The Road Warrior's name is Bob McGowan. We crossed paths on our way to breakfast. Bob approached us, sporting a dew rag to hold back his long, thin braid, and American Flag pants. This man was such a badass that all others in his presence with unchecked egos were helplessly put in place. He asked about our route, and listened with the intensity only someone who knew the road as he did could maintain; with each sentence, a quick head nod (without breaking eye contact) and a fervent "yah" of concurrence. Our re-route had his seal of approval. He passed on his number as an open inquiry for any issues or questions that may arrive for the duration of our trip, and for the prospect of rendez-vous'ing for a ride when he was back in the east. This was verification above all else to date that we were earning our stripes. We could hang with a road warrior.
4 days until touching the Pacific. As we set off, a distant Yellowstone to our right was almost unidentifiable, obscured by a hideous gray. Serendipity had delayed us, and as a result we had skirted the fringes of what would have otherwise been a catastrophe. Ahead, the cloudscape was fragmented by patches of blue. Call it Luck, Fate, Nature's benevolence, even God - some force beyond ourselves had brought us to the present unscathed and reinvigorated. The ominous green weather blob now appeared to be a fading mass in our collective rear-view.
The road yielded more unanticipated gems. Owl Creek Mountain range was to left within minutes, a sub-range of the Rockies. Snake pointed quickly to the right, spotting a lone elk, statuesque in poise and feet from the road, that observed us with keen eyes as we passed. Forty minutes or so in, we were immersed in the valley of Wind River Canyon, part of the Wind River Indian Reservation, and one of the most breathtaking cruises thus far. The frequency of beauty that American landscape has had to offer has been in such abundance (in most places) that I began to think the power of descriptors was wilting in trying to contextualize it all. Nonetheless, if for nothing else than to prompt excellent journeys for posterity, the abuse of such enthusiastic adjectives will have served its purpose.
As we turned a corner, the horizon indicated that our celebration of conquering the green blob had been premature. The first patch appeared as a colossal gray jellyfish, hovering silently but dangerously above, its misty dangling extremities like a photo negative of sunbeams both in appearance and in spirit. If you can see your dog runaway for two days on the prairie, you can tell where he is with the knowledge of his size - basic physics. With clouds, the layperson - especially a New Englander accustomed to regular veils of treeline - has little to no idea. It could be hundreds upon hundreds of miles away, days apart from contact. Or, it could be around the next bend. We watched the jellyfish loom straight ahead, observing passing cars for signs of precipitation, and wondering when it would come. Before too long, we were under its sting, but for less than 2 miles. After the beginning tribulations of the excellent adventure, this was a walk in the park. Game on.
Around the pass of the scenic Red Canyon - a gorgeous red rock canyon with lush hills gently but steadily rolling into the valley, where evidence of human activity dates back as far as 10,000 years - I noticed that the throttle was maxed out, and the RPMs staying the same or slowly waning. I thought at first, uh oh, engine woes, until I realized that Snake was not breaking 55 either. We were on the ascent. The temperature dropped consistently as we climbed. When we reached the pass's summit, the horizon broke open. Ahead, the entire eastern sky was black. We spent the remaining hours at the mercy of the road - there was nothing for miles, and no alternative route. Snake hit his reserve tank. He had a backup gas can in his saddlebag, but there was no evidence of life aside from infrequent passing traffic. It would only buy him another 15 miles or so. The thought of breaking down on this route, with nothing around, not even a tree to shelter us, and atmospheric chaos lurking at an uncertain distance, was terrible. Finally, a field of cattle indicated that we were relatively close to something, and just before his tank was about to go, there appeared an intersection of our present route with the next route, and a lone gas station at the corner, puddles scattered on its dirt path indicative of the storm's passing. We filled up as quickly as possible, and high-tailed it out.
Under an hour later, on the horizon, a patch of sunlight broke through the clouds, refracting off buildings on a distant hillside. Rock Springs. We rolled in, worn from mental exertion, and headed straight for the night's lodging. The day wasn't particularly long at all, but fear and submission had worked a toll on us, and it felt as though we had been riding for days. The woman at the front desk informed us that we just missed a huge storm, and that the forecast for the next few days looked very favorable. To You, whatever name you may go by, in whatever form you may take - thank you.
Listlessness got the best of me in the evening, and I mocked my attempts to devote serious attention to writing anything. One cannot force inspiration; second to the cancer of doubt is the plague of lethargy. We had gone through such a rollercoaster of a day that I wanted nothing more than to fan through books with lackluster attention and surf the internet aimlessly - in short, to eschew all discipline and responsibility. We all have these days. If we can hold them with equal reverence to our most vigilant, there is a lesson inherent. I hit the hay early, anticipating a fresh start tomorrow; assuring myself that I had not breached my mission, and that the impression of vanity and self-indulgence I currently felt towards writing something was but a facade; a paper-thin gild obscuring the deep universality that emerges in our best moments with an unquestionable nature, when faith is at the helm and all is sacrosanct.
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