Northeast Part 3: Comedy of Errors.

Doris turned westward towards the White Mountains. Much of the same here, rain and clouds and beautifully rising mounds of granite and pine. We rolled into Woodstock and found a campground with a spot right next to a spring fed brook. Did some exploring of the local area and settled in for the long, cold night. I had my eyes set on the Franconia Ridge for the following day, just hoping the sky would dry out and raise up a couple thousand feet to make that possible.

But it was not to be. Reports of sleet on top of the ridge, a 70+ mph wind, and it only being 5am did not bode well. Two hours later it did not look like the storm was going to be lifting, so we set off for Ben & Jerry’s in Vermont. Two and a half hours later we arrived. It didn’t look like they flat out sold ice cream there and I didn’t want to leave Eins in the car for a tour, so we headed back. Some quick research led me to Rumney Rocks where I climbed around for a bit before calling it quits. Drove back into Woodstock and saw the clouds high and sparse in the sky. I clenched my teeth and drove back out to Franconia. The perfect play of light and shadow on the mountainsides, the ridge looking clear as can be. Checked the weather and it still had a grim outlook on the temperature, but the clarity and the photos I missed. I’m still bitter about that. Next time. Next time.

Headed to Vermont again, this time Newport, about five miles from the Canadian border. Stumbled around the lakeside for a while and got my oil changed since I was early. Called up my cousin and we met to exchange a growler of beer for lunch. If you’ve ever wondered what an outdoorsman looks like, look no further, ladies and gentlemen;

That right there is the epitome of getting out and doing shit. This guy leads an interesting story, and I’m definitely going to keep tabs on how it all plays out. We headed back down to the docks, had some food and exchanged stories. We parted and I headed back towards the Gunks, to see a bit more of New Paltz.

Except for me, there’s not much to see. I grabbed a delicious burrito and moped along the streets for a bit, dissatisfied with the general atmosphere surrounding the town. Or maybe it wasn’t the town. Maybe it was me. Two weeks of rain and clouds and fog. I still saw plenty, but I didn’t get that…that vista. I decide to cut it a day short, see Niagara falls, then head home. One last pin on the map, a good one, of powerful, rushing water slamming down hundreds of feet and culminating in a deafening roar. Something for my eyes to drink in aside from flashing white dashes and the consistent drone of asphalt.

Fuck.

I barely made it to a gas station in Buffalo then put the spurs to the steed as we shot out into northeastern Ohio. Then I caught sight of the lake. I could feel it coming at me. The trees shielding the interstate did not have the continuous green aura flanking them. It was a blue haze that assured my mind there was nothing behind them but freedom, but openness. And then I saw it, that vast body of water with no end in sight. It’s the same heart stuttering moment as when I see the ocean or a colossal mountain range.

It has always mystified me, the descriptions of natural wonders, of sights that would cause a person’s mind to seize. How the lone hero crests the summit only to have their breath taken away by the valleys that lay before them. How the waking mind witnesses that first sunrise over the waters of an eternal sea and fails to comprehend the distance of that void. That sense of peace.

I don’t feel that. I don’t think I ever have. I want to scream, scream, scream at it. I feel the air in my lungs beg to explode past my lips. I want to shout down the oceans and the trees and the mountains. I don’t want to revel in silence. It strangles me not to laugh and jump and point and desire and yearn. A  pure culmination of frustration and agony and ecstasy. 

If I could, I would rip open my chest, pry back my ribs, and begin to stuff handfuls of leaves and moss and dirt and bark and insects and rocks and stuff it into that bleeding wound, then drink that briny beautiful seawater until I choke and overflow and puke it all out. To be left a ragged, panting husk of a human being on my hands and knees, consuming and consumed. I want to scream. Anger for having not seen it before, anger for leaving it, joyous for being able to witness it.

I want to choke on it.

Northeast Part 2: It's a mixed bag at this point.

Rose with the morning sun and headed to the tip of New Jersey, found a park in South Amboy. Got a pork roll with egg and cheese, walked around the park a few times, and watched yet another storm roll in from the west. Sat in the car for about 5 hours. Didn’t want to blast into Brooklyn with no place to be and no place to park.

