carrying a nuclear warhead. This misunderstood giant was actually a bus, its contents comprised of one captain, Lucas Sweeten of Kentucky and co conspirator, Andrea Boisclair of the Yukon. The mechanical beast was a 15 year old school bus, gutted and rebuilt to fit the lifestyle of its master pilot Lucas. A 25 year old, veteran of the united states military, this Iraq war vet was in an intense chase for an absolute escape from forced apathy of his previous occupation. His passenger Andrea on board for the shear excitement of unknown adventures to come, was riding along and played the role of giggle master and chef. The bus had been built to the exact specifications of Lucas with multiple intentions including, self sustainability, escape from dependence, and adventure. Its electrical power came from a perfectly assembled solar panel that very efficiently collected and stored the free rays of sun. The fuel that moved the apparatus was derived from vegetable oil that had been easily collected from every greasy spoon and burger joint that was lucky enough to have its blackened junk oil hauled off for free. The contents that filled the moving clubhouse included motorcycles, canoes, and musical instruments among many other carefully chosen tools of exploration. Stepping on board for the first time was simply a pleasure, the feeling in the air was that of struggling freedom. These were my people, I could relate to their condition, trying in vain to escape the inescapable. This was the greatest attempt I had seen to date by a member of my generation, and it made me proud to be included. These were not the x-box superheros that make up the majority of my socially declining peer group. Exploration of body, mind, earth was the quiet mantra that vibrated through each of us while we basked in unison at the presence of like minded individuality. Sunrises were spent lazily in drawn out slumber, our dreams only penetrated by slicing rays that peeked through blinds into our green time capsule. Days spent in all manner of unregulated activity, excluding only the mundane routines forced on our forgettable pasts. Sunsets spent on top of our mobile house enjoying a bond of silent interconnectivity while the sun dipped below glacier spiked mountains.
Not in a hurry we slowly made our way East to the town of Whitehorse, a completely secluded artistic outpost in the middle of the Yukon, and home to Andrea the giggleing caretaker. We pulled our fantastic green unit into the yard of her house, opened the door and festivities erupted simultaneously. The yard we were temporarily occupying was also called home to a handful of wanderers from every corner of the world. They filed from tents that littered the yard, and converged on the bus with beer, music and, stories. This was only the beginning, of what would turn into 7 nights of solid convergence on our small little corner of Whitehorse. The time I spent indulging in this unity was special to me, I was accepted like family into this community and was touched to see the blind interconnectivity between so many displaced strangers. Some of which had simply walked into the yard because it looked like fun, others who lived in that yard, and even more that called the inside home. Night after night performers from every imaginable walk of life would share their talents for all to enjoy, and although the group was comprised primarily of starving artists a nightly feast would secretly manifest itself from nothing and nowhere. All empty bellies were filled.

Leaving was inevitable, both me, and Lucas had pressing business in the East, like wandering and other critical nonsense. So sadly we said good bye to the countless individually amazing people we were exposed to, and departed East. From here the adventure continued to blossom into one of the most picturesque migrations I have had the pleasure to partake in since the inauguration of my recent migratory status. It began anew at the hands of a maestro named Sam, a curious stranger that entered our lives only a day before departure, and vanished just as quickly, but not before he handed out a beautiful present. It was a gift that has been passed through the hands, and minds of countless world defining thinkers, artists, and lucid dreamers for a thousand years in variant forms. I will only say that it long ago influenced my life to the core, it usually comes in brilliantly designed small paper squares, and is ignorantly criminalized by fools. Enough said? If thats not enough information for you, remove your helmet, screw your thinking cap on and write me directly, or do some objective research on your own time. We utilized our sacrament to its fullest, said our goodbyes, amassed 65 gallons of veggie oil, and hit the road. Having so recently blown the dust off our brains, the days through Northern Canada sparkled with brilliant infallibility. Only our physical bodies requested further restoration from the week of saturated goodness. Lucky for us nature satisfied every conceivable want with acres of natural hot springs, berries and mushrooms, and spring water. Through our time together an accord was come upon by Lucas and I, we both figured it was only logical that our uniformly lost souls should reunite in the future with a greater goal. So it has been agreed, Lucas will be joining me on the hike through South America later this winter, sooo. Everybody say hi to Lucas!

