Location: Pacific Beach, California
Miles: 7994.1
I was sitting at Good Time Charlie’s, having lunch and catching up on three months worth of mail, when the call came. It was Amy, just off work and calling to see what I was up to. When I told her where I was, she said (more or less) “Great! There’s a laundromat near there. I’ll put my stuff in and then join you. I’ll be right over.”
After finishing my lunch and separating the wheat from the chaff as far as the mail was concerned, I moved from table to bar and from iced tea to beer as I waited for Amy to show up. My phone rang again. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” she promised. Forty-five minutes later she showed up. While the washers washed and the dryers dried she and I called some of the rest of the ol’ gang and agreed to meet at Tiki. While we were still at GTC’c Bevins called from Tiki asking where the heck we were. “We’ll be there in ten minutes,” Amy promised. There was no way in hell we were going to be there in ten minutes. Welcome to Amy Time.
While Amy got the last of her laundry I parked my car by her house and was done driving for the day. Rather than wait for her to show up, I just walked over the bar, stopping to recruit Bad Bobby who was sitting in his customary position watching passers-by from the patio at The Tavern. It was a nice day for a walk; it was a sunny day but the sea breeze was nice and cool.
Tiki is a pleasant bar, dark and cozy. The first time I went in there I looked around and said to myself, “If I had a bar, it would be a lot like this.” It is small and narrow, and when there is a band in there it can be pretty crowded. (Tiki Dave does a good job booking music. Some fairly famous bands played there back before they got big. Or so I’m told.)
An hour later Amy arrived. She had some catching up to do, but she got down to business and was right with us in no time. A couple of girls came in and to avoid unwanted attention they told Bevins they were lesbians. That led to Bevins telling them at length about the time he had almost been beat up by some lesbians right there at Tiki. I don’t think the girls were terribly impressed.
Later I found myself with Amy up the street at the Tavern doing shots with the fake lesbians. After my first shot I just watched the girls drink. Amy was getting pretty toasted by then and it looked like I would have to be the designated walker. They were all attractive and getting even better-looking as the last drink assaulted my quivering nervous system. Soon enough, though, it was time to go. I bid a sorrowful goodbye to the girls and Amy and I stumbled back to her place (with a brief detour by the bar where she had recently been fired). After only one wrong turn and preventing Amy from taking any shortcuts through people’s yards we got home safe if not sound.
We managed to stay awake just long enough to make a big mess and a grilled cheese sandwich. No one was injured in the creation of the sandwich, although I was having trouble slicing the cheese until I realized it was presliced. What will they think of next?
Location: Callahan’s, San Diego
Miles: ????
I’m back in town now. San Diego, California. My first stop was to play with the dogs. I love those goofy guys. One of my favorite times back in the day was crashing out on the couch and being buried in doggy love. It’s the most honest love there is.
I passed by my former home to pick up what I knew was a large volume of mail, but no one was there.
Now I’m back to where I once belonged.
Location: Adelanto, CA
Miles: 7819.4
I saw lots of great photographs today, but it was a day of words. It was a day of sometimes violent discussion in my head. As I drove across the desert my sun-baked brain created images that you will have to wait for my fiction to read. Earlier I said that an artist gets close to madness. Today I was an artist. I guzzled a gallon of gatorade as I crossed the desert and was peeing yellow crystals at the end of the day.
I was alone. Really, really alone. I was a tiny ant, crawling over the surface of the universe. I started to think about that empty space, and I compared it to my own soul. I started to think about a photograph, and more than that the story of the photograph. The picture is a nude, her dark skin in sharp contrast to the shimmering mountains in the distance. Her bare feet hover above the superheated white sand. Her long black hair falls straight to the Earth (perhaps with a detour over a shoulder), giving a line for her body to curve against, perpendicular to the unforgiving horizon. It is early morning, and the desert is hot already, but the light is coming from the side, creating dramatic shadows that make the curves curvier and the lines more dramatic. She is the goddess of the desert, cruel and lonely. I imagine the position of her down to each finger, and I imagine the sun dancing over her skin, the shadows playing over her curving neck. Lines and curves. Her face holds rapture. Her image thrills me and propels me.
I join 395 south and it is an easy drive. There are sections where there is a passing lane and others where it is a simple two-laner. During the two-lane sections people were behaving badly. I was putting along in one of those sections when I heard a siren behind me, very close. There was a trooper right on my butt. I signaled and pulled over, and he went blasting by. I slid back onto the highway. I was in the next town when I pulled aside for an ambulance. There was trouble ahead. Actually, for me there was inconvenience ahead. Trouble had already been and gone, exacting his terrible toll.
I watched ahead as a helicopter rose and shook the heavens as it shattered away. Inside was at least one human life on the edge of expiring. That life was surrounded by the greatest people and the greatest technology ever dedicated to preventing the fragile thread of life from being snapped. Our tax dollars at work, and well spent. I thought back to the crosses I had seen at the side or the road in Montana, a state-sponsored appeal to drivers to imagine their own mortality. I came over a rise, and below there were flashing lights and a cluster of vehicles. I pulled to the side to let another meatwagon pass.