 2 o’clock hit and we started over the bridges. I love driving in New York City. People are moving. You need over? Get the hell over! Just don’t dick around with it. I found the hotel amidst the rain, room’s not ready and the elevator’s out. Got a parking pass and strolled around the damp streets for a while, seeing what’s to be seen. Eins has a bit of difficulty since her paws got torn up by the ever present sand and pine needles of the Barrens. Got up to the room around 4pm, I showered and kissed the pup and took to the streets. I’d had pierogies on the mind. Absolutely delicious and worth the wait.

I stumbled across a bar right around the corner from my hotel and invited myself in. Started up a conversation with the kid sitting next to me. Turns out he’s a baker from San Antonio who’d just moved to NYC. We bullshit and drink for a good three hours and then in she walked like it wasn’t no big deal. I popped up and accosted Anna with the best hug I could muster. I make introductions to the baker, we talk about poop for a while and catch up on reality. 

Then trivia starts and evidently we’re just going to nerd it up as best we can. K’urimja rides again, at least for a 9pm bar trivia night. We played strong and drank stronger. That sweet McCallan rode in waves past my lips as I refused to believe the discrepancies between the possible answers for “what two animals is Odin associated with.” I could’ve fight that either way, but we got it regardless. I probably made an ass out of myself enough with bringing up stupid semantics like that. I thank Anna for coming out and having a round or two with me and we make plans for the next day. I got back to the hotel, climbed the eight flights of stairs, and buried my face in the first mattress I’d felt in almost a week.

Morning came, dog walked and fed and I packed my shoes and stepped into Brooklyn Boulders for about two hours. Amazing variety and setup. Bouldering is the right way to go, any top or lead only has about 30 feet, if that. Took my first Subway ride up to Whitehall St. The doors opened at the next to last stop and on walked Anna, doing her best “ignore all the crazy people” routine. So of course I sat down right next to her and stared until she noticed. It took some coaxing, she was committed.

We climbed out of the subway and took to the streets underneath the towering skyscrapers. Our feet took us to Stone Street for a round or two and some food. Had bone marrow for the first time. Anna oversold it. But I tried it. I get filled in on all the details of drama and Miami. Stomachs stuffed and livers primed we strolled down to the pier, then back on the subway for a proper view of the skyline. She took me up to the roof of her building and I could not believe the ever present view from the top. If it were a choice, I would be up there every possible moment. Ariel photography is good or even stuff taken from out in the bays, but being able to see the enormity of Manhattan at eye level? Uncomparable.

Wandered up the street and had a few more beers and some wings. I eat up every word we discuss. It’d been a while since I’d had the chance to just pour out my head and have that returned. Decisions and outcomes discussed, possibilities and encouragement lain out bare. I’m not sure why, but I am continually surprised and impressed by the people who’ve managed to worm their ways into my life. Definitely going to try and keep a few of them around.

The beer is finished, the route home planned, hugs exchanged, and another promise to not make it so long between visits. I watched her walk off and smiled. It’s going to be a fun life for that one.

I slept. I drove up West Ave along the bay, seeing and smelling and feeling everything. I landed in the Gunks. Carried Eins up some stairs, did a lil soloing and scared myself a bit more than I possibly should have. I’m just glad the dog was around. She keeps me leveled. I got drunk in my hammock and read Kerouac until the light was too low. That was the right place to be.

We barreled up towards Maine the next day. I tried to see Sleepy Hollow cemetery to get some grave rubbings, but Thoreau fucked me over again, that cheap bastard. They’ve turned the entire area into a wildlife preservation site so no dogs allowed in the area. I will go back again, sans pooch, and piss on his grave. False representations are fine, until you’re lauded for them. Ugh.

Slipped back onto the road, and took the scenic route up through Maine. It was cold and rainy, as it has been most of the trip. Still didn’t stop me from appreciating the view and smell of the ocean. Doris trundles through fishing town after fishing town, yards absolutely littered with lobster cages stacked ten high and probably fifty deep. We got into camp late, but it was a quick setup and Eins was entertained by the local fauna.

Regained consciousness in the misty morning and went down to the seawall. Drove around the quietside of Acadia to scope out places for us to explore then had breakfast up in Bar Harbor. Wonderful pancakes with even better syrup. We started up Acadia Mountain shortly after 8:30. Five minutes up the hillside and it began to pour and did not stop for over an hour. With soaked dog and pack, we scrambled up the rocks and roots to see the beautiful non-overlooks the hillside had to offer. It was still a wonderful hike, and definitely reaffirmed my notions that maybe, just maybe, Eins is tougher than she looks. Maybe.