I sit cross legged on the cold pavement of an empty road in silent reflection. I examine the vastness of the snowcapped mountain ranges, peering at me from every direction. My imagination provides me a picture of great eye's fixed atop each jagged point, every one a towering overlord piercing me with a ray of cold benevolence as I deliberate. I am certain that a true border has been crossed. Not that imaginary line in the dirt, guarded by each half of the North American continent with outposts and machine guns. This border is built of solid granite peaks, some of them 2 miles high with a true view of the world below. Trees that have stood for ages, witnesses of the cruelest cycles the planet could muster. Water- so furious that in-depth exploration remains an impractical dream in the minds of those who would dare. This is the great white North! In my view, beginning midway through British Columbia, it extends North through Alaska. The environment is as diverse through this corridor as the rest of North America combined. Rain forest, Arctic, Wetlands, Deserts...among others.
This section of the road was to be my biggest challenge; I had known this from the start. At least my sign would be easy, "North" should do the trick. I was scooped up almost immediately as is the way of things amongst our friendly neighbors to the North. The man behind the wheel was Trevor, a man on a mission- a mission for mom. "Mom" had been through the storm of a lifetime - the unexpected death of her soul mate. Almost simultaneously, she had been diagnosed with cancer - for the third time! To top things off, she had been forced to evacuate the island paradise that her husband and she had built in the shadow of the majestic Queen Charlotte islands. Together they had shared a fairytale existence of simplicity, sharing space along side its first inhabitants, the Tsimshian Indian tribe, of the first nations. Danielle, "mom", had raised her family in the temperate rain forest environment living off of the land. They made a modest living harvesting the bottom of the sea. They hunted everything from abalone, and geoduck to sea cucumbers. Now Trevor had charged himself with helping her make the transition off the island to an unfortunate trailer in the city. Yet again, sitting in the truck, I found my sense of direction waning . Logic was telling me to head North. I really needed to be in Alaska soon, before the weather turned, and here I was again flirting with the idea of another side excursion. I could not resist though. This was a family in need and I was in a position to help. I offered my services to Trevor and quickly found myself headed 700 miles directly west of the only road to Alaska. I was greeted in Prince Rupert B.C. by a woman in grieving over the massive upheaval that had just been handed to her. When I stepped through the door of the trailer that we were to restore for Danielle, I was manhandled (woman-handled?) with a sincere embrace that lasted an easy 30 seconds. Trying her best to express gratitude at my unexpected arrival she sobbed and whispered thank you until I could feel the tears welling in my own eyes. She didn't think twice that I was a strange, dirty, hitchhiker from America. She only saw me for what I was at that moment, a person willing to help. Trevor and I spent the next week tearing down the water damaged trailer, and then systematically rebuilding everything back to new. The next mission was to take a boat to the island that had been home for so long, and remove all of her earthly possessions in preparation for the big move back to the trailer. I was fortunate in the fact that once all of the the work was complete, I was generously rewarded with an introduction to some of the finer things that island life had to offer. "Bounty" and "beauty" are the words that come to mind when I think about the rewarding events that culminated our mission. We caught and cooked at least one of every living thing in the ocean, and cooked it island style. Salmon, halibut, prawns, clams, crab, sea cucumber, shellfish, berries, etc, etc. In addition to seeing and tasting my way through the islands I was blessed to develop some very real, and lasting friendships with these people of the sea. Before I left this fantastic land of natural beauty and richness, I was given very special parting gifts that will stay with me for life as treasures that accompany a story that I will never be able to forget. One of the gifts was a ticket on a boat headed straight for Alaska. Another was a hand knitted coat of many colors that I'm told once belonged to the saltiest, most cunning sea captain in the world; Captain Dan Pollock. So, in respect for a life lived without fear, and always on the edge of a wave, we remember those that have passed before us.