As I approached, there was a flagman controlling traffic, They had opened one lane, but it was to be shared by northbound and southbound traffic. The collision (safe driving is no accident) occurred right where four lanes went to two. I know what happened; nobody has to explain it to me. Someone tried to push that passing lane a little too far.
What got me most about the roadside crosses and about this horrible thing I saw was time. Fifteen seconds before the disaster no one knew that they were about to suffer horribly or even die. They were just driving along. I imagined the horror of coming over a rise to see a pair of headlights staring you in the face. As I pulled through the forest of demolished vehicles and fire trucks, I could not help but rubberneck, despite my earlier vows to do no such thing. I had to know the magnitude of the damage. There was a car torn right in half. There was a guy panning a video camera over the wreckage. In an ultimate act of hypocrisy, I wanted to punch that guy. As I crawled through the scene, trying really hard to keep my eyes glued to the car in front of me, I saw probably ten people loading a victim strapped into a total immobilization litter very gently into the back of a truck even as an ambulance stood waiting.
I was barely ten miles south of that scene, driving with people who must have seen what I saw, who must have seen the horrible cost that saving thirty seconds in a six-hour trip can exact. No lesson, no learning. People were still doing the same stupid shit. People who had just seen a horrible accident were completely unaffected as far as their own mortality was concerned. I drove on knowing the the same assholes were going north, and at any moment I would be faced with leaving the road or having a headon.
I am not going to enumerate the endless series of phenomenally reckless acts I saw on 395. The whole time I was on that road I was surrounded by dickheads. There are crosses along that road, not state-sponsored but more ornate, testifying to the price of stupidity and impatience. After my travels, if there is one thing I could teach my beloved country, it’s patience. Slow down, guys, you’ll get there. Pass with care.
I drank a gallon of Gatorade, a gallon of water, and a large Coke as I crossed the desert that day; when I finally pulled in for a rest in Adelanto I was more like Jerry-jerky. If you really can sweat the toxins out of your body, I was pure that night. (Lord knows I picked up some toxins in Ely.) I bought a six-pack at the local grocery and drank only one of them out of some sense of obligation. I was just really, really thirsty. I took a cold, cold shower and finally shed the heat of the desert.
This was just going to be a quick episode. As I moved over the face of the Earth today I was filled with words. All kinds of words, most of them too private not to disguise as fiction. I came to a new understanding with The Fish. I’m a cold one. At least when it counts I am. But out there I got closer to the story. I put in (in my head) a couple of new ideas. As I moved from Nevada to California I was imagining what people would say about The Fish, and while the exercise was embarrassingly vain it also helped me define just what it was I wanted to say. That’s the magic of the desert. There is a stark beauty that dances with you, but there is always the reminder of death breathing hot and dry on your neck. The desert makes a poet of all of us.
Location: Ely (rhymes with mealy), Nevada
Miles: 7237.1
Add Highway 89 from Jackson Wyoming to Logan Utah as another great driving road. I followed the Snake River, dodging rainshowers through pure luck – often the pavement was still very wet from a squall that had just passed by. The road moved gracefully beneath my new tires as I moved through the canyons and over the summits. It was a day for driving, for motion, not for picture-taking, so you’ll have to use your imaginations.
I had awakened that morning feeling refreshed and road-ready. In Bozeman I had shared all of John’s lifestyle except the time of awakening – on his couch sleeping until noon just wasn’t happening. That made “refreshed” difficult to achieve to say the least. (To be fair, John often stayed up later than I did, studying the current political situation. He makes Dr. Pants look like a Bushie. Both John and Pants are very widely-read and support their opinions with facts. Don’t invite them both to the same party; they’ll be the two who never stop taliking about politics all night, their voices getting louder as the conversation gets more animated and they get more drunk. But I digress.)
Along 89 is a string of towns that serve the agricultural communities nestled between the mountain ranges. Driving through I thought more than once, “I could live here.” Small and well-painted, with bars with names like “Dad’s”. In town, the speed limits drop down to 25, allowing me to take a good look.
Farther along, in slightly larger towns, I began to see signs of the creeping rot that is making its way north, eating towns. By the time I reached Garden City, the main street had several empty windows and boarded-up doors. [A little voice in my head said “That would be a good picture”, but I learned long ago not to listen to the little voices in my head. I told myself I would be back again sometime. One of the things that made my Yellowstone photo adventure so fun was that I had seen the opportunities on a previous visit and had a plan in my head how to tackle the place. So maybe I will go back. That shut the little voice up, anyway.]
Logan to Brigham City was a fairly uninteresting stretch of construction and assholes. I joined mighty I-15 and pointed South. This was the same road that had inspired my romantic highway musings on a late-night drive in San Diego a thousand years ago. Sitting in bumper-to bumper traffic from Ogden to Orem did not inspire the same whimsey. I had been trying to decide between a straight shot down 15 to San Diego or taking the scenic route, and by the time Highway 6 West was ahead of me there was no contest. in 99 days I had become a small-road man.