Got back to camp as the sun peaked out and the clouds began to clear. My timing has never been more perfect. Dried clothes out the roof of the car. Had some haddock from a gas station. Freshest fish I’ve ever had. Took a short 2 mile loop hike out on the southern point, saw the world’s shortest light house, then skirted back around the island on dirt roads. Acadia is picturesque, and I will definitely come back, hopefully to sail on some schooners and eat some lobster. We shall see.

Northeast Part 1: Never gunna see da sun.

I sat out front of a coffee shop on an overcast day. I took a sip from the cup in my hands. Bitter. I had tried to add some sugar but my hands were trembling too much for me to land any in the cup. Ended up spilling a bit of coffee down my hands. Off to my usual great start I suppose. I took another sip. In through the nose, out through the mouth, you’re where you’re supposed to be. Mantras are fine for show, but it’s rare if they have any blow. Worth a shot now and then.

I spent the next two hours chatting with this beautiful girl who laid out the wonders and excitement of South America. Treks through the jungles, ruins long forgotten, camping on the icepacks in the mountains, unexpected friendships. Food and music and people. I could see the colors and the joy that the country has left imprinted in her eyes. She told me the beginnings of her affair with the southern hemisphere, of how the office lifestyle left her thirsting for more, and how two months turned to four turned to eight. I could feel my jaw begin to slacken and my heart begin to thrum against my ribcage. I was then and still am currently amazed at the amount of work, patience, and confidence that allowed her put her footprints all over a country for that long. Her voice carried such determination. Such power.

Our time ran out as the rain began to leak out of the sky. We smiled and hugged, and parted ways. I looked over my shoulder as I stepped into my car. “God damn,” I said in a short breath. I looped back to my apartment and snagged the dog. We set off with the rainstorm filling our sails, towards the eastern lands. The rain carried us all the way to the mountains, and left us as we entered the first tunnel through the green hillsides. We came out on the other side amidst a full blown torrential flood, the most potent sections of the storms caught in this bowl between the hills. Rain and wind battered our vessel, but trusty Doris stayed true to course, and led us through the winding countryside.

I drove for hours despite the late start. Some things are well worth the delay, and my mind chewed on the lands to the south. Scenarios and possibilities flooded into being, harried by the demanding rain on the windshield. How could someone? How could I? What’s gained? What’s lost? What’s worth?

One of the beautiful parts of driving along in the foggy paths through the middle Pennsylvania hills is that you have nothing but time, time to turn things over in your head. Time to be brutally honest with yourself. Fantasies and heartwarming back patting are the enemy. They occupy, but do not achieve.

So we drove on, water spitting off of the rear tires and headlights blazing a trail up and around and closer and closer to somewhere. I wasn’t going to make it to my scheduled stop, but luckily there are campgrounds dotting the landscape with after-dark check-in hours. We stop, I eat, and sleep until the wee hours of the next morning.

I woke up to the absolute gray of eastern Pennsylvania. All the way to Lehigh the visibility was low, like some monster of mist and water was refusing to be pulled off of the lush landscape, its hooks set deep into the flesh of the flooded valleys. I woke up too early, and we arrived in Lehigh too soon. 

Took a two hour detour to Scranton, battling the mists the whole way until the car set along a downslope long enough to come crashing out of the clouds like a pastel blue thunderbolt. We looped back after refueling, heading ever up into the unknown.

We arrived back in Lehigh and caught our train. We chugged along in the drizzle and the wind, watching the scenery roll by at a decent pace. I watch with a broad smile as the passing attendants shower Eins with affection. I remember my plans for a train ride where I can let my feet dangle from the caboose or hop between cars as we hurtle over trestles and wind our way through mountains or desert. There was a comforting way the steel horse sways along its rails. It was easy to see how one could get addicted to this method of locomotion.

We pulled into the station with the engine groaning to stop us from overshooting the platform. Eins and I packed back into Doris and set off ever eastward, not escaping the clouds until we were clear into New Jersey. Toll roads set the funding back a bit, but we arrived at Brendan T Byrne right on schedule. Got the hammock hung and it began to sprinkle right as I tried to start making dinner. I retreated to cover and waited out the torrential storm, reading and bullshitting around for a while.