I still had plenty of gas in the tank but I stopped in Elberta to top the machine off and to get a shitload of Gatorade. I was heading out into God’s Country (trespassers will be prosecuted).
The rot has taken hold along Highway 6. The towns not populated only by ghosts will be soon. For sale signs stand faded in front of businesses with no business existing anymore. These towns used to be between places, but they aren’t anymore. Nothing’s moved, but there has been a transformation–not a geographic change but a mathematic one–that has changed these towns from being on the way to being nowhere. The equation that spells death to these towns has several components: Interstates and Airlines being the obvious culprits, but as I drove west, passing the miles between the dying towns, I had two thoughts: 1) If I break down out here, I’m screwed. 2) I’m not going to break down. It’s number 2 that has those little towns in the number 2. The range and reliability of modern cars makes the midpoint stop unnecessary. Point A and point B are practically touching now. There’s no in-between, so in-between is dying.
I’m glad I got to see in-between before it disappeared completely. Those towns fill our legends. Created by accident by careless pioneers, they filled a critical role in America’s love of the automobile and the open road. They were the enablers. They were the safe havens, always nearby, as the American family went out to figure out what America really was. “See America”, they called it, but they were chasing a mystery and at some level they knew it. But when the engine overheated and they were limping along, they would find their oasis in the most improbable place, and there’d be a motel with a neon sign calling across the desert to weary travelers, and there would be a cheer in the car. They were going to be all right. The family would get two rooms at the motel, so the kids could bounce on the bed while the parents quietly expressed their relief and celebrated life.
Drivers now do exactly as I had done, load up on supplies and shoot across the desert, only noticing the occasional human habitation as a reduced speed limit. Along 6, the speed limit does not drop by much when it does at all.
Winding through ranges then shooting across plains, I am chasing the sun to the horizon. It is a race I cannot win; the terminator is behind me and gaining fast. With the light low, I drive past many photographs. The wheels are turning and who am I to tell them to stop?
Ely Nevada is apparently to gliding (sailplaning?) what Albuquerque is to ballooning. Ely is dying. It is a crossroads, which gives it some help but in the end merely prolongs the agony. I rolled into town and on the outskirts there are a couple of modern highway hotels–Motel 6 and the like–and since I’m in Nevada a couple of them boast casinos. I’m not looking for a casino but a bar, and I have seen ads for places in the center of town.
As I approach the “city center” I jump on a cheap motel. What hooked me was the promise of a phone in the room. Sweet blessed connectivity. Non-smoking room, pirated cable, twenty-five bucks. I’m all over it.
The room was less than stellar –the door had been kicked in at least once, the carpet was stained, I parked next to a Camaro with a flat tire on the right front and clothes in the back, reminding me that my moniker “Homeless Tour” has a very different meaning for other people–but it didn’t smell bad and the bed was actually quite comfortable. After loading all my crap into the room and making sure that a passing breeze wouldn’t blow the door open I went out to explore the middle of town.
Historic and newly-renovated buildings were vacant. There were places so recently closed down that all you would have to do is turn on the lights and start business. I was looking for a burger and a beer. At the far end of the main drag was a pub. I sat in there for one beer, and eavesdropped on some sailplaners. The place had just been bought by a husband and wife, who were both very nice and outgoing. The kind of people who should be running our bars. Luckily they didn’t serve food there, so I had a graceful excuse to leave. Talking to the new owners of a doomed business was more than I could handle. I went over to the Hotel Nevada.
Hotel Nevada seems to be one of the two survivors in town. (If you are interested in buying a truly historic hotel, and you have a way to make it an exotic destination rather than a stopping point along the way, Ely has the property for you.) I had a decent meal there, then lingered when I saw that the blackjack tables (both of them) were relatively cheap. Since I am also relatively cheap, that was a good match.
Nikki was the dealer at first, and she was nice to me, so I formed the inevitable bond (in my head). I won’t go into the thousands of little signs I saw that meant she liked me. She was relieved by Melanee, who was nice, but no Nikki. Nikki had actually grown up in Ely, and was really happy that she had a chance to move back there as a dealer. On her days off she does “anything dangerous.” That ruled me out. Mealnee had come to town because of her husband; she had ditched him and was ready to leave the other.
There was also Kurt. The casino probably loves him, because he deals with a ruthless efficiency, but we as a table took it as a victory whe we made him smile. Forget about conversation. Kurt was probably very tired of the phrase “ruthless efficiency” by the time we parted ways. “Ruthless slaying” was probably closer to the front of his mind. What can I say? I was feeling jolly.
When I put my second forty bucks onto the blackjack table, I told Nikki, “It’s your sparkling personality that keeps me here.” It’s funny how easy it is for me to flirt, considering how tough it is for me to ask someone on a date. But that’s for another episode. As soon as I plunked down my money the dealer changed.
Sitting next to me was a wiry, coarse, deeply tanned brunette and beyond her were her coworkers. Hot Shots. Tomorrow they were heading into a wildfire. It took a while before we got to talking but the whole crew was really cool. Take a moment, now, if you’ve read this far, to wish them well out there on the line. The wind was really whipping today. Sitting next to her I understood why women are hot for firemen.
After that, the part where I won some of my money back playing poker seems small. I played some poker. I made some money. Nobody died on the line today.
I am surrounded with knurled, knobbled wood. My table is the cross-section of a wizened but very large tree. I like wood. It is a large room, and I’m sitting about equidistant from the front door and the bandstand. No doubt they will be playing both kinds of music here later tonight – Country and Western. Any thought I had about sitting at the bar was quickly extinguished when I saw that the barstools are saddles. I’m sitting some fifteen feet from the bar now, watching the male guests subtly adjusting themselves when they think no one is looking.
It seems like it would be hard to fall off a barstool like that, but I bet the real show is at closing time when drunk tourists try to climb down. I bet when they fall there are lots of jokes like “It threw you, pardner!” Hilarity ensues.
Downtown Jackson so far hasn’t impressed me much. It is faintly reminiscent of Gatlinburg, Tennessee, a hell-hole of contrived tourist traps if ever there was one. The comparison became all stronger when I passed the Ripley’s Believe It of Not! Museum. I for one find it difficult to believe that anyone would pay money to go into a place like that. Still, what can you do?
Better get to writing. Or, writin’, considering where I am.
Post script. I am in a bar with no regulars. None that I can identify, anyway, and I think I’m qualified on the subject. No one who has gone to the bar has been comfortable with the saddles. I scanned the tables for any signs of regularhood, but I found none. This is a total tourist bar. The kind of bar the locals deride.
Note to those wondering were the hole is: technically, the town is Jackson, the valley in which it sits is Jackson Hole. Since all the promotion encompasses the surrounding area, Jackson Hole is what they (and you) use.
In the Men’s room at The Cannery there is a mirror over the urinal. On the wall behind is a sign, positioned so it is right over your head in the mirror, that says. “ENOLA GNIVAEL ER’UOY REDNOW ON”
I spent my last evening at the Ale Works tonight. I invited Kristen out on the road with me, but she turned down the offer. Just as well; If I ditched Winnebaggo there would be room for her, but she didn’t look like the kind of girl to travel light. I could be wrong about that. I think she wanted to give me a hug when I said goodbye but I got all stiff and awkward before she could even think about it much.
Right now I’m back at John’s, and Sal is on a beer run. Sal is short for Salvatore Vaspolli, and he has a book out called Montana. It’s a photo book, and it’s funny now how many of the images on those pages made me say, “I tried to take that picture!” But the images he has captured are really friggin incredible. He drives around, trying to sell his posters to retailers, and scouting new photos.
What I really want to do is show him my shots, and get his critique. I want to learn from him. Instead I chipped in for the next beer run. He doesn’t want to see my amateur shit. John gave him the opening – “Jerry’s taken some really nice pictures.” Sal did not say “Really? Let’s see.” And seriously, can you blame him for that? The dude’s trying to relax and enjoy a ballgame.
Tomorrow I go. I’ve had a great time here, but the road is out there, a jilted lover jealous of my straying ways. Or staying ways. She wants me back. She calls to me with a whisper that no one else can hear, an enticing sound that promises that I am the only one. I will be the only one once I get out there. My seductive mistress is a fiction that comes from inside my own head, and her promises are emptiness. Sweet emptiness.
So tomorrow I return to the road, to the simplicity that implies, and to my life of solitude. I leave behind a place where I had become a regular, and perhaps even a borderline fly. I was a known stranger. I had not been around enough to lose my exotic veneer (telling a bartender that your bar crawl has gone over 6,000 miles gets you points), but long enough to allow my simple charms to begin to work. It’s a sweet spot that, like the perfect buzz, cannot be sustained. Eventually I have to move on. At this moment in Bozeman, I’m all promise, all potential. I can dance out now and leave a good aftertaste.
I went down to The Cannery today, to fulfill my duty according to the poll. I was nervous. I really didn’t want to ask Nicole out for a date. That’s not to say I didn’t want a date with her, oh, yes, I do want that. No, it’s the asking that scares the piss out of me. Seriously, I know the answer is a given. Nicole, if you’re out there reading this, you can relax. You always could. There was never any reason to be concerned.
So, anyway, there I was in The Cannery. I got some good writing done, not so much for smallifying the story, which it needs, but I wrote some stuff that lets us watch an important transformation of the main character. Smallifying is what I need, however. Apparently publishers don’t want a first novel that’s too big – it takes too much paper. They don’t want to go to the extra expense until you’ve proven that you sell. But the story keeps growing. Balls, balls, balls.
I was at The Cannery; Nicole was not. I set up at my table in the nearly deserted bar. The bartender, a loud and outgoing woman whose name I am embarrassed not to know, took great care of me. She was telling some of the few other patrons how difficult she was to keep as a girlfriend. “I’m independent,” she said, “I don’t need to be taken care of, I just need to be loved.” My kind of girl. “I piss everyone off after a while,” she added. maybe not my kind of girl after all.
The day was wearing along, and my interim favorite bartender was ruling over the bar. The only others there were dried up old men. Present company included. At least I had a purpose. Eventually my battery was going dead, and happy hour was starting down at the Ale Works. I am a cheap bastard, after all. I asked my kind beerfetcher who was coming on next. “Denise,” she said. “That’s good,” I said, “if it was Nicole I would have to stay and make an ass of myself.”
She nodded. “That’s how it is,” she said. Not a question. Not an impeachment. Just an observation. More than that. It was acceptance. That’s how it is. “I think she’s working tomorrow.” My new best friend checked the list. “No, she’s not working until Friday. You’ll be good then.”
“I’ll be out of town by Friday,” I said. Relief. I will not have to make an ass of myself. Also disappointment. As much as i dreaded living up to the poll, I was also looking forward to it. I was looking forward to taking the chance, however ridiculous that was. However afraid I was. But it’s over now. Finally I have to head back south. I just can’t put it off any longer. Friday’s not so far, but it’s so very, very far.
Unless someone bails me out by voting for “charm with wit, let her make the move” this morning it looks like I’ll be asking Nicole on a date. To be honest the two more extreme choices were less scary than the date option since she would not take them seriously. Oh, well, after I embarrass myself I’ll be leaving town. If she doesn’t have a shift in the next day or two it’ll all be moot anyway. On the plus side, I’m now morally obligated to spend time at The Cannery.
In other news, I had so much fun using John’s fancy camera that I have bought one of my own. It arrives tomorrow, if all goes well. Then I just have to learn how to use it. I’m pretty stoked, though. I can see lots of mistakes in the pictures I took, mistakes that a camera can’t fix, but I can also see some good stuff and having images that are more “tweakable” afterwards gives me the ability to bring out the best in a shot. Plus having a lens that can reach out and touch someone is really nice. Oh, it’s a slippery slope, all right. Can you say accessories?
John has been really helpful both by letting me borrow his gear and by helping me get a decent bang for my buck for my new gear. (I think he enjoys spending my money on stuff as much as he does his own.) He has also been very encouraging when looking at my pictures. Thanks, John! Thanks also for the encouraging comments from you guys out there. I sure am having fun. Still looking for a way to get paid to do this.
By the dawn’s early light, I dragged my sorry ass off the sofa and stood in a daze, trying to blink moisture back into my eyes and scratching myself. Maybe I can go tomorrow instead. But the morning had been cloudy the day before, and it was clear today. Make hay while the sun shines. I loaded up on gear and shuffled out to the car.
The Miata’s top was wet with dew, so I started the trip with it up. The motor came to life with a soft purr, which I immediately replaced with the blast of Rock ‘n’ Roll. Just as well the top was up so I didn’t wake the neighborhood. Down Main Street I rolled, even earlier than my previous sortie. There was no traffic. East onto I-90 as far as Livingston, which at 80 mph didn’t take long. Just as I had the last trip, I gassed up in Livingston and went to the McDonald’s next door for a cup of tea. It wasn’t open yet. Rarely have I wanted a cup of tea as badly as I wanted one after I learned that I couldn’t have one. Rather than bumble around the town like a latter-day Arthur Dent I decided to keep moving toward my target. I knew there would be a place in Gardiner.
Now with the top down and he heater cranked up full blast I headed south on highway 89. I had the road to myself again, right up until I got to Yankee Jim Canyon, a twisty bit with a speed limit of 70 I was really looking forward to driving. Just as I reached it I came up behind a slow car. A really slow car. I tried to calm myself, but all I could think about was the light. I wanted as much time with that early-morning light up in Yellowstone. Finally an opportunity presented itself and I shot past Pokey like an F14 coming off the deck of an aircraft carrier. I was starting to wake up.
By the time I reached Gardiner I was ready for a real breakfast as well as tea. I wanted a drive-through (The light, the light!), but there was none to be found. I found a little cafe that was open and filled with locals. The appeal of a real breakfast was quickly becoming more important than the half-hour of light I would squander. Eggs, toast, hash browns, and Earl Grey. I learned while waiting for my food that in 1893 Gardiner had 200 people and 21 saloons. My kind of town.
At the gate I turned off the tunes. It was time to become one with my surroundings. I entered the park and climbed through the Golden Gate, up and up into the cold clear sky. Before long I was in a traffic jam of a different sort, following a pair of bison as they plodded up the road, one beast in each lane. I had heard they can be crotchety, and have been known to attack cars when annoyed. As I putted along, I tried to get a picture that showed the slobber dribbling from their mouths and the steam gusting from their nostrils in the cold morning air, but mostly I concentrated on driving and not annoying them. Suddenly I felt quite exposed in a convertible, my face at the same level as the horns on the 200 lb. heads of the animals. Attacks are rare, I knew, but having these two giants close enough I could hear them breathing, I can tell you, those suckers are big. Pulling up next to one to pass it was intimidating. I chose the buffalo butt view for most of the time. On we plodded, and I was wondering just how much space I should have before I slipped between them. Finally a truck came the other way and one of the bison stepped off the road to go around the truck. I dared pausing for one shot as I eased past and was on my way. 
Having already tried a photo tour once, I knew several places I wanted to go. Already I could tell the day was going to be hotter than last time, so I was very glad I got an earlier start. I made my way south to roaring mountain, pausing in several places to take pictures. Roaring mountain was my first extended stop. The conditions, alas, were not quite as ideal as the last time I had stopped there; ironically the sun was still too low to light the steam up as well. I thought of waiting for the sun to be in the right spot, but as the day got warmer I knew the steam would be less dramatic. I’ll have to come back earlier in the year. Bummer. I set to work and got a couple of good steam shots and some nice dead tree shots. I like them, anyway. I also shot this Miata ad (bigger versions of all photos in the photo album):
And so the day went. Not far past Roaring Mountain I was crossing a meadow still shrouded in mist, and got some decent snaps as well. 
In the few minutes I was there, the mist dissipated almost completely. I hopped in the Miata and continued south. I stopped in the Lower Geyser Basin and took a lots of dead tree pics as well as some shots of the geysers. The geyser basins look at first to be lifeless, blasted plains, the angry Earth spewing steam and toxic, superheated water onto the surface, scouring it clean. The sulfurous steam drifts over the barren land, hot and pungent. Tufts of short grass make a go of it a safe distance from the vents and away from the runoff.
But there is other life as well. Where the hot water flows from the bottomless sapphire pools, bacteria grow. These organisms are so tough that there are companies sampling them to isolate the exotic DNA that allows them to live where there should be no life. For me, however, the attraction is the sinuous bands of color they create. The color of the bacteria is dependent on the temperature of the water where it lives.
Occasionally in these bacteria mats there are the tracks of elk and bison. All I can guess is they enjoy the warm sensation on their toes – there’s nothing to eat or drink near the geysers, but there’s plenty of elk poop.
Finally I reached Old Faithful. As with the other two times I have been there, the geyser had just finished when I arrived. That was OK; now that I knew the drill I took some time to wander around looking at some of the other geysers scattered nearby. And honestly, of all the “must-see” things on the trip, Old Faithful itself was a bit of a letdown. I’m glad I saw it, and there was no question about going back to get some pictures, but in our day and age of thrill rides, a jet of water shooting out of the ground for a few minutes is not that exciting.
This visit had a special and very unusual bonus, however. A bison had wandered into the circle of benches that surround the big geyser. I got in the perfect position to get a shot of old faithful with the bison in the foreground, but there was a ranger trying her best to keep people back from the animal. She was having a tough time of it. As soon as she got people cleared off the benches near the critter other people would dash in and take them. Dutifully I surrendered my good spot only to have other people move in front of me. Still I managed to get a couple shots. I was also fortunate that the clouds dotting the sky arranged themselves to darken the background while leaving the geyser brightly lit. The hotter weather also meant that the water was less obscured by steam.
After Old Faithful the clouds started to come in, and I was starting to feel very tired. I visited a couple more Geyser basins and pulled under a tree by the moose exhibit and took a little nap. It was a good nap indeed. The sounds of birds, the warm breeze, all good. Finally I headed back home.
There are lots of other pictures in the album – here I emphasized pictures that depicted what I saw more than the artsy-fartsy sort that are my favorites. Go take a look!
And, yes, I am hoping to get Google hits on ‘buffalo butt’.
Buffalo butt, buffalo butt, buffalo butt.
Bozeman sounds like a suburb of Baghdad this evening, with the reports of the fireworks echoing through the neighborhood. Big bangs, little pops, single and in bunches. There are bigger fireworks on the way – a thunder storm is heading this way. The air is chilling and the wind is freshening; the lights dim occasionally as lightning strikes in the distance. The thunder is getting closer and sharper.
And now the rain. The civilian fireworks continue, however, a testament to just how drunk some of the celebrants are. If you don’t catch pneumonia while looking for the fingers you blew off, the terrorists have won. They do love their explosions around here. The pops and bangs have been reverberating through the night with increasing frequency over the last few days. I guess you have to go to Wyoming to get the really good stuff.
It takes me back to when I was young and stupid, running around with many of you, with a downright silly amount of bottle rockets (thanks to Pat). Something like 19 gross. Shooting them up in the air got old pretty fast, so it wasn’t long before we were divided into teams, dashing between trees and shooting them at each other. It wasn’t nearly as dangerous as we hoped, unfortunately.
At one point we had a length of PVC to use as a launcher, and we were driving around in The Heap shooting rockets out the window. Good times, at least until someone in the back seat found himself with the exhaust end of the launcher pointed directly at his face. “Point it out!” he called, only to have the person holding the tube point the front end farther out, so the back end pointed even farther into the car. Who was that? Jess, maybe? My memory is getting fuzzy. Was it even The Heap? I think I was driving, but the more I think about it the less sure I am. It’s funny now how I can rearrange the people in the car and make a memory of it. Maybe I was holding the launcher tube. Maybe I was driving. Maybe I was in the back seat, next to whoever it was looking down the wrong end of the tube.
I’m losing my mind. Now I think I was holding the tube. Anyone have a better handle on that story? Did anyone notice where I left my brain?
The bar at the Montana Ale Works is a rectangular version of King Arthur’s round table. The beeristers and beeristas scurry about inside the beerena, flashing smiles to the regs when they can afford the time. Kristin is one of those in the middle. She remembers my name, she remembers my beer. But by now, that’s not a surprise. I have achieved accelerated regularization with the help of John.
One the other side of the elongated rectangle is a pair of brown eyes. Dark eyebrows arch. Long hair cascades over bare brown shoulders. Between the expressive eyes and the spaghetti straps crossing the graceful shoulders is a giant horizontal stainless steel pipe, punctuated with taps. The space between her graceful neck and her intriguing eyes is a mystery.
In front of her is a drink of tantalizing color. The simple amber of whiskey. She dangles a finger into the hooch with languid nonchalance, swirls it around, then lifts her graceful digit, pregnant with suggestion, to her lips. At least I assume that’s where it ended up. We can only imagine what that was like when her finger reached her lips. It was slow. It was beautiful. It was all in my head.
Still, sitting where I was, I was finally privileged to see her smile. Toothy. Confident. Happy. I bought her another scotch. Anonymously. I made extra-double-sure that Jen would not rat me out. Why, why would I buy a woman a drink and work so hard to make sure I gain nothing from it, not a thank you or even a glance in my direction? (There certainly were no glances my direction, either before or after the drink arrived in front of her.) Why? Because I’m stupid. Or maybe I’m just chicken. I’d never sent a drink over to a stranger before, so maybe I just need practice.
No, it was just stupid. I’m just not a buy-a-drink-for-a-stranger kind of guy. Buying a woman a drink is step one to picking her up, and that’s something I’m hopeless at. My style is more the wear-her-down-over-the-course-of-weeks kind of style. It doesn’t work very well, I can tell you that.
I went to yellowstone again a couple of days ago, and I took about 325 snaps on two different cameras. I’m pretty happy with the results. I’ll put the best of them up soon enough. There are some good ones, if I do say so myself. Of course, you’ll be able to judge soon, and more objectively than I.
A woman to her daughter, who was trying to rescue a dragonfly foundered in the hot, acidic water: “I bet he’s already laid his eggs.”
You know already that I like bartenders. You know I’m a sucker for a friendly face that will give me beer and all I have to do in return is give them money. Call it a weakness if you want, I’ll accept that. Here in Bozeman, there’s Tori, Kristen, Joe, Pete, Jen, Molly, and, of course, Nicole. Here’s to them. Honest, hard-working and friendly people who have made me feel at home here when I have no home. I raise one to all of them. Keep doing the Lord’s work!
Breakfast at the Town Cafe in Gardiner, the gateway to Yellowstone. Two eggs over easy, hash browns (Tabasco! I’m back in civilization!) and toast. Half a dozen overweight men are sitting around a table, yucking it up. They’re going fishing. As usual. They’re in a jolly mood. Fishing. Beats working, so I’m told.
I didn’t mention one thing about the Crystal Bar. Angry employees eventually cooled, goofy old guys played pool while their wives heckled. Hilarity ensued, while I got the perfect buzz. Ah, the perfect buzz. Not drunk, no, not that. The perfect buzz is a delicate balance, with rational thought on one side, and the fairies on the other, lifting your thoughts on gossamer wings, making them greater than they were before. Colors are a little more true, and jokes are far funnier. It is a beautiful world. The weakness of the perfect buzz is in it’s own creation – it is alcohol that got you there and the idea of having more is just like everything else. Perfect. But there is no maintaining the perfect buzz. You can choose to stop drinking, and soon feel sleepy and enjoy a good night of sleep and wake the next day feeling good and remembering what a nice time you had the night before.
More often, you chase the perfect buzz with another one. After that you’ve crossed a line, and “one more” is not one more. It is simply the next. You remember the perfect buzz and you want it again, but you’ve passed it now and you’re heading the wrong direction. The perfect buzz is as fleeting as it is rare. At the Crystal Bar, I had the perfect buzz and I sat, enjoying it, enjoyed the craziness all around me, reading the profane sign again. Life was good. “Do you want another?” asked Caroline (rhymes with gasoline). “Yes, I do,” I said. “But I’m out of money.” That’s one form of restraint. I wouldn’t have had another anyway. That place was making me tired. I took a walk. Of course, I walked to Montana Ale Works. They take plastic, and beer is cheap until six.
The fishermen drink their coffee, tell their jokes, and discuss where they’re going go go today. My head is fuzzy and my stomach wobbly, but the tea helps, and the hash browns. It’s time to go take some pictures.
Yesterday marked day 90 of Jer’s Homeless Tour. When I left San Diego I told people that I would be back in “A couple of weeks” to finish my business there before heading east and eventually overseas. Weeks have become months, and here I am in Bozeman Montana, freeloading off my cousin John and flirting with bartenders.
I thought of doing a retrospective of sorts for this commemorative episode, or a discussion of lessons learned, or something like that, but you can just go back and read your favorites anyway.
I will say this, however: America is awesome. Canada is great, too. Wherever I’ve been, rural or urban, I’ve done cool things and met great people. I’ve visited bars in six states and two provinces, and I’ve enjoyed myself in each one. There’s always someone there or something going on that makes it worthwhile. I’ve seen beautiful scenery and had adventures. In 6000 miles I’ve had my share of highs and lows, but with thousands more miles to go my only questions is “How can I get someone to pay me to do this?”
Alas, what is suffering is my writing. I need to get a better balance in that aspect, and I need to get Jer’s Novel Writer into a true public beta.
Finally, thanks to all you guys for your support and for how fun your comments make this blog. I bet I have one of the highest comment/viewer ratios in blogdom. Keep up the good work, everyone.
At the time of my departure chez John the poll consensus was to find another bar. Which sucks, because I haven’t found another bar in this town with the right combination of tables where I can set up my writing and being slow in the afternoons. Montana Ale Works is closed afternoons, or it would be the obvious choice. So, find another bar I must. A laptop on my back, I made my way into the light of day with a vague recollection of John mentioning a bar across the street from The Cannery. That would do nicely. Down Main Street I trundle, moseying along until I’m across from The Cannery.
I saw no bar. Most of you who know me are probably assuming the bar was right in front of me, and you’re probably right. Probably there was a giant flashing sign shouting “BAR! BAR! BAR!” but I didn’t see it. I continued. It was a few blocks before I saw the red neon in the shape of a cow skull that announced Crystal Bar. The neon in the window proclaimed that they had all the standard domestics on tap. Like there was any doubt. I crossed the street (safely, at the corner) and pushed into the bar.
It was exactly what you would expect from a bar identified with a red neon cow skull and a sign proclaiming this to be burger night. It was mid afternoon and the seats at the bar all appeared to be taken. There were a couple of pool tables lying idle and a few slot machines, but no tables where I felt good about pulling out the technology. The few tables were large and crowding the slots. There were peanuts on the bar, and shells on the linoleum floor.
At the end of the bar, near the burger cooking station, was one empty stool. There was an unfinished drink in front of it. I moved that way, since that’s where the standing space was. One woman at the bar turned to me and said, “She’ll be right back.” Presumably the ‘she’ was my new bartender. I bellied up to the bar. “Have a seat,” the woman said. “Is someone sitting here?” I asked. “No,” another patron said. “You are!” said someone else. Message from everyone: “You are welcome here.” I took the stool.
While I waited for my beer fulfillment, I looked around. Above was baseball – Cubs vs. Astros. I hate the stinkin’ Astros. It’s not about the team, it’s about their ridiculous stadium. Somebody in Texas needs to be slapped. But I digress. The TV was over the beer fridge, which was covered with the usual collection of bumper stickers and hand-written signs. Prominent among the signs was this gem, hand-lettered in red El Marko: WE DO NOT FUCKING SELL MIKES HARD LIME DOWNSTARIS!! PERIOD!! Yes, “fucking” was underlined twice.
Eventually my bartender returned. Caroline (rhymes with gasoline) was spitting acid and lighting fires with her eyes. She had been talking to her boss, and I guess it didn’t go to her satisfaction. I found myself in The Land of Disgruntled Employees ™. The woman sitting next to me, the one who had led the way in making me feel welcome, had recently quit the bar for the fourth time. She knew what to do. She bought Caroline (rhymes with gasoline) a shot. The next bartender, whose name is not Jersey, showed up early and was dragooned into covering for Caroline (rhymes with gasoline) for “a few minutes”. Not-Jersey graciously agreed to cover and then grumbled for the next half-hour while waiting for “a few minutes” to expire. She was grumbling to the burger-cooker, a pretty girl whose name was probably not Allison. Probably-not-Allison shared a general disgruntlement with Not-Jersey about some other person (We’ll call her Bill) who was supposed to be working but wasn’t. Or something like that.
Probably-not-Allison doesn’t like working with sauerkraut and wanted to know why she needed to scoop pickled cabbage from the big jar into a tupperware container. No one had an answer, but if she didn’t do it, she was going to “get a note.” There was general agreement that getting notes sucked. Eventually Caroline (rhymes with gasoline) returned and Not-Jersey ran off to change before her actual shift started.
So while I sipped a particularly unsatisfying Kokanee the staff and former staff had a long discussion about Bosses and the girl called (by us) Bill. The rest of the bar was pretty cheerful, right down to the drunk husband of the woman who had quit for the fourth time, who accosted a Korean tourist to get him to go fishing. Communication was tricky, since both parties were having difficulty with English, but it was good-natured. Eventually drunk-husband-of-four-time-quitter learned that the Korean tourist was traveling with three pretty girls. At that point drunk-husband-of-four-time-quitter was trying to get Korean Tourist and Harem of Korean Tourist to play pool. In the end, they just settled for a group portrait.
The final note on the Crystal Bar, John reports it’s the only place he’s even been where the bartender (reliable sources say her name is Madame Curie) didn’t know how to mix a margarita. Also, I moved on to Sierra Nevada and pulled through just fine.