Woke up early, headed to Camden and waited for the cemetery gates to open. Saw Whitman’s house, went down by the harbor, dicked around. Drove through Harleigh for a bit, tracking down the man’s grave. He’s tucked in the western corner, near the pond. It’s a very stark mausoleum, nestled into a hillside, and definitely not what you would picture the self-designed resting place of possibly one of the cockiest writers to have lived. It was perfect.

Moved camp down to Wharton for two days. We found a trail to hike in the Pine Barrens. Unfortunately, this is about the only one. Snuck off into the woods on another roadside to find a ghost town. Only the foundation of the grist mill remains. Plenty of ticks and brambles though. Said fuckit and decided to see the ocean and I gassed it out to Long Beach just for a photo or two. Life is strange when you’ve got nothing better to do.

Bullshit math equations, your highs and your lows...

Kick the tires and head West into the wind. Tires of the car roll over the stuttering pavement through Indiana, clear on past Illinois, and into South Dakota. We stop for the evening, set up camp, and drift off into the cool evening air. 

Roused by the birds starting off their day in the loudest way possible, took a stroll through the settling morning fog, and then blazed a path across the highlands and hills. 

The car barreled along into the headwind doing eighty, stopping only for fuel and bladder relief. A full day of driving and we shuddered into Gillette, parked, and began the gossip. A tour, a graduation, a family dinner, and a fight over the check. Good times, good times.

Missed Mom’s flight out of Wyoming, a good hug in the morning, and off the dog and I went to the South. Not bad country to drive through. Not as remotely blissful as the desert, but not near as bad as cruising through the monotonous rolling interstate and highways of the flyovers. Tons of giant turbines line the roadways and the hills, churning along in their slow, agonizing circles, harnessing as much of the wind as possible. It's impressive to see so many of them rising above the horizon or receding in the rear view. A short fourteen hour drive to Amarillo later and we were parked and tucked into a hotel room with too much window glass in the parking lot and too much hair in the bathroom sink. But there was air conditioning and we had hit 90 degrees and rising. I found a bar and had myself a few. Slept well and plowed into Austin the next day.

Delicious pork tacos with the boyo, he demands I catch up on Game of Thrones and we do. Then it’s off into the city with earnest. Rainey Street District, getting drunk on other people’s porches, we find ourselves caught up in vodka and cheap beer. Stories and woes and triumphs and general desires for a standard of life are exchanged. This is why I keep the friends that I have. We push the limit even further as we walk down the street, the alcohol fueling our steps and hindering our speech. Once he starts spitting flow I know it’s probably time to call it a night. Ethiopian taxi driver picks us up and carts us home. What a night.

Wake up smiling, feed the dog, and try to decipher an e-mail from myself. Deer and fear and leer, I should probably remember to include some context next time. Still curious about that one. Brandon wakes up and it’s off we go. Long lines for barbeque but I’m promised it’s the best I’ll ever eat. It’s passable, but I’ve got to have him try some Fatbacks sometime. Hydrate a bit then off to the next destination out in hill country. Beautiful streams and falls and caves you don’t exactly equate with the notion of the hellhole that is the greater part of Texas. Hell of a treat. 

Spend the next few hours being assholes on the lake. What a hell of a day. Grab pizza at a bar and a few beers. At this point I figure there’s no way I’m keeping the weight off and commit to stuffing my face. Another bar, another beer. Some jackass with a trombone and a faint grasp of rhythm toots along at the back of the bar. We excuse ourselves to the patio and after almost three quarters of our libations admit that we may have done it too big the night before. Such sleep awaits.

I bust through his door in the morning, we exchange our goodbyes and promise it’s not going to be another five years. I head back home, through the torrential downpour and slide into Arkadelphia easy as can be. 

Give my hugs, promise I’ll be back the next day, and head up to Norman. Easy driving and I crash in my bed with the fury of a thousand koalas on ambien.

I spend my time wisely, cleaning, visiting, almost pulling an abdominal muscle laughing. I start to remember good things. I remember the how-do-you-dos and thank-yous so prevalent. I start to miss some things.

Another day with some catharsis, another visit and sweet good-byes and a promise to be back as soon as possible. 

I sleep. I push the car towards the North. And we are done for a few days